BFFs

I tell him when to be home. He texts within five minutes of the time asking for more. I deny the request and do not entertain regret. Seven is early. True. It is just getting dark. True. It is not even a school night. True.

I am not his friend. We will only be friends on Facebook so I can check up on him and monitor how appropriate it is. I know I make him angry and frustrated. I also know I cannot be his friend. He has peers to be friendly with. He has me to raise him and to see-saw with him the dramas of teen years.

I am his mother. I remember the joy of that time when we learned we were pregnant, the sheer excitement of anticipation. I remember vividly watching him grow by ultrasound holding our breath and our hopes tightly as our high risk pregnancy progressed. I know him. I trust him because he is so much me.

I do not trust the world I have given him to. I do not trust other adults who are too interested in being friends with children, in guiding them to devastating change. I do not trust this world but have given it his life so I will not be his friend. I will not be his buddy. I will be his role model, his guide and if he does not hold my hand I will not be discouraged. I will hold my hand within reach and hope he sees it ahead.

I will steer him safely to adulthood where I will be ready to let him go. I will land him there a successful confident person who will make this world a place I trust in again, a place where my child has grown good and strong and sure.

Then I will enjoy his friendship.

Walker

When the doorbell rang I thought, Oh no! He did not walk! It was like I already knew.
I was just getting my flip flops on to see how after school care was going. I had his party invitations to pass out to his new friends. I held hope in my hand that he had gotten over the morning's anxiety at before school care and gone to the same gym after school as he was supposed to.
For a week I had walked him to school and stood outside the door waiting for eye contact and his slow sigh of relief as he saw me and his sweaty hand pressed into my palm. It was a treasure to be able to take him to school and pick him up without the pressures of rushing to my own job and just as crazily rushing home to him and his brother. The anxiety of stranger danger was not swelling in my chest yet. They were safe with me. The memories of summer still fresh.
As I opened the door there was his sweaty little face, looking guilty and nervous. I saw it all clearly before he opened his mouth to confess. He got in line with the walkers and left the building but I was not there. I was not there. He looked and looked and walked a little then a little more and he got scared. Afrai, of course, to admit he should not have left. Afraid, maybe, I'd left him. And he cried and cried. And I cried. My mind filled with the what could have gone wrongs. He walked alone for several blocks. I would not have allowed him to walk that far. The phone rang as I regained my voice, hoarse from the possibilities of tragedy settling there. The hysteria I was keeping at bay. It had been 20 minutes since school let out and after school care had taken attendance. To his elementary school he was missing. The woman I knew and loved, who had taken care of my children for years was calling to tell me Jeremy was missing.
No he is right here I told her and could only shake my head. My voice lost in the fear, in the guilt in the what ifs. He went to bed to cry. I held him and told him we would try again tomorrow.
Hopefully tomorrow he is handled tenderly so that he trusts his own decisions and goes to after school care without feeling bad for scaring the hell out of everyone.

I will be outside the door in case he forgets.

Threads (revised)

It was a kind of reunion
A going away

Unraveling some unknown distance
Coming closer
To who I was
Or who I might be

Narrowing the space caused
A search for the threads of resemblance
Delivering some hint of remembrance

Winding a thread not held tightly
A connection nonetheless
A tenuous heritage

Threads so thin, nearing invisible
Yet strong as the fishing line
Cast out with a hope and a whoop
A surrender to the possibilities
To be reeled in

A re-creation of who we all are today
What we believe in
What makes up the now

Laughter bookmarked the most important part
Families we've created
Dog-ears left in the pages
To be revisited, relished

A kind of reunion
A grand gathering

Having covered an unknown distance
Coming closer
To who we are
Or who we can become

ON MY LIST

I am making a list of doctors who suck! That's right you know them. The best part is that then I have to pay for the services or lack thereof. I have of course not mentioned names but before you make a new appointment looking for help, email me and I will save you time and money.

1. The dermatologist who showed me photos on her IPhone of a man on her exam table, naked I might add, hairy and very overweight with a HOLE in his ass cheek where she was removing a huge growth. This of course was shared with me to make me feel better about having a softball sized growth removed from my back in that same office. I still wonder how she thought this would persuade me from having it in the very clean, private, general anesthesia, camera free (or at least I think) operating room with a surgeon. She also had pics of the growth that was removed. I am currently shuddering and throwing up in my mouth!

2. My internist's partner who asked if I could please wait until Tuesday( from Friday night) for my regular doctor to get back in the office before going to the hospital to have my gall bladder removed even though I failed the test at the hospital and they wanted to admit me.

