Those Crazy Camino Kids

The graduation ceremony for the class of 2012 left me stunned, in an over-stimulated sort of way. The Wilshire Ebell Theatre was charming, and the kids all played their parts well (okay, most of them played their parts well). But, good lord, the circus / zoo / NBA finals atmosphere didn't feel right at all and frankly, left me feeling out of sorts.

I'd spent the day telling my students about regalia, explaining sleeve lengths, hoods, velvet trims, and various cap types. I explained that these were all important symbols, as old as Oxford, signifying academic achievements of which wearers are justifiably proud.

They smiled. They listened politely. Cristian tried to don my hood. I chased him away and told him if he didn't turn in his research paper, he'd never make it to the twelfth grade. He grinned.

In retrospect, I bet they were all thinking that I'm a stuffy old lady. That's certainly how I felt 10 hours later when I filed into the Ebell, bringing up the rear of the class.

Blowhorns? Posters the size of whiteboards? Giant teddy bears? Screaming, whistling moms and dads in satin and sequins? Grandmothers standing in their seats to get a better view? Thighs and boobs busting out all over the place?

Not what I'd expected.

But, then again, was anything about L.A. what I'd expected? If I learned anything this year, surely I learned this: put down my frown and open my arms.

The next morning, I was sitting at my computer, one eye on my book inventory and the other on my kids, as they chatted and passed around my yearbook. I noticed my class size kept diminishing. I'd started with 30 or so students, but every time I glanced up, it seemed that half life equations were affecting my student population. When the last few stragglers jumped up and said, "We're going to the auditorium," my grumpiness from the night before flooded right back in. I ran after them, prepping my "Get back to class!" yell, when Leron, our school watchdog, caught me at the door and offered to take care of matters. I lamely followed him into the auditorium ... to be greeted by 120 screaming kids waving enormous bouquets of flowers and posters literally the size of, yes, whiteboards.

A lot more fun when the hoopla is for me.

I was so touched, I can't think of the day without tears. I was telling my mother-in-law about it yesterday, and I kept having to pause as my voice caught in my throat. I think I was most shocked by the enormous breakfast spread, complete with made-to-order pancake and scrambled eggs stations and a cake topped by an edible sticker of my face. I think I was most touched by the dozen or so kids who sang, accompanied by Vanessa and Oscar on guitars, a song that was something about me changing the world one child at a time. I think I was most overwhelmed by the video of student after student explaining why they'd miss me (and griping at Mr. Forbes for taking me away). I think I was most delighted by the merengue dance lessons. I think I was most exhausted, when about four hours after the party started, a dozen or so of my boys brought in the second round of food, this time pizza, Cheetos, and cookies.

Several times during the year, I tried to take my kids' pictures. I figured they'd jump into poses a la Charlie's Angels, just like my former students, but I was puzzled when my Camino kids hid their faces behind their arms or turned away or even fled the room. I couldn't understand because they are so gorgeous and funny. But I quickly learned to tread lightly with a camera.

During my party? When I got out my camera for one last try, they proudly stood next me, a bit stiff, yes, but all smiles and giggles. Some of them had to be coaxed with a side-poke or two, and some of their faces are unrecognizable from slap-happy laughter. But they did not hide.

The song they sang had a line that said, "I hope you are as proud of me as I am of you."

Never ... no, not ever ... have I been more so.

Before we say good-bye

I feel like there are dozens of places in Pasadena that I haven't given their proper due in this here blog. So in the intetest of fairness, as well as fear of forgetting, a few shout-outs:

1. City Hall
We went to an outdoor concert of the Pasadena Pops, free in celebration of the gorgeously renovated City Hall. The concent wasn't very good -- a long of banging and screeching. But the show-before-the-show was utterly charming: a sing-a-long of mostly tunes from The Sound of Music accompanied by food trucks (we hit up the apple and cherry pie). With fond memories safely in tow, we tried to walk through City Hall on every stroll, guessing ahead of time how many photo shoots would be in process. The architecture and gardens are so gorgeous, it's a popular spot for brides, proud parents, and commercial producers. (Just for the record, I'm well ahead in the guessing department.)

2. Ricky Bobby's
We don't know the actual name of this burger joint. One day, we chatted with the "Ricky" or the "Bobby" while Matt sucked down a thousand calorie milk shake. The owner assured us we'd love the wet bean burrito. I have no doubt. I like how we can smell the fries long before we see the neon sign.

3. Vroman's
I'm not partial to chain or indie bookstore. I'll take books however I can get them (although they must be new, as I'm quite the cootie phobe). But Vroman's is something special. It's the size of a city block, but indie through and through. The best part?  No matter my mood, I am gair-un-TEED to love the first book I lay hands on. Seriously. Not a Friday goes by that I don't say, "Matt ...? Can I get a new book at Vroman's?" He smiles. And I buy three. At least.

