July 2015 archive

31
Jul
2015

just a friendly conversation

categories: brooklyn, new york, teaching

“Aren’t you at all concerned with the way in which they handle behavioral issues? They’re quite strict. And, they believe in…consequences!” my mom-friend whispered to me in hushed tones. As though they were listening. As though she’d just divulged some terrible crime. She was fuming over an incident at the YMCA — where she paid a whole $87/month and had access to endless classes, lessons, activities and events for her and her family of four. The ballet instructor had reprimanded her daughter when she told another girl her twirl was wrong and her tutu was ugly.

“I’m…no. I’m not overly concerned with it,” I said, carefully weighing my words. Think. Think before you speak, I reminded myself. Your words have consequences. Your approach to teaching and learning are not the mainstream ideology of Park Slope-ians.

“I’m really sorry you had a bad experience there,” I said. That’s right, turn it around, I thought. “It’s really upsetting when things don’t go the way you expect them to,” I continued. Yes, this is good, I thought. Keep going in this direction. “You should raise your kid in whatever way feels right for you. However…I mean, well, she can’t be getting paid much,” I said. No. No, don’t do it, don’t go there. But it was too late. “We can’t exactly expect her to be up on all the latest parenting or behavioral management techniques. I mean, she’s a dancer. She’s not really a teacher by trade. She works at the Y, for god’s sake.”

“This is my daughter’s first experience with a teacher. I want it to be a positive one,” she said sharply. “This will lay the groundwork for how she views teachers for the rest of her life. If she doesn’t have a good experience now, she may never want to go to school.” She was mad. I could see it. She had expected me to get on board with her indignation. She had hoped for my support. She’s a teacher, I’m sure she’d thought. She’ll understand.

This was a regular occurrence in my profession. Parents expecting me to agree with their views on education. And, to agree with their parenting choices around education.

No, I do not think that one less-than-perfect experience when a kid is 4 will create lasting and irreversible trauma around schools and teachers. If you lose your temper once is your family doomed? That’s it, I’ve been fired as a mother because Zoe did not appreciate that I yelled at her.

No, I do not think that holding a child accountable for her actions and for how those actions effect those around her, is unjust and cruel. I think it’s going to make your kid a more empathetic and thoughtful human.

No, I don’t think that the first time she interacts with a “teacher” has to be perfect or else she will forever hate and distrust teachers. Was her first trip to the doctor perfect? How about the grocery store? Who is this delicate flower who may never want to talk to another teacher because she made her apologize to a kid who’s feelings she hurt? Who is this kid that you are raising who is incapable of resilience, perspective-taking, empathy? Are you not concerned by this?

One single teacher cannot be everything to everyone. Your perfect teacher is not Madison’s mommy’s perfect teacher. Or Elijah’s two dads’ perfect teacher. It’s not Procopio’s family’s version of perfect. It’s just yours. Model who you want your child to be. Let teachers teach and be who they are. They are working hard to meet the needs of all 28 students in their classroom. Don’t make them work even harder to meet your needs too. It’s not part of their job description.

I’m not in the business of judging other parents. We’re all doing our best. We’re all doing what we think is right. I could sure as hell be doing a lot more a lot better.

I will say, though, that I am a huge fan of public schools. And, of letting kids figure shit out. At school, at home, on the playground. School does not make kids smart. Not by itself. School doesn’t fix societies wrongs or teach kids about being compassionate citizens of the world. So much of this stuff is done at home. Modeled by families. Okay, yes, some of it is done in school. Of course. But, you get my point.

Do I want my kid to have a good experience in school? Of course. Do I want her to like her teachers? Yes. Do I want her to be inspired to learn and question and think critically? You see where I’m going with this. But, people take it too far. School is supposed to be everything for a child. Their family, their support system, their counselor, their savior. It starts to feel like no one is holding families accountable for anything. I can say from my experience as a teacher…in many ways you feel helpless and powerless. You can only instill so much. Kids go home at the end of every day and every weekend and all summer. So much of the good that gets done in a day is undone by the time the following morning bell rings.

For that reason and many more, I choose to prioritize my daughter’s life experiences. As a whole. Not just her school experience. You will not find me fighting to get her into the classroom of “the best teacher” at her school. Here’s why: It’s ok for kids to have bad teachers. It’s not ideal. But, it’s okay. By “bad” I mean not the teacher YOU have decided is the ideal teacher. For some, that’s a strict, curriculum-focused, data-driven, serious person. For others, it’s an artistic, fun, funny, rule-bending, process-over-product person. There are so many different types of teachers…it’s almost as if they’re just regular humans like you and me.

