Writer. Educator. Parent.

I wrote this piece as part of the Yeah Write Me Super Challenge. We had 48 hours to write on the topic of “discomfort.” (Of course, that meant about 2 hours before the deadline for me as I couldn’t get away from my kids that weekend!)

Discomfort at the Feria

I lifted my arm, and Jen gasped. She was my best friend from childhood, my partner in most things, and my roommate in Spain.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad” she assured me when I first confessed my new problema.

Under my right armpit was a huge wet spot. It was like a middle-aged PE teacher sweat ring.

“What about the Feria?” I asked. She assured me there would be so many other things happening at the famous spring festival, that nobody would notice. Plus, after a few rebujitos (a dangerously delicious mix of 7Up and sherry) I wouldn’t even care. Still, I bought special deodorant from the farmacia – a conversation none of my classes or guidebooks had prepared me for.

The Feria of Seville was like the prom and a wedding all rolled up in one. It’s a huge deal, with months of preparations building the fair ground, decorating the pavilions, and putting together your outfit.

Up until the sweaty pit, I assumed my biggest anxiety would be over dancing the Sevillanas. According to the website, Andalucia.com “The Sevillana was originally a courting dance where the man sets out to woo the woman in a display similar to two mating flamingos.”

The men do sort of remind me of a cross between a flamingo and a matador. But, the women carry themselves with a stunning grace and confidence – like they were just born to do this dance. They claim the key to the hand movements has something to do with picking an apple, but I feel like something gets lost in translation.

While Sevillanas has evolved into something more casual and friendly, the steps do tell a story, and follow very specific moves and rhythms. It’s a lot tougher to fake your way through than say, the hora at a Jewish celebration.

That Andalusian gypsy music stirred something in me – the desire to write poetry, to talk to strangers in a foreign language, to drink ridiculous amounts of wine, to be more promiscuous. I just had a real hang-up about the choreographed dance, the Spaniard looking deeply into my eyes, the rest of the crowd watching.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. My friends spent weeks before the Feria, teaching us the steps of the dance. Concha, normally more reserved than the others, was like a Russian ballet instructor – cigarette between her fingers, puffing smoke into the air, calling out, “vuelta! vuelta!” Turn! Turn!

Jen loved dancing, and was confident in her body movements. Everyone was impressed with how well she learned. Though for all the shit she took for her short blond hair and careless grammar mistakes, Jen was due for a break.

When the first day of the Feria arrived, I looked in the mirror, and saw an incredibly authentic looking woman from Seville looking back. My traje gitana was yellow with polka dots and lots of ruffles. I loved the manton – a beautiful light blue shawl with fringe. My hair flower was yellow, and so were my chunky earrings and bracelet. I wasn’t so sure about the shoes, chunky-heeled espadrilles, but everyone wore them.

Concha, Pillar, and Rosario were glowing with pride as we took off that first night. They loaned me the dress, took me shopping for accessories, and spent hours at the coffee shop educating me about the customs. (Not to mention those dance lessons.)

We took a walk around the fair grounds. Going to the Feria is like stepping back in time – men on horses, women like models from a middle school Spanish language book. Lights and paper flowers hanging above you.

For reasons I still don’t understand, we left this beautiful surreal atmosphere to go to a botellón. This is basically a group of young adults standing around drinking from plastic cups. I guess it’s cheaper. I never liked them. At the Feria, it seemed out of place.

None the less, I drank my whiskey and Fanta like a champ, as I had been doing for the past six months. Everyone commented how beautiful I looked, how much I fit in – which is exactly what I thought I wanted when I moved to Spain.

I shared the brown eyes, brown hair, and bushy eyebrows of most of the girls from Seville. I adapted a southern Spanish accent, wore tight clothes, got tan. But still, I always felt like a foreigner – wearing jeans when everyone else wore a skirt, wanting to drink cappuccino when it was time for beer, being vegetarian in a country were jamón was like a religion, feeling shy when back home I could chat with anyone.

