Posts Tagged ‘poverty’

hello, again (written in a fury whilst battling pneumonia)

So, it’s been nearly two years. Here’s what happened…

I moved across the country and got swept up in excitement and planning–packing and unpacking, organizing and searching and life was hectic for a good long while. I started a new job and moved into a new house. My daughter started at one school. Then moved to another one. We traveled a bit, my back issues returned. I hit some health road blocks and made a bunch of changes in my life. Trump got elected and it drained all hope from my body. I fell into a very real depression and went on medication for the first time in my life–to treat my mental and emotional state. And, then, there were a million other things in-between.

So, here I am. Devastated and still reeling about the state of our country and our political landscape. Losing my mind over having a daughter and feeling so scared for her future every day.

I almost started blogging again but didn’t really know how to address the way I was feeling. I didn’t feel that I could accurately articulate the sorrow and fear and lack of hope. I still don’t feel qualified to discuss the state of our world and the myriad ways in which people are affected by our current leaders. But, needless to say, it is a horrifying time to be anything but a rich, white, Christian, cisgender, heterosexual man.

There are plenty of great websites with links to all of the things you can do to be a part of the revolution. Whether it’s time, money or power you can part with–there are many ways to get involved. I have found that feeling like I’m doing something (whether I am or not is a trickier conversation) has been the only thing to get me out of bed. I have joined and contributed and volunteered and written letters and made calls and marched through streets. It’s never enough. But, it’s something.

I am living in a privileged bubble out here in small town, California. We are not all so lucky. This man is ruining lives, endangering communities, and undoing so much of what has been done to embolden and empower folks who have been disenfranchised, abused and silenced.

So, I go to work. I teach middle school now. And, I talk about race and class and gender and sexuality and politics. I talk about the power of language and what it means to be an ally. I assign books by women and people of color. I discuss the need for windows and mirrors in literature. Books should be a reflection of ourselves, our lives and experiences and realities. They should also be a window into the realities of others–folks who don’t look, live or exist as we do.

I start GSA and Ally clubs, bring LGBTQI training to our staff and push for changes to our handbooks to ensure the safety and security of ALL students. I take my kids to environmental film festivals and put up signs on my door that piss off the Trump-voter parents in my class. I keep my political viewpoints to myself but make it known that I am against bullying of any kind at any level. I tell my students that they are powerful, that they can change the world. I read I am Malala aloud and explain that it is up to them to find and fight against injustice. To speak up and speak out.

My daughter doesn’t know words like, “asshole, racist, imbecile, narcissist, bigot, chauvinist, etc.” What she does know is, “bully and stinker.” Those are the worst words in her vocabulary. But, if you heard her refer to Trump as a, “Stinkin, stinker, bully, potty, poo, pee-pee-head, meanie” you would think she had just uttered the most obscene profanity known to womankind. Her face gets scrunched up and serious and her body tightens, her fists pump in the air and she is mad. She’s actually mad. She hates this man. She hears NPR in the morning and listens to us talk in the evening. She picks up on conversations and nuances and body language. And, we talk to her about him. We tell her in words she’ll understand. He is a bully–to all people, everywhere. He is not smart. He doesn’t care about our planet and he’s not a nice person.

I am not in Trump country. But I’m not not in Trump country. I’m in 50/50 land. So, it’s been a divisive year in an already divided community. And, striking the balance between respecting differing belief systems while still holding folks accountable for what they are ACTUALLY advocating for is difficult…and, incredibly important. Particularly as a teacher and a parent and a woman and…a freaking human. So, I do my best. There are some days when I completely fail. And, others where I am so proud of myself for the thing I said or didn’t say or the conversation I had with my students.

I am out of the denial stage, the intense anger has faded, depression is on the mend and so I’m left with (un)acceptance. I accept that it’s real but refuse to accept the reality.

Short story: I’m back.

don’t forget the rice crispy treats

My mom was not talented in the culinary arts. It’s a miracle I can boil water, really. Aside from her being a terrible chef, my father refused to cook and I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen to do any experimenting on my own.