The occasional crap teacher is good practice. An adult with a different approach to the world than myself? Great. A person who forces my kid to be adaptable and flexible and to modify her behavior to fit different expectations. I’m in. I mean, if a teacher is a bad human and saying hurtful things or teaching inaccurate facts and sitting on his ass all day or bullying kids, well, I’ll kill a fucker. But, a teacher who doesn’t see the world as I do? That’s great for my kid. She won’t be traumatized because someone holds her to different standards than I do.

“We’re just in daycare,” I’d said to a woman on the playground one evening after work.

“Oh, us too,” she responded “What’s up with those crazy parents who are obsessing over pre-k and, like, worrying about where their 2-year-olds are going to school? Jesus, I’m just happy if they’re feeding her and keeping her alive and you know, happy most of the time.”

“Yes!” I said. A bit too loudly and emphatically. This was someone I could be friends with. No one makes new friends in their thirties but this will be my exception. She’s smart, she’s got a kid my daughter’s age, she’s gorgeous and funny. It’s a freakin’ soulmate-friend situation. “It’s insane to be consumed with the education of a 3-year-old. Paint, dirt, water, some books. Social skills. Right? That’s where it’s at. Turn-taking, sharing, reacting without frustration…” I could see my new bestie losing interest. What had I said wrong? It was going so well. “I mean, right?” I sort of half laughed and half stuttered.

“Two-year-olds are one thing. But, we’ve got Mira on the waitlist for a great 3’s program in Tribeca. It’s supposed to be the best in the city. And, anyone who goes there is guaranteed a K spot in their sister school, and an elementary spot in the parent school. Which means, she’ll end up in their cousin school for middle school and get into any college she wants.”

I kid you not. This was a real conversation. Except the sister/cousin/brother business. The schools had real names.

It was so outrageous, I honestly thought she was pulling my leg at first.

This is what I have learned about some people. Not all people but some of them. Some folks have this incredible ability to just believe whole-heartedly and without any doubts in their mind in whatever the latest trendy thing is. Parent trend, celebrity trend, education trend, fashion trend. They are all in. Until they’re out. And, then they are all out. And, they cannot even see that the views they held less than a month ago now completely contradict the ones they are currently holding. “We cannot wait to have a baby and change the world one person at a time.” Turns into, “Population control is real. This planet is overpopulated and we refuse to participate in the chaos.”

That one’s real too.

I wish I could be like that. I wish I could just believe in things. Just blindly and without all the questioning and wondering and the what if’s. How freeing it must be. How clear the world must seem. Everything in black and white all the time. I am always making things far more complicated than they need to be. Over-explaining and overthinking. What if I could just believe that I was right all the time? Those people must feel very powerful.

30
Jul
2015

a good man

categories: family

I never met my grandfather. He died twenty-four days after I was born.

He was loved by everyone who knew him. Not just loved. Admired, revered.

He was a pastor. And, I suspect a very good one. Given the way people still talk about him. He had a fascinating life, as far as I can tell. Working as a staff assistant under Eisenhower, traveling the world as a missionary, eventually landing his dream job at Princeton. His portrait still hangs in his Alma Mater — a huge, gold-framed portrait in the Firestone library. He his smiling and gripping the handlebars of his beloved bike — complete with a wicker basket filled with books.

My mom, even at the end, would sporadically exclaim, “I love my father. He is such a good man.” When she barely had the language capacity of a two-year-old she would still mumble about her dad. “I love you, Dad,” I’d hear her whisper before bed. “Where’s Dad?” she would ask upon waking. Like a child eagerly awaiting the return of a parent who’d been away on a business trip.

She used to tell me stories about him. He was smart. Very well-read and well-educated without being arrogant or aloof. And, funny. The guy could really tell a joke. Or so I’m told.

My mother and her family lived in DC in the late 1950’s when my grandfather was working for Ike. Apparently, my grandfather grew bored of the long commute. So, he invented this game where you never stop at a red light. Sounds dangerous, right? Here’s how it works: You pay really close attention to the traffic lights. You have to be looking multiple blocks ahead. You can’t drive too fast or it won’t work. You watch for yellow lights. When you see yellow, you slow down. And then you slow down even more. You creep. You move at the pace of a 95-year-old woman with a cane. Never coming to a complete stop. Inch by inch, you keep the car technically “moving” until the light changes back to green.

I’m not sure how this game would work in the modern, fast-paced world. It’s one thing on those sparsely inhabited streets of the 1950’s. The game may not be suitable for the 2000’s. Just a hunch.

I’m not in too many cars. But, I do ride my bike. And, I do really hate stopping at lights. So, I use my grandfather’s game. I have the added advantage of being able to see the crosswalk. I know as soon as the red hand starts flashing, I’ve either got to excel and get through the light or slow way down so that I can coast until the light changes back to green.

