Stay Tuned

Hi all,

If you have been wondering why the slow down in post, hang in there. More entries are on the way. The rest of the book is undergoing a few technical changes and we should be up and running soon. Thank you all for reading and stay tuned!

Peace,

K

Chapter 13

Keep Your Hand to Yourself!

At St. Joseph’s they have quite forgotten that Halloween is a pagan ritual, and like most other holidays, they go all out. The parents start coming in around 1:00 p.m. to decorate the trunks of their vehicles and load them with candy. Most are in full costume as they stand next to their ghoulish creations handing out tiny chocolate bars, suckers or boxes of raisins and stickers.

Why is there always the one mother who feels she is going to save the children from the sugar high and subsequent meltdown, which is the glory of Halloween, with her dried fruit and lame stickers? Today there are at least 18 SUVs backed into position when the kids come out to parade around in their costumes.

Maggie and I are dressed up as nerds. Alone, the costumes probably wouldn’t be so great, but we came as Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass. Maggie thought of the nerds. I named us after a couple I painted a house for in another lifetime.

Working John’s side of the closet for the outfit, I slipped on a pair of his khaki pants, tucked in a white button down shirt then synch and belted the pants up high on my waist. I slapped a bunch of pens in the shirt pocket, smashed his Spider Man hat on backwards and way down so my ears stuck out. Then I taped some TP to the bottom of his big black work shoes letting it drag behind me, and finished off my attire by pulling up a pair of white tube socks over my pant legs, so I was ready to “par – tee.”

First period I can’t resist going into my darling Mrs. Snodgrass’s classroom to ask her if she has packed my inhaler and carrot sticks. We carry on so much that when I turn to go the 6th graders applaud, too funny.

After lunch, I arrive off the playground from the trunk-or-treat extravaganza to find the middle school crowd at their party already horkin down on chips and cookies in the cafeteria. “Can’t Touch This,” by MC Hammer is playing so I go for it in my nerd outfit. I move sideways with my hammer glide, throw in the sprinkler, the lawn mower, the Smurf and end with John’s favorite, good old jumping jacks. The 8th graders are in tears laughing, the 7th graders smile and the 6th graders look kind of afraid.

I teach the 8th graders how to hippie dance by reaching for the spirits in the sky, then I get everyone to line up and shake it down the middle, two at a time, Soul Train style. Finally, I take a break before I have a heart attack from jumping around so much, but while I am resting at the chip bowl, “White & Nerdy,” comes on by Weird Al Yankovich, and my lovely Mrs. Snodgrass is not to be denied my sweet dancing moves.

They see me roll on… my Segway
I know in my heart they think I’m white & nerdy
Think I’m just too white & nerdy . . ..

Ah, good times, good times.

~

All right people we are a good two months into the school year and we just found out Randy, the sixth grader, has a history of porn shopping, PORN SHOPPING? The kid can’t be more than eleven. Last year he was ten, yes I can do the math here, and I have some questions. Who is watching this child? Who pays for the porn? WTF?

For any normal 10 or 11-year-old this would be bad enough, but Randy is blessed with an indulgent imagination and the ability to read like the wind. In another month he will have blown threw my entire class library, which I will egotistically state it quite hardy.

Therefore, I can’t imagine the amount of potty language and smutty images his greedy little eyes must have probed over in the past year and a half. If this wasn’t bad enough, Mr. Overactive Libido talks about his latest discoveries with the other boys in class.

Here is how we got wind of his, ah, what do you call this, a fetish? Randy enjoys tormenting a sweet boy named Ethan with his carnal knowledge of the forbidden places. I say forbidden because having been around a Catholic school for three years and hearing the after math of “Training for Chastity,” classes I’m pretty sure porn shopping and masturbation are not a big part of the curriculum with Father Paul.

Randy’s informative session with Ethan drive the kid crazy because he is so not there yet. In fact, he is such a little gentleman, I can’t see him ever viewing a girl the same way our Randy has.

This information about Randy was, as usual, kept from the middle school until this afternoon when the poor Ethan couldn’t keep it to himself any longer and spilled the beans. It took the little guy a solid hour to muster up the courage to divulge to Maggie the latest onslaught of abuse his innocent ears were taking in from the messenger of pornographic images. The story ran this way.

