I have mixed reactions when a handful of folks ask me why I’m
not writing. The most salient is to be reminded about my essential laziness. I approach
the page warily, thinking about all of the crap I’ll feel obligated to chew
around. I close and open a blank page a dozen times before finally laying
fingers on my dusty keyboard. My office
is being packed up and carted away. While I struggle for some words to convey
the current roller coaster ride, without sounding (or feeling) whiny and self-pitying. This is the 3rd down-scaling of my
place of business and it amazes me how much junk has accumulated. I will be working from home and my staff will
occupy quarters in Echo Park that we are otherwise unable to monetize due to a
problem tenant who we've wrangled with now for over a year.
My big picture, which finds me blessed with decent enough
health, loving family and enduring friendships is clouded by legal struggles,
relocation, far afield car breakdowns and four cold rainy nights on an L.A. Unified
picket line. Two weeks of vacation are
spent in the Redwoods with both sons and our oldest dearest friends. Our house-sitter discovers our favorite cat,
Sherry, dead. Himself and I, recognizing
the rarity of our northern retreat with loved ones, try not to fall apart. Spuds is particularly close to the kitty and
has endured fewer cat deaths than we have.
He thinks that Himself and I are indifferent but we're just more experienced
in tamping things down. The sorrow sets
in when we return home not to find the pretty, haughty thing gazing at herself in
the mirror. Spuds is relieved to see me weeping and realize that I am not
callous but just through force of will am capable of grief delay.
I resume packing up boxes and preparing to return to the
classroom. The first week of school
finds me exhausted and wracked with worry. I don't look forward to
teaching. Or when I think about it, much
else. It is a relief when I glance up at
the clock and see that I have a few more minutes than I'd expected before the
students arrive. The bell rings and magically, for the next three hours I am
transported. No CNN. No fretting about my own petty problems. We practice our English. My enthusiasm isn't completely
appreciated. The teacher next door
complains that my voice is “piercing.” I
try to lower my register a bit but will probably request a new classroom if one’s
available, just in case. Every group of
students is my favorite but this one perhaps is especially special, at least it
is the most diverse. In addition to the
usual Hispanic students, I have three sweet and funny Japanese young men, and an
Ethiopian who's disappointