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.

Lord of the dance

The big-whig Hindu god is Shiva, creator and destroyer of the universe. So many of the museums we visit have such extensive Asian collections that we go looking for Shiva images and sculptures to add to our mental catalogue. (Well, I do. Matt is partial to fertility images in Japanese lions. Men.)

So it was no surprise when, on a recent guided tour, our docent Nan led us right up to a Shiva sculpture that is, oh, about a thousand years old. She pointed out Ganges, the river god, hiding out in Shiva's hair, and Shiva's decidedly un-PC foot squashing a midget as a symbol of stamping out ignorance. In this particular sculpture, as in so many others, Shiva is cast as lord of the dance, as he whirls and twirls the creation in and out of existence in a continuous, cyclical frenzy.

Every teeny, tiny detail is just gorgeous. Bells, birds, and all manner of b-words set my little brain on fire and gave me anguish. I couldn't decide if I wanted to look at him or scribble notes about him. I knew time was short. Nan would soon lead us to the next work of art, and then what would I do?

I think the best emotion we experience is the simultaneous flood of joy and pain. It's like that moment of enormous pride when your child walks across the stage to receive his diploma, and you know in an instant that what he's learned -- really learned -- is that he no longer needs you and you feel such relief and grief in a single instant. And then you see his whole life like a heap of puzzle pieces on the dining room table -- all of the tragedy and joy you know will make him a man, but only if he fits all of it together for himself -- and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and clasp your hands together and beg God to stop (or is it never stop?) the swell in your heart.

That's how I felt looking at Shiva. I could see the artist lovingly and carefully molding the wax before she covered it with clay and then destroyed the wax by melting it in the kiln. I saw her tiny fingers and nails and teeth and knife shaping Shiva. Did she think about how, just like Shiva, she was destroying exquisite beauty, only to make something much finer?

And what about the back of Lord of the Dance, which is just as lovely and intricate as the front? Whom was she honoring when she took such care, for surely she knew few would take the time to admire it?

And the question that made my throat catch as I took Matt's hand and followed Nan down two floors to Greek antiquity:

If the Artist turns the sculpture of my life inside out, revealing the contours of the back as plainly as the front, is it still a thing I would want anyone to see?

Taking it up a notch

A privilege guaranteed to Angelenos is celebrity-sightings. One statistic has it that 75% of the world's famous actors and movie-shakers live in southern California, so the street corners should be dripping with wealthy, well-known faces, yes? I'm told that Pasadena, in particular, is a haven for movie stars.

Nada. 

We haven't seen one famous person in our 50 weeks here. (Well, okay, Hulk Hogan was on our flight from Tampa to Los Angeles, but I told Matt he didn't count. When he asked me why, I irritably said, "Just because.")

Mr. Chang, the calculus teacher in the room that abuts mine says there's no logical explanation for this. He probes with questions, such as, "Do you walk around a lot?" (we only buy gas twice a month), "Do you eat at ethnic, non-chain restaurants?" (only), and "Are you on the lookout?" (probably not).

I think Mr. Chang has decided that we live in a hole and wouldn't know a famous person if she bit us in the butt. In fact, Mr. Chang said we've seen dozens of celebrities and just didn't recognize them. Mr. Chang can be a jerk. (Not really. He's probably the nicest teacher I've ever met. I'm just mad that I haven't had a celebrity sighting.)

Until yesterday, that is. We were walking down Colorado on our way back from an ethnic, non-chain restaurant when I noticed a gorgeous, hairy beast of the jumbo terrier variety. We stood at a corner with his expensively dressed parents while we all waited for the walk sign, and I said, "Gosh, your dog is stunning. Boy or girl?" His owner/handler graciously smiled and allowed that the hairy beast is male. "Ah," I cleverly replied. What is his name?" She said Notch. My next brilliant query was, "Oh. As in, N-O-T-C-H." She replied, "Well, Notch, as in Top."

Ahem.

As we crossed Los Robles, I pointed out that Notch seemed to know he's a looker, walking with such obvious ownership of his environs that I dared not pat his head. "I should say so," said his owner/handler. "He's just returned from Westminster. He was invited to show." When we got to the other side of the street, she condescendingly explained to me that dogs are either invited to Westminster or they win a lottery. Notch had been invited.

I suddenly lost all interest in Notch and starting skipping and clapping. "Matt," I chirped, "we've had our celebrity sighting!" Suddenly, Matt lost all interest in Mrs. Owner/Handler because she and Mr. Owner/Handler were waving away a meter man who was about to write them a parking ticket. I think Matt lives in fear of meter men and meter maids. 

As Mr. and Mrs. Notch condescendingly explained to the meter man why city ordinances require all meters to accept credit cards, and since the one in front of their car didn't have credit card capabilities, blah-blah-blah, I sang, "Notch, my celebrity Notch, handsome, Notch, what-a-man, Notch."

Notch, of course, didn't give a rip about any of this. No one was complimenting him or putting a ribbon around his neck. He just waited with bored indifference for his owners/handlers to open the door of his Audi SUV so he could step inside.

All confirmation that yes, we had a celebrity sighting indeed.

It's time for Dodger BASEball!

I had a teacher in high school named Cindy Cravey. We all called her Cindy Crazy because this chick was nuts. Well, technically, she probably wasn't certifiable, but she did things that would get her fired today. Once, she paid her nail technician to come to our school and fill in her acrylic tips during sixth period while she told us lurid tales of Greek gods having sex with minors and farm animals. On a field trip to the Renaissance Festival in south Florida, she plopped down in the bus seat next to my best friend and me and confessed that she wasn't wearing any underwear because she'd been too busy to do laundry, and, oh, by the way, did either of us have a tampon?

Okay, maybe she was certifiable ... but also incredibly entertaining.

I mention Ms. Cravey because she said her ex-husband often accused her of being a dilettante. I thought that sounded rather exotic and mysterious until I looked it up and realized two things: one, Ms. Cravey may have been a dilettante concerning art and music, but she most certainly knew her mythology on levels no one could call shallow; and two, it would be far cooler to be a little knowledgeable about several interesting topics than to know every arcane detail about only one thing, like Star Wars, for example, to the point of stupefying your friends at cocktail parties or dressing up as Boba Fett to lurk around sci-fi conventions. Being a dilettante didn't sound exotic or mysterious, but it also didn't sound so bad.