There were three staple items my mom could get on the table if push came to shove: grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup; scrambled eggs with cream cheese; mashed potato pancakes with melted parmesan. The cheese theme is clear, right? I’m starting to see where my dairy obsession comes from. The sandwich was always burnt, always. The sound of her running a butter knife over the crispy bits and the ping of the charred toast hitting the tin sink, along with that acidic, dark musty smell of burnt bread and butter on the cast iron pan–smells like home. She would make the tomato soup with milk and it would get that skin on top–you know the way that happens when you overheat milk or let it sit too long? The potato pancakes were her leftover creation. We always had steamed veggies and baked potatoes in the fridge. So, she’d cut up the veggies, mash the potatoes and grate some cheese over the flattened balls, throw them in the oven and it was heavenly. My brothers would smother them in ketchup but I liked them plain or with a little sour cream.

Yes, we ate very well in our household.

For a while I was trying to eat gluten-free, upon my doctor’s recommendation (I will never do that again–I was absolutely miserable for a month) and in an effort to make myself some gluten and sugar-free desserts I experimented with rice crispies (or, rather the health food version of those). Which I don’t recommend.

Anyhow, I tried adding peanut butter and unsweetened chocolate and honey and coconut oil and all sorts of shit. And, really all I wanted was rice crispy treats. Nothing compares, let’s be honest.

Turns out they are the most ridiculously simple dessert to make. Like, hilariously easy. How had I forgotten the 3 steps? Melt butter and marshies in pot, pour cereal in, empty pot onto greased pan. Voila! A miracle dessert. Really, I’ll be making these every week from now on.

Rice crispy treats were the one thing my mom could “bake.” Every bakesale, every holiday event, anytime there was a mandatory contribution in school or at a sporting event, or for the community theater or my sister’s dance troupe, we brought rice crispy treats. Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t even occur to me that it might appear as some sort of cop out. Kind of a slap in the face to the moms who brought handmade, “chocolate, peanut butter, caramel crunch bars.” Or, that it might have been a source of embarrassment for my mother. A kind of admission of maternal failure to be unable to do the most basic of motherly duties: bake. Nowadays moms, dads, parentals, can show up to a bake sale and say, “I suck at baking. I’ll help with the cleanup.” And, I don’t think anyone would bat an eye. There might even be some sympathetic nods and confessions of having used the pre-boxed mix for brownies. But, back then and in our small little section of the world, it was not done. Every mom baked. Not every parent. Every mom. Oh yeah, it was nice and gendered back then. Who are we kidding? It mostly still is.

So, we made a lot of rice crispy treats. And, my mom showed up with our plastic-wrapped desserts and proudly placed them on the bake sale table, handing over our one aluminum pan to the downcast eyes of some volunteer, PTA, supermom. She’d give us a half-smile and place them amongst the m&m, chocolate chip cookies, and the perfect chocolate, pecan fudge squares, the beautiful coconut-cream layer cakes and vanilla cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles. They always looked so sad next to everything else. But, those suckers sold. I tell you what, we always went home with an empty pan–much to my chagrin.

And, every time my mom would look down proudly at that empty tin and say, “We did it.” As if she’d just discovered the Higgs boson.

I didn’t know that this could, or should, have been a source of embarrassment for me. In fact, it was one of the only things I felt confident my mother could actually participate in–like a normal mom. Her ability to show up every time with a handmade dessert, to participate, to contribute–that felt so normal to me. It made me feel like we were actually part of something. One of them. You know, one of the normals–not outsiders, for once. We’d all crowd into the minivan, screaming and pushing, calling dibs on the front seat and then fighting over it anyway and one of us would call out, “Mom, don’t forget the rice crispy treats!” and off we would ride. Believing that the minivan and the slogan t-shirts, the hand-me-down sneakers and thrifted jeans, and most importantly the rice crispy treats, were some symbol of normalcy. Believing that we might actually be fitting in.

dreams and realities

Last night I had a dream I was sitting on the street, crouched over a leaf-filled gutter, picking out half-smoked cigarette butts and piling them together. I got really excited when I found a fully intact parliament. This is my brand! I thought, pulling out a bright green lighter with which to light the beautiful white cylinder.