It’s great fun. Sometimes I get weird looks and sometimes I’m inching into crosswalks and a bit into traffic before the light technically turns. Most of the time, it provides endless entertainment and makes me feel like I’m moving the whole time I’m riding. Makes me think about my mom and her sisters riding in the car with my grandfather. Giggling and rolling around on the back seat in their pressed, white, lacey dresses. All dressed up to play in the rose gardens. Loving their father and loving his game. It was a good childhood, I think. My mom’s and her siblings. They were happy. They had parents who loved them and who managed to keep loving each other all the way to the end. He was a good man, my grandfather. My mom was right about that.

30
Jul
2015

but, you’re so young…

categories: me

…and other things you should never say.

Full disclosure: I have said pretty much all of these things.

1. “But, you’re so young…” Shit happens. At any age. Don’t make someone feel crappy for having to deal with something terrible when they’re young. A dying parent, a chronic illness. This remark provides zero consolation and is a relative term that only proves you yourself have probably not had to deal with anything serious in your lifetime. Mazel tov. Keep it to yourself.

2. “The only thing that matters is that you and the baby are healthy.” Do NOT say this to a woman who has had an unplanned cesarean birth. It will make her feel like shit. It is not the only thing that matters. It is the most important thing, sure. But, do not diminish her (very valid) feelings by saying they aren’t relevant. It is possible to feel elated and heartbroken all at once. Let her know it’s okay to be sad. It’s normal to be upset when your birth plan does not go according to plan. Especially when your birth plan does not include being so high on special K that you do not even remember the moment your child came out of your body.

3. “You do not look (insert age here).” This is not a compliment. It is another way of saying, “you’re old but you don’t look too bad.” It’s shitty. Don’t say it. Not to a 30-year-old not to a 60-year-old. Just don’t. This goes for, “You look great for your age,” too.

4. “That must have been really hard.” If you are saying this, the answer is probably, “Yes, it was unbelievably, fucking hard.” Don’t tell people how they are feeling. Don’t project your judgment on their lives. Listen. If they’re struggling to name their emotions feel free to offer an adjective. Otherwise, just listen. Repeat their feelings back to them.

5. Don’t ask a million questions when someone doesn’t fit your model of “normal.” It’s offensive. It makes people feel like a freak in your personal freak show. Gender identity, sexual preferences, lifestyle choices…it’s just peoples lives. That’s all. It doesn’t feel weird for them. They exist in the world much in the same way you do (alone, misunderstood, taken for granted). Their choices, their childhoods, their preferences, theirs. Unless they’ve opened themselves up to the conversation, it’s off-limits. If you need drama, watch reality television. I can’t tell you how many nights I have spent providing the freak-cult-girl entertainment at parties. It’s exhausting.

6. This is not about saying the wrong thing. It’s about saying nothing. When a person loses someone they love don’t ignore them. Don’t assume that bringing it up will only upset them. Mention their loved one by name, in fact. Say something as simple as, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Don’t pretend it isn’t happening. It’s the worst feeling in the world to be grieving for someone you love and to feel like no one around you has even noticed. Too often we worry about being insensitive or hurting someones feelings after a death. More often than not, it is the silence that is the most painful. I don’t know anyone who has lost a loved one and wanted silence. Parent, child, sibling, grandparent, friend. It’s terrible to be going through the world feeling empty and also feeling like everyone else is just the same, going about their business like your mom didn’t just die. It’s nice to know your pain and grief aren’t being ignored. It’s important to know that others miss them too. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” I don’t care if you mean it or not. Just say it. And, in the off-chance that a grieving person is capable of asking for specific help, do it. You will never feel better about yourself. Bringing a new parent a meal is wonderful. Bringing a grieving person a meal is unforgettable. They will never forget that kindness.

28
Jul
2015

the power of sound

categories: me, new york

Cicadas.

Have you been hearing them lately?

Not those periodical, magicicada broods that only emerge every 13 or 17 years but the regular old East Coast annual cicadas who sing their mating songs in the late summer.

God, they are beautiful. At first I assumed they were sprinklers. “Damn, these East Coasters use their automated watering systems a lot,” I thought.

I moved to New York in August of 2001. My soon-to-be college roommate and I decided to meet up and road trip our way through New England two weeks before our first semester of college. Get to know one another and see the sights while we were at it. You know, the thing naive kids plan. And their parents probably say things like, “Two weeks?! You’re going to spend two weeks with a girl you don’t even know? What if you hate her? You’re going to have to spend the next year with her whether you like her or not. Better to just meet her in the dorm. There’ll be other people around, you’ll have a whole shared dialogue, a shared experience. Don’t do this. It’s not a good idea.” I don’t know. I mean, my parents didn’t say anything. But, that’s probably what hers said. Smart folks.