3. The nurses at the hospital that forgot about me in the waiting room when I had food poisoning until they re-triaged me and found I could not give a urine sample because I was so dehydrated which = an IV and back to the waiting room for 7 hours total!

4. The orthopedic surgeon who talked to his partner for 25 of the 65 minutes I was waiting for him while in pain of course, just outside the exam room about the hot receptionist they interviewed. After gracing me with his presence (10 minutes) he said when the pain was too much to drive myself to his office and to physical therapy we would discuss more treatment but I was otherwise doing well. Doing well was requiring 4 vicodin a day just to get up. I was unable to wash or dry my own hair. My right hand was constant pins and needles. But his receptionist was hot!

5. The second orthopedic surgeon who came highly recommended and did an xray at his office (another 2 hour wait while in pain) and asked if I had nipple rings??? Ah... nice.

6. The plastic surgeon who stuffed my mouth with gauze to "stop that screaming already" as he did reconstructive surgery on me in the emergency room with too little morphine. A wonderful nurse did save me and unstuffed my mouth, told him off and gave me pain meds.

7. The physician who told me she would make the decisions about what I needed and that she was the doctor. For the two months I was her patient I had a mammogram, a stress test and then refused the CAT scan for migraines I'd had for years. She insisted I was having a stroke and would not be responsible if I "stroked out" when she advised me to go to the hospital. She also made me wait over two hours for a physical but ran out of time so only did a history and then had me come back in one week. On my receipt she listed asthma and charged me twice for an exam. Insurance questioned it as did I and the office manager insisted she diagnosed me with exam one week and the next week did a more "thorough" exam.

8. The neurosurgeon who was deemed "arrogant" by an online reviewer turned out to be a BITCH who would not recommend any treatment even after I waited 1 month for the appointment and 2 hours for her to come into the exam room because I did not have a current MRI. It seems she has exchanged her empathy for some expertise that she did not share with me. Somewhere she has lost touch with why she is practicing medicine and I would love to write to her to tell her that she took away a lot the day I met her with so much hope and excitement, after all she is supposed to be an expert in her field. I returned to my car a different person, less hopeful, more bitter and so heatbroken to be starting over with the calls to insurance and doctors and a new consultation and less trust.

I was told to bring any films or info I had. The last one was 2007 but she said it was too old even though the symptoms were the same for ten years. She also said my exam (3 minutes of turning neck, pulling hands, reflexes) was great and although I SAY I have pain I appear fine and my neurologic symptoms are only mine since she cant see anything without an MRI.

I told her I cant do anything...no running, no jumping.. she asked how this effects my life. Ok I know I am not running any marathons but when it hurts to move quickly there is a problem. what a racket. A consultation fee for nothing?

After telling her I did not know I needed a new MRI she said, well you could go down to the hospital tonight for one (I had now been in the office over two hours and needed to drive 45 mins to get my kids) . When I tried to explain I could not go that night and would have gladly had one for the last month waiting for the appointment she said she was doing the best she could but was certain I was told to get a new MRI before my appt. I said I was not. She walked me, very teacher like, to the manager of the receptionists and made me tell her what I'd said (really!) The receptionist said there was a script and if they did not tell me I was to have one before I came she was sorry.

So I cried like an ass! I cried and said what a waste of time and how frustrating to wait a month and two hours for ten minutes and nothing. I left with no prescription for MRI or help of any kind. She was certain to give me a copy of my paperwork which only stated my history and that no treatment was done at this time because no MRI was done.

Mommy and Me (narrative nonfiction)

