This year, I've been riding high on Christmas. I threw myself into the holidays with more gusto than I've shown in years, seven to be exact. I hauled all the lights & shit out of the garage, played every Christmas cd, especially the old ones, shopped like a fool, baked a million gluten-free Christmas cookies, and wore about six different Christmas sweatshirts. One day that I was rocking a Rudolph sweatshirt, red converse, and the huge Mariah Carey gold hoops with Santa picked out in glittering crystal letters inspired one of my students to say, "Teacher, you have a lot of Christmas on." I was manic. I felt like a little bird frantically beating her wings to stay aloft, because if I paused for even a minute I would have FEELINGS, and I was having none of that this year. I raced like an elf on meth through minutes and days, and meanwhile I got circles under my eyes and periodically felt my heart pounding high and fast all the way up in my neck. But I was keeping it together, I felt.
I hate driving to school in the morning when the music sucks. When good songs play on the radio, I feel my mojo rev and I'm ready to face another day of frustration, fun, backtalk and sometimes barf. I'm ready for nine year olds. This morning there was no music. It was all commercials, and I had resigned myself to a long day when I flipped to a new station right as the 101 was turning into the 33, and it was the end of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Springsteen. I was smiling and singing along, and Bruce was singing over Clarence doing his jolly ho-ho-hos, and suddenly I remarked to myself, "Clarence Clemons is dead too," and my voice was breaking in all the same places as Springsteen. Only his voice was breaking with laughter, and my face was suddenly wet. I started sobbing all over myself, the road blurring before my eyes. Oh no, NO, I thought to myself, why is this happening NOW? I have to go to WORK. Luckily I didn't have any makeup on yet and I cleaned myself up in the parking lot and I got through my day, and I even allowed myself to pause for minutes at a time and talked emotionally with a couple of my friends that are going through some family shit themselves.
During one of my manic episodes, Sharon and I had to make way for the Christmas happenings, so we went through a couple of Greg's boxes, and I took home a stack of his books. I've been rereading them. I forgot how titillated my 15yr old brain was by Lucy Mancini's sex problem, and how Easy Rawlins was in a war before he became a private dick, and how Pennywise took other shapes besides a clown. But I didn't forget the joy of helping myself to Greg's huge collection of books, and how he never caught me with something and said, "I don't think you're old enough to be reading that," except for a Saul Bellow novel, and he was right about that one.
Another thing I forgot: I was going through some old notes tonight when I found one from my Aunt Sue about the Christmas letters Greg used to enclose with our cards. And my first thought wasn't, Man but he used to slave over those letters for a month, or Whoa, I was a dumb kid to be embarrassed that my dad was proud of me and wrote about it. Instead it was, Huh, Greg used to write Christmas letters. I had forgotten about that.
I'm afraid of forgetting.
I'm afraid because the pain's not so raw anymore, but it's closer now to a decade without my pops, and 7 years out feels a lot farther than 6. When someone first dies, it's like an ice pick piercing, sharp and narrow and deep, impossible to ignore. 7 years later it's like a soft hole edged in sand, shallower but wider, with more sand slipping imperceptibly away by the second. You don't always remember what's missing, until something jabs you right in the wound and you think, oh- that's right. Nothing will ever be the same again. I have lost someone who will never come back, and not wishing nor pouting nor any goddamn thing will ever make it right.
I fucking hate the last day of school before winter break. It will always be the day that Greg died. It will always sting, it will always remind me.
And yet, wallowing ain't gonna bring him back either. If I call in sick and get drunk as hell by 10am, Greg won't come back. If I go to work and yell at an undeserving kid because he's being obnoxious and I have zero patience, Greg won't come back. So I might as well put on some trashy Santa earrings and a pair of red converse, because I'm doing the best I can and it's a fact that I miss my dad. Just a plain fact. Tomorrow I want to be gentle with myself and those around me, because even the forgotten memories are better than a lot of people get ever, and I want to honor my dad.
Merry Christmas, pops, and I love you.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Thursday, August 6, 2015
If wishes were horses....
Happy birthday, Greg. This would be #62. Course, he's frozen in double nickels-land forever. I've been so blue the past couple weeks, but only in spurts. I tell myself, it's a full moon. I tell myself, it's a busted thyroid. I tell myself, it's a sentimental novel. I tell myself, it's all these other people's dads around everywhere! I tell myself, it's this weird huge insect bite on my left shoulder. Mostly, I just ride with it- and I'm fine, but I'm also weepy as shit.