While the boys were in the locker room, a fitting location, Kianna, thinking she was walking into the coaches’ office, pushed open the boy’s locker room door by accident. Then Realizing her mistake, she apologized and quickly backed out of the room. However, apparently not before Randy’s mind began to wander.

I guess the thrill of having a girl in the boy’s locker room for a brief moment was more than he could handle or should have been handling at school.

On the way back to the middle school, after gym class, he had to tell Ethan how Kianna gives him a big boner each time he sees her. In fact, she had given him a big boner right then and there because,(and this next part I was told by Maggie comes with the gesture of Randy splaying his palm and fingers out then rubbing them over his well, ah, boner area and letting Ethan know), “It’s where my soul lives, man.”

Oh how I wish I could tell you I was making this up, but that would be a sinful lie. I can picture Ethan taking this story in wide eyed and having to repeat it to Maggie in the most polite manner possible. When confronted later in Anne’s office Randy did not confess to a thing. God, who would? This little incident cost him a three day suspension at home where I’m sure he is diligently working on his social studies report, yeah right.

Chapter 12

When Shopping for Pampakes Beware of the Cashier

It’s only October and I have started my January sulking. Erin’s latest growth spurt, putting her at 5’ 7,”, has thrown me into a pre-birthday funk three months ahead of schedule.

Each year, since Erin was a baby, I have gone into mourning the month before her birthday. It is a time when I curse the passing of another year. I feel I should be spitting on her head like the mama in My Big Fat Greek Wedding constantly saying, “Too soon, too soon,” these days. I can’t stand how she is growing up so fast, “Too fast, too fast.” I love and have loved each stage with my girl. She is such a beacon of hope and life in our home.

I need to move past this, but I find myself watching the parents pick up those little ones from day care at school with envy. I remember the cute little way Erin used to say pampakes for pancakes, and how I could swoop her into my arms with ease. Hell, I could carry her to bed still until two years ago. Now she is too heavy, too lanky. Those long limbs fall out everywhere. You think I would be used to seeing them go from babies to young adults. Each year I watch 70 plus kids mature, but not my kid. My kid is not supposed to grow up.
~

With Erin’s sudden young woman appearance, still in progress, I have noticed a heightened awareness in how she sees John. Some days it scares the crap out of her. The other day John made a funny sound goofing around in the kitchen and she thought he was in trouble. The way she rushed to him and asked him if he was OK was alarming. I felt bad for her.

When I try and talk with her about John, I am greeted with the same amount of denial the puberty topic has received for a few years now. It wasn’t until last winter I realized how much she does for him when I am not around. I knew they always shopped together, but I thought it was because they are always together.

It was a Sunday morning and I wanted to make pancakes, formally known as pampakes. John and Erin were still asleep so I zipped over to Safeway in the car. Safeway is only two blocks away, but it was cold and raining and I am basically a lazy wimp at heart, so yes I drove.

The interesting thing about this Safeway is I have been shopping at it for all of the fifteen years I have lived here. Fifteen years later they still can’t pronounce my name and they act as if they don’t know me. Except for the brief time when I went out of my way to be friendly to the 6’ 2,” pencil thin, extremely masculine female checker named Shawn. I was trying to be nice because I had seen people make faces behind her back and avoid her checkout stand, so I would make a point to say hi and use her line whenever she was around. Turns out she thought I was trying to pick her up or something. I caught her roll her eyes to another checker about me as I set my basket down on the conveyer belt one day. Another time I watched the checker give her a heads up when I was coming. This was such a boost for my mid-life crisis years, being rejected by a homely she-male cashier.

This Saturday I was hoping to slip in to Safeway, get my supplies and get out. I knew the cordial I don’t know you smile, the confused look at my name and then the, “Thank you for shopping here Mrs. Whatever your name is,” was coming. But not this morning, this morning the checker who thought I was stalking the Jolly Green Giant she-male says. “Have a nice day Mrs. K.”

“How did you know how to say my name?” I asked. “People don’t usually get it.”

“Oh, your husband and daughter come in here all the time to shop. It is so sweet the way she helps him with everything.”

