Except for Opie erupting with
rage whenever someone has the temerity to walk a dog on the public city street
in front of the house, it is very peaceful here. We are too beaten down, and
adjusted in expectations, to fight anymore.
While Himself's ideas come from ideas, my ideas come from people. We continue to burrow closer to the core of
each other's essence. Himself prods me to
take a more philosophical approach. Alternatively,
Himself is exposed to people. As I go
through a fraught transitionary part of my life, here at our house, we are
content and easy with each other.
We sleep with the windows
open. Generations of cats ago, one of
the felines, maybe Gary or Mary, gnawed through the screens. It takes us a decade to get them replaced and
now we have heavy gauge screen doors and a sweet pleasure is a warm bed in a
cool breezy room. Clean sheets on Saturday.
The 110 a couple blocks away is a gently flowing river. There
are windchimes on the deck.
The education folks from the
gallery come to my classroom to help with a follow up with our field trip to
the Sveeman exhibit. I have the students
write about a loved one who they’ve lost, although many of them don't get the
dead part. I have to ask for clarification so that I can instruct them what
tense to use. I tell them to text me
photos of their loved ones, so I can print them. Only Jacob comes through with two photos of
himself kissing a stunningly beautiful girl.
I ask him, “Is she...dead?” “Nah.
She break up with me.”
Students submit three
sentences describing memories of their loved ones to me for proofreading and I
attach for each some clipart. Lots of
tamales. Churches. Chickens. Cigarettes. Countryside. Christmas. They are to neatly write their corrected
sentences in a little wide-ruled box.
And then we make collages, backed by papel picado (those lacy tissue
paper cutouts).
The museum people have a Powerpoint
for the students, which they narrate in English and Spanish. It starts with 15th century
cabinets of curiosity and then shows modern rendition by Rosamund Purcell from
the Santa Monica Museum of Art. Then,
the tiny elevator gallery of objects called Mmuseum by Alex Kalman. It continues
to Day of the Dead Altars. They demonstrate that objects, and what they express,
is legitimate fodder for art. The final
slide is a photo of group at the Sveeman exhibit. The museum folks walk around and chat with
the students, while they assemble their collages. Jacob, the boy with the dead-to-him girlfriend
works intently. I red ink his memories
and I find some nice little woodcut of books and flowers. He cuts each one out carefully and mounts
tape behind each picture so the books protrude and jiggle slightly. He colors the flowers brightly. He writes,
“She gave me some books. We went for a
walk. I gave her flowers,” in his finest hand.
I've used the same textbook
now three times in a row and know it by heart.
It isn't scintillating the first time around. I've honed my jokes now. Gloria and Juan are standing in front of a
fast food restaurant and Gloria pats her stomach. What do you think Gloria is saying to
Juan? “I'm pregnant. It's yours.” Always one of the biggest laughs
of the trimester.
Now we're on the food
chapter. I give them my little speech with
shopping hints and show them the benefits of bulk buying. And that certain items like milk and eggs
that are cheaper at Trader Joe's. And
that I don't grapefruit. I give them a
list of foods and they have to ask each other “Do you like pizza? Tacos?
Fish? Yes I do. Or no I don't. I like fish.
I don't like fish.”
The girls are badly
outnumbered for The Battle of the Sexes game I have on a Powerpoint. And I choose a particularly difficult one
I've made. Kelly's schedule is on a
grid. Kelly (fill in the blank--
always, sometimes, seldom, never) has English class on Thursday. The question
mark to connote “sometimes” is a bear. Girls 8. Boys 15. We won't play again until more of the smart
girls are there.
Thursday night is always a big
breath out. I work from home, braless,
on Fridays with CNN in the background.
This Friday however is the final meeting of a textbook committee I've
served on. There have been four meetings
with different textbook reps. The slick, for profit publishers bring us Panera
or Mendocino Farms box lunches. One of the
non-profits has a tray of depressing sandwiches from Ralph's.
The other non-profit passes out highlighters. For our final meetings someone throws some
leftovers from a student event on the table.
A wilting vegetable platter (and does anyone really eat raw broccoli?)
some soggy fruit salad and a tray of Smart and Final muffins.
Unfortunately, the school is
inflexible about marking up student textbooks by 25%. Three of the four textbooks will run the
students about $35. The National
Geographic series that I prefer will cost $40. I hesitate about the steep
charge, even though our classes are free.
But, the Stand Out series not only has a robust online component and
professionally produced videos, it is a beautiful book, printed on paper with a
good feel and filled with glorious National Geographic photos. I take the gamble of advocating for the more
expensive tome, hoping that giving the students a book that they can love might
engage them more. The turkey avocado baguette
from Mendocino Farms has nothing to do with it.
Getting into to the rhythm of
thirteen ten-hour weeks, rinse repeat, I guess I am a bit more emotionally
distant. When students don't pass a class, they are
automatically sent to another teacher to repeat it. After three trimesters, a couple of the sweet
older ladies who can't read or write return to my class for a 3rd
session of ESL 1B. I notice that the ladies
speak a bit better and with greater confidence and are better able to sound out
a simple sentence. We refer to them as terminal Level Ones but for a handful, I
think that persistence may ultimately pay off.
Most of the others are lovely
people too but after three classes of fifty students, there are only a handful
of standouts. Graciella, crew cutted,
covered with amateur tatoos and clad in loose shorts and baggy tee, sits with
the twenty-something boys and they snort and snicker together. Graciella is the only student in the class
without a phone so I loan her mine when we play phone games. “I'm getting a phone soon Teacher,” she
promises each time. One night she
arrives early and beaming, presents her new phone. I hug her and then help her install all of
the apps we use. We send each other text
messages via the school app. A week
later she texts that she'll be absent due to a family emergency. I've text her a few times to see what's up. The boys ask about her every night. Radio silence.
Another student who stands out
is Freddy. He is the only student from
Venezuela. He lives in Silver Lake but
dislikes the local adult school and drives the extra five miles to ours. He is erudite and shows me pictures of Botero
statues at the National Museum in Bogota and a trip to Rome with his mom. He finishes his work quickly and sits playing
with his phone. I think that the other students
find him a bit haughty although he is generous about helping out. I am careful not to embarrass him but while
he is likely one of the better educated students in the class, his English
proficiency is really only slightly above average and sometimes his corrections
of other students’ work is incorrect. I
offer him some extra worksheets when he finishes ahead of the other
students. He rushes through them and
returns to his phone. During the break
he is eager to talk to me about Silver Lake restaurants and places to eat in
Thai Town.
I feel terrible when I see a
former student and while I can usually remember certain idiosyncrasies and
details, I go blank on the name. Then, when I'm driving home or on the verge of
sleep, it comes to me. Juana. Demaris.
Eldoberto, Arturo.
Himself reconnects with a
friend who we haven't seen for over twenty-five years. I remember only a couple of details, mainly
that he rhapsodized over his mother's scrambled eggs, salt added only after
cooking. At a professional event, I meet
someone I know from teaching over thirty years ago. I would never recognize her, but for her name
on the board. My memory is of a dinner
at her valley ranch house with a combo of ESL teachers and some of her husband’s
film industry friends. My escort overhears another guest allude to some legal
problems my father had had a decade before.
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