Enter my new, rather surprising, interest in the Los Angeles Dodgers. I've never liked baseball, other than cheering on my little brother at little league games circa 1982. Compared to the testosterone rage of football, baseball always seemed to me to be rather meek and twitchy. Seriously, why do batters fasten and unfasten their gloves, step away from the plate, tug at the seat of their pants, return to the plate, adjust their cap, tap their bat in the dirt, rotate their butt clockwise, spit  ... and so on, until I eventually yell, "C'mon! Hit the damn thing!"

But I love the Los Angeles Dodgers, nonetheless. And since my love for them is about 12 weeks old, am I a dilettante? I accept.

Mr. Forbes and I watch every game of Dodger baseball on television, happily chanting along with Vince Scully, "It's tuh-eye-mmm for Dodger baseball!" at the start of every game.  One Sunday afternoon, Matt shocked me by saying yes to my thousandth request to buy tickets and go see a game live. Well, now, a baseball game on television is fine, but to see the Dodgers in person is quite another altogether. We've been to two games, and I'm begging Matt to take me to a third.

Maybe he's not super anxious to slide me into the seat next to him because a typical 30-second bit of "conversation" with me goes something like this: "Wow, Abreu looks far thinner in person than on television, man do those Dodger dogs smell good, did you bring sunscreen, gosh, I'm thirsty, could I have a swig of water, who the heck is Kennedy, sure do hope Dee Gordon is in the lineup tonight, want some pretzels?"

I love watching these guys. I love the quaint 1960s Dodger stadium with its low breezeway ceilings and tiny concession stand counters. I love that the first 10,000 ticket holders get a bobble head of a former Dodger. I love to wear my Dodger blue hoodie and yell like a maniac when Mattingly screams at the umpire. And I love the way peanut shells stick to the hairs on Matt's legs.

Does this make me a baseball dilettante? Probably. I still don't understand why I'm supposed to aggressively prefer the American League over the National one (or is it the other way around?). Why a batter's performance is noted as a number far less than point-five mystifies me. And the fact that players can be traded mid-season -- or practically mid-game -- makes me nuts. Just as I start to recognize the difference between Mark Ellis and A.J. Ellis, one of them is sure to be sent packing to the Red Sox or the farm league.

However, just the other day, Jairo, a bright kid in fourth period blurted out, "Miss, why do you like the Dodgers so much? They suck compared to the Angels." The rational part of my brain registered that Jairo just wanted me to stop talking about poetry criticism. But the gauntlet had been thrown, so I gamely picked it up. In about two minutes, I statistically -- if not passionately -- flattened Jairo's assertion while the rest of the class raised their eyebrows and dropped their jaws.

Dilettante indeed.

So ... the Dodgers are playing the Astros tonight and are down by three. This is odd since Kershaw is pitching, but so many of our guys -- Kemp, Rivera, Uribe -- are out on injuries, it's a near miracle that we're first in the league. Matt's sound asleep. I'm not going to wake him up.

That is, unless we score.

San Juan Capistrano

One of the loveliest days we've spent here was at San Juan Capistrano. One of 21 missions established in the Golden State by priests from Mexico and Spain who wanted to spread Christianity and social work to native Americans, this particular one was built in 1776. The original stone church is not much more than a heap of rubble with an arch here and there, but the rest of the grounds are in remarkably good (and undoubtedly restored) condition.

Part of the fun of any destination is the getting there, and this trip proved true to that. The Amtrack Pacific Surf Liner was a straight, clean, and stress-free shot to Orange County -- plus, it inexplicably reminded me of the Barbie United Friendship airplane I played with in the mid-1970s (which I should have kept, as it would go for about 70 bucks today on eBay). There's something about items fitting nicely into compartments, including humans, that give me a sense of everything being right side up.

I confidently speak for Matt when I say that our favorite part of the mission was the gardens. Rather than the show-stopping roses we see everywhere in southern California, this courtyard is filled with flowers and trees in much gentler, quieter foliage, perhaps in keeping with an atmosphere of meditation. I don't know what all the plants are -- just that I loved the whites, lavenders, and soft greens, as did the hummingbirds and bees solemnly filling their bellies.

For many decades, the mission was a working and self-supporting monastery.  It was way cool to check out the original olive millstone and wine press. If the little informational sign is correct, this mission produced the first wine made in California. We don't drink wine. But we do like firsts.

We spent quite a lot of time sitting in a pew in Serra Chapel. The ceiling is gorgeously fresco-painted in a tile and vine motif. The dozens of little statues of saints crammed into various niches and alcoves are kind of creepy. The dark, red candles flickering in their carved metal trays moved me, as they always do when I am in a house of worship. We lit two in memory of our dads.

The little town of San Juan Capistrano reminded me a great deal of Mt. Dora, right down to the kitschy gardening and tea shops. We had brunch at the a seriously over-priced Ramos House (well, on the patio of the Ramos House to be exact): one menu, one price, take-it-or-leave-it (we took it). The owner was grumpy, the patrons over-dressed, and the food rich. Or maybe the patrons were rich, and the food was over-dressed?  We snuggled. We chuckled. And we happily filled our bellies.

Nice day.

Send me broken staplers

Yesterday, Matt had a tough day at work. Building a theme park in Shanghai costs a lot of money and takes enormous coordination betwween governments, departments, cultures, budgets, and languages. Throw in multi-hour meetings with type-A personalities, and ... tough day at work.

My big on-the-job challenge was when Martin jammed my stapler. He tried to bundle together about 50 pages using sheer force, and the result wasn't pretty.  I don't have a pair of needle-nose plyers at work, much less a spare stapler, so mild panic set in.  Seriously, my stapler is, umm, a staple in my workday. 

I brought it home for Matt to fix. When we were riding the elevator up to our apartment, I showed him Martin's handiwork. He looked at it, grimaced, and said, "Yikes. That's jammed." More mild panic. I thought about buying another one. I thought about our accountant showing me the number that represents what I spend on school stuff. It's many digits long. More mild panic.

While I started dinner, Matt fixed the stapler. And while he had the plyers out of the toolbox, he took care of a bracelet of mine that had lost a charm, too. He is a very nice man.

