Princess Melissa

When I was little, my brother Mike's favorite nickname for me was Miss Priss.  I can't imagine where he got such an idea. I never put my hands on my hips and bossed people around. Really. Never.

Many years later, I lamented one day to my other brother Matt (yes, we are the Alliterative Sibs) that I hoped to be a princess in my next life. "Are you kidding me?" he barked. "You're a princess in this one!"

Two realizations from my little stroll down memory lane: first, boys are stupid. Second, my princess days are officially over.  Here's my story:

In the midst of moving to southern California, I missed my six-month checkup at the dentist. Then I went to Africa, then Matt went to China, then I got a job, then I got super busy ... and suddenly, I was pretty overdue for bite wings and a prophy. I did what any reasonable person would do: I called my new insurance company and got the address for a dentist on my plan. I picked one close to our home, reasoning that since we live in a nice neighborhood, the practice would probably be reputable.

Now, I should back up and say that I've been spoiled for many years with amazing dentists. I liked my childhood dentist so much, I went to work for him as soon as I old enough to get a W-2. When he had the nerve to move to North Carolina, I landed at a wonderful practice in Maitland where my hygienist and I discussed our fitness routines and haircare products. Plus, she reminded me of my niece. Plus, Dr. Curly was just so nice.

So on Monday, when I was curtly shown to a gray chair in a gray room with cracked gray linoleum floors, it's no wonder I felt a bit adrift. What, no garden? No television set to the channel of my choice? No cute pictures on the ceiling to help me relax?

Most shocking of all ... my new dentist did not compliment me on my excellent flossing practices. And the final blow: no little baggie of dental goodies as my parting thank-you gift.

Matt's reaction to my woes?

"Huh."

Pause.

"Did you get a good cleaning?"

Boys are stupid. (And maybe I am still a princess.)

Thank you

One of my favorite people at Camino Nuevo is Ismael. He wears black pants, a thin white dress shirt unbuttoned about half way down his chest, and a heavy gold chain with a cross hanging from it. He speaks almost no English, but his English skills are far superior to my nearly non-existant Spanish ones.

Every afternoon, when he comes into my classroom from the side door, he acts genuinely surprised to see me. Startled is more like it. Then he asks, with all the proper charm of Fitzwilliam Darcy, "Is okay I come in?"

Ismael asks my permission to clean my classroom. My permission to clean.  I always say, "Yes, of course, come in, Ismael, how are you today?" We banter back and forth for a minute or two as he starts in on the enormous glass wall covered in handprints and the floor littered with pencil erasures, food wrappers, and discarded pencils. He wears gloves for this process.

Two things move me about Ismael. First, he treats my classroom like it is a sanctuary. He is as thoughtful, careful, and reverent about his job as any person I've ever met. Second, the man works like a dog. There are nights when I stay on campus pretty late, but I'm never the last person to leave. That would be Ismael. Once dark sets in, I see him trundling enormous garbage bins across the courtyard. He is unrelentingly polite to me when I go, despite the fact that I'm headed home, while he's elbow deep in teen-generated trash.

Thank you, Ismael. You are kind and uncomplaining in world that sees precious little of these characteristics. I am honored to work with you.

At 11:35 a.m. today ...

This morning, I was trying to think of topics for my journalism students to write about. That was a huge mistake, much like praying for patience. I got an idea, all right, but it sure wasn't what I'd had in mind.

Let me back up ... approximately one-and-a-half of the 30 students in my journalism class don't mind being there (Ana waffles a bit). The other 28-ish pretty much hate it and loudly offer their views with frequent  honesty. A typical evaluation of the course : "Miss, why does this class have to suck so much?"

In my defense, my journalism class doesn't have the actual responsiblity of producing the school newspaper. Or the yearbook. Those honors go to other classes on campus. No, my journalism class is a thinly disguised attempt to help struggling readers and writers improve their scores on standardized tests. At the beginning of the year, when I was bright-eyed and idealistic, I thought this a fine idea. Now, I join my seventh period students in their indignation. In the world of education speak, the course lacks relevance and authenticity.