All I could say was, “Oh,” as I grabbed my bag and left. She said it with such sweetness for them and such contempt for me I was blown away. Her perspective rolled into view for me with her comment. Not only did she think I was after the giant, but I was a married stalker who forced her husband and child to go shopping even though anyone could see he’s not well and the girl is a mere baby.

This was all too much. Who in the hell did she think made the money they were buying food with? My husband is not incapable of shopping. He can drive a car, do the laundry, surf the net, and make dinner. He is not an invalid, nor does he want to be treated like one. I’m sure he can shop with an 11-year-old. It felt like I couldn’t win. I stopped shopping Safeway for months. I would drive to the other side of town to avoid those women or whatever they were.

This last spring I decided to brave Safeway again. New management has taken over. There are new checkers who don’t grimace when I say hello or crack a joke, in fact they say hi first. Shawn, the giant has gone.

Chapter 11

Breath

I have attacked memoirs with the 7th and 8th graders these past two weeks and I’m beginning to believe my deadlines are a joke. The more I plan lessons to help them out with style and content, the more they space out and don’t do the work. Some do, some are wonderful, but these are my writers. I could stand up in front of them instructing in French and the next day they would show up with the goods. It’s time to let those grades reflect the effort they’re making. I will call this grading session, “The Smack Down,” Mrs. K style.

It’s my prep time and I’m looking over a special 8th graders memoir. He sets the scene of spending the perfect day by the ocean very well. I can hear his voice in this piece. At one point he describes watching the sunset and catches the colors and the feeling of the moment so well then states, “It is so beautiful it makes me want to cry. I know my father, in his wheelchair, does not get out to see such beautiful things, but he has his family and we love him,” as if knowing that love will set the world right again.

The last sentence stops me cold. I am alone in my classroom sitting at a table. A numb feeling of sadness and compassion freezes me to the spot. I feel his pain so deeply my breath stops short and my heart beats faster.

When I see how Oliver feels about his father’s Muscular Sclerosis, I get a picture of how Erin must feel about John’s Parkinson’s. It’s a kind of sadness which grabs me and slaps me face down into reality. It pulls me away from my dreams, my hopes, and my fantasies of travel and writing. Makes me feel I’m no good at anything and won’t ever be because I’m trapped in this time warp of illness my family shares.

Luckily, I don’t have or give myself the luxury to stay on the floor with the cold reality pressed up against my face. I don’t believe in this moment of panic nor want to live here. A voice comes along as I gaze straight ahead, alone in my room, taking my small breaths, to talk me up off the ground. “Woo ho, wait a minute there Kim. Look around you. Look what you do. Look who you are. You do great things. The fact this kid can feel safe and write this for you is amazing. You’re fine, get up now, get up.” My lungs fill to the top as I take my first full breath in minutes and I find myself saying, “Thank you voice.”

~

It started when Erin was around four. John was sitting on the couch one day and he called to me. “Hey Kim, come take a look at this. My hand is shaking.”

“Weird,” I said. “Can you stop it?”

“Yeah, but if I relax it starts up again. Look, now it’s gone.”

“Freaky John. Did you bump it hard or something?”

“This is the same arm I fell on during my bike ride, maybe that’s it.”

“Yeah, maybe it is.”

And just like that our lives changed forever. The next thing we knew we were seeing this specialist and that one, having CAT Scans, MRI’s and trying out medications. The real diagnosis didn’t happen for two more years.

We thought the shaking was related to his bike injury and perhaps fatigue from John’s work as a baker. But I remember when the doctors gave their prognosis. I was in the middle of the Masters in Teaching Program. John’s shaking hand had gone from intermittent to constant and moved up his arm. I went from worry to denial. In some ways it was a relief to know the mystery rattle was Parkinson’s and not something worse. But in another way it felt like a death sentence, death of our old lives and immortal youth.

I could not have known what to expect from this proclamation handed to us with a fist full of pharmaceuticals by the doctors, nor would I have wanted to. Had I known, I would not have been able to function. Small breaths would not have helped me then.

It has been eight years since John’s small tremor, the sleight of hand that has taken us away from so many paths I might have dragged us down. John’s one shaking hand now affects both his arms. He stopped working two years ago because the fatigue and loss of strength was too much. Medications do not work for him.