4. ArcLight
I know I blogged about this 75 posts or so ago, but ArcLight deserves a special good-bye. I first went to this theater when Matt was in China. I was feeling sorry for myself, so after buying a stack of books at Vroman's, I headed to the closest theater to our apartment, ready to watch anything that would make me feel less lonesome. The movie stunk (something with Julia Roberts and Tom Hanks that involved scooters and community college -- blech). The theater was extravagent, though, even by L.A. standards, so much so that I knew I'd take Matt as soon as he got home.

Honestly? I thought he'd find it stuffy and pretentious, but since I couldn't adequately explain the personal greeter, the seat selection machine, and the lobby big enough for a safe landing of Air Force One, I took him.

Dang it, he loved it. I mean, loved it. He is not the least bit fazed by spending $29 for two tickets (that does not include so much as a pack of Skittles) and whines like an overtired toddler if we find ourselves at some other theater. He happily added a line item for "ArcLight" to our monthly budget. Right after to Vroman's.

We have something like 40 hours left in Pasadena. I wonder if we can make it to all four before we hit the road.

Fundraising

Fundraisers are an inevitable part of a high school campus. You pretty much can't walk 10 feet without a kid hitting you up to buy a candy bar, car wash, or coupon book.

Camino is no exception in the fundraising department. The cheerleaders want to go to camp, the volleyball team needs uniforms, and Mr. Gonzalez's world history students are eager to see D.C.  My wallet is out all the time.

Two major differences I noticed at my school right away: Camino kids are allowed to sell homemade food, which is pretty much the awesomest idea ever. Less awesome, though, is that all food sold on campus must stick to the school's nutrition policy. Somehow, pizza gets a pass, as well as tamales and conchas (a big, sweet bun thingy), but nothing pre-packaged in a bag or tray. Words like "processed" and "salt content" get tossed around a lot, I think because Latinos suffer from a disproportionally high rate of heart disease. No Dorritos at Camino.

Never, though, have I heard anyone mention our policy regarding selling food out of a tire.

I walked out of my classroom yesterday to see something that should be featured on Food Network. Picture this: a 3x3 piece of black foamboard laid out flat on the concrete in full sun. On top of that was a foil-lined tire, procured from the recycling station across the street. Inside the tire were five little smores stacks, and on top of the whole contraption, a sheet of glass.

I'm not kidding.

My wallet stayed in my backpack, but only because Marisol's AP government kids had already brought me a little plate of homemade flan. Well, also because I'm not all that wild about smores, and I'd like to leave the great state of California with any extra weight tucked safely in my suitcase.

These kids are so cool. I wonder if Hawaii kids are cool, too. Tough to beat smores in a tire.

Go

For the past few months, I have often fantasized about a Delta flight taxiing down a north-bound runway, cruising over downtown Los Angeles, and then making a wide right turn over Pasadena. I picture our faces pressed to the window, our coffeepot and salad bowls safely aboard, as we say good-bye and turn our hearts toward home.

This is not to be.

The plane is going to make a left instead. We are due in Honolulu on July 16.

For 20 years, Matt has worked at Disney. His farthest relocation was from an office in Celebration to another office near EPCOT.

For 30 years, I lived in Central Florida. I moved now and again, but never more than a zipcode or two.

We fell in love, hit mid-life, and suddenly, we are on a journey neither of us could have imagined. We may possibly be the only two people on the planet to be sad about a 13-month stint in the midst of Pacific paradise.

Family, friends, Summit … we love you. We miss you. I’d like to say we’ll see you next year. But I have stopped pretending I know what’s next. I don't know much, except this:

Where Matt goes, I go.

Gravity indeed

Matt asked me if I'd like to learn to surf.

I said, "Uh, no."

"Really? You sure?" he asked. And then pointed out that I'd be perfect since I have "such a low center of gravity." Then he struck a surfer pose right in the middle of our apartment.

I think my husband just said I have a big butt.

Oh, I'm definitely getting some mileage out of this one.

All you need is love

Before we blow this popsicle stand, I thought Matt, for sure, should check out Las Vegas. I figured he'd hate it, but every time someone hears we lived in L.A., what would he say when they asked, "Dude, did you go to Vegas?" In the interest of future cocktail party conversations that may or may not ever happen, I took him to Vegas.

I was right. He hated it. As we left the New York, New York casino to head back into the 105-degree heat, I looked up at his big, smoke-reddened eyes and asked, "Y'okay?" He replied, "Umm, that's a lot of ... stimulation."