I held the Park District brochure tightly, scanning the index for Mommy and me classes that would interest, educate and calm my rambunctious just three year old Jeremy. As a teacher I embraced this opportunity to teach him social skills in a community of other three and four year olds. I was sure these classes would be my cure to his high tantrums and high energy gross motor destruction. Jeremy simply needed an outlet and this sports class was it.
Jeremy was active even when in utero. He was constantly kicking and moving and trying to be born too soon. Then six weeks after trying to stop his arrival we needed to rush it a little due to complications of gestational diabetes. After twelve hours of a pitocin drip meant to bring on contractions in an unnatural and terrifically painful way, the doctor had to run into the room with his gown barely covering his arms as Jeremy was born squirming and screaming. I marveled at this activity so newly born. His lung capacity was enormous as his skinny legs straightened and flailed. He rocked from side to side in his isolette so much I thought he would flop out like a fish from the safety of its tank, unaware of the dangers of freedom. He would not be contained.
Standing at the nursery glass marveling at all the tiny little bundles with only their faces exposed from their tight little papooses meant to soothe by wrapping their arms and legs tightly in a blanket, I saw my bundle. He was not contained by a blanket. Baby Serio seemed to have burst from it. The receiving blanket was under him and his ruddy crimson legs were again straight up in the air as he rocked his pelvis left to right hitting the sides of the isolette.
At just barely one Jeremy had not slowed down one bit but was just as active and excitable. He would run and try to jump over every crack in the sidewalk and his arms were held stiff in a toddler Frankenstein stance as a gutteral “GOOO” was uttered to anyone within sight; as if to say “Bring it on!” He would try to tackle us until he was in a giggling ball on the floor.
In public he would cup his hand in a wave as though he could catch a greeting from passersby like he clutched the kisses I blew to him. So delighted by his ability to communicate he would throw his head back and squeal with both hands in the air, offering sticky baby hellos to the constant grinning audience above him.
By two, his ability to entertain made the world a good crowd. Wherever we went he would ham it up and get the attention of everyone by goofing off with made up songs and dances. And grin they did at the laughing chubby toddler so happy to greet and play with anyone. The fine haired brown-eyed boy who would rather run and straighten his ankles to his tip-toes in a kind of half jump than walk by my side.
He had been deemed a “spirited child”, a typical second son to his quiet and patient brother, John, who egged on his antics and applauded his guffaws. I often wondered if Jeremy was John’s alter ego. What would our family be without him?
As a teacher the prospect of having “that kid” was daunting and almost a challenge to my education in child development. Why couldn’t I help to mold his behavior? While it was amusing and charming at times it was also obnoxious. How to choose?
By age three, park district Mommy and Me classes seemed the perfect opportunity to get him in line. A little tykes sports class fit him perfectly since the arts and crafts had not worked out well. At our first arts and crafts class we were to make puppets. Craft sticks that did look a lot like Popsicle sticks were on the plates with glue. When Jeremy knocked all the tissue paper to the floor and I was out of view picking it all up, he ate all the glue off of the plate and sticks. He then refused to leave the play area to join the song and then would not leave the kitchen to do the second craft. So many transitions in an hour long class!
Undaunted, we arrived at the sports class late because he’d insisted on taking the very long staircase one stair at a time. I struggled with him to remove his shoes before he entered the mat area to play. Free of his shoes and me, Jeremy ran to the play area to dive into the ball pit head first. He jumped out, stood on the edge and yelled, “CANNON FALL!” The fathers near the pit laughed until it was obvious he’d landed on one of their sons.
His teacher came with his sticker nametag and introduced herself. She was trained in early childhood development but this was her first class. She attempted to speak to Jeremy but he would not leave the maze and slide to acknowledge her. Strike one.
The lights were flickered to indicate a change in the schedule and we were to meet on the rug. Jeremy saw the sticker in my hand and began screaming before it neared his chest. I lifted his arms, tickled his pits and stuck it firmly on his back.
The fifteen three and four year olds on the rug were to follow their teacher in a series of stretches to get their bodies ready to exercise. Hmmm. Jeremy refused to stand and simply repeated loudly that he could not do it. His teacher would not be swayed and smiled brightly over him explaining, a little too loudly and with much enunciation, that they needed to stretch to get their muscles ready to work.
She stood on one leg and asked the class to pull their left foot of one leg up behind them to stretch their thighs. Hmmm. Two step directions and balancing on one leg to stretch three and four year old thighs, this would be interesting.
Jeremy stood at this and yelled, “Don’t do that!”
She asked with great concern raising her voice, “Why not?”
He answered simply, “You will pull your leg off!”
She was not amused. She gave me a look, furrowing her brow and spoke calmly,
“Jer-e-my , now you know that can’t happen.”
I thought, “No, he does not know that will not happen. He does not know that he is really not Obi Wan Kenobi. He doesn’t know that he can sleep without the light on and that he will eventually pee in the toilet more than once.
The other children who were much more obedient were not losing limbs. They were truly trying to follow her directions and falling slowly to the mats as they lost their balance. A complicated stretch when you are three and used to keeping two feet on the floor. The stretch became an amusing toddler domino.
Jeremy continued to refuse to do much asked of him. He instituted reverse psychology. Play on the rug you say? Okay, I will play in the kitchen. Sit at the table? Okay, I will slide. After each session I would leave exhausted and disheartened that he was not learning the manners and cooperation I’d hoped for.
The last straw came on Baseball Night. There were twelve students in class, most of them boys. The rules of baseball were reviewed and cones were set up for bases. I tried not to roll my eyes as I watched the teacher give directions to the kids on how to hit and run the bases. There was only one tee, but three bats. Bats in the hands of mostly boys told to wait patiently for their turn was going to be brutal. I pulled Jeremy toward the end of the line to get a good view of the impending may lay. Each child had a turn to practice batting off of the tee while the other two held their bats while waiting. Moms and Dads constantly reminded those not batting to hold their bats down. The teacher would then yell, ”Run to first, run!” Each child ran straight out the door. The first two were funny then it just became ridiculous and clear that her directions were too old for them. As Jeremy’s turn to hold a bat and just wait neared, I began to sweat.
“Ok, Jerm, we’re just going to practice holding the bat while your friends hit the ball and run out the door. Ok? Are you listening honey?” I asked kneeling beside him. “Look at Mommy.” I said while he stared at the plastic bat. “Look at Mommy. Jeremy…Jeremy!”
“Whaaat?” he shouted swinging the bat dangerously close to my head.
Jeremy’s turn came and he hit the tee so hard the plastic cap sailed across the room with the ball.
“Run. Run the bases!” his teacher shouted.
He rounded first and veered right straight to the play area and into the ball pit. “Cannonfall!”
On the schedule for next week was volleyball. Hmmm.
We never went back.