Things have changed all around. I can’t say yet whether this is a bad thing or not. I don’t know if life would have been easier or better; I just know there have been some really hard times and there have been some wonderful ones as well. It’s all in how I choose to perceive the moment. Knowing this helps me to seek out a better way of looking at things. It gives me permission to shift my position on reality until I can handle what it is I am asked or offered to perceive.

Today after reading Oliver’s memoir I am reminded part of what John’s disease has given me is a deeper compassion and understanding of life and people that comes only from visiting those places of grief a death or illness can show you.

May you never visit those places.

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

I Love Them – I Love Them Not

It’s 9:15 p.m., I’m ready for bed, but I can’t sleep yet. Maybe it was my day. It was a “Some Day” today. There are special days I teach when I can pull myself back from the fray and look, closely look at each child. I don’t know why I call them “Some Days,” maybe because some days can be like this one but not all, not yet.

Today the sixth-grade book reports were due. These were not rocket science reports by any means, simply four pages of construction paper three-hole punched and tied together to make a kind of book. The front page had a title, the name of the author and an illustration of a visual image that stood out for the kids while they were reading. The inside had a synopsis on one side and an “about the author” piece on the other. On the back cover were quotes about the book or endorsements from friends who might have read it. The report was meant to be a fun, easy way to get the kids up in front of each other to share books.

They were, of course, little angels for this (she says with a snicker). I’m not sure if it was me, them, or truly one of those “Some Days” when your perspective on everything is how it is supposed to be with each child shining with their adorable youth. I don’t see them as students on a Some Day, but as a mother or father’s gift, someone’s precious jewel. And in those moments you can laugh at the richness in what they are.

Right now, only in this moment, will they be these spontaneous, spastic little souls. This is the time. Therefore, the three kids attempting to sneak and do their reports under your nose as the others present, and the boy in the back of the room rolling up the yellow yarn he is supposed to tie his report together with but letting it drip down out of his nose like yarn snot, and the puppy-love couple making goofy eyes at each other while pretending to slap fight under the table just to touch hands … they don’t incite you to action like they normally would. You sit back in amusement and feel the love on a Some Day.

~

Okay, now I believe I might seriously be going schizoid. How can I be so in love with a group of students one week and then ready to throttle them the next? They were angels the other day, weren’t they? But here is how this week shook down for the sixth graders.

Monday morning on my way to grab a cup of tea, I slipped past Maggie’s door during her math class and took a peek in. I heard her raise her voice, quite loud. I could tell she was mad, because Maggie’s not a yeller. I thought, Uh oh … Monday morning, it’s only second period and she sounds pissed with only half of the sixth graders in there. This can’t be a good start.

Later in the day the librarian appeared on our floor at wit’s end. Seems the sixth graders ran right over him. We felt so bad. He is the sweetest man, a kind of soft-spoken, six-foot-two, Mr. Rogers–type fellow. I’m quite positive the man is incapable of using a good swear word.

I saw him last week working with the second graders. He was patiently letting them take turns following him around while pulling on his sleeve to ask him the same questions over and over. At the end of their library time he made a big deal of how well they had done and presented each kid with a sticker as if they had won a Newberry Award. It was adorable.

All he asked, as he stood in Kate’s office in his baggy cords and ’70s-style sweater with the leather elbow patches, was if we could “talk to the children” for him.

On Tuesday morning, after writing apology letters to the librarian, the sixth graders trotted off to P.E. and then art class. In P.E. Connie Masters, the vice principal and P.E. teacher, was forced to use exercise as punishment by making them run laps the whole class because they wouldn’t stop fighting and breaking the rules. She confides in me later that in the seven years she has been teaching and ten years coaching she has never had to do that. After P.E., they moved onto art, where they terrorized Ms.

Davis, the art teacher, by throwing paint and refusing to clean up until she was in tears. In the afternoon we received a page-and-a-half rant from her.

Wait, we’re not through yet. Wednesday morning, after writing more apology letters and being informed they would miss a recess, they set off the social studies teacher, Pam. And now here’s the coup de grace, last period with moi.