I got into Penn station around noon, dragged my giant, purple backpack to the closest wall and sunk down into it. It had never been this stuffed, this unwieldy when I lugged it through Europe the year before. I’d carried that thing everywhere. Rode trains illegally spilling wine and god-knows-what on it, sprayed a bus full of Scottish riders with pepper spray (accidentally), broke into the coliseum (purposefully — I plead young and stupid) with it waiting outside, ate pizza in Rome with it as a table, drank Whiskey in Drumnadrochit while it sat emptied and sad on my shared hostel floor. My pack had perched silently in the seat next to me when I was craving the English language and went to see Charlie’s Angels in Berlin. It had provided cushioning from the cold sidewalk when I ended up with nowhere to sleep in Barcelona in January (before scooting off to a warmer Valencia) and a perfect barrier between my body and the creepy french man wearing the trench coat in my train car (why are trench coats still so creepy and molestor-y?) on the way to Paris. And, here it sat. With me. Again. Ready for my next adventure. Ready to meet the girl with whom I would share a bedroom for an entire year.

We’d been talking for weeks over the phone. Her name was Lisa, she was from Florida, she liked Cat Power and Bob Dylan, she had a car (road trips, donut runs, weekend adventures!) she was an artist and had a cute, round face, two giant puppy-dog eyes, dyed black hair and a boyfriend who was a vegan photographer.

She loathed all things processed (my cheese-doodle eating really freaked her out) and had about twenty pair of low-top chucks. Actually, they were purchased as high-tops but she cut the tops off to make them more punk-rock looking. You know, I bought these new but they look used, kind of a vibe. Her family was loaded. Really loaded. She showed up in a bright green 2001 Volkswagon Jetta, fully loaded, black leather seats, moon roof, the whole deal.

She was so ashamed of that car. She was so ashamed of her wealth. Don’t get me wrong, she took full advantage of it. But, she was incredibly embarrassed. In college, or at least at Sarah Lawrence College, it was NOT cool to be wealthy. It was way cooler to be the poor kid on scholarship. So, you know, me. Except, it wasn’t actually cool to be that kid. It was just cool to seem like you were that kid and then go out and buy things and live a life that is only possible with lots and lots of money.

By the time I got to college I was pretty much done with my hard-partying ways. Small town, no rules or restrictions, I got into a lot before reaching legal adulthood. I’d taken some time off between high school and college to travel and take care of my mom so I was significantly, sigNIFICANTLY older than my peers. Okay, I was two years older. But, I will tell you right now, the difference between 18 and 20 is big. Giant, even. I was practically an adult. I had a dying mother, an abusive boyfriend and I’d already had alcohol poisoning twice.

I didn’t know what to make of this rich girl who acted poor. At first it was charming. She has money but she’s like me. Then it was confusing. She buys expensive clothing but cuts the labels out so no one knows it’s expensive? Then, I just got pissed. Why is this bitch pretending life is hard when it is so fucking easy for her?

I know now that money doesn’t make life better. But anyone who says it doesn’t make life easier has never been dirt poor. Having grown up with no money doesn’t make me an expert on poverty but it makes me an expert in my own experience. And, what I can say is that listening to people with money talk about how, “money doesn’t buy happiness” is super frustrating. I mean, I agree. But, it’s too simplistic a statement. Life is hard for everyone. We all have our very own, unique struggles. But a hard life and no money makes for a really hard life. There’s just no getting around that one.

This was all before the days of facebook and social media. I barely had an email address. There was no way to cyber-stock your future roommate. Seeing her in that bus station was seeing her for the first time. She’d described herself over the phone and I spotted her as soon as she approached the depot. We had an agreed upon meeting place because, that’s what you had to do back then. Make decisions and then stick with them. Decide things ahead of time and follow through. Dark days, they were.

“Oh, wow. So, you’re like really punk, huh?” she had said upon seeing me.

“Um, yeah. I guess so. I mean, not really but I kinda look the part, I guess,” I responded, trying to decide if she was really cool for just laying it out on the table. Or, kind of a bitch for being so weird about what I look like.

“Hmm. Okay. So, should we get going or…this place totally creeps me out. Let’s just get out of here and get on the road. Cool?”

“Cool,” I replied. “Let’s go.”

The first day was all pleasantries. Back stories.

Day two was filled with compromises. Sure, I’m happy to visit that teensy artsy town you really want to go to. I concede. I’d love to drive the extra-long scenic route, she lies. And so on.

By day four it’s clear we don’t like each other. By day six it’s starting to feel possible that we might, in fact, hate one another. We have nothing in common, aside from a few bands. We don’t understand one another’s life experiences and we are both completely devastated that we will have to cohabitate for any amount of time.