When he asked the blessing over our meal, Matt expressed a lot of gratitude, as he always does. Rarely, though, does me make a request. Last night was an exception. Matt's prayer went something like this:

"Thank you that I can help this wonderful woman by fixing her stapler. Thank you for that. And ... please send me some staplers to fix at Disney."

Matt's prayer touched me, not just for its beauty, but also for its truth. We spend so much time in our jobs seeing very little progress and feeling even less appreciation. Now and again, what joy to simply fix something that's broken.

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.

Empty

So often, something happens in my classroom that I have no skills to deal with. I feel sick and uncertain and ill-equipped. I think it over, I talk with others -- but I'm still at a loss.

A couple of weeks ago, my students wrote a timed-essay. They understood the stakes, they knew how to perform the task, and they could interpret the prompt. Some of my kids just didn't want to write, and I understood that. Heavens, who wants to write an essay at eight o'clock in the morning when the sun is shining and spring is on the way? What I didn't understand, though, was the mechanism a couple of my kids used to avoid the work. I would have taken a nap, written a note, chewed gum. But not two of my kids in first period.

"Dayna" used her eraser to make a mound of white shavings. Then she took her student ID, which is shaped exactly like a credit card or driver's license, and used it to separate the shavings into neat little piles. "David," her elbow partner, thought this was far more interesting than writing his own essay, so he jumped in on the action. They were extremely quiet -- never laughed or talked, but the mischief on their faces was unmistakable.

What made my stomach turn is the drug reference. I've only seen Hollywood versions of cocaine cutting, but I'm pretty sure that's the task my students were mimicking. I pointed lots of stern looks in their direction and whispered admonitions to get back on task. Nothing. I reminded the kids of the importance of the test. The cocaine cutting continued. Finally, out came the threat to go explain to an administrator why they could not write an essay, which worked. The ID found its way into the backpack, and the pile of erasure shavings was swept onto the floor.

I wish I could say I handled the whole episode well, but I most definitely did not. I talked about it with my colleagues, and we stepped up our drug use talks in our iConnect classes. I thought about relaying the incident to administrators, but honestly, our mental health counselors are already over-tasked.  Plus, I felt sure I was over-reacting. Perhaps this was a little like seeing toddlers take their clothes off at the playground?

I've never used illegal substances, and I'm afraid of most of the legal ones. What I saw in class that day scared me in ways I don't fully understand.

The world is not as full of hope as I'd like.

SRLA

Today was the annual Los Angeles Marathon. That's right, boys and girls, 20,000 atheletes running from Dodger Stadium to the Santa Monica Pier.

Pretty much awesome.

But what's even awesomer is a program called Students Run Los Angeles (SRLA) that offers 3,000 scholarships to teenagers from underprivileged areas of the city. They get their entry fee waived and a superb pair of Nike running shoes, not to mention a poncho in case of rain, gel snacks, and the screaming support of the teachers and coaches from their school (that's where Matt and I came in).

We queued up at mile 10 and spent two hours squinting. We so desperately wanted to see the 50-ish Camino kids who have been training for this run since September. We had Gatoraide, we had pretzels, and we had lungs. Cocyx be damned, whenever I saw one of our munchins I began jumping up and down and yelling stuff like, "WOOHOO, NATALLY! GO, YOU!" and "DALIA! ROBERTO! YOU GUYS ROCK!"

Then back to squinting until we saw the next Camino-ite.

We missed church, which has considerably less jumping and screaming. But no fewer smiles from God, I feel sure. What better way to worship than to say to a young man or woman, "I have faith in you."

Great morning.

Levitated Mass

As we walk around this colossal town, we see odd things. And sometimes our only possible response is a shake of the head and a quietly murmured, "Only in L.A." Here's a recent example ...

The Los Angeles County Museum of Art, a world-class institution we are rather addicted to, recently spent $10 million to transport a big rock (ahem, sorry ... "megalith") from a quarry in Riverside to its backlot where some dude named Michael Heizer will watch a crane move it to just the right location over a walk-way, thus deeming him "the artist" and the rock "art."

See? Only in L.A.

For some odd reason I can't quite puzzle out, tens of thousands of people from the four counties the "megalith" rolled through came out at all hours of the night to catch a glimpse of the boulder. I say all hours of the night because massive road closures, tree removals, and traffic signal dismantlings made day-time travel a bad idea. Dozens of area newspapers, that capitalized way too often on the "rock 'n roll" theme in their headlines, reported on rock music festivals and food trucks eager to make a buck off the rock craze.

Every morning, Matt expectantly busted open the newspaper to trace the rock's whereabouts on its 10-day journey. To my everlasting surprise, even national news outlets got in on the hype. On my drive to school every morning, I listened to stories from stations running the gamut from the local Pasadena public radio station to Martketplace, The Morning Report and even both NPR's Morning Edition and All Things Considered.

So last weekend, Matt laid out a course for a trip down to LACMA so we could check out the rock for ourselves. We went early, hoping to avoid the crowds and peek at the big boy through the fence behind the museum.

I peeked. And criticized. And shook my self-righteous little head. The thing was wrapped in plastic, for heaven's sake (although my sweet husband informed me that, no indeed, what appears to be plastic is actually imported Egyptian cotton designed to protect the boulder from the elements, to which I sarcastically replied, "Aren't boulders sort of designed to be IN the elements?"). The "megalith" is about the size of one of those gas station kiosks that sell cigarettes and 2-liter bottles of Pepsi, whereas I'd been envisioning something more on the scale of a Walgreen's. Megalith indeed.

Because Matt is always happy and curious, he thought the boulder was pretty much awesome, not to mention the heavy artillery of large-scale trucks, trailers, and cranes surrounding it like a queen's retinue. I pointed out that someone in the marketing department would be getting a bonus since all the trucks, trailers, and cranes were all conveniently painted in the same colors as LACMA's trademark red and white. He grinned. Rather enthusiastically.

We were correct in that the crowds were light at 8:00 a.m. (this city sleeps until noon on the weekends), but the news crews were out in full force. A cameraman from Fox thought our noticeably opposite reactions were funny, so he pointed his camera in our direction and asked us to talk.

We did. I was funny. Matt was funnier. And as we strolled back to the bus stop, we shook our heads and muttered, "Only in L.A."

Because Matt is Matt ...