I should have seen it coming. It was a classic setup. There were three major elements at the end of the day that in hindsight should have been my forewarning beside all the other nonsense. The elements were timing, timing, and the power of a grudge. First, timing: Since Pam and Maggie are the homeroom teachers, it is their responsibility to find ways for the sixth graders to atone for their sins as it were, or rather work with the children to find suitable consequences for their actions. Normally, they would have asked the kids what they needed to do to make good for their disrespectful behavior. But after the week these kids had, the consequences were selected for them.

Maggie and Pam come up with the keen idea to have the sixth graders clean the lunchroom and playground. It is a small lunchroom and an even smaller playground, so this was not a bad consequence. The problem is this group hates to miss recess, and today is our weekly teacher potluck. After a butt load of whining from Peg and maybe a little from Maggie on how they are going to miss lunch, I cave.

“Hey, I’ll get them started for a few minutes [note, I said a few minutes] while you guys grab a plate.” Twenty-five minutes later, once I’ve directed the sixth graders in cleaning the cafeteria and sent them out to pick up one hundred pieces of paper each on the playground, Peg and Maggie show up. This in itself is a setup. These two women aren’t looking at a last-period class with the mob. They are done with them for the day.

Timing again: We are in the heart of football and volleyball season. These are the biggest class-time-sucking sports of the year. On game day all but a tiny handful of kids empty out of the middle school at all hours of the afternoon from around 1:30 on. When eleven out of twelve of your sixth-grade boys play football, you know not to plan on teaching much in the last period on game day.

My last class of the day begins at 1:32. At 1:15 I look out my window to see the sixth-grade boys traipsing over to the gym, football gear in tow. Then I watch as they are repelled back to class by Mrs. Masters. The football team is supposed to release at 1:45, not 1:15. The boys make their way back up the staircase slumping along, snatched back from freedom for twenty-five whole minutes. The pain wears heavy on their faces. They are a theatrical little group. I know they don’t want to be in class. Their heads are already in the game, so I go easy on them. I decide this is a good time to put their names on their portfolios and fill in their reading records. It’s a no-brainer. Put your name here, fill in the books you have read there, rate them and hand the portfolio back in alphabetical order.

I am trying to explain to the class how to rate the books when I hear this loud cracking sound to my left. It is the boy. The boy the other teachers are ready to hang by his toenails out our second-story windows. This is not the first time he has brought an object to my class to distract us with. He has one every day. If he forgets, he will find one. Things like a stapler to pound, a paper clip to unfurl and poke at people as they pass by, a broken pen, or old gum from the bottom of a desk to stick on some girl’s binder. I understand he is a smart boy and becomes distracted once he feels he is done with the instructions, but this isn’t fair. I haven’t tried to teach him anything today.

“Randy, can you please stop cracking your water bottle,” I ask.

“Okay.” Five minutes pass. I hear a crack, crack.

“Randy.” Two minutes pass and the cracking begins again. I don’t want to take his water bottle away. He will need it for the game. “Randy, do me a favor and don’t bring a water bottle to class again. Put it down … on the ground.”

“Okay.”

“Alright, I need you to now make sure all of your papers are in the folders so you can turn in those portfolios alphabetically,” I say. Half the class is up wandering around. I settle them down in their seats and restate the instructions. While I am talking I can hear humming coming from the right side of the room. It seems to be Clea, but I’m not sure. She is trying hard to look innocent as she looks up at me from her cupped hands pressed against her face. I lean in her direction to listen. “Whoever is humming, could you please stop so the people around you can hear my instructions,” I say, raising an eyebrow at her. She hums lower.

In my hesitation to listen for the source of the hummer, I lose the group again. Half of them are up wandering around with their folders in their hands or visiting friends. Two kids are looking at the class list and yelling out who is next in the alphabetical order, but yelling different names at the same time. Kianna has a pile of folders in her hand and is darting from person to person trying to collect each folder instead of passing the pile to the next person in the alphabetical order. The humming gets louder.

I feel my patience start to crumble and attempt a countdown. “Five, four, three, two,” I say with my hand in the air counting along, but the class has wound up and nobody can hear me, or cares to. This makes my blood boil. And then it comes: “crack, crack,” pause, “crack, crack”— the water bottle. The hummer may as well sing her little tune now because I can make out the words perfectly, and then “crack, crack” again.

What can I say? I lose it. I walk over to Randy, who wisely puts the bottle down on his desk as I approach. I pick it up and chuck it in the garbage can by the corner of the room and yell, “Sit down!”