Days pass. There are fun moments. Laughs and what would later become inside jokes, good food (mostly vegan), some nice people along the way, quaint towns and gorgeous beaches. We journal and read and listen to lots and lots of Cat Power. We do our own thing, we make loads of phone calls (from pay phones because…that’s how long ago it was) and we just sort of get through the next week.

As we pull off I-80 into Stroudsberg, Pennyslvania we are miserable. We hate each other. We know we hate each other. The secret is out. School hasn’t even begun and we have nothing left to talk about. We’ve pretended for too long (12 whole days!) and neither of us has any patience left. It’s all out on the table. She’s a rich girl pretending to be some eco-friendly, street-savvy artist. And, I’m a small-town fuck-up with a giant chip on her shoulder, too heartbroken to be open and too jaded to be forgiving.

We just have to get through one more night. Bronxville is on the horizon but it’s late and we can’t check into the dorm until the following morning so we have to find one last place to stay before…before an entire year of this begins.

“Let’s just pull in here. This looks promising,” I say. It looks cheap and I’m broke. I know if I don’t suggest something she’ll have us staying in a Marriott.

“Why don’t you just let my parents pay for us to stay in a nice hotel?” she pleads.

“Lisa, not everyone can call their goddamn parents and ask them to subsidize their lives. I can pay my own way. I’ll cover my half but we’ve gotta stay here. Deal with it.”

“Shit. Fine. This place looks like a rape motel. If I get raped, I swear to god I am so suing you.”

“You’re not going to get fucking raped, Lisa. Jesus, you are so dramatic. It’s dark, it’s cheap. There’s cheaper and darker. Believe me. We’re fine,” I say. “Just back the car into the space so it’s harder to open the trunk if someone tries to steal our shit. And put your fucking cd’s in the glove compartment. You can’t leave them lying out like that.”

“Fine. But, I’m super uncomfortable with this. Just for the record.”

“Great. Your grievance has been recorded,” I mutter under my breath. I hear the car doors click loudly just as the cracked glass door to the front desk area swings shut behind me.

Lisa quickly unlocks the doors when she sees me coming. Doesn’t want me to know she’s scared, I think. “I got us a second floor room. No one will even bother with the second floor. If anyone’s getting raped it’ll be some first-floor fool,” I say with a smile.

She chuckles. Just a bit. But, enough to break the tension and lighten the mood. Maybe this will work, I start to think. I stop and let her walk ahead of me. She’s carrying three heavy bags and limping under their weight. Maybe she just needs a little bit of reality. And, time away from her folks. She’ll come around, I think as she turns the corner.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lisa screams.

“What is it?” I ask, running to see what’s the matter. The light is out in front of our door. The ground is moving. The door is humming. The wall is alive. “What is THAT?” I ask.

“Cicadas,” she explains. “They’re disgusting.”

“Whoa! I think they’re beautiful. Holy shit, listen to them. I’ve never heard anything like it,” I say. “They’re amazing. They look like a cross between a Mystic and a Skeksis. Right? Like, before they split.”

“What are you even talking about?” she hisses.

I can’t believe she’s never seen the Dark Crystal, I think. I fucking knew I didn’t like her.

“How do we get in?” Lisa asks. She’s starting to look genuinely scared. And pissed.

“They’re like tiny dinosaurs. Holy shit. They’re so creepy. But cool. And, that sound. It’s like music. It’s dreamy. I feel like they’re hypnotizing me. They’re magical. These things are magical, right?”

“You are such a weirdo.”

27
Jul
2015

adult books (the non-pornographic sort)

categories: me

I hate a question that starts with, “What’s your favorite…”

I loathe having to make a choice. That’s not entirely true, I just feel like there is a time and place for one thing or another. Salty or sweet depending on the day. Or both, if that’s what I’m in the mood for.

My favorite color? To look at, to wear, to paint with? Favorite movie? For when I’m in a foul mood, for when I need a laugh, for when I want to be challenged?

You see what I mean? Context. It all comes down to the specifics of the moment.

That said, here are a few of my all-time favorite reads. Books that have left me quiet, introspective and immobilized for days at a time. Books I couldn’t put down. Books whose beauty made me feel like, “Well, that’s the last book I’ll ever read. How can anyone top that?” That is especially true for Pale Fire. I’m not sure there is a better book than that one.

So, here are my top picks. I’m sure I’m forgetting some, but these are the ones that have withstood the test of time (and memory):

A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison

Pale Fire & Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

To the Lighthouse & Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson

I like a lot of nonfiction. In fact, it took me a while to really embrace the fiction world. Nabokov, Camus and Woolf helped me with that problem (could I sound more elitist?) I used to be kind of a book snob. Judgy and snooty about popular, summer reads. Now, I love those books. They don’t make my all-time favorite list but, they have their time and place.