Two weeks from Sunday marks three years since the first day I saw Matt. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a starched white, button-down shirt with a speck of communion juice on the collar. We met at Panera for a cup of coffee, and when he excused himself to go to the men's room, I noticed two things: he walked like a mellow Tigger, and he patted his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still there.

I fell in love.

(So did he. I wasn't a mile away from our good-bye when my phone buzzed with a text message that said, "When can I see you again?")

He takes my breath away.

Matt is unrelentingly gentlemanly. He turns down the bed at night, and sets my slippers next to it. He puts toothpaste on my toothbrush. When the alarm goes off, he gets out of bed first.  While I sleep a few more minutes, he makes a pot of coffee and gets the tea kettle ready for my to-go mug. I can only convince him to let me carry my back-pack if it's chilly outside (he knows it warms me), and  I honestly can't remember when I last opened a car door or had to figure out directions from point A to point B.

The Tigger walk? I was dead-on. Matt's energy and playfulness astonish me. He loves to make rhyming words. He names plants -- not "daisy," mind you, but rather, "number three white," which is especially funny as he has an encylopedic knowledge of horticulture. Every time we walk past a dog, he asks, "What kind is that?" No matter what I reply, he laughs. Public transporation fascinates him, as do walking, biking, and swimming ... and maps, colored pencils, and high-end tools.  He can fall asleep sitting up. Mint chip ice cream makes him grin like a teenager.

Every night, when we sit down to dinner, Matt holds out his hands to me, and asks, "May I pray?"

I love this man. I love his military-short hair and his low snore and his Wallace-like smile.

Yesterday, we took a walk to 21 Choices, our favorite frozen yogurt joint (they have flavors like carmelized banana, so what's not to like?). On our way there, Matt saw a couple arguing. As the woman walked away from the man, he quite savagely abused her. It was so sudden and ugly, I thought Matt might be sick. When the man saw Matt, he sprinted away. Matt called out to the woman to ask if she was okay. And although she said, "I'm fine," it was clear she meant, "Get away from me."

We walked on. We ate our yogurt. We dipped into the Apple store to look at iPads. We discussed our plans for Scotland. We held hands. But ... Matt's mind was on the woman. He was quiet. He didn't ask me to name any dog breeds.

When we got near the place the woman had been yanked to the ground by her hair, Matt said, "She works there. She was wearing a uniform. I want to ... I want to give her our phone number. I want to tell her we'll help her, we'll testify, we'll ..." He got quiet again.

There are a thousand reasons not to get involved, I thought. She'll be angry we walked into her restaurant. She might be an addict. She won't want to press charges. She'll mutter an explicative and turn away. There are more complications than we could ever guess.

Yet here is front of me stood my guy. What are a thousand reasons stacked next to slump of his shoulders? I took his hand, and we walked in. Our exchange with the woman was brief and private. She may never call us or leave the man who is as different from my Matt as the east is from the west. But when Matt said, "Here is my number and you can call it in an hour or a week or a year or never ...," she looked up into Matt's face. Then she looked at me. And then she looked back up at Matt.

She took the piece of paper with Matt's phone number on it, and she nodded. She said thank-you.  And then she turned away.

But not before I saw a certain look in her eyes.  She knows, I thought. She knows what it feels like to have a man set her slippers next to her bed.

There is such hope in the world. And I love Matt Forbes.

Rosemary

Speaking of the Rose Bowl Aquatics Center, I've met some awfully nice ladies in the locker room. Yes, it's super strange to chat about jobs, kids, and hair care products stark naked, but maybe chlorine acts as a desensitizer.

(Male readers, before you get all excited, I will tell you that the early crew of female swimmers at RBAC sharply resemble bells, most of whom look far more like Liberty than Tinker.)

My favorite acquaintance is Rosemary. She lives on Oak Knoll in an assisted living facility. Rosemary has been swimming every day since she was about 15. She's pretty ticked off that she can only manage a third of a mile three days a week now and that her kids want her to stop driving. The change in the dinner hour from 4:45 to 5:00 p.m. also has her quite irritated, plus she hates that her agenda for the day is reduced to finishing a needlework pillow cover and taking a nap. (I nearly swooned with envy. About the nap.)

Rosemary isn't shy to tell me I'm not swimming long enough. Or that she's probably not going to remember my name tomorrow (she says if she can conjure up a thought by midnight, that counts as instant recall).  She chats about the rash under her breasts as easily as her husband's death from Alzheimer's disease. I can picture her in the career she left over a quarter a century ago, teaching Lamaze classes to hundreds and hundreds of couples. I bet she told them she wasn't going to remember their names, either.

Matt is eager to meet Rosemary (but with both of them dressed). He wants to take her to tea. I think they'd fall in love.

And I'd have to start a whole new blog.

Creature from the black lagoon

No, not a Hollywood remake (although evidence that cinema rules this town ranges from entire editions of the L.A. Times called "The Envelope" to middle aged men with backpacks and fistfulls of flyers chasing us down to beg us to attend free premiers), but rather how I feel at 5:30 a.m. at the Rose Bowl Aquatics Center.

Maybe The Mists of Avalon? Or Cold River?

I digress. The issue is that, in Matt's words, "It's frickin' cold!" So much steam rises off the surface of the water, and my head, I might add, that I can't see the other end of the pool. Since I'm already pretty much terrified of swimming, all of this steam is in no way mysterious or sexy. It's just creepy.

My physical therapist banished me to the deep end. No more frog-walking in the shallow water with the old ladies from the retirement home. Instead, she directed me to wear a flotation belt (or, in my case, perform a death grip on a kickboard) and scissor kick, "ski," or "bike" while I keep my head, spine, butt, and feet in a straight line in ten feet or more of water.

I didn't bother arguing with her. My usual protests of "but pools are so wet" would not have impressed Raquel, who takes my serious desire to heal rather seriously. Damn her.

I miss the old ladies from the retirement home. The dive well is at the far end of the recreation pool. It's only me down there. With a kickboard. And teeth clacking so hard (whether from fear or cold, I'm not sure), I could be a sound effect in ... well, yes, a Hollywood film.

The Butt Patrol

When Matt asks how I'm feeling, he announces, "I'm checking in on the Butt Patrol!" (Well, sometimes he wrinkles his brow and asks, "Stingy? Sore? Throbbing?" Cute man. I never tire of his care -- or his playfulness.)