When I awoke I found myself craving that parliament. All day I wanted the sting of smoke in my throat, the gasping feeling my lungs make when I inhale, the dizziness of a cigarette smoked to its butt. I even thought about buying a pack. I’m not a smoker, but somehow that longing had been imprinted on me from the dream. It’s amazing how dreams can influence an entire day.

My husband gives me copious amounts of grief–loads of eye-rolling and guffawing–when I awaken from a nightmare in which he has somehow wronged me. “I can’t be held accountable for what I do in your dreams,” He says. Oh, I know. But, that doesn’t stop me from having feelings of angst toward him for at least an hour (sometimes more). I know this is unjustified, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

In middle school my friend Tiffany and I would hitchhike the three miles up Rough and Ready highway where we would loiter, without notice, in front of the Country Store and Post Office–bumming smokes and picking up the half-smoked carcasses the cowboys would toss in our direction on their way inside. She grew up in a trailer park a quarter mile northeast of our school–conveniently, within walking distance. She lived with her mom, who worked most days and nights–and, an older brother who we adored. He was tall and handsome, clever and silly and he was nice to us. Which, was a rare thing for an older sibling in our neck of the woods. Eat or be eaten or something like that. I always had permission to go to her house because we could walk there, which meant no one had to deal with pickups or drop-offs–a parent’s nightmare.

Their home was small and cozy. Brown and tan shag rugs, cream-colored walls, dark-stained furniture, a small, yellow electric stove and a huge television just a few feet from their tiny couch. The entire place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and moldy carpeting–and some part of the ceiling was always leaking, a slow stream of brown water accumulating in the plastic buckets below.  It was warm there, always, even mid-winter. Lamp shades were adorned with colorful scarves, emitting an inviting glow, cigarette burns concealed by lacy doilies offered a personalized touch, and the most spectacular sight of all–a beautiful glass cabinet filled with tiny ceramic figurines. There were little lambs encircling a sheepherder in a bonnet, cows lazily lounging on their stomachs, bunnies mid-hop and my personal favorite, a spritely-looking fox with a  long, red, bushy tail.

Tiffany shared a room with her mom which, fortuitously, granted us access to all of her mom’s things. Behind the sliding closet doors were dozens of tight, lycra skirts and impossibly high heels laid out like flowers on a polyester fiber carpet bed–she had ombre-hued scarves and felt hats in every color. A wardrobe in stark contrast to my mom’s earth-toned pantsuits or sequined, holiday sweaters with their giant shoulder pads. Tiffany and I spent hours perusing her mom’s clothing, trying on her skirts, dancing (and falling over) in her red patent and black suede pumps, filling our lips with reds and purples, giggling through clouds of face powder, spritzing our soft wrists with Vanilla Fields and ckOne. Her mom’s bureau was covered in gold tubes of mauve lipsticks and cream blushes, puffy black-bristled brushes and silver chains and bangles. My mom didn’t even have a dresser, let alone an entire space for jewelry and makeup.

We’d cover our faces and bodies with colors and scents and put on fashion shows for her brother and his friends. They’d look up every now and again, immersed as they were in their video games or the newest Nightmare on Elm Street installment and give some nod of approval or a half-hearted smile, which was enough to set our hearts a-flutter and send us back to her mom’s closet where we would create yet another persona–this time geometric leggings and pink leg-warmers, a black tube top and a flowery scarf tied into a bow on top of our crimped hair. The iterations were endless and the glee those sessions inspired was magical. It provided a necessary escape for both of us. Her, from the absence of parental units and the loneliness and isolation of her living situation. Me, from the violence and turbulence of my world, which produced a similar form of isolation and loneliness. Both of us outcasts.

Her mom had this giant waterbed in the middle of her room on which we were strictly forbidden from playing. Which meant, of course, that we spent most of our time lounging there–reading magazines, listening to the Cranberries, talking about boys and how silly school was and whether or not we should shave our legs or wear deodorant. I was fascinated by the thing. I’d never felt one before and was horrified the first time I sat on it. The warm water enveloped my bottom, my hand sunk every time I tried to escape and the way the watery mattress pulled up around my sides made me feel nervous and trapped but in an exciting kind of a way.