Nonetheless, I gotta teach it, and I sincerely want the kids to learn. So I slave over lessons that go largely unappreciated. I've stopped taking that personally. Now, at the end of the 90 minute block on Mondays and Thursdays, I feel pretty good if I have any voice left, and my students were the only peeps in the room cussing. I've entirely given up on enforcing school rules such as no headphones or gum; instead, I think the day was a success if I don't want to quit my job immediately after the last student bangs a table into the wall as he sprints out the door.

So, imagine my shock when, just three days ago, well over half the class completed an assignment to write a personality profile. That may not seem all that stellar, but seriously? Two weeks ago, I could not get the class to sit down. I attribute this success entirely to snacks and trips to the toy basket. Judge if you will, but keep in mind ... over half the class just wrote a newspaper story.

All of this is to say, I realized with no small amount of panic, that if my students were actually going to write newspaper stories, they'd need something to write about. And for a school with exactly two sports teams (neither of which are season), disaster was looming. 

Fast forward to today at 11:35 a.m. I was helping keep order in the lunch line (my school is so minimalist, there is no cafeteria, but only a portable awning where 500 kids queue up to get their plate of food and then find a spot of shade). Suddenly the kids got very quiet, which is not typical of Camino students, and they stared out our heavy, chain-linked fence that separates our campus from a busy street. I turned around to check it out. Not 30 feet away, six police officers had a guy spread-eagled and face-down in the middle of the street, and additional cops were closing the road. That didn't rattle me -- but the rifles and helicopters that suddenly appeared did. Administrators and the handful of teachers outside began screaming to get kids into classrooms for a lockdown.

We got the all-clear about 10 minutes later. The kids queued back up to get their hotdogs and carrot sticks. By the end of lunch, our principal was in the work room regaling us with stories of the time he break danced at a school talent show.

But this old lady was still ruffled. And more than a little scared.

I realize I haven't had a lot of wonderful to say about Los Angeles recently. I really like Pasadena. And living in a city with world-class museums and entertainment pretty much rocks. Our church makes me happy. And I can picture being here for a quite some time. Most days.

The upside of what I later discovered was a drug bust? My journalism students had something to write about. And they all completed the assignment.

The downside? Marlo, one of my boys, told me he didn't understand why I was upset about what had happened. He said, "It's only scary, Miss, when they start shooting."

Rio Hondo - Parte Tres

On our bike ride yesterday, I picked up a flat. That's Matt's expression for getting a flat tire. I like how he says that, as though I was meandering down the trail when I noticed something sparkly peeking out from the scrub, so I stopped and picked it up. "Oh, look," I might say. "It's a flat!"

That's my alternate reality. What really happened is, I ran over an ugly thorn in just the precise way, so that it lodged its ugly thorniness all the way through my tire and into the tube.

Because I married Macgyver, Jr., Matt had my tube replaced in five minutes flat (get it? flat?), and we were back on our way.

The interruption in our ride got me thinking about all the flats we pick up in the course of a day, those irritations that force us to stop, assess, and correct before continuing on our way. I'm not one of those chirpy gals who looks for the good in every situation, but I do wonder about the sweetness we miss when we constantly push onward and upward.

I know a very fine man who puts it this way: "Time does not contain God. He exists in the past, present, and future. However, we humans can only exist in the present. So the present is the only place where we can meet God."

Most of the time, I have one eye balefully analyzing all that happened yesterday, last year, or ten minutes ago ... and the other concerned about what might happen tomorrow, next year, or in the next ten minutes. What would  my life look like if I kept my gaze gently in the right here, right now?

I suspect I'd start seeing a lot of sparkling somethings calling out to me from the scrub.

Rio Hondo - Parte Dos

I think the sights, sounds, and smells of the Rio Hondo call for a poem. Now, I'm not actually a poet in any sense of the word, but when I think of the Rio Hondo, I experience such a blur of images and smells and emotions that it seems only a poem could rightly capture it.

Alas, when I showed Matt my attempt at Rio Hondo poetry, he looked at me quizzically and said, "Are those your notes for writing sentences?"

Ahem.