I'm headed back to the pool this morning. My physical therapist said I could start paddling around in March. Close enough. So I've got my tote bag all packed up with towels, shampoo, a change of clothes, and 10 bucks.

It's 42 degrees this morning. I think I'm going to freeze my butt patrol right off.

Firsts in K-Town

I have a cute student named Cheri. She has doe eyes and gorgeous handwriting. She's from the Philippines. A few months ago, she and her boyfriend Eric realized they are expecting a baby.

Cheri is not the first of my students to become a young mom, but she is the first to invite me to her baby shower. The invitation was addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Forbes" and printed on lovely blue cardstock with a tiny brown bear at the top. Because Matt is Matt, he said he would be delighted to accompany me.

In my 44 years on the planet, I think I've been to 30 or more baby showers, so it was with some confidence that I told Matt what to expect: a few trays of finger foods, mountains of gifts wrapped in pastel patterns, and a couple of silly games involving bows and the crossing of one's legs. "We'll bug out as early as we can," I promised, figuring he'd be bored out of his mind watching women ooh and aah over Winnie-the-Pooh booties, even with the promise of a slice of cake.

Everything, and I mean everything, about Cheri's shower was a first for both of us. After we got off the metro, we walked about a mile through Koreatown, trying to orient ourselves by where downtown and my school might be in relation. The writing on all of the buildings and billboards was in Korean, of course, so that wasn't much help. Thankfully,  I married a man with an affinity for maps and a nose for good food, so he expertly navigated us right to the door of O Dae San, the restaurant where the party was located.

I completely forgot that we westerners are conspicuously punctual, whereas island and Latino cultures are not. We lolled around the patio for close to an hour before the party got into full swing -- and what a party it was. Nearly 100 of Cheri's and Eric's family, friends, and classmates crowded into the dining area, everyone arriving with huge boxes of diapers and enormous appetites. We sat across from Robert and Gloria, a couple who were -- thank goodness -- experts at what to do at a Korean bar-b-que. Their English was good (whereas we speak almost no Spanish and zero Tagalog), and they patiently guided us through the meal.

At a Korean bar-b-que, meat is, well, rather central to the meal. Platter after platter of raw meat from pretty much every mammal I can think of kept showing up at our elbows. One used the tongs to spread it across hot, conical griddles shared by every four diners, and scissors to slice up pieces too large to manage eating with chopsticks. Robert and Gloria hit the protein jackpot when they decided to sit across from a couple of middle-aged vegetarians. Not to be deterred, Matt and I set in on all of the little bowls of side dishes the wait staff were quick to refill for us: sauteed tofu, Kimchee, pickled sprouts, marinated broccoli, and chopped Romaine salad. The best were the hot plates of thin vegetable pancakes and the steamed eggs served in little black kettles. I have no idea why they were green, but they were so delicious, I put Dr. Seuss out of my mind and dug right in. I got frustrated with the sticky rice not sticking to my chopsticks, but Matt managed to sail right through two or three dishes of it. My favorite sauce was a concoction of some kind of white oil, salt, and pepper. As Naomi Shahib Nye writes, "My mouth was a carwash for the spoon."

Even though only women were invited to play the baby games, Matt tried desperately to join in and win. He shook every young man's hand, and kept everyone within earshot smiling with his warmth and kindness. He found a manager who spoke English and figured out a way to pay for our meal without alerting Cheri's mom that he had done so. His obvious concern for Eric's youth moved me. More than once, a shadow crossed his face, and he whispered, "Melissa, he's freaking out. He's so young." Yes, my love, I know. They all are.

On our walk back to the metro station, we passed a crowd of Hispanic women in a small parking lot selling champurado, horchata, and fruit juices from enormous orange coolers, a site we often see in various parts of downtown L.A. and one that never fails to make us smile. We haven't been brave enough to take out our money and buy these lovely drinks, but we will. Across the street from the parking lot, an aroma of pastries was so intoxicating, we ducked into the bakery they were spilling from and filled up a platter. Matt worried that his $10 of remaining cash wouldn't be enough to cover the tab, but I said I doubted the bill would top three bucks. I was almost right -- $3.05. The woman working the cash register wore a flour-covered apron and frowned at us a bit suspiciously. She need not have. We only wanted conchas and cheese cake.

I fell sound asleep on Matt's shoulder on the train ride home. As we walked the last couple of blocks to our apartment, Matt said, "What a perfect night," and then he looked at me in all seriousness and asked, "Melissa, have we spent the majority of our lives under a rock?"

Yes, my love, I think we have. And if L.A. has taught us anything, it is this: no more.

Dragon Part II

It's raining. And a short day (only 30 minutes for each class). So I thought, "Hey, brilliant teacher, why not have a game day with Character Development?"

I brought in Apples to Apples, Pairs of Pears, and Scattergories, all excellent language-building games. And to keep my 14-year old boys busy, I wrote additional ideas on the board like thumb wrestling and rock-paper-scissors.

Five minutes into class, I realized that the kids with the letter tiles were playing ... you guessed it ... R-rated Scrabble. When I blurted out, "Wha? Wha? What?", one young scholar replied, "But look, miss! All the parts of speeach!"

What's your dragon?

I'm teaching a class this semester called Character Development. Funny story ... about a month ago, as semester one wound down, my boss said, "Would you like to teach PE?" I cheerfully replied, "Nope!" He said, "Debate?" A firm shake of my head.

I spent the following weekend wracking my brain for ideas, mostly gravitating towards something interdisciplinary that would allow me to bring more art and film into the classroom. When I was an undergraduate at Rollins, one of my favorite courses was called Anger. A handful of faculty rotated lectures about anger based on their interest and speciality (philosophy, art, religion, literature) -- and it was way cool. I remember looking at the angry brush strokes in Van Gogh's Wheat Fields and examing the angry motivation of those creepy boys in Lord of the Flies and considering the anger of the Old Testament Hebrew God. Loved it. So, I coupled fond memories with a dire need among Camino students ... and out popped a course called Character Development.

This past week, my students and I watched How to Train Your Dragon. Okay, not exactly high art, but judge me not. The film is actually quite sweet, plus it interested me because it examines ideas I thought might resonate with teenagers, among them forbidden friendship, as well as fear. Since, I reasoned, fear is a basic human emotion, surely the kids would connect.