But on this night, I felt like maybe I did belong. When it was time to return to the Feria, I felt giddy, confident, perhaps even ready to dance. I turned to wave goodbye, and in one fatal step, all of my efforts came crashing down. I was the center of attention – the clumsy foreigner – before I even had a chance to dance Sevillanas and lift up my sweaty arm.

It’s debatable whether it was those damn espadrilles that didn’t fit properly, or a poorly placed empty whiskey bottle – but I fell with a thud that became legendary among all of the spring festival stories shared around the town.

Despite the pain in my knees (or maybe because of it) I popped up quickly, hoping nobody saw. But everybody did, including Jose, my sort of ex-novio, who came rushing over to valiantly help.

The fall was intense, leaving black skid marks from the pavement on all five layers of my dress and crinoline. My knees were bleeding and swollen within minutes. I lost the ability to say anything – in English or Spanish.

“Dolor? Barbara asked as I tried to hide in her arms.

“Si, pain.” I replied, and paused to find the word I was still looking for.

Jose knew. Vergüenza, he suggested. Embarrassment, shame.

Yes, indeed.

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I’m dedicating this VEA piece to the parents of  the Lower NW DC Education Collective – for their efforts to improve the quality of education in public school, and speaking up for those who haven’t found their advocacy voice yet.

What Luke Didn’t Tell Me

Luke greeted me almost daily, wherever and whenever he spotted me, with “Can I just tell you something?” He was an upbeat, skinny, first-grader with a slight trace of a Vietnamese accent. I adored him, and every little piece of information he had to share with me.

He was in my reading group, and learning rapidly. We saw each other three times a week, for 25-minute sessions. He went out of his way to greet me in the hallways or when I passed through the cafeteria.

Luke was delighted that I always agreed to listen, and told me all sorts of things.

I knew he was excited about the little chicks that were going to hatch in his classroom. I knew which books were on his wish list at the book fair. I learned about an uncle who took frequent trips to Atlantic City; sometimes he came home with gifts, and other times returned in a bad mood.

But Luke never so much as hinted to trouble at home. Or maybe he did, and my intuition was off. It’s the “good” kids that so often get overlooked. Those red flags seem to go up more with students who are misbehaving or not participating. Luke was always so happy, and a hard worker.

So it hit me like a thud when I heard that Mrs. Clark, our PTA president, had seen Luke wandering the neighborhood, “looking through trash bins for food.”

It brought up so many questions.

Was it true? Why was a first-grader wandering around by himself at all? Did an adult tell him to do this? Was the family actually using food from the trash?

Were they really in need, or was it cultural—having recently left a county that so loathed waste and watching their new neighbors throw away perfectly good things. Was this just a case of one man’s trash is another’s treasure?

Though I tried to believe it was a misunderstanding, part of me could actually picture little Luke out and about on his own like that. But I couldn’t grapple with him scavenging for food from the trash.

It’s not what you expect to hear about students in a Fairfax County school, even one that received Title I funding. When we think of poverty here, we don’t think of that kind of dire.

We were all upset to hear this news about Luke. If I am really honest, my first reaction was not how could this be, but rather, why didn’t he tell me? Like adults, our students let some people in, and keep others at bay.

As much as we try, as much as others expect it of us, we cannot possibly know everything about our students. I wish there was another way to say, “It takes a village,” because the phrase has become so overused. But the people at school who jump into action for children like Luke are testament to it.

Really, if it weren’t for Mrs. Clark, we might not have known anything. We sometimes joke about people like her, the uber-involved parent, with her children in the gifted and talented program, her part-time business, her mini van, and those (delicious) homemade cookie bars.

In a different neighborhood, in another era, she might have pretended not to see Luke, for fear of embarrassing his family, or just not wanting to “get involved.” But she did.

When people with financial stability and the knowledge of how the system works speak up for their children’s classmates when something is wrong, they take a step in creating more equity in our schools. They help create a sense of community responsibility.

