Ju Rang

Used to be, I'd cry at the movies, cry at Hallmark commercials, and cry when I wasn't getting my way.

Room 212, you've changed all that.

Now, let me just say, I don't walk into my classroom, bawl all day, and then go home. My kids and I laugh a TON, and there are plenty of days, yesterday included, when I get so frustrated and irritated, I'm ready to quit my job and go be a cashier at Home Depot.

And yet? Oh, these babies. They do make me cry.

A couple of days ago, a young sophomore in my journalism class asked if he could stay after school to make a phone call. Towards the end of class, I had noticed Ju Rang analyzing several pages of a phone bill, and I'd wondered what the heck that was all about. Turns out, the bill was long over-due and he needed to speak with the folks at Verizon to find out why they were sending notices to his parents for a cancelled account.

Ju Rang's parents don't speak English. The folks at Verizon don't speak Korean.

When Ju Rang should have been outside kicking around a soccer ball, he spent over 30 minutes muddling through a phone bill. He never once lost his patience. (I confess, several times, I almost yanked the phone away from him and yelled into it, "He's told you! The account was cancelled! Stop harrassing this family!") Ju Rang was unceasingly polite, and when he finished his call, he invited me to his church and then went outside to find his best friend Elmer.

Now, Elmer, he's another story. This sweet kid is a dedicated swimmer in a sport that's not exactly conducive to families without a lot of financial resources. Yet there he is, six days a week, both before and after school, at an aquatic center he has to take a bus to in order to practice and compete. Matt and I watched him at meet couple of weeks ago, screaming, "Go Elmer!" as he swam the the first heat of the 200 breaststroke.

He lost. Elmer's parents were not there.

The next day, Elmer asked, "Miss? Will you and Mr. Forbes come watch me swim at sectionals?" Yes, Elmer, we will come watch you swim at sectionals. You got it.

I was late to pick up Matt the other day because Mariana needed to stay after school to catch up on her work. Well, that's what she said she was doing. In reality, she was watching YouTube videos on a laptop and giggling like a second-grader. I wasn't in a hurry to leave because I know her home is a shithole (her counselor's words, not mine). When I finally told her I needed to scoot, her face fell. But then she perked up and said, "I liked what we did in class today. It was kind of exciting. I'm going to do the assignment."

I don't cry in front of them. But when they leave, I pace around my classroom, sometimes throwing things, sometimes staring out the window, and often -- far too often -- getting really angry. I find myself thinking, over and over, "For heaven's sake, could someone please give these kids a break?"

I cry. And then I go home and heat up some veggie burgers for my sweet husband.

This is room 212.

Kennedy Quinn Dillon

On April 8, 2012 (four ... eight ... twelve ... doesn't that have nice symmetry?), Robyn and Brian's wee little girl was born. Since babies can't really share an anecdote about their trip through the birth canal or comment on how fuzzy we all look and sound, we are stuck talking about them in statistics. Weight, length, how long they sleep, how many ounces they take in, how many diapers they produce, what size clothes they wear.

Numbers. Blech. I'm a story girl myself.

She was too little. So little that she spent six out of her first seven days (argh, numbers again) in the hospital with tubes and incubators and very anxious parents. From way too far away, Matt and I checked our phones with the nervous twitchiness of over-caffeinated grandparents, gasping, "Oh! Here! Look!" every time my phone, set on full volume, dinged.

We got pictures of her sleeping in Brian's arms, sleeping in Chris's arms, sleeping in Robyn's lap, sleeping in her incubator, and sleeping in her preemie hospital gown, so big on her, it looked like a mumu. We read and re-read the updates about her progress. We held each other and prayed.

In spite of their numbing exhaustion, Robyn and Brian celebrated Kennedy's one week birthday with us on Skype. Robyn held her phone up to Kennedy's face so we could see her dark blue eyes. Once Kennedy accepted that the phone wasn't a meal option, she gazed at us. She yawned. She stared. She stuck out her tongue. She sucked her thumb. She fussed. She got bored and went looking for a snack.

Kennedy Quinn Dillon, here you are. Welcome, dear one. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

Now, please gain three pounds and stop scaring us.

I'll have mine rare, please

Matt and I have tootled around southern California almost every weekend since we moved here. To steal a friend's Facebook status, we live like someone just opened the gate. Now, to be honest, there have been times when we passed hours lolling on our little living room sofa shifting our weight from one cheek to the other. But mostly, we tootle.

I bring this up, not to brag, but to share our surprise. What's happening is that folks who have lived here for twenty years or more say things to us like, "Golly, I didn't know there were flower fields in Carslbad," or "Gee, you can take the MetroLink to San Juan Capistrano?" (They don't really talk like the cast from Leave it to Beaver. That's just me being me. But they do talk like they don't get out much.)

Matt was chatting with a nice lady named Linda who helps us deal with relocation caca. Mind you, this nice lady manages the relocations of hundreds and hundreds Disnoids a year. Whenever Matt speaks with her, he shares our latest discovery, the most recent of which is a fabulous little Mexican joint with potato tacos so spicy they'll set your hair on fire. Last time they talked, Linda said, "Matt, you are your wife are rare."

She didn't mean steak. Well, if she did that would be weird since we're vegetarians ... or even weirder if she thinks of bloody cow whenever she talks to Matt. Nope, she was complimenting him our get-out-and-go-ed-ness. I think that's nice.

Here's the thing. I've decided that even with the crime and pollution and smog and sirens and air so dry it makes my knuckles bleed, that this is a fine town. Yep, it has more than its fair share of egotistical maniacs, but it's bursting with creativity and vitality and beauty, too. What I love most about L.A. is that it is an utter celebration of all. No person or idea or belief or skin color is unwelcome. This is a city with its arms open wide.

Arms open wide is a lovely way to live.