The Path

Shared Path

Their faces framed
In silver metal windows
Carried to us by
A bus shorter than most
Arrival greeted by a crowd
To assist
Smile
Squeeze a hand
Pat a head
Push a chair
A welcoming so grand
To a group
So small
Eager, anxious
Still known to bouts of fear
Tantrums,
Howling
Holding ones ears
To combat the sounds within
A path is somehow paved with people
Bodies of safety in a world
Too large
Too loud
Too crowded
Made suddenly smaller
More manageable
By a path of bodies
A place is carved on the path
For individuals
Plans made just for them
For what they need
Days are busy
Adjusted and smoothed
A life made right
Celebrated
Dismissal
Brings the same group
To smile
To hug
and
To let go

Bunny Hop!

Seven tunnels were found in our backyard. The grass grew covering them but still the mystery continued. I knew bunnies make nests in tunnels as do skunks but these were perfect circles and very deep. The rains came and the grass covered them completely and they flooded. We forgot about our tunnel mystery until today. Weeding in the yard I thought I'd uncovered a large spider nest of dead grass matted against our house behind a rose bush. My next grab to move the dead grass with my gloved hand revealed baby bunnies which in my defense looked like mice and one was in my hand! Several others ran over my feet and into my neighbors yard. I ran out of the gate and into my side yard screaming. My husband and I returned to find three bunnies about six inches long hiding behind our fence posts and one in my neighbors yard. I felt horribly guilty. We tried to persuade them to go back to the now destroyed nest. They flattened their tiny ears and bodies against the long grass and did not budge. They even went to sleep! I would have gladly kept them but I have a terrier who was at the window salivating. My neighbor's dog stood at her back door panting to get out and eat a bunny. We all used cardboard and boxes to catch and return them to their nest. We learned bunnies scream! A MEEP...MEEP came out loud and clear as we looked for the mother bunny to attack us. After returning three one tiny bunny kept escaping. We returned him three times and now I cannot bear to check the nest. I know we have crows and stray cats waiting for tiny bunnies. I will not weed again!

Johnny

I have spent my life forgetting him
leaving him
a fading childhood memory
a shadow of comfort captured in a warm towel
tucked, gently under my arms

My footed pajamas padded after him
a cold, tiled floor
a window fogged with condensation,
toddler indignation

Pre-adolescence called him
turning his back to me

Wishing cannot create memories
cannot recreate what three years could not hold
or more than infancy will surrender

Somewhere I am a sister trying to hold a brother
who hardly heard her speak

What I've Got

When what I've got just isn't good enough
My voice, dry, just not strong enough.
My lessons felt but not for long enough.

I rewrite, rethink, review and revisit.
I retype, step back, read and take a minute.
I count to ten, breathe deep, dive in and begin again.

When what I've got just isn't good enough.
My voice, hoarse, maybe just not loud enough.
My lessons, heard, but not felt deeply enough.

I stop. I step back. I retrace my step. I sit down.
I ponder. I wonder. I regress.
I sleep on it. I begin fresh.

When what I've got still just isn't good enough.
My voice, tired, just not energetic enough.
My lessons, given just not applied enough.

I rewind, reflect and remember they are eight,
and with some weight they may remember my name
as the one who supported, lifted and taught them
without naming their shame,
without placing blame.

When what I've got just isn't good enough
My voice a whisper,
My lessons eraser lint...
I realize it is not all about what I'VE got.

My America

Found this essay I wrote five or six years ago. Still true.