Nonetheless, I'm going to brave - as brave as I have to be to bike in L.A. - and hurl my poem into the great blogger unknown. Here 'tis:

Deep River

Thirty-four miles
Round trip
But not so much round as up and down.
Down under multitudes of highways
Back up the other side.
Dodging dogs not on leashes
Breathing in horse sweat
Breathing out the dry dust of thirsty sunflowers.
Shift down, down, down to creep up, up, up the
Steep rise to see, heart bursting
The dam closed, still.

Heaving old concrete cradles smooth
Black paving,
Hidden graffiti.

Bikers, walkers, strollers, bladers, borders, drinkers, sleepers.
Roosters and chickens screaming in morning joy,
Silent by noon,
One happily calling back err-err-rrrr.
And the girl swiftly pedaling, mama right behind,
Papa a yard ahead,
Her army green helmet sprinkled with rhinestones.

A knowing smile between the newlyweds,
Who found a trail.
In L.A.

Rio Hondo - Parte Uno

My sweet new husband and I finally found our bike trail. Our first few weeks here, we experimented with various rides in and around Pasadena, as well as along the L.A. "river" (a deep, concrete gully with super steep concrete "banks"), but we couldn't find a ride that was long enough, safe enough, or at all conducive to conversation. Matt spent the whole ride worrying about my safety. And I, well ... I, too, spent the whole ride worrying about my safety. In the absence of dedicated bike lines, neither of us was confident our helmets would protect us from, say, a truck driver with no interest in slowing down for a couple of middle-aged biker s - or a headlong dive into the "river."

One Sunday evening, as we waited for the train at North Hollywood, Matt discovered a giant map under plexiglass that detailed all of the bike trails in L.A. We'd never seen such a map, but I promise, it wasn't for lack of trying. We'd asked the pros at bike shops, we'd queried co-workers who had the biker whiff about them, and we'd even stopped strangers during their own bike rides. No one referred to such a map, and no one suggested the Rio Hondo. No matter. We found it, and we are happy.

Here's what we like about the Rio Hondo bike trail:

1. It's 34-miles round trip. Good workout.

2. Other than one intersection, there are no cars. None, nada, zippo.

3.  We bike side by side the entire ride. Who needs marriage counseling? Three hours of sweaty pedaling keeps our communication about as open as it can possibly get.

4. There's a lovely park near the half way point that makes for a great break. We bust out the trail mix and baby wipes and watch toddlers, dogs, and geese battle it out for the best Sunday sprint. There is nothing as much fun as watching a chihuahua kick a goose's butt.

5. The other bikers don't take themselves too seriously. We see a lot of families out for a Sunday toodle. There are serious roadies, too, but they ding-ding their bells and yell, "On yer left!" It's cool.

Here's what we don't like about the Rio Hondo bike trail:

1. "Rio hondo" means deep river. I don't understand how Californians define river. When I hear the word, I think flowing water, perhaps some trees, maybe a bed of rocks with water burbling over and through it and the sun glinting off the surface, even a fish or two to liven up the action. Well, here in the great state of California (or, at least the L.A. part), "river" seems to mean "miles and miles of deep concrete lined with stray shopping carts, abandoned baby strollers, and pigeon poo." And these miles and miles of concrete have no guard rail. So I spend the first 20 minutes or so of our ride trying desperately not to picture either of us pitching down the banks of the Rio Hondo, leaving important body parts along the way. After a while, I relax and enjoy the ride. Really, I do.

2. The shooting range. Nope, not such a big fan of the shooting range.

3. There's a long stretch of ride that takes us through sections of the city that make me sad. We see freshly tarred over graffiti, men gathered around picnic tables holding near empty bottles of cheap beer, and a ratty chicken farm that we can hear (and smell!) from a half mile away.

4. A hill I affectionately call Mr. Nasty. It's smack in the middle of our ride. It looks friendly enough, and I swear, I've tackled more intense ones. But about half way up this sucker, I feel like my lungs might actually come out of my nose. The ONLY reason I keep going is that finishing it impresses my husband. And I love to impress my husband.

Now ... onto Rio Hondo - Parte Dos