I feel sad and I miss my old man. It bugs me that I don't remember much of his own birthdays; I remember the vanilla/vanilla cupcakes, and him opening presents and saying gracelessly and honestly, "This isn't what I wanted." I remember Sharon's 40th birthday had a big crazy ping-pong party, and I remember making a movie called "Bearing 40" for my Uncle Bear, but I don't remember Greg's 40th. I don't remember how we celebrated his 50th either. I don't remember his stories about birthdays when he was a little kid, or the early years with Sharon before there were kids of his own. I remember the Godfather party only because there are photos (there's a photo taped above my bar). It's embarrassing to admit that I don't remember; I feel guilty. I wish I'd written more shit DOWN while my dad was alive to tell me about it. Then again, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
Of course the 55th birthday was when he was sick, but we all thought he was getting better and he pigged out on a Pink's chili dog, which only furthered the idea that he was on the mend. That birthday was also when I got my first teaching job, which I truly believe now was a saving grace from somewhere above to keep me safe and sane and grateful to be alive.
Today at summer school, a 4yr old told me, "Tomorrow's my birthday!" and without thinking I replied, 'Tomorrow's my dad's birthday too!"
In the smallest wistful voice she said, "I really wish he could come. I wish your dad could come here for our birthday." I said, "I wish he could come too," and turned my face away. Of course, she meant Room 1 and I meant Earth, but the tone was the same. Longing, imagining, wishing...
Happy birthday, Greg. I love you and I miss you...
I feel sad and I miss my old man. It bugs me that I don't remember much of his own birthdays; I remember the vanilla/vanilla cupcakes, and him opening presents and saying gracelessly and honestly, "This isn't what I wanted." I remember Sharon's 40th birthday had a big crazy ping-pong party, and I remember making a movie called "Bearing 40" for my Uncle Bear, but I don't remember Greg's 40th. I don't remember how we celebrated his 50th either. I don't remember his stories about birthdays when he was a little kid, or the early years with Sharon before there were kids of his own. I remember the Godfather party only because there are photos (there's a photo taped above my bar). It's embarrassing to admit that I don't remember; I feel guilty. I wish I'd written more shit DOWN while my dad was alive to tell me about it. Then again, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
Of course the 55th birthday was when he was sick, but we all thought he was getting better and he pigged out on a Pink's chili dog, which only furthered the idea that he was on the mend. That birthday was also when I got my first teaching job, which I truly believe now was a saving grace from somewhere above to keep me safe and sane and grateful to be alive.
Today at summer school, a 4yr old told me, "Tomorrow's my birthday!" and without thinking I replied, 'Tomorrow's my dad's birthday too!"
In the smallest wistful voice she said, "I really wish he could come. I wish your dad could come here for our birthday." I said, "I wish he could come too," and turned my face away. Of course, she meant Room 1 and I meant Earth, but the tone was the same. Longing, imagining, wishing...
Happy birthday, Greg. I love you and I miss you...
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!
Last night I dreamed that Greg and I sat courtside at a Lakers game in the Staples Center. I don't remember why we were there or who gave us the tickets, but there we were. I was eating red vines and watching the pre-game action on the floor; the first quarter hadn't started yet. I remember standing up for the National Anthem and noticing that Greg still had most of his hair when he took off his hat. Sitting back down, I distinctly felt the sensation of my upper arm leaning against Greg's upper arm; in fact, I woke up with that feeling in my right arm, and I was sitting on his left in the dream. The weird thing is that I was sitting on the aisle, and he was sitting in the second seat, which would never have happened in real life.
The Lakers started pouring out onto the court- we were sitting in a corner where I could see down the tunnel and into a room where they were all coming from; Pau Gasol gave me a wave (I know he's not a Laker anymore) and I buried my face in Greg's shoulder in embarrassment. He smelled like Hugo Boss. I can't remember what we were talking about (not basketball, I think it was a playwright) but whatever it was caught the attention of a couple sitting in front of us, and Greg leaned forward to talk to them for awhile.
There was a pre-game show where this fat guy in a sports jacket was going around interviewing people, feeding them one-liners ahead of time and then taping his reaction on the big screen. He was up above our section, but motioned to me and came down beside me.
"Alright pretty, here's your line..." and he handed me a card which I read aloud (no cameras yet). "It wasn't until Robin Williams became my babysitter that I learned what a day off really meant." I looked up at him and said, "I dunno- this seems like kind of an off-color joke since Robin Williams is dead." He laughed loudly and said patronizingly, "Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!" and I just stared at him until he huffed away to another section.