My America

When the bell rings on the first day of school, the teachers at the suburban Chicago school where I teach will hold open their doors to welcome a myriad of new students. In that simple act we can so easily forget the magnitude of our presences in that open doorway and what we represent; in that moment of missing summer and starting anew we may overlook how strong the need is for us to stand tall and smile brightly to warm that welcome because we are no longer just door holders, pencil sharpeners or facilitators, we are symbols of America itself. We are the very Statue of Liberty with arms overhead, holding not torches but signs with our names and room numbers. We are a beacon, nonetheless, a promise of the “American Dream” because so many in this immigrant community begin their journey here with us.
We watch, strangers to them as they arrive often with parents in tow, searching the signs overhead for the name and number to match their registration papers. We watch them, then, search our faces for kindness, for answers to this new land. The encouragement is spoken in so many dialects around us, a sea of well-wishes and pats on the head; a hundred tiny whispers into anxious ears. Their families, so trusting, leave their children and their lives in our lines and step back.
Each subsequent morning before school begins, the students congregate on the blacktop. It is here as an observer you can see my America clearly. You can see what it means to be united in these United States. There are many languages to be heard and many forms of communications despite language. One could truly learn something about what it is to be an American in the suburban Chicago area and an immigrant. Life is less about being born here than it is about being reborn here, about making this country home.
I am busy in my room, writing, cutting, pasting activities, games and lessons for this diverse population. In the same day I will teach the phonics o the English alphabet to one group and a chapter book with inferential comprehension to another. I must teach them from where they are. I must also provide for their most basic needs. It is the understanding of this hierarchy that has breakfast waiting in a cooler in each classroom. Calendar time is now shared with breakfast.
I’ve learned so much here about what it is to sacrifice. Many families leave everything behind to give their children the American Dream and to many that simply means safety and opportunity. I have met children who have left an entire world and family only days earlier and traveled with little more than hope in hand to our doorstep, it is only with this view of their anxious but happy faces you could know optimism the way I do.
I hold that ideal sacred now as a kind of promise to this new generation of Americans and take on the responsibility of welcoming them, of being that integral first impression taking on my position as that Lady Liberty in this blacktop harbor, standing tall and waving in all how pass. It is just this sacrifice that often sends us teachers shopping for treats, or clothes or extra school supplies. We know too well the confusion and face of pain when holidays and birthdays go by with too little money for celebration. There are clandestine envelopes passed and gifts are mysteriously delivered to families in need.
Any visitor can quickly understand why we are so lucky to live in America and why so many have chosen it as their dream destination, no matter how far they’ve had to travel. The can see a true Unite Nations with refugees who have fled wars in Bosnia and Yugoslavia; dreamers who have journeyed from Mexico or job seekers who have just flown in from Poland, India or Syria; they would know we are already living the better life.
There are no glamorous tours or action adventures for our visitors, but there is a certain level of peace and potential I have not found anywhere else in my lifetime. The playground you look out onto was once mine and many of my former teachers still stand challenged beside me, dedicated more to this ever-changing population than to a paycheck. We are challenged to leave no one behind no matter their language or economic status, yet secure in the knowledge that we will live forever in the memory of that refugee as a refuge ourselves.
The No Child Left Behind Act has judged our work harshly and left us on the defense. No government body or single signature can undo what I know I have done. No mandate can tell me at what grade any one person must be and when. No one can alleviate the struggle or diminish the sacrifice for these children’s dreams. It is a paper that dares to judge this flock on their reading level alone. No government body could stand on this crowded blacktop and not see growth from August to June.
As I stand watching them run to the open doors, I see that only the languages here have changed, not the struggles, not the dreams and certainly not the hope. NCLB or not, I know that.
As teachers in this immigrant community we welcome them, our wave and smile a beacon; our open doors, a safe harbor and a hope in education for a better life. We become educators of culture; educators of a life well lived and dreams realized; educators to parents through their own children about how to communicate and navigate in this new land. We teach them so much more than a textbook suggests and each in their own way, in their own time.
No child left behind.

Uncrafted Curriculum

You teach them things
that are
not carefully crafted
or written or typed
Taking from you more things accidentally
or incidentally than you realize
Powerful lessons unresearched,
without objectives in your plans,
perhaps even without a second thought in your conscious
You teach them your values by spending more or less time
on one topic or the next,
by raising your voice to one, or all, or a few
You teach them who is worthy or not with your sighs
and the rolling of your eyes
You teach them if they should try
by the way you push them or
by the way you don’t ask twice
You teach them they can
or they can never,
by your voice, by your choice
of volunteers, of those deemed better
You teach them if they are good enough
with your whispered correction or sarcasm.
You teach them all how to treat one another
by the way you treat them all
They need you to like them
and they will let you teach them…
or not

A girl I met

I met a girl who is unwanted.