Again, it’s all about what I’m in the mood for. Lately, I want a lighthearted, easy read. I’ve gotten similarly lazy with my audio endeavors. I used to listen to a ton of experimental and punk music. Now, I spend a lot of time in the genre I like to call “easy listening.” I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I also watch really crappy t.v. shows. My Netflix queue would horrify my 20-year-old self.

I think this is what they call, “getting older.”

24
Jul
2015

children’s books

categories: parenting, teaching

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say I hate Goodnight, Moon. I realize it’s an unpopular stance. I know it’s a classic. It’s gotta be the top-gifted childrens book of all time (we got at least five copies in the first year of our daughter’s life). But, why?! It’s so weird. And creepy. Who is that old lady whispering, “hush” anyhow? This post about the book completely slayed me.

Here are two similar books that I prefer: Buenas Noches, California & Time for Bed

I am always looking for children’s books with a diversity of characters (you know, not just white male leads) both because they better reflect the world we live in and because I have a daughter and I don’t want her reading books where the hero is always a boy.

That said, there are a lot of great books out there (not all of which meet the aforementioned criteria) but that have beautiful illustrations, important social/moral lessons and/or are fun and hilarious:

Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus & Knuffle Bunny by Mo Willems

Hilarious, great characters, fun pictures. The author lives in our neighborhood so it is particularly fun to walk around and find the various places pictured in the books.

Eloise by Kay Thompson

Excellent voice, wonderful vocabulary, silly. My daughter demands to stand on her head, like Eloise, after every read.

It’s Okay to be Different & The Peace Book by Todd Parr

Important messages about moral and ethical responsibility and acceptance of all people.

Iggy Peck, Architect & Rosie Revere, Engineer by Andrea Beaty

Kids being intelligent and creative in ways that are not typically written about. It’s fun, it’s witty and it rhymes. Iggy Peck has a slightly better story arc but Rosie has better rhymes and a girl lead to boot.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go & The Lorax by Dr. Seuss

There are a ton of Seuss books that my daughter loves to read. The Foot book, Oh, the Thinks you can Think, Hop on Pop, Oh, Say can you Say. But, these two have great messages. One about adventuring and exploration. The other about sustainability and the importance of respecting our environment.

Sheila Rae the Brave & Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes

Great female leads. One is about a girl who learns that bravery can mean many things and that fear can find it’s way into one’s life no matter how brave we feel. The other is about a girl dealing with bullying and learning to be proud of who she is regardless of what others think.

Swimmy be Leo Lionni

This one’s all about a fish who doesn’t fit in. He shows that being different is okay, great even.  He also proves that when communities unite they can face any enemy.

The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats

Beautiful, lyrical. It’s got great imagery, fantastic illustrations and Peter, the lead character shows up in a ton of other fabulous books by the same author.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar & Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See by Eric Carle

These ones are for young kids. Although, truthfully, I think we read both aloud when I taught first grade in Harlem. They’re great for pattern recognition and prediction. I love Eric Carle’s illustrations. The books are fun too but the illustrations are the real draw for me.

Thunder Cake & Thank You, Mr. Falker by Patricia Polacco

These are great books. They’re a bit more advanced than any of the other recommendations but they’re really wonderful and worth getting and putting in your library for future use if your kid is still young. Polaco is a truly beautiful writer. And, these books have wonderful lessons about bravery and love and about gratitude.

Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox

Another incredibly beautifully written book. And, one that is also a bit more advanced than the others on the list. It’s a gorgeous story about friendship with some incredible descriptions of memory.

And, many more. But, these are some of my top faves.

23
Jul
2015

marriage

categories: me

It took five years for my boyfriend to convince me that marriage might be an okay thing.

I had never pictured myself getting married. I hate white dresses. Not a big fan of dresses in general. I want nothing to do with diamonds and the whole idea of being engaged definitely did (and does) not appeal to me. He, on the other hand, had always envisioned getting married.

About a year into our relationship I told him that if he proposed I would break up with him. Sounds dramatic but, really, I just hated the idea of being surprised by such a huge question and then being put on the spot to make such a huge decision. This is not to say that I don’t understand the draw of the proposal for some people. I think it can be incredibly romantic and sweet and it makes some folks really, really happy.

For me, I’d prefer to be the one proposing. Scratch that, what I would really prefer is a conversation. You know, “Do you want to get married? Is that interesting/appealing to you?” Something like that.

Marriage ain’t no joke. It’s what “bwings us togeder today…dat bwessed awangment, dat dweam wifin a dweam…” Sorry. Couldn’t help it. The Princess Bride clergyman will never be outdone.

I was saying…marriage…it’s a (theoretically) serious commitment by TWO (usually) people. As in, this is not something to be entered into alone. You should really talk about that shit before you make the decision to do it.