I always believed my school in Northern Virginia to be a model community for a Title I school. Children of different cultural and socio-economic backgrounds formed close friendships. It was a safe place, with supportive and involved parents, even those struggling to make ends meet.

Yet despite this close-knit community, certain families will always remain more outspoken, and seemingly in control at meetings. To encourage everyone to feel more comfortable becoming involved (and seeking help) we started coffee klatches, one in Spanish and one in Vietnamese.

Though I was tempted to find out more, I never asked Luke about his dumpster-diving. I figured if he wanted to tell me something, he would when he was ready. He was in good hands with the support staff at school, who worked closely with his family, guiding them through available resources.

So I treated Luke the way he probably wanted me to—as if I didn’t know everything.

But I did go out of my way to greet him throughout the day, and I relished his “can I just tell you something?” a little more.

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I recently found out that my friend Becky had her fifteen minutes of fame by writing a witty note to a “squash thief” who stole her two year old’s pumpkin from the front steps.

It went viral. You can check it out here.

Her simple act of defending her son – and using curse words to illustrate the point – created somewhat of a sensation. The story reminded me of the time my friends and I took part in a pumpkin theft.

We were giddy walking home from a costume party as we passed Eastern Market. Back then, the farm market was kind of eery after hours, and we usually walked by quickly. But this night, we stopped to notice a large pile of pumpkins left out. Sharon grabbed the biggest one, and took off for our apartment several blocks away.

She ran with that heavy squash down the street, and through the busy intersection. She didn’t stop to acknowledge the young politically ambitious interns stumbling out of the Hill bars, or the panhandlers outside of CVS.

Out of our close-knit group that evening, Sharon seemed the least likely to do something like this. Jen was a willing participant, instigator and cheerleader most of the time. And Heather, well, she could twirl her hair and get someone to steel a car. Sharon is the friend who advised me to wear my  “train face” when I complained about the weirdos who sat next to me on the trip to visit my family in Philly. (This was before iPhones when people used to make eye contact and engage in something called a conversation.)

When Sharon grabbed the huge round pumpkin and started running in an unlikely burst of energy, it was a satisfying moment for all of us. We encouraged her, through fits of giggles -because we had too much to drink, because we were in our twenties, because we grew up together, because we were in Halloween costumes.

That memory comes back to me so vividly, and with such a comforting fondness for my friends and life fifteen years ago. I had almost forgotten about it until I heard about poor Tommy’s stolen pumpkin, and the note that went viral.

It’s very likely that the pumpkin we “stole” that night was left out for the taking. Who would leave something in such a public place otherwise? It’s not like we took it from someone’s front porch. Right?

I guess it’s best not to over-think it. That’s exactly what keeps people like Sharon and me from doing spontaneous and ridiculous things, or Becky from writing that note.

So, to my old and new friends – thank you for being full of surprises, and for reminding me to act (and write) in the moment once in a while.

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We’ve been having lots of Michael Jackson dance parties lately. Justin seems equally obsessed with him and Raffi, go figure.

I realized I never posted this story from the VEA.

Moonwalking with Peter

Peter got up in the middle of Writing Workshop to show us his Michael Jackson impression—complete with the crotch-grabbing. All in all, it wasn’t that bad. You could tell he practiced it a lot. But it was highly inappropriate in our seventh grade literature class and, from my point of view, had no real connection to the lesson.

It was likely a combination of things that set Peter off. His need for attention and lack of impulse control in a class with mostly boys (in all their immature and defiant glory), last period of the day, was almost asking for trouble. This was also my largest class and I wasn’t used to managing so many kids on my own. I’d only worked with small groups, or co-taught. The transition from elementary school to middle school was a huge adjustment for the students too. They had longer classes, and no recess, on top of a more demanding workload and all the social and emotional stuff. Still, it seemed as if all the “worst” boys were just dumped into this period. The type of kids that cause other teachers to make that face and say “Oh, you have so and so…”

Peter was bursting with personality, and likable, but he made teaching impossible at times. Even fun activities that incorporated movement and music didn’t work. Our timed independent writing sessions were nearly always interrupted by Peter, and then a domino effect of other boys misbehaving. When he was absent, the other boys were much better.