She doesn't really know it or maybe doesn't understand it but she will, someday. I would love to put her in my bag and carry her home, she just might fit. I know someone would miss her, BUT not really miss who she is. She acts out sometimes for attention, no matter how bad because somewhere she is beginning to know what it is she's missing and what she's left without. I watch a hole forming in her chest, of want, of anger and of neglect. I wish she didn't feel so empty so I try to fill her with laughs and high fives but sometimes she cannot even take these, no where to put positives in such a negatively charged life so she tests me, dares me to leave her and let her down. I hold her hand. I watch her skip. I pull her along. See her go too far and hope she turns back. She always does. I remind my heart she is not mine. I prepare myself for her absence. I try to prepare her for her future, her life, where she is in charge so she does not repeat this life, bequeath this misery to a daughter all her own as so often happens with girls I meet.

First Born

Life cherished, adored
Genuflection at his birth
A childhood so carefully recorded
So gently stored
Caught on film
Trimmed, snipped and arranged

head cradled
back scratched, massaged
ego caressed
every want addressed
life blessed

Adolescence surprised
Parents settled, realized
Praise and prayer
Were misdirected
Misunderstood
Misaligned
Albums revisited
Time rearranged
Words trimmed, snipped and arranged

His life lifted
Our heads scratched
His ego raging
His wants readdressed
Our lives a mess

Adulthood came quickly
Parents tired, distressed
Embracing needed rest
Praising, pondering
Lives untouched
Albums revisited
Time held still
Love trimmed, snipped and arranged

His life starting
Our heads held high
His ego standing
His wants addressed
Our lives blessed

Elementary Lamaze

Everything tied and zipped
A sigh escapes me
Indecision slips
I can’t call him today
Can’t make sure everything is okay
Sure he could tough it out
Everything could be right
So I overstuff his pockets
With fresh Kleenex
I try to encourage safety and
Stress common sense
Without preaching
Or making the world dangerous

It is a time of catching my breath
Holding my tongue
Trying to reassure he and I
Even if a cough and cold
Are his greatest distress
An elementary Lamaze of slow sighs
And held breaths

School, I puff, School, I puff
Breathe through it
The walk goes by too quickly
His grip loosens in my hand
Quick short breaths as he runs
Toward some friends
Quick short breaths meant to ease my
Heart’s distress

Little cupped hand wave
There he goes, a blue dot in the crowd
Deep cleansing breath
He is there
He is there
My fingers find their way to my pockets
Lost already in the emptiness
The idleness
The quiet
Breathe, Just Breathe
It is only 8:00 A.M.

My Bosnia

The first parent-teacher conference day is always exhausting and busy. The day begins with Thanksgiving themed lessons then the students are dismissed at lunch. The remainder of the afternoon and evening are filled with meetings with twenty-three families, eight of these are with interpreters for Spanish, Polish, Bulgarian and Bosnian.

Logging onto my computer to do a quick chart for an upcoming math lesson, my Bosnian interpreter entered with a smile and charisma that has not changed since he was in my fourth grade classroom years ago.

"Do you remember me?" he smirked, opening his arms to embrace me.

I held back tears and assured him I did remember. As we waited for the next scheduled conference on tiny yellow chairs we spoke of his arrival in America and how much we both remembered.

He spoke of his college classes---college!---and his classes in elementary education. He wanted to teach someday. As he spoke of his life, looking so grown up and confident I recalled what his hopes had once been and how he had changed my life as well. I told him about a poem I had written about those early days:

My Bosnia
He walked to my desk and handed me a treasure
The enormity of the gift is something
I cannot precisely measure

A white poster board rolled up so tight
Held together by many rubber bands
Did not at first reveal its amazing insight

A project was given to him just yesterday
To help us to get to know him better and understand
A kind of translation
Where language itself could not comprehend
Something to tell us what he'd seen

He was from Bosnia
Just arrived in America
Labeled a refugee
And a no speakee

I had said to use the globes and maps
The computer, the atlas,
Markers, pens and pencils
This poster board and your imagination

Tell us about yourself
Like, how was your trip?
Do you have any brothers and sisters?
What about pets?