I wasn’t allowed to watch scary movies at home. Bad for our bardo, dad would say. Those images would stick with us in the afterlife and cause a lot of problems. So, of course, I watched any and every horror film I could. My friends’ parents were much more relaxed about  imprinting their children’s psyche with images of death and violence–also, no one was paying attention. Tiffany’s brother loved horror films–the more gruesome, the better. It was in their living room, squished between Tiffany and the cloud of Marlboro smoke her brother blew in our direction, that I first saw Freddy Krueger. I was terrified, I wanted to leave but out of fear of judgment from her very cool brother and a morbid curiosity, I stayed. My eyes wide and palms sweaty, I sat through the entire film.

By the end I was shaky and traumatized, I followed Tiffany like a zombie, through our bedtime rituals and into some conversation about why Lance wasn’t paying any attention to her and did I think that David might be my boyfriend since we’d french-kissed on that dare? I listened, I nodded, I grunted yes or no and hoped she would go on like that forever, delaying bedtime until the light of morning. That night Tiffany and I slept in the waterbed–which we often did when her mom worked the graveyard shift. The scene of the boy being stabbed and drowned in his waterbed played over and over again in my head. I couldn’t stand the suffocating feeling of the liquid underneath me. I was sure the mattress would burst and we’d be sucked down into a watery death. I was positive that if I went to sleep Freddy would come for me. I tortured myself for hours–lying awake, too scared to close my eyes, too embarrassed to wake Tiffany or call home. Eventually, sleep overtook my body and when I awoke to Tiffany shouting obscenities at her brother I was relieved we had made it through the night. But, for weeks the images haunted me, they came for me in my dreams, they hid behind bushes and in the silhouettes of dark trees. The wind was Freddy’s whistle, the playground his battlefield, even my bedroom which once had provided such solace and comfort brought me nothing but terror and dread.

It’s easy for me to recall these sensations because I still have them. I still lie awake at night–thinking not of movies but of the state of the world. I still cringe–not out of fear of ghosts but fear for my daughter. I’m still afraid of the dark–not the darkness of my room but the eerie quiet of an abandoned street after dusk. I still feel helpless–not against Freddy Krueger but against real and tangible evils over which I wield no power. My nightmares haunt my waking hours, the distractions of adult life the only thing that keeps the monsters at bay. Age hasn’t made me less scared or less prone to anxiety. It has simply changed the object of my fear.

on not trying

When I was in high school my daily uniform was a pair of blue or black Dickies with a belt, a faded thrift store t-shirt and a cardigan. I donned one stars or converse and I wore my hair in a short pixie cut.

If I decided to dress up, I wore platform shoes, a thrifted dress or skirt and a grandpa sweater. Occasionally my mom would save up or my grandmother would give her some cash and we’d go to JCPennys and splurge on new shirts. Or, we’d hit Ross for a new dress and a nice pair of shoes. I wore makeup onstage. Never off.

My friend Joanna was like a different species. She had stacks of high fashion magazines, books about how to apply makeup for different occasions and a credit card that her parents entrusted to her for whatever she deemed necessary. Her bathroom looked like a pharmacy — filled with tonics and creams, toners and foundations, a rainbow of lipsticks, eyeshadow and a garden of perfumes. I remember lifting the lids from those delicate glass bottles, each like a tiny potion, magical, mystical, enchanting. She had a weekday scent and a weekend scent, a special occasion smell and an eau de date elixir which was particularly jasmin-y.

Joanna had a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. Her parents were both doctors and they lived in a giant house at the top of a hill overlooking a gorgeous vineyard. She had a hot tub and cable television and her own car. To me, she was living like the rich and famous.

Joanna introduced me to glitter. And, to accessories. She loaned me her makeup books and gave me tubes of gels and lotions she deemed unfit for her skin type.

She had a brother and a sister, both of whom played instruments, went to college and led what could only be considered normal, healthy lives. In stark contrast to my siblings who were getting kicked out of school (if they were attending at all) deeply involved with drugs and alcohol, and either in serious (and seriously abusive relationships) or living unhealthy lives of solitude and loneliness.