We talked at length about things we are afraid of, the usual suspects such as spiders and heights making top appearances. (Christian, whose sole aim is to shock me said he's afraid of being gang-raped in a prison. I countered, "Guess you'd better stay out of trouble.") I try to sneak in every bit of reading I possibly can, so I had the kids match character descriptions to photographs of artists' renderings. I showed them TED videos of folks conquering their fears and in so doing, realizing gains they never imagined. And we chatted at length about Hiccup's various fears and his rather unconventional solutions to them. In a nod to the skills-based education freaks, we even made cause-effect charts and converted them to sentence frames. Ah, I thought, all is humming along nicely in room 212.

Finally came my grand finale: a paragraph. Yes, the dreaded paragraph.

Two minutes before the end of class on Friday afternoon, I said, "This weekend, my friends, I want you to write a paragraph describing your dragon -- and how training it could lead to a better world for yourselves."

When the shouts of, "We never have homework" died down, Ivan, the biggest kid in the freshman class, with a look of utter confusion said, "But Miss, we don't have dragons." I took a deep breath and said with all the patience I could muster, "Yes, true, but I was speaking symbolically." Ivan's confused look persisted.

In desperation, I looked at the girl corner of the room, where a gaggle of overly-made-up lasses, although typically disengaged from my lesson, usually grasped my general aim. Allie, with her head lolling in her hand, said, "Miss?" And I hopefully replied, "Yes, Allie? You have a question about the homework assignment?"

"Nah," she said. "I just wanted to ask ... Why are you so pretty?"

Dragons, indeed.

The body

Matt declared Sunday a day of rest and advocated staying home from church. I was all for skipping the walking and metro-ing, but I still wanted some pew time. So Matt strolled from the north wing to the south wing of our apartment (aka, took two steps) and googled Pasadena churches. Heck, we live in the city that's home to one of the largest seminaries in the world. Seemed like there could be a little sweet worship closer to home.

We ended up at Lake Avenue Church -- which is almost as close to our bedroom as is the bathroom. Seriously, we can see the church from our balcony. Of course, as soon as we stepped onto the campus, we turned around to face our apartment building and said, "Hey, look, there's our balcony!" (Coupla dorks sometimes, but we keep each other amused.)

Much about the church was nice. It's been YEARS since we sang a hymn. There were kneelers in the pews, and when it came time for corporate prayers, folks of all ages weren't shy to plop those babies down and warm them up. And the offering plates were offering plates! We've been at casual churches for so long, plastic paint buckets and baskets had become the standard. When Matt felt the plate's heft, he nodded appreciatively and whispered, "Wow ... metal."

Funny story: it was Communion Sunday (yay! I got so excited -- Mosaic does not practice communion, and I'd been missing it dearly). I happily plucked my bit of cracker off the tray and balanced it on my knee while I waited for my tiny juice cup. When it was time to take the body of Christ, I popped it in my mouth and realized the cracker had probably been queued up on the tray since the early 1970s. I liked that I could hear several hundred people crunching their communion ... but I thought, "Huh. The body of Christ is stuck in my teeth."

And then I got very still and thought, "Yes."

Down off the high horse

My students and I are embarking on a poetry exploration. I'm not going to teach them technical terminology, nor will we spend hours trying to unpack authorial intent. Instead, we're going to simply appreciate the beauty of words. For kids without anywhere near enough beauty in their lives, I think this is a fine idea.

Our reading will be much like meandering through a garden without a field or plant guide. Although I love horticulture terminology and landscape architecture, it is equally nice to sit on a bench and take long draughts of fresh air and watch bees fight over the sexiest flowers.

Here are two phrases I ran across this week that gave me pause.

Pull hard, row slow,
a white boat to your destiny.
(Cervantes)

I will curl up by her side
and listen to her breathing,
easing into her dreams.
(Delgado)

Watch out ... more meandering to come.

Back on my high horse

I'll be taking my soapbox up to the saddle now.

I know it's annoying when people start a conversation by saying, "I hate it when ..." or "It's so irritating when ...," but in the spirit of L.A., the city of "me first," I offer up the other phrases I love to hate. My reasons aren't great, but they make Matt laugh.

• Take it to the next level. So exactly what's wrong with this level? What level are we on, anyway? How do we know what the next level is or we've arrived on it? This phrase should be banned for extreme vagueness.
• Step it up! (This one is often used interchangeably with "Bring your A-game," which is only slightly less annoying.) Only military COs should get to use this phrase. Otherwise I think of Jane Fonda in a shiny leotard. Shudder.
• As a human being, I ... Unless the speaker is channeling a turtle or a pickle, I think we can safely assume they are a human being.
• Irregardless. Not a word. End of story.
• Moving forward ... This phrase has become popular in corporate and education meeting rooms. It negates all that has happened until now, or suggests that the only course of action lies in change. I advocate for staying put in the present. I don't think movement is synonymous with growth. 

Yes, I'm fulfilling the English teacher stereotype. I can live with that ... until I'm ready to move forward by stepping it up to the next level. For now, let's hear it for the still.

No lie ...

I love working in a small school, where I know, really know, more than a quarter of the kids. Heck, in my last school, I barely knew a quarter of the faculty. What a huge blessing it is to be fully a part of this community.

When it's not so nice is when everybody knows your business.

No lie ... a kid came up to me today, a handsome lad I'm sure I've never met, and said, "Miss, I'm selling Capri Suns for basketball. They're 50 cents. You should buy one. It will make your bottom feel better."

SCARFing

I was at a meeting a few days ago in which the presenter asserted that Maslow's hierarchy of needs has pretty much been abandoned in terms of figuring out human motivation. While, yes, we need food and safety, she said there are other factors that drive our urges and behaviors.

Enter SCARF, not a descriptor of the Thanksgiving melee at our house, but rather an acronym for Status, Certainty, Autonomy, Relatedness, and Fairness. We took a cute picture quiz, answered a couple of questions, and voila -- out came our primary human motivation.

Me? Fairness, which surprised me (I think I'm more of a certainty and autonomy kind of girl, but okay). Because I was only one of two people in the room with that result, my boss, in trying to make me feel less like a freak, said, "Then you must love To Kill a Mockingbird."