He had only smiled, understanding little, I was sure, of what I rambled
I was certain the task would take several days or a week
But Tuesday morning he arrived having it complete

He carefully unwound each rubber band
And laid flat his treasure
Stretching it wide between his hands
Across his now proud, inflated chest
With a smile darting across his face
Revealing many large white teeth
Creating a picture of pride in me, ten years has not erased

The paper itself was puzzling
The joy not understood
Covered with black and orange and brown strokes
In a design that was not full of joy
No landscape, no maps nor photos of his folks
Instead some kind of hatred and darkness
And clips of fear itself

He said he had drawn his Bosnia

He began in a voice that was larger than his nine years
A wisdom that stretched back to that farm
To his sheep, his dogs, his house, his life
A place we would never see
And neither, again, would he

He spoke perfectly and told us
How he had worn enough clothes to last a lifetime
And walked for so long he'd worn out his shoes
He had ventured with his parents and a line of townspeople
Out of their burned homes in the middle of the night
To find a trail they'd heard of in the light
A route that would end in safety
Would begin again their lives
A promise of ...America

"How many people went?" a girl shouted

"So many I could not see where the line would ever end," he replied shuffling his feet

They boarded a small plane and ate bread and drank water
This line of people escaping a life that was destroyed by war
He said they did not talk, too tired from the walk
His feet bled
And he wept silently for his pets, his friends, his life
For his Bosnia

When he is grown
He wants to return
To build the farm again
Or maybe, just, to see
If anything he knew was left

He stopped and we were filled
With more than where it is he came from
And how it is he chose us
We were filled with what it means to be Americans
What it is to have too much

We were blessed to have a treasure before us sharing a story made
So simply with three colors on a white poster board

He said he did not remember his first year that way. He remembered only the two boys from Bosnia and later a girl whom he helped; all so eager to learn the English and know what it was we were all talking about. He recalled they took a lot of pictures of me and our school. I remembered the many flashes from their cameras as they created new lives as Americans.

He did not speak of returning to Bosnia and I could not ask, so happy for him and his plans for his life, grateful for the visit and the memories.

Why I Write

I've been asked why I write and I have often asked myself why do I spend so much time writing and reading, reading and writing yet rarely query anything. Why I write is an easier answer than why I do not publish.

I write because I need to. For as long as I can remember I have written stories. (My mother would say I have told stories for as long as she can remember!) In elementary school I was told I had a great vocabulary, by middle school I had a way with words and in high school I was accused of plagiarism and then with many apologies I was put in advanced placement classes for reading and writing. A high school teacher helped me to realize I should and could go to college, the first in my family of seven to consider this. I studied elementary education because I believed that the profession was creative and dynamic and of course a wonderful way to make a difference. I wrote stories at night but never considered sharing them with anyone or having them published, it was simply a hobby. I only took one creative writing class as a senior elective and enjoyed the conversation and critique and was surprised by the praise. I have always found I write best when I am doing something else. When I have the least time and most stress a line or story idea will come to me and if I don't write it down it is usually gone. I have taken to keeping paper and pencil in the car and writing at red lights (which may be the title of my next novel, so don't steal it!) I have been teaching elementary school for 16 years in the district I attended. I find the struggles and successes of my students and community to be inspirational. The novel Letty I have been writing is a way to make things right for all of those students who have become "what ever happened tos...?" to me , those I feel I did not help enough. I also have collections of short stories about my boys that are fun to write and read. I have queried twice for my short stories and both were accepted for publication.

I write because it is as much a part of me as breathing, some breath better and deeper than others but each one necessary all the same. I still hope to get up enough nerve to make extra money at it or at least have a larger audience.

Text Life

When my first born son was turning eleven it felt a lot like my turning thirty, scary and unbelievable. All those clichés: time goes by so fast, he grew up so quickly, where has my baby gone phrases assaulted my brain. There were a lot of questions on the table for this birthday. His wants were a lot different than they had been. He had grown up more in the last twelve months than he had since infancy. Physically, he was now exactly my height although he would daily stand too close and insist he could see the top of my head. There was an odor to him that came partly from a creeping attitude problem and from puberty. Puberty was coming down the block, I could sense it. I decided the problems of that maturity would not come to my house. I would block the peer pressure with education of my own; honesty, truth and consequence.

I began “privates are for private” and “don’t start using and you don’t have to try to stop” mantras when he was old enough to know what I was talking about. My husband and I agreed overnights at friends were only a recipe for trouble. We also thought that a cell phone was just an invitation to privacy he did not need, that is until texting.

My husband accepted a new job with new hours and new responsibilities that would sometimes make walking home a necessity. My stranger danger nightmare came to life and each day they walked I sped home. The few blocks they were alone seemed fraught with danger. There were no longer latchkey kids in our neighborhood, they were text-key kids. Afterschool they dug the cellphone out, you can’t have it on in school, and looked for messages from home. They texted their parents at work, no ringing to alert the boss, and then walked home. After entering the house they texted again to say all was well. A cell phone seemed to be my salvation. It was just one of the preteen supplies on his list.