I mean, I think that when people propose they’re pretty confident in their partners’ answer. And, for others, there has even been a conversation about it — probably a sort of vague, roundabout one.

We can’t really remember how it all went down. We were sitting in our living room. It was a Saturday or a Sunday and we’d just finished a late brunch at home (huevos rancheros, maybe?) We were sipping bloody mary’s and one of us brought it up. Which one? We can’t remember. Not because we were drunk. Just because, well, it doesn’t really matter.

“You wanna get married?” someone asked.

“Hmm. I don’t know, do you?” the other responded.

“I mean, sure. Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Great even. I mean, I really love you. I think that’s why you get married,” someone said.

“Shit. Okay, yeah. YEAH! This is awesome. I’m in. I really love you, too,” the other replied.

“Right. And, we’ve talked about the commitment part. It’s us. For good. Or, at least for a good long time.”

“Yeah, and our lives are already totally entangled. I mean, we bought a turntable and a t.v. together. We’ll have to talk about who gets what in the divorce.”

The next day we went to Tiffany’s and picked out simple gold bands. He paid for mine and I paid for his. If you’ve ever been to Tiffany’s (which we hadn’t) it’s a whole experience. I mean, they don’t mess around. We figured we’d splurge on the rings and bequeath them to our offspring. It may be the only thing of value they inherit.

A classic gold ring. I’m not sure there’s a better heirloom to pass down. I got a gold band (years later) from my great uncle after he passed away. It was engraved October, 1910. Exactly 99 years before we were married.

“When’s the big day?” Adam, the sweet, mild-mannered Tiffany’s employee inquired.

“Oh, we’re getting married. We’re not having a wedding. We’re just doing the whole, you know, marriage part. Skipping the rest,” we responded.

“I see,” he said. We regretted it immediately. Couldn’t we have come up with some wonderful lie? The poor guy didn’t know what to talk about. Clearly, his entire conversational repertoire was reliant upon people having, like, real weddings!

“Are you pregnant?” my principal asked upon my return to work. “Is that why you snuck off and got married last week?”

“Nope. Not allowed to ask that, Eileen. But, nope. Not pregnant. Just married,” I responded.

“But. What about the wedding? What about your families?” she continued. “Won’t they be mad?”

As it turned out there were a few people in our lives who were a bit sad. Not mad, just bummed to miss the moment. You know, that beautiful ‘I do’ moment. But, they got over it and we threw a party a year later. No fuss, no stress, just a big celebration so everyone could come together and eat and drink and dance.

It was perfect. For us.

22
Jul
2015

Life as a first grade teacher

categories: new york, teaching

“You should really wear makeup, Miss. My mama wears makeup and she’s real pretty. She don’t look like you.”

“Well, Xavier, women don’t actually have to wear makeup. It’s not a law. Not all women want to,” I explain. “It’s okay to make your own choices as a person.”

“But, you look tired. You look prettier if you put makeup on.”

“I appreciate your opinion, sweetie. But, it isn’t very nice to tell someone that they need to put makeup on to be pretty. I don’t tell you that you have to dress a certain way to look handsome. You look like a kind and intelligent human no matter what you’re wearing.”

“I got style, Miss.”

“You certainly do, Xavier. I agree. But, I would be able to notice your charm even if you didn’t have ‘style’ to speak of.”

“Dance skills too. You seen ’em. I can do all Michael Jackson’s moves.”

“Yes, I know you can,” I say.

“And, why you got boy hair? My mama says only boys have short hair,” he continues.

“Well, I can tell you that I do not identify as a boy. And, I have short hair. What do you make of that? We call that a conundrum.”

“I don’t know about no cone drum but you do look like a boy. I mean, you’re nice and all, and I know you a girl but you don’t look like no girl.”

“Hmmm, yes, well I can see why that might feel confusing for you.”

21
Jul
2015

people

categories: brooklyn

I am a totally perfect human. Obviously. I mean, I have a blog, so…

No, but really. I try to be kind and generous (I don’t always succeed) and give people the benefit of the doubt (sometimes I forget). Since my mom died I have been much better at understanding that peoples’ lives are not always what they seem and that we’re all going through shit. At some point or another. Life is complicated and difficult.

Living with chronic pain for ten years without any obvious exterior signifiers has helped me to understand that pain and suffering are often under the surface. I’m just trying to say, there’s more than meets the eye. Beauty isn’t skin deep, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am trying to think of as many lame cliche phrases as I can.

Okay. Back to serious thoughts…

I am in the process of dealing with some really lame folks. Condescending, rude, disrespectful — there are many adjectives that could be written to describe them.