Our main objective was the Cirque du Soleil LOVE show. Matt didn't hate that. In fact, I think he may have experienced something close to the rapture. Let me back up a second ...

I've been to about a half dozen Cirque shows. I called my friend Sunni after my first one and said, "Blech. No plot." She said, "You do know that 'cirque' refers to 'circus,' yes?" I said, "Well, er, duh. So Cats should be called Cirque du Cats. Yuck, no plot." (I, in fact, had not made the circus connection, in spite of seven years of studying French. I remember thinking, well, whatever, I never liked circuses, either. Poop and clowns. Awesome.)

In the years since, I've grown to appreciate the athleticism and dream-like quality of the Cirque du Soleil shows, though. Seriously, I'm not being a smart alec. With each one, I much better appreciate the sheer artistry of such a colossal production. I read somewhere that the designers want the audience to stop thinking and just feel. That's a great way to approach the Cirque.

But even without the mental "you'll love this" prep, LOVE would have blown my mind. The theater designers placed speakers in the backs of every seat, and the producers use the digitally remastered versions of 28 Beattles' songs. Imagine that, at full volume. I felt like the music was pouring out of my ears.

And guess what else? Plot! Images of Liverpool at the end of WWII and then the shocking slide right into the 60s counter-culture and yet another war. I'm not saying there was an actual story line to follow, but as the music, acrobatics, screens, images, dancing, and props popped and paraded everywhere I looked, my head latched  onto connection after connection with other texts, films, and images I'd seen and read. It was like swimming in the Internet.

Best, though, were the surprises (not the least of which was my cute husband softly singing along to every song): a grand piano filled with soap bubbles, a Volkswagen rabbit that "exploded" on stage, a pregnant ballerina, the moment a giant, white parachute descended on all of our fingertips.

We walked outside in a daze and nosed into a crowd to see the Mirage's 9:00 p.m. lava-show (I was so hot at this point, I thought my face might melt). I looked up at Matt again, and asked, "Do you think it's true? That all you need is love?"

He smiled. And took my hand. And thanked me for taking him to Las Vegas.

A rose by any other name

My students have delightful names. I didn't always think so. I remember looking at my rosters before the first week of school, and thinking, "Uh-oh." All of those Xs and collections of consonants intimidated me, plus I knew the worst way to start a relationship with a teenager was to butcher his name.

But now? I wish I had a dozen kids just so I could give them lovely Latino names.  I have my share of Jessica's and Joshua's, to be sure, plus I have names that look Anglo that are quite not and that I do, indeed, badly pronounce. For example, Jaime is HI-may, the first half of Laura is the same sound that rhymes with ouch or plough, and the vowels in Paula's name are separated, so you get something more like PAY-oo-luh. Oh, and Andrea, too: on-DRAY-uh.

See? Beautiful.

The name I had the most difficulty with is Anahi. When I first met her, I tromped over the letters like a pig in a garden. Now I know to lightly brush through them, softly and quickly, like something I might say talking in my sleep.

I also love the name Cesia, I think because it reminds me freesia, and Dalia, too, must be one of the prettiest names to lean over a crib and chant. Samira seems incredibly exotic, just like her curly, henna'd hair. And look at all those names that end in A. The list goes on and on: Maria, Vanessa, Sandra, Maya, Karla, Martha, Maritza. I fit right in.

Funny, though, that my boys' names don't seen nearly as unusual. In fact, most of them have names that make me think of older uncles wearing plaid pants and knobbing up the volume too loud on the television, like Walter, Elmer, Oscar, or Fredy. I do have a Jose, Juan, and Miguel here and there. Quite a few of my boys' parents name their son Cristian, but never with the H that shows up in the American version. A couple of names are more unusual to my ear: Osmin, Francisco, Octavio, and Yordy. My favorite, for sure, is Josue (pronounced ho-SWAY). Even better, Josue's last name is Espino. He's a cute kid. And gosh, his name is just fun to shout. "Josue Espino, stop horsing around! Do you need to take a walk, young man?" He usually grins his adorable grin and then bolts out the door.

My very, very favorite name at my school is not a student's, but rather a teacher's. My American History teammate is Marisol Pineda Conde. The way to correctly pronounce Marisol is not by grinding through every consonant like an enunciation contest, but rather softening the letters so that the R is more like a D and the L is barely mentioned at all. Like this: MAH-dee-so. Oh, like coconut cream pie, so sweet and smooth.

My kids, of course, wish their names were more Americanized, and they wear sunscreen so that their light brown skin doesn't turn even one shade darker. Someday, I know they'll wear their beautiful names and cafe au lait skin proudly.

They will know, I hope, that a rose by any other name would not smell as sweet.