Needing a new phone and having a contract expiration led us to a Verizon store. We took him there to pick out his own phone. His dimples appeared as he expressed his surprise.

“Now you have to be responsible with it,” his father lectured him on how not to lose it, break it or abuse the privilege. I added that I could easily take it away. We stressed it was for emergencies only and afterschool calls with us.
That was December. By March there was a full contact list and he had learned to text with abbreviations I could never understand. He had not lost it or abused the privilege but it had been taken away several times. I found the leverage awesome because putting someone who is slightly taller than you in time-out seemed ridiculous, but losing the phone, now, that was something. He seemed to have gained friends since this new method of communication was purchased. The phone was constantly in his hand.

Another interest was the computer and a website for kids to interact. I had gone on the site with him. I read the chats. I thought I had been so careful. After creating my own identity on the same site I found that Wee world was not for children. There were definitely older teens and adults on it. Videos were posted that I would have rather not seen. The chat with his school seemed harmless so I allowed this access only.

He could not have his phone in his room at bedtime. His friends, apparently had no bed time. It was this rule that revealed his level of trust and his preteen need to be everyone’s friend. Watching a taped Grey’s Anatomy and cursing Grey for falling for Derek’s nonsense yet again I was repeatedly interrupted by a distracting buzzing. After pausing the show and searching the kitchen I realized it was his phone.

There were too many texts to count as it vibrated in my hand. I scrolled through them. I imagined a school emergency that had prompted his friends to all text and call him at once. There was nothing wrong with the school. The area codes were not in Illinois and there were no texts from those on his contact list. I opened the latest text to find

I’m Sam. I can’t believe u gave out your phone number! Add me 2 ur friends list.

And another...
I can’t believe you posted ur #!

And another...
Y’d ya put ur # on the computer dude?

The computer chat seemed harmless enough until I learned he posted his cell phone number! All the internet stranger danger conversations were obviously not understood. Of course I said no personal information, no real names, towns, addresses, true I never said do not post your cell phone number . My bad

Aging

I can start a whole rant on You know you're old when...but I won't because it has been done to death. There does come a day when life smacks you in the back of the head so hard it slips discs numbered 4-5-6 causing you hot white pain behind your shoulder blade so fierce you swear you can taste bile. My last smack came while coughing for three weeks with a stubborn case of bronchitis. It was a "Ok are you kidding me" kind of cough. Christmas shopping, cleaning, wrapping, cookie making and decorating, unwrapping, cleaning, happy new year...cough, cough, cough. The doctor said to be patient. Let the new, better, stronger, stomach clenching antibiotics work. Finally I was given some wonderful cough pills to quell the cough but too late for the complete use of my left arm. The ache in my shoulder turned to pain, muscle spasms and heat in my shoulder. I began the ice-heat-ice-heat-motrin/vicodin mantra. Now I will begin the wonderful journey of traction and physical therapy. This will be my fourth round in ten years. It will not frighten me so much this time when they strap my neck into the machine that slowly pulls my skull back and up and then by inches brings it back down. I may not flail and get claustrophobic knowing my head is attached to a machine attached to a bed that if set wrong could pull it off! Hopefully this round won't last long and won't end in cortisone injections. I will make deals of course that if it gets better I will eat more fruit and less chips, I will lose weight and build up the muscles in my back and shoulders to support my spine. I will do better so I can be better.
And I. will. not. cough.

Seriously

Before I had two boys I rarely used seriously as a complete sentence. Now it is both a question and an exclamation. It is used so many times a day that when I heard my kids say it I knew it was overplayed, but I am helpless to respond any other way:

In response to a preteen who leaves every piece of clothing he has tried to layer on his growing frame, on his floor in front of his open closet doors with hangers still swinging.

To an aging Jack Russell Terrier who pees exactly where I was about to step even though he was just out.

To a smoothie and glass covered tile floor and crying seven year old who thought he could drink and walk.

After realizing my son posted his cell phone number on an online message board.

Listening to two boys who are sometimes bickering, giggling because they've stayed up too late on New Year's Eve.

Standing in a twenty person deep line at Aeropostole to get yet another white hoodie.

Trying to find my son's football jersey number in a sea of running and falling/tackling jerseys to see if he is on the bottom of the pile. Photographing said jersey numerous times only to find I was watching the wrong one the whole game.



So many seriouslies...... I guess it is better than other words that come to mind....seriously