Before I continue my story, it must be said that To Kill a Mockingbird is standard fare for teachers of English in pretty much all western civilizations, not to mention that Oprah says it's a must-read for every U.S. citizen.

So it was in anticipation of much ridicule that I hung my head and said, as quietly as I could, "Never read it."

Only because my butt is broken did my colleagues not run me out of the room.

Fast forward two days. I was in another meeting when my boss busted in and said, "Quick! Oscar Wilde fans! What's the name of that play of his that's used to teach satire?" Ah, a chance to redeem myself. "Well, sir," I smugly replied, "The Importance of Being Ernest?" He smiled appreciatively.  So I asked if I'd been forgiven for my Mockingbird blunder. He crossed his arms, leaned back, and said, "Well, it's just that, in my personal opinion, Mockingbird is ..."

"Wait," I interrupted. "I don't let my students use that phrase." His eyebrows shot up. "'In my personal opinion'?  I don't let my students write or say that." His eyebrows remained up.  I lamely finished, "Because it's ... redundant."

As I stood in the breeze of Scott's departure, I pondered ... What is the primary human motivation for jackass-edness?

One week in ...

Yesterday morning, I had a meltdown. I went to the pool with Matt to ask some questions about the therapy pool and strength building classes. As I watched women with severe mobility issues get slowly and carefully get into the pool, slowly and carefully walk across it, and slowly and carefully get back out, I was crushed.

Now, I get that I don't have a permanent disability.  At its worst, I'll feel lousy and walk like a constipated duck until sometime around our wedding celebration. I can live with that.

But gosh, yesterday I just hurt. A whole seven days after my injury, I was terrified that this would go on forever.

What a wuss.

To be fair, I've had plenty of moments of enormous levity. On Sunday, when Matt and I took a stroll in Santa Monica, a gentleman in a plaid blazer and a comb-over breezed past us. The guy was 90 years old if a day. Later that morning, I stood patiently holding my donut while Matt bought me a bottle of hand lotion. The store clerk pointed to my donut and asked what it was. When I explained, she responded, "Goodness, it's so large." I promptly turned around, pointed my fanny in Matt's direction, and said, "Do you think so, too?"

Today will be my first day back with my students. Last night, I wrote "coccyx" on the board and a definition that includes words like "articulating" and "tailless." I'll answer my kids' questions. I'll accept their help picking up all the stuff I drop, which seems like a ton. And I'll proudly sit on my very-large donut.

Training wheels

In three days, my marriage will be eight months old. In that time, Matt and I have had a stress or two: moved several thousand miles, started new jobs, and weathered a couple of lawsuits. Although not always a bump-free ride, we've managed each challenge nicely, learning to lean into each other. I like to think of our relationship as new, green bamboo, bending and swaying together in the wind, growing taller in the sun.

Cheesy, yes, but the image makes me smile.

Over the last couple of days, I've wondered if my sweet husband might be ready to get out a machete and lop the tops off the bamboo. A broken tailbone means I can't pick up a cooking pot, tie my shoes, or roll over. He has to lift me out of the car. And after holding my hand during this morning's hospital exam -- an extreme challenge to even the most robust romance -- the poor man had to pull up my pants.

Of course, Matt is a man of gentle grace and kindness. On his way out the door to work -- over three hours late -- he put a business card into his wallet for a tea shop in old town, and said, "I'll make reservations for Saturday. And we'll take your donut cushion."

The training wheels are off. Look at her go.

A three-siren day

About a week ago, I was in a meeting with my boss, and I told her how disconcerting it feels to constantly hear sirens. On most days, I hear two or three pass right outside my classroom. Matt and I generally notice a couple either while we sip our coffee in the morning or when we snuggle up for the night. I wondered aloud to Sherre if all these sirens cause a backdrop of anxiety for our students -- and for the residents of our city. My students insist they don't notice them, but I am startled every time I hear one.

Until this past Monday, that is, when I strained with all my might to hear the siren coming for me.

I was lying on the floor of my principal's office. I was so faint with pain, I would not have been surprised if someone told me I was soaking the floor with my own blood.

Tweet version: Rain on stairs, fell, stumbled into principal's office, tried not to pass out.

Poetic version: The world looks odd from the floor. I distinctly remember the scent of our French teacher's jacket as she folded it beneath my head. Pete, another teacher and former marine, kept his hand right between my shoulders until the paramedics put me on a back board ... and then he held my hand for a long, long time. I saw my backpack, my phone and ID being pulled from it.  And there was a styrofoam cup by my head, but I vaguely wondered how I could drink from it.

Mostly I closed my eyes and hoped the room would stop spinning. And I listened very intently for the siren.

I broke my coccyx. That's one of those words my nephews like to say because it sounds naughty, but technically, it's not. I've been in a lot of pain since my fanny connected with the stairs. And I don't know how long I'll be home not sitting, not standing, and not lying on my back.

I believe the universe, God, Allah, a higher power -- whatever you want to call it/him/her -- feels perfectly at ease teaching us through life's circumstances. I'm not sure what the lesson is. Melissa, you are not your job? Melissa, don't be such a pain in the butt? Melissa, slow down? Melissa, update your blog?

Speaking of blogs, in the time it took me to write this one, I heard two sirens. I'd like to say they didn't startle me, but that would be untrue. Honestly, I'm glad the siren is not for me. But I am grateful that help is on the way.

Yellow Dog

We arrived in Twentynine Palms, a nearby town to Joshua Tree National Park, well after 9:00 p.m., so it was dark as a pocket. It was disconcerting to wake up the next morning and see our surroundings for the first time nearly 10 hours after arriving in them.

Ahem, it is a desert. Dry, sandy, scrubby, rocky desert. And cold -- the low our first morning there was 22 degrees.

There seemed only two reasonable responses to all this dry cold: eat breakfast (we were, after all, staying at a lovely B&B, and isn't breakfast one of the Bs?), and go for a walk.

The walk part -- that's where Yellow Dog comes in. I lost Matt for a few minutes as  I peered into my overnight bag and pondered how many layers to layer on. I found him outside talking to a stocky, yellow dog. The dog was on the move, grinning like a fool as the patrolled the field behind our cottage. He displayed a number of dog-like habits -- stopping mid-sprint if an aroma caught his attention, sprinkling mailboxes, and investigating trash with the intensity of a crime scene detective. All cute and fun to watch on our Twentynine Palms stroll.