Nobody moves. Some even ignore me and keep talking. I growl between my teeth, “Sit down, now.” They sit, some with eyes wide open, the rest nonplussed but paying attention. I feel bad for the kids who are on task. Then I catch myself, take a deep breath and speak calmly, “Okay, look, sit down and pass the pile to the next person in the alphabetical order. Do not get up unless you are passing the pile. We have been doing this for five weeks now. It’s not hard, people.”

The pile moves without a glitch in under a minute. Once the pile is passed to me I say, “One forty-five, gentlemen—time to go. Good luck.” They cheer and leap for the door towards freedom.
When the boys leave, the girls camp out in their seats not moving or talking, as if they think I am going to beat them or something. By the end of class I feel like a big ugly turd.

After school I find Anne and confess. “I’m developing anger-management problems, Anne. I’m sorry. I feel terrible.” She laughs at me.

“We need to find ways to be more proactive with this group.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, reflecting on how the divide-and-conquer method is no match for this mob.

~

I do believe … no, I know the sixth graders feel I am a mad old hatter. They greet me as if I might go off any minute now. If I drop something in class they scuttle forward, pick it up, place it on my desk then back away like little abused house elves. Dallas, a bright boy with blue-eyes an curly red hair, has taken to patting me on the back and telling me, “It’s okay, Mrs. K,” when I tell people not to run in the hall as they return from computer or Spanish class. I’m being patronized by a bunch of eleven- and twelve-year-olds like some little old lady a Boy Scout might help across the street. You know, the ones who live in a little one-bedroom apartment and keep fifteen cats … hmm.

Chapter 9

Diwali

Today is Diwali, the Indian Festival of Lights. It falls on an auspicious day during the month of October or November. It is celebrated by Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs and Jains and seems to be a fun combination of Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day rolled into a delicious mixture of basmati rice and curried cream sauce. People light candles or divyas in every corner of the home as a symbol to vanquish the ignorance subduing humanity and to drive away darkness that engulfs the light of knowledge. They put on new clothes, clean their houses and celebrate with bandaras, or feasts, while spending time with family and friends.

When I was a kid, Diwali started out with my friend Champa and me attempting to wrap ourselves in the eight yards of chiffon material our mothers had purchased at a fabric store. This was our comical attempt at fashioning our Indian saris back in the day.

I still have the picture of the two of us twinned up standing on the sidewalk outside the ashram. Champa is in a pink rose-patterned material neatly pinned to a white half shirt. Her hair is done up in a nifty little bun. I remember being so jealous of her fantastic bun and half shirt that I thought made her look like a real Indian princess. Nonetheless, I am standing next to her in a yellow daisy field of tangled material, t-shirt and blond shag haircut, grinning from ear to ear.

When we arrived at the ashram, the line to get into the building would wrap around the corner and down the block past the Chinese restaurant with glazed ducks hanging in the windows, by the coin-op Laundromat, ending short of the tavern on the corner. Holding our pillows, we’d take our place in line outside the bar while listening to the patrons inside cuss about the football score or the outcome of a horse race. Eventually the ashram hall opened, and we would flow up the sidewalk and into the building. Cool incensed air and the sweet rhythms of a twenty-four-hour chant would wash over us as we entered the lobby.

Quickly we’d remove our shoes in the shoe room and scramble for a seat close to our guru’s chair. Bodies sitting cross-legged and packed knee to knee swayed to the rhythm of the drums. Soon the hall would become stuffy. Hall monitors would crank up the AC units then sail through with holy water sprinklers, overtly anointing us with a shower of perfumed air. Despite their efforts, this only momentarily dispelled the odor of packed-in humanity.

As soon as we had our seats, Champa and I would claim we needed to use the bathroom, then give our mothers the slip and to look around. The ashram shared a breezeway behind the Chinese restaurant causing the aromas of curry, cumin and cardamom to mingled with that of hoisin sauce, dead fish and fried rice. We’d peek in at the ashram cooks flying around the kitchen with last-minute preparations for the free bandara feast after the celebration and breath in the exotic aromas.