It makes my stomach turn. I can’t shake the feeling that I am being taken advantage of, that I’m being treated with a total lack of human decency. I don’t do well with these feelings. I’m quite sure this comes from having spent a good chunk of my childhood and adolescence believing that I didn’t deserve anything good. That nothing should be easy. That no one should be trusted.

I rebelled. Against believing that everyone was out to get me. I rebelled against believing with total certainty that people were inherently bad. It sets me up for some disappointments along the way but it also ensures that very little gets under my skin. If I believe that people are doing their best then I don’t have to take anything personally.

It’s pretty great, actually. You should totally try it.

So, these humans. They are not being good. They are not doing their best. We have given them ample opportunity to do what is right. We have been understanding and patient. We have given them the benefit of the doubt. Used cordial, even friendly, language in dealing with them. Nothing.

No offense to lawyers but I’m pretty sure he’s a lawyer because everything is black and white. There is no room for doing the right thing, there is only room for, ‘what are my legal obligations to you.’ And, I think that is totally shitty. That’s just my opinion.

We are talking about exchanging BABY items. You heard me. Babies. Those tiny humans that make life so wacky and so wonderful.

Can we not just be normal, civil neighbors? This is crazy. Cuh-razy. Like, I can’t even believe that we are having these conversations because you tried to sell us some junky junk and we were way too trusting (I’m noticing a trend here — perhaps we should rethink how we operate in the world a little bit.) And, so we are just trying to return this junk to you and instead of owning that you sold us crap you are instead using all this lawyer jargon, mumbo-jumbo, double-talk, “proprietary interest,” blah, blah, blah “product we tendered…mitigate your loss…I draw a distinction between…”

I draw a distinction between being an ass and being a good human.

So, I’m frustrated. I’m currently working with my daughter on articulating her feelings. Naming her emotions. So, I will express mine through words and hope that in some small way, it will mitigate my queasiness.

I’m frustrated. And disappointed. I’m shocked and I’m not easily shocked. This should have been a simple transaction. We’ve bought and sold a million things on this list serve. We’ve never encountered someone or something so sketchy. I’m bummed. I’m really, really bummed. We’re out $350 and more than that, we’re left feeling helpless.

And then I think, where do I live? What is this strange world that I am a part of? Where do I fit into this world? And then I feel like an outsider again. Because I don’t want to believe that people are awful. I want to believe that people are mostly good. And that, if you give them a chance, they will show you their goodness.

I’m not some naive commune kid. Well, I am a commune kid. And, I can be a little bit naive. BUT, I do know there are awful people out there. I know there are unspeakable acts of cruelty and violence. I know there are unexplainable tragedies and unimaginable losses.

This is not one of those. And, these are not evil people. They’re just assholes. And, this is not some great loss on our part. It’s more money than I’d like to lose learning a life lesson but ultimately, it’s just money. The bigger loss for us is trust. New York can be a real bastard. Beating you down and then continually kicking you once you’re on the ground. We’ve had some pretty traumatic life lessons here. Again, this is not one of those. I have my priorities straight and my perspective intact.

But, that’s not to say that this isn’t a really annoying thing happening. Despite the bigger things in life and in the world. Despite the (ultimate) smallness of this experience. Despite all of this, I am still frustrated. Ya hear me? I’m frustrated!

And, this concludes my rant.

20
Jul
2015

truth // present

categories: commune, family

“Well, I grew up on a commune, so I’m pretty immune to embarrassment and shame. I’ve sort of seen and heard it all.”

“Wow, that must have been very difficult growing up.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy. But, I’m not sure I know anyone who can say they had a particularly easy childhood. You know? Mine just sounds really extreme. Except maybe Megan!”

“Who?”

“Yeah, my friend Megan had a great childhood. Only child, wonderful parents. She had it good. They were always…”

“Let’s stick to you. Your life,” my therapist continued. “You were saying that you aren’t easily embarrassed.”

“Right, I mean, is that significant? Should we be talking about that?”

“We can talk about whatever you like. There are no rules.”

“Hmm. Okay. Well, I don’t really know how we can possibly cover everything. It’s a lot.”

“Shall we start from the beginning?”

“Oh. Really? The beginning was so long ago. Can’t we start with, you know, more recent events? It’s just that we’ll be here forever if I have to go back and tell you everything. I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m just saying that, you know, I mean, there’s not much to tell. Commune, lots of kids, lots of women, narcissistic, god-complex of a dad, doormat mom. All the usual stuff. Felt like an outsider my whole life, never felt like I fit in…anywhere. Um, you know, got made fun of a lot. Obviously. Had to lie for years. That was hard. And confusing. Um, yeah, there’s more but..jeez, I don’t know. Can we just skip to the part where my mom dies? I mean, that’s why I’m here. I’m down with talking about all the other stuff. But, that will just take over. There’s too much. There’s always too much once you start telling the truth.”

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