I turned back to Greg and said dramatically, "I've blown my opportunity to appear on the Jumbo-Tron!!!!" and he replied, "Good thing, since you're wearing a Clippers shirt at a Lakers game." I looked down at myself and I was awash in red and blue. Greg was wearing this Lakers Championship shirt from the 80's (maybe 1988?) that he had in real life and that featured cartoon Lakers with big caricature heads.
"Let me out and I'll go buy you a Lakers shirt to put over it," so I swung my legs over the side of the seat and he went out past me, up the aisle and cutting across a row of seats. He was moving fast and light, and looked so tall and so healthy, and I couldn't help shouting out, "Hey old man! You look pretty good for someone who used to be dead!" He turned around and gave me our secret thumbs up signal, then disappeared up the far aisle.
That was where I woke up. I don't know what the hell any of that meant, and the Robin Williams joke was nonsensical more than off-color. But those vivid dreams where Greg is alive and healthy and not a ghost (at least, not until the end) are few and far between these days, so I was grateful.
So was my right arm.
The Lakers started pouring out onto the court- we were sitting in a corner where I could see down the tunnel and into a room where they were all coming from; Pau Gasol gave me a wave (I know he's not a Laker anymore) and I buried my face in Greg's shoulder in embarrassment. He smelled like Hugo Boss. I can't remember what we were talking about (not basketball, I think it was a playwright) but whatever it was caught the attention of a couple sitting in front of us, and Greg leaned forward to talk to them for awhile.
There was a pre-game show where this fat guy in a sports jacket was going around interviewing people, feeding them one-liners ahead of time and then taping his reaction on the big screen. He was up above our section, but motioned to me and came down beside me.
"Alright pretty, here's your line..." and he handed me a card which I read aloud (no cameras yet). "It wasn't until Robin Williams became my babysitter that I learned what a day off really meant." I looked up at him and said, "I dunno- this seems like kind of an off-color joke since Robin Williams is dead." He laughed loudly and said patronizingly, "Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!" and I just stared at him until he huffed away to another section.
I turned back to Greg and said dramatically, "I've blown my opportunity to appear on the Jumbo-Tron!!!!" and he replied, "Good thing, since you're wearing a Clippers shirt at a Lakers game." I looked down at myself and I was awash in red and blue. Greg was wearing this Lakers Championship shirt from the 80's (maybe 1988?) that he had in real life and that featured cartoon Lakers with big caricature heads.
"Let me out and I'll go buy you a Lakers shirt to put over it," so I swung my legs over the side of the seat and he went out past me, up the aisle and cutting across a row of seats. He was moving fast and light, and looked so tall and so healthy, and I couldn't help shouting out, "Hey old man! You look pretty good for someone who used to be dead!" He turned around and gave me our secret thumbs up signal, then disappeared up the far aisle.
That was where I woke up. I don't know what the hell any of that meant, and the Robin Williams joke was nonsensical more than off-color. But those vivid dreams where Greg is alive and healthy and not a ghost (at least, not until the end) are few and far between these days, so I was grateful.
So was my right arm.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Tune in Now for a Special Report!
So on top of the master's program, the classroom succulent garden, the Earth Day festival, SBAC state testing preparation, and, you know, TEACHING (sometimes anyway) I started a project with my students last week. Our principal asked the grade level chairs for ideas to get the students pumped up for state testing, and since I have a group of students that has shown interest in TV news, and we are a newly minted STEM academy (the T stands for technology), I thought of using the iPads to create a news report to be shown at the assembly next week. Somehow my idea became my responsibility, and I've been scrambling this week to work on this project along with the million other things I'm spinning my wheels at lately.
The kids have been incredibly enthusiastic! We had "business lunches" to talk about their interview questions, list of topics, and potential interviewees. They came up with their own costumes (mustaches- I mustache you a question, HA). They have practiced and worked on their own time, and a lot of my time as well, of course. This last week I've been freaking and stressing and complaining- "I'm too tired for this, I'm too busy for this, I'm too goddamned overwhelmed for this!" But today the filming started.
And it was.....MAGICAL. There's really no other way to describe the experience. Following them around with their iPad and their clipboard and their fake microphone, watching and applauding as they ambushed staff and students alike with their questions, I was in heaven. Meaning that I actually felt for a second like I was in heaven, with Greg peeping over my shoulder and saying, "You done good, Maxie." I was reminded of the hours and hours he spent with his VHS video camera, tracking shots of Amy and I narrating the Vietnam War in our green helmets and flower children dresses, making music videos, panning photographs with my strident feminist voiceovers, and lots of other school projects I shanghaied him into filming over the years. He was a ruthless, encouraging, perfectionist director, and I adored not only the finished products, but the time spent with Greg basking in his undivided attention.