Sometimes we would catch Guruji on a visit tasting this dish and that one, adding ideas or ingredients to the pots. Next we’d hold our noses and pass behind the dead fish sitting in coolers to the flower room. This was a small triangular-shaped place cram packed with bright pink roses, giant lilies and the intoxicating scent of star jasmine and gardenia plants sent by devotees. Having dozens of flowers in one place and all belonging to one person was so fascinating to me. I often thought if I could live in the ashram, a bed in that very room would be divine.

In time we’d make our way back into the meditation hall, where the rhythm of the chant might have picked up in anticipation of Guruji’s arrival. Then before we knew it, there he was, our Guruji, striding down the aisle in bright orange robes. First he’d bow to his guru, whose picture hung above his chair, then turn and sit to arrange himself in a half lotus atop his seat.

He’d pull his mic to his lips, tap it a few times and begin to chant. The group would go wild. With each repetition of the chant the voices and energy in the room amped up, “Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare, Hare,” the men would shout with Guruji, and the roof felt as if it might blow out on the last syllables. “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare,” the women would return until we were flying with the sound of a hundred people chanting God’s name in unison.

As the mirdangam drums and tabla players’ hands picked up speed, they became visible only as a blur while the harmonium player’s body pumped back and forth to keep the bellows full, cranking out the harmony, her fingers twirling up and down the keyboard with unfailing accuracy. A group of cymbal players surrounded the harmonium with their hands whirling in time to the beat as Guruji’s voice carried us along to dizzying heights.

When I chanted with all my heart like that it felt as if God’s name, God’s words were spinning off of the top of my head. I knew I was saying the words my heart was meant to sing, my mouth was meant to speak. It was a kind of letting go of all petty thoughts, fears, and worries to be there with Guruji. I often found myself feeling as if I was standing in God’s presence, as if I was fully in the moment, flying with him.

But one can’t fly this way forever. Alas, we must eat and sleep, go to work and school, live our lives, be human. Guruji realized this. It’s a good thing too, because none of us cared much for those things when we were chanting with him. He would give the signal to slow down. The joyous shouts would stop, but the harmonium player would continue slowly, and like a beautiful merry-go-round ride the syllables of the Sanskrit words would ebb and flow to a canter, a trot, then a peaceful stroll back to the planet.

We didn’t mind ending this time because we knew Guruji loved to chant as much as we did. The celebration was barely beginning. The part we’d been waiting for was yet to come. Guruji would take a sip of his water while the chant rolled to a stop, letting the five-string harmonic scale of the tambura fill the silence. We waited in anticipation while he readjusted in his seat, then he would lean into the mic and begin a new chant with his beautiful craggy voice, enunciating each syllable of the raga that carried the power of his perfection.

“Jay, Jay Vitale, Jay, Jay Vitale,” called Guruji as he flung his arm up in the air, making a beautiful twirling motion that left his hand spinning somewhere above his head.

As one we responded to this phrase meaning Hail, Hail God, Hail, Hail God. “Jay, Jay, Vitale, Jay Jay Vitale.”

Then Guruji called again with the second verse, “Vitale, Vitale, Vitale, Vitale, Jay, Jay, Vitale, Jay, Jay, Vitale.”

And we would respond, “Vitale, Vitale, Vitale, Vitale, Jay, Jay, Vitale, Jay, Jay, Vitale.”

Guruji kept the chant steady and slow for a while. So quiet it seemed after the cacophony of instruments and wild shouts moments before. While we sat slowly swaying, Guruji’s voice cooled the fire of the Shakti in the room while the soft petals of the chant fell around us.

I remember being in the meditation hall with the blue carpet below me, swaddled in yellow daisy chiffon material, perched atop a round pillow, eyes riveted to my guru, fully immersed in a moment of pure contentment, never once imagining I would someday be a teacher. And now that I am, this is the joy I draw from share with my students—these memories of bliss.

Chapter 8

Picture Day

It’s picture day at St. Joseph’s. This means we have a free dress day, so I can wear jeans! My excitement over this issue has a long and sordid story. You see, the jean battle has been going on for a while here at St. Joe’s, ever since the last principal decided they looked unprofessional. This would be the same principal who would disappear for an hour to drive around the block and smoke cigars to calm his nerves, but I digress.