There were only a few girls in the class. One was bookish and always on task, rolling her eyes at Peter and the other boys acting out, giving me sympathetic glances as I tried desperately to teach. The other girls were silly and flirty and created unneeded distractions. Getting up to “get a pencil” would be a whole event of hair-flipping, skirt-adjusting and chatting with Peter, who nearly always managed to engage them in conversation on the short walk back to their table.

If he weren’t so influential with the other students, it might have been easier. At times it was as if he had more control over the class than I did—and it drove me crazy. I tried so hard to help him. I made an individual behavior and reward plan, gave him a fidget to hold, let him stand up when he needed to. But he just took advantage, and pushed and pushed until I was that “Don’t Do This” section of the classroom management books: a caricature of a teacher yelling, with smoke coming out of her ears.

Sometimes Peter just got himself so worked up, he didn’t seem in control of his body. Other days, it was his mouth that got him into trouble. During a lesson on brainstorming topics, he wrote (and shared with his group) a list that was so vulgar he ended up with an in-school suspension.

His guidance counselor was jovial, and looked like he could have played pro football, just the type of male role model the kids at that school needed. On top of the suspension, he made Peter call his mother and read her the list.

We decided to switch Peter’s schedule, and moved him from that last period “problem” class to first period. It was mostly girls and a few studious boys. The change was almost instantaneous—he was like a different person. Who knows whether it was the attention he was getting from the guidance counselor, the dynamic of the class, or the time of day. That last period was still my most challenging and exhausting, but much more teachable.

Peter still lacked that filter at times, like when he called across the room, “Hey Ms. Bloom, are you pregnant?” I was, but had not yet told the students. I’m still not sure how he knew. I suspect he overheard some teachers talking.

I wanted to be mad at him, but the class was so excited. Plus I was planning on sharing the news soon, anyway. We spent a good chunk of time predicting whose birthday would be closest to the delivery date, and sharing various “it totally works” ways to predict whether it was boy or girl (something about hiding a fork and spoon, and another about dangling a necklace over my belly.) There were also many name suggestions—none of which we considered.

The irony is not lost on me that Peter won the closest birthday contest. My son is currently obsessed with Michael Jackson, and he too struggles with impulse control, though mostly when cookies or elevator buttons are concerned.

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I’m hoping to get my blogging game back on, if nothing else as a way to include writing as a more frequent habit in my life. A neighbor buddy encouraged me to write more about our ‘hood, and it certainly seems an ideal way to ease back into things. Goodness knows my parenting posts will just be full of rants about being sleep deprived or dealing with tantrums.

A Little Help Please?

There aren’t many homeless guys in our neighborhood. One is old and very sweet. He’s appreciative when I buy him a juice or coffee. Last time, as I came out of the store, he stood up from his milk crate, and joked, “I must be the slowest man in the world.” I had managed to hold the door open, and maneuver the stroller before he was able to come help.

He is somewhat of a fixture in the neighborhood, and I see all sorts of folks chatting with him. I’m sure he has a fascinating story.

There’s another guy who really irks me. It’s not that he’s a little drunk and slurs his requests, but rather that he never remembers me. Never.

Each time I walk by, he asks, “Can you help me out?” Then he looks up, sees me with the baby, and exclaims “God Bless! Congratulations!”

It was pretty great the first time, but the thing is, he says it every single time I see him. I mean, every time. I don’t expect him to remember me from week to week, or even day to day. But he greets me this way after I have run my errands and walk by him ten minutes later.

I think it would really behoove him to have a better memory. I might be inclined to “help out” more often. So, yesterday, after a year of biting my tongue – I finally replied, “I just saw you, man.”

It might have been a bit rude, but he won’t remember the next time he sees me.

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Here’s an excerpt from my latest column for the Virginia Journal of Education.