As I set aside the math notebook and stick a post-it in the informational essay prompts, I realize now how the time spent with me and my friends on our projects obviously took him away from his own writing. Although I never thought about it then, there must have been times that he was tired, or busy, or overwhelmed by his own shit. There's been an undercurrent of resentment (so unusual for me because I truly love my job) when I've woken up in the last month and felt more like bullying a short story into submission than coaxing a 4th grader into fraction-land. I don't ever want to lose my writing voice, and I was panicking because the well had been dry for a long time and suddenly it was gushing, and I wanted to stay home and write, and I had to go to work. Today was what I needed to realize that Greg's presence and attention was a gift, and so is mine. The words will still be there- as long as I dash off good notes in those fleeting moments between lessons. Maybe I could adopt Greg's method of sticking notes on the back door until I'm ready to tackle the next piece. Maybe it's time I got my own method.
I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling grateful, and everything got so much better. I drew down on the good karma Sharon built up over the years as a room parent supermom, and I reached out to my own room parent for help. I started appreciating our awesome site leader and all of her technological support. I put my head on my desk after school and wandered daydreaming through memories of my dad and his two big hands with the thumbs put together, framing the scene.
Filming a phony news report with a bunch of children with fancy coats and raised eyebrows reminded me why I love teaching, and love my students, and why I don't ever want to burn out. Next week is back to math lessons and essay prompts, but I think I got "an elbow to the head" reminding me to make it rigorous, make it valuable....but make it joyful. Keep the kids wanting to be there and learn. Keep myself wanting to be there and learn. Have some fuckin' fun with it all!
As my journalists said today to every subject they interviewed, over and over and over, "Thank you for your time."
The kids have been incredibly enthusiastic! We had "business lunches" to talk about their interview questions, list of topics, and potential interviewees. They came up with their own costumes (mustaches- I mustache you a question, HA). They have practiced and worked on their own time, and a lot of my time as well, of course. This last week I've been freaking and stressing and complaining- "I'm too tired for this, I'm too busy for this, I'm too goddamned overwhelmed for this!" But today the filming started.
And it was.....MAGICAL. There's really no other way to describe the experience. Following them around with their iPad and their clipboard and their fake microphone, watching and applauding as they ambushed staff and students alike with their questions, I was in heaven. Meaning that I actually felt for a second like I was in heaven, with Greg peeping over my shoulder and saying, "You done good, Maxie." I was reminded of the hours and hours he spent with his VHS video camera, tracking shots of Amy and I narrating the Vietnam War in our green helmets and flower children dresses, making music videos, panning photographs with my strident feminist voiceovers, and lots of other school projects I shanghaied him into filming over the years. He was a ruthless, encouraging, perfectionist director, and I adored not only the finished products, but the time spent with Greg basking in his undivided attention.
As I set aside the math notebook and stick a post-it in the informational essay prompts, I realize now how the time spent with me and my friends on our projects obviously took him away from his own writing. Although I never thought about it then, there must have been times that he was tired, or busy, or overwhelmed by his own shit. There's been an undercurrent of resentment (so unusual for me because I truly love my job) when I've woken up in the last month and felt more like bullying a short story into submission than coaxing a 4th grader into fraction-land. I don't ever want to lose my writing voice, and I was panicking because the well had been dry for a long time and suddenly it was gushing, and I wanted to stay home and write, and I had to go to work. Today was what I needed to realize that Greg's presence and attention was a gift, and so is mine. The words will still be there- as long as I dash off good notes in those fleeting moments between lessons. Maybe I could adopt Greg's method of sticking notes on the back door until I'm ready to tackle the next piece. Maybe it's time I got my own method.
I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling grateful, and everything got so much better. I drew down on the good karma Sharon built up over the years as a room parent supermom, and I reached out to my own room parent for help. I started appreciating our awesome site leader and all of her technological support. I put my head on my desk after school and wandered daydreaming through memories of my dad and his two big hands with the thumbs put together, framing the scene.
Filming a phony news report with a bunch of children with fancy coats and raised eyebrows reminded me why I love teaching, and love my students, and why I don't ever want to burn out. Next week is back to math lessons and essay prompts, but I think I got "an elbow to the head" reminding me to make it rigorous, make it valuable....but make it joyful. Keep the kids wanting to be there and learn. Keep myself wanting to be there and learn. Have some fuckin' fun with it all!
As my journalists said today to every subject they interviewed, over and over and over, "Thank you for your time."
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