Anywho, this year, before school started I bought myself a pair of deliciously comfy new dress jeans in the anticipation we would be able to wear them at least once a week. Anne and I had even talked about it. She thought it would be nice to be able to wear jeans on Mondays. When school began she suggested a jeans day to the group and left it to finalizing specifics at our next meeting.

Now I don’t know what happened or who is in the enemy-to-the-jeans camp, but, apparently one exists. I suspect the high inquisitor Sister Francine from the archdiocese has something to do with it, as well as those primary teachers. Sister Francine is the one person who puts Anne on edge because she monitors everything in the parish schools like an old German nun. She sets Anne off so much when she comes to visit Anne actually gets this weird uncontrollable twitch in her face. Needless to say, she must have gotten wind of our jean day and by the next meeting the idea of a jean love fest was gone. Anne addressed the issue at morning prayer, stating, “I feel, and some others feel, it is not fair for us to be able to wear jeans when the children can’t.”

Wait, what, what? went my mind reeling. I know Anne doesn’t feel this way. Plus, I didn’t pay $20,000 for a master’s degree so a committee of What Not to Wear prime candidates can dictate my wardrobe. If these people want to pay me a professional wage I’ll put on a suit every day. I was livid—pissed, to be exact. The next moment I was alone with Anne I took her aside and asked, “What happened there with the jeans, Anne?”

“I’m not going there with you, Kim.” What does she mean? She’s not going there with me. She can’t speak of it? What did they do to her, leave a picture on her pillow of some fat primary teacher bending over a Lego table in tight faded Wranglers?

“Not going there?” I shot back. “Anne, these kids can’t legally drive cars, drink a beer, vote or have sex, but that’s not keeping me from any of those things. So what gives with the ‘they can’t so we can’t’ spiel here?”

She laughed and repeated, “I’m not going there with you.”

“Ah, Anne, you’re killing me.”

Over the next few days I discovered there were actually two camps forming around the jeans issue. I promptly joined the group in support, and with their help I have compiled a list of things we feel should appear way before dress jeans on the Do Not Wear list.

We’ll start with the most coveted possessions of many a primary teacher, the all-encompassing, and I use the word literally, themed sweaters and sweatshirts.

There’s nothing like coming into prayer around late October to see a bunch of middle-aged women in pumpkin, tan, yellow and chocolate brown sweaters adorned with quilted, cross-stitched, embroidered, yes, and even ironed-on themed seasonal greetings.

Anything from cornucopias and fall trees to scarecrows and Linus’ adventure with the Great Pumpkin are displayed snugly around their large bosoms. Top it off with some dangling pumpkin earrings, a candy corn light-up necklace, and a pair of tight black leggings to show every wrinkle and crease—yes, I mean crease—and you’re ready to go.

How about the ever versatile and wrinkle-resistant polyester pleated pants? Hike those babies up to somewhere under the nipple line and securely fasten them with a leaf-patterned pleather belt and you’re ready for story time. For a comfy day, pull out your muumuu dress from 1978 and strap on a pair of stain-proof white Reeboks a nurse might sport and it’s off to recess. Well yeah, I do see the light now. When you weigh up all of those options I could be choosing from, dress jeans do seem pretty unprofessional.

So in I walk this morning, with my jeans on. I have on a nice blouse with button-down shirt over it and after prayer I go in.

“Now, Anne, don’t I look nice?”

She glances at my outfit. “I see nothing,” she replies as I run my hand up and down the jeans Vanna-style.

“But, Anne, you can see it. It’s free dress day.”

“I see nothing but a pair of nice blue pants, and they look lovely on you,” she says, smiling, as she walks away. Ah ha, so that’s how she’s going to play this, the old dog. Well, we’ll see if that works.

~

It’s funny, you take all this time walking around in a kind of daze, going through the motions of the first few weeks of school lost, completely lost, thinking, What do I do again? What do I teach? Do I belong here? Then one day, one real specific day, your brain clicks onto this life again and you’re flying down the teaching highway at a hundred miles an hour, poring over lesson plans and remembering those brainstorms for fifty other new things you wanted to try this year, this month, right now! You’re making copies, dialing in those first grades, replying to parent e-mails as if they are the only thing that matters to you, just a butt-dancing, muffin eating, cruising along like summer never happened.