Serve and Protect?

Just before the dismissal bell rang, there was an announcement. “All resource teachers and specialists please report to the lobby. Immediately.”

We went dutifully: the reading resource teachers, the ESOL teachers, the art, music, and gym teachers who had finished their last period and didn’t have a homeroom class.

The principal and vice principal were there, at this impromptu emergency meeting in the lobby. They told us there was a situation, and our help was needed. For a brief moment, I felt good about being called on to help (even if it was only because I didn’t have a homeroom class). I wasn’t always in good favor with the administration, and small things like this gave the illusion of cooperation and teamwork.

Our orders were simple enough: stand at your regular bus duty assignment or another spot surrounding the building.

I figured it was a domestic issue, perhaps an angry parent without custody rights that came to pick up his child. I stood at one of the crosswalks. The buses arrived, the dismissal bell rang, yet no students appeared. Then the police officers came, patrolling the perimeter of the building.

Doug, a special education teacher, and I met half way between our posts as we frequently did on slow duty days to chat about our day. Always one of the first to hear gossip, he told me another teacher reported hearing gunshots.

Gunshots.

                (Read the rest HERE.)

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It’s been embarrassingly long since my last post.

My mind is often buzzing with new ideas for essays and such; but an “active” three year old boy, and a still not sleeping through the night four month old baby are keeping me from any coherent writing (not to mention taking up a LOT of my time).

So, I decided to share some gems that I’ve come across on Freecycle. As the name suggests, it’s a listserve for folks to post stuff they are giving away for free, or find stuff they want for free.

Most of the posts are for things like furniture, books, or clothing.

I don’t even remember why I joined in the first place. I thought of removing myself from the list, but then I started looking forward to it – searching for the wackiest free stuff.  Like this:

Offer:   Hairdryer. Non-working.

Offer:   Fish sauce.

Offer:   Beat up bag of shoes.

Then this:

Offer: Trader Joe’s Frozen Turkey Meatballs
1 bag is completely unopened; other bag has been opened and 3 meatballs used. Pick up in Cleveland Park.

But the best by far…

                    Offer: 8 Month Old Black Cat – Male

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My column from the April issue of the Virginia Journal of Education-

To Tell The Truth

Is a little fibbing really that bad? 

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Every season, I switch my closet out. In the spring, I put my winter sweaters in a big blue bin, and it goes into the storage space until the weather turns cold again.

I try to purge, and create piles. Donate, consign, trash – just like those clear the clutter books recommend.

I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping clutter to a minimum. I donate clothes, and books frequently. When the mail comes, I sort through it right away, and throw out the junk.

Sometimes I accidentally throw away catalogues my husband wanted. Or worse, I tear up receipts too quickly, and panic when we decide to return something. Even if it’s not my fault, I’m usually blamed for “lost” papers.

I used to save everything. I liked making scrap books when I was younger. I kept birthday cards, letters, programs from concerts, ticket stubs.

Not anymore.

It’s not that I’m not sentimental. I’ve just learned to let go of the physical stuff.

Even still, a few items seem to remain in that storage bin year after year. I can’t seem to put them in another pile. It’s unlikely I’ll ever wear the faux suede brown pants and the tight little sweater with the sparkle heart in the middle – a gift from Jen for my 26th birthday when we lived in Spain.

And yet, I can’t seem to let go. Maybe that’s ok. It’s really not taking up that much space in the big blue bin. I realize I’m holding onto the memory, to what that cute little outfit represents.

Sevilla.

The orange trees, Vespas zipping past, the smell of Spring flowers mixed with smell of horse piss.

Cappuccinos, and why is this toast so fantastic?

Red wine, Fanta limon, olives, jamon hanging from the ceiling, cheap whiskey, discotheques.

The Cathedral, The River Guadalaquivir, The Torre del Oro, The Royal Alcazar.

Bar Sancho Panzo, little glasses of cool beer

Tia, hija

A kiss on each cheek.

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