What was interesting about Yellow Dog was his response to us. I know this is anthropomorphizing and a serious insult to animal behavioralists -- but that dog seemed tickled pink to have us along for his morning routine. Although he did not once veer off his sniffing and chasing duties, he glanced over is left shoulder at us, time and time again, as if to say, "Isn't this just the best?" He often ran straight at us,  ears and tail flapping, each time getting closer and closer, until his last charge when I felt a woosh of cold air between him and my knees. When we neared a No Trespassing sign, he parked himself between us and it -- that is until a pile of discarded vacuum cleaners caught his attention. And as we stepped back onto the porch of our cottage, he skittered past with one last, loopy grin.

Here's what we learned from Yellow Dog:

1. Be aware.
2. Immerse in each moment.
3. There is joy in habit.
4. Make new friends -- no matter how long the relationship might last.

A sense of place

Moving to a new city causes one to ruminate, percolate, and marinate on deep issues such as what makes one place feel like home and another place make you want to hit the Eject Button.

Matt and I love to to fantasize about where we'd like to live when we grow up. We stroll through neighborhoods pointing out features that resonate, like old houses, cheap breakfast joints, and community gardens. And, inevitably, we talk about the aspects of a place that we don't want to take with us into retirement, most notably smog, excessive retail, and snow.

We travel a lot, too, which further stimulates all this percolating and marinating. Why, we ask ourselves, is Springfield, Illinois so irristibly entertaining, yet certainly a place we'd never settle?" (I suspect it's the corn and cows on both counts.) Why has Shanghai soaked into Matt's soul, but God would have to poke him in the middle of the chest before he'd move me there? (No NFL.) Why do we both like Colorado in theory, but not in practice? (It meets all of our criteria for activity, but none for diversity or spirituality.)

McKinney, Texas is all kinds of cute, Santa Monica oozes lifestyle, and Winter Park gets a double-nod for charm. People we love and trust tell us that Austin and Tucson would knock our socks off. (Of course, people we love and trust also tell us to get our butts home to Orlando. Or at least the eastern time zone.)

I don't know where all this leaves us, except for these two things: L.A. is not likely our forever home. And as long as we get to hold hands at the end of the day, any place is just fine.

When all else fails ...

I'm not sure why, but about six weeks ago, I started loving my job. No more cowering under the covers when the alarm went off, no more resentment over grading papers on the weekends while normal people go for a run or head to the movies, and no more dread-parading-as-nausea on Sunday afternoons.

I think it has to do with this: I started loving my kids. Like the way Luis dribbles his basketball into my Reading class, or how Laura's favorite conversation starter is, "I don't have to read today, do I, miss?" Instead of gritting my teeth and forcing myself to by sweet, I started seeing the sweetness in that bouncing basketball and fear of reading.

One of the reasons I love my kids has to do with the things they write. Josh, in as stylistic and succinct a manner as I've ever seen, explained that living in a ghetto does not make one a ghetto person. Vanessa used perfect parallelism to convey the awfulness of racial judgement. Day after day, with little to go on other than the instinct that I'm trustworthy, my beautiful students bend their dark heads over their journals and tell me the truth.

This trust they're doling out to me ... it's becoming more evident every day. They listen when I babble (and lord-a-mercy, can this woman babble), they are patient when I fall behind on grading or when my lesson is a snoozer, and they laugh at my poor attempts to speak Spanish.

They used to ignore me, just as I used to grit my teeth to be nice. We're moving closer to each other, now, and my surprise and relief is as monumental as this city.

I think they can tell that I love them.

And what problem has love ever failed to solve?

It's a New Year

Forty-eight posts ago, I wrote about the Rose Bowl and all things associated. Today, at long last, we attended the Rose Parade. And, well, like much of our move to  California, it wasn't at all what I expected. Super cool and fun -- just not what I expected.

About 36 hours ago, our city turned into a campground. Literally. Hundreds of RVs, folding chairs, portable BBQs, air mattresses, Uno decks, and Kindles showed up on every available square inch of Colorado Avenue, the main parade route.  Yesterday, my cute husband, with utter excitement all over his face, asked, "Can we go look at the campers on Colorado?" 

I honestly thought the only way to see the parade was to log onto Sharp Seating and give up all my credit card information. In fact, when the grandstands went up about a month ago, I was confused as to why they stopped about ten feet away from the curb. I thought, "Oh, they must leave the sidewalk clear until the night before." Uh, no. Thousands and thousands of people cram between the bottom of the stands and the "blue courtesy line," a boundary painted a good five feet into the street.

I was also confused as to why heavy ply-wood and temporary chainlink fences appeared in front of all the stores and restaurants on Colorado. Today, I got it. Camping is kind of a mess. 

The parade itself was pretty much awesome. Right at the beginning, a B-2 bomber made a fly-over of the route, followed by a blimp and lots of Happy New Year sky writing. Kenny G stood on the very first float and gave us a very fine soprano saxophone solo. 

The floats were gorgeous. My husband was hilarious. At parades, he likes to yell out each band director's name, super enthusiastically, and then wave like they are long lost cousins. It works. The band director waves back, equally enthusiastically. When the mayor went by, Matt yelled, "Hello! Please fix my street!" The crowd loved him almost as much as I do. (But perhaps, not the mayor.)

I've always thought of the Rose Parade as classy. No beads, candy, or TP thrown to the crowd at this parade, no sir. Just millions and millions of roses. But now that I've been? Er, no.  I still smell like grilled sausages the lady at the makeshift hibachi next to us sold. She spent two hours yelling, "Hottah, hottah!"When Matt asked her how much, she looked him up and down, thought a moment, and then said, "Four dollah." There were other vendors selling cotton candy, bubble guns, seat cushions, and programs. And the trash in the streets afterwards was impressive, even by L.A. standards. 

My favorite was the marching bands. Gosh, those girls from Japan could dance! And the Wisconsin Badgers brass section ran straight into the stands, instruments aloft, grinning like the silly badgers they are. The best was the Lubbock Texas All City Marching Band. What did they play? "Deep in the Heart of Texas."And we sang as loud as we could.

We love us a parade, and the Rose Parade is about as Mac Daddy as it gets.