Joanna’s life represented the life I could have led. If my parents were honest and driven and, you know, not polygamists.

We were both good students. Great, even. Honors classes, tons of extracurriculars, college-bound. We had focus. And drive. Something not a lot of our peers had. Joanna was determined to be rich and famous. By any means — modeling, acting, music, writing — whatever medium got her there, she didn’t care. She knew exactly what she wanted.

I, on the other hand, was fueled by the theater. I loved to sing and dance too. But, I knew I needed to be an actor when I grew up. Broadway in New York City. That was my fantasy. I knew it wouldn’t be lucrative but I didn’t care. I would be fulfilled and I would be living my dream in the big city. Where no one knew who I was and no one knew where I came from.

Life took a few turns. I zigged and zagged and ended up on a very different path. When I got into my dream college, which had been chosen for its impressive theater program, I immediately decided to put acting on hold. Academics, I decided. That’s what college is supposed to be about. I did a few productions my first year, The Vagina monologues and some modern take on Greek dramas, but mostly I studied. And read. And, attended lectures and sit-ins. I protested and I drafted petitions, I fought close to home (unionize our food service employees) and far from home (WB/WTF, anti-war, anti-Bush) I marched and made signs and attended workshops on what to do when you get arrested.

I lost acting somewhere along the way. I got more interested in change. And, then education and reform and living the change I wanted to see.

I’m still not so skilled at applying makeup. I don’t use any special creams. I don’t know a thing about moisturizers or toners (what is the point of a toner?) But, I’m very okay with that. I buy mascara from the drugstore and leave my hair almost exactly as it naturally falls. I loathe blow dryers and I just do not have the patience to put on a full face of makeup every day. I choose comfort over style and efficiency over cutesy. I like the way I look all dolled up but it’s just not sustainable for me. I think you have to really enjoy the process. And, you have to put forth the energy required. I just don’t have it in me. And, something tells me that if it’s not there at 34, it probably ain’t ever showing up.

snack shack

When we were kids we used to go to this awful, polluted lake. Of course, we didn’t realize how polluted it was at the time. But, we probably should have. It was a man-made lagoon inside a gated community. I don’t really understand how or why my family decided that this was the best place to go (or how we managed entry every weekend??). I suspect we went because it was the closest place to go. Never mind the fact that we were just a few miles away from one of the most beautiful rivers in California. Three forks of stunning views, giant, hot rocks, fishing, canoeing and general good times. Unlike the piss-warm water we swam in, the river produced nice cool, snow-melt from Tahoe’s Sierra Nevada’s. The river was filled with minnow, trout and suckers, all harmless and skittish. Contrasting the lake’s giant catfish who had zero fear of humans and would frequently nibble your toes as you swam.

Despite all of this, as a kid I thought it was the greatest place. Sandy beaches, a floating dock, a playground, boats…and the snack shack. Now, growing up we weren’t allowed to eat sweets. No soda, no candy, no chips, no processed foods of any sort. The problem with this kind of avoidance is that it creates what all abstinence-only programs create. Immense desire.

I would save up pennies, nickels and dimes — change from couch cushions, payphones, sidewalks and store floors — to get those small, individually packaged, plastic-wrapped jolly ranchers. Watermelon, sour apple, cherry, they were all exotic and bursting with flavor. The intense sugary sensation stinging my throat and bringing tears to my eyes. They were five cents a pop and I would buy as many as I could. The only problem was that they all had to be consumed almost immediately and, obviously, I had no intention of sharing. If not eaten by day’s end they would melt in the hot sun, or worse (because a melted candy is still edible) they would get sand in their plastic creases and become too gross, even for a junky.

On occasion, we would be treated to a meal at the snack shack. If money wasn’t too tight and we’d all been perfectly behaved that day. Chicken fingers, french fries, stale chips with oozing, orange cheese-product. We felt just like the other kids. Eating their hot dogs and listening to the top 40 over distorted speakers, sitting at the picnic table, talking about their favorite t.v. shows and who’s pool party was the best. We felt like we were part of some larger human experience, the childhood we might have had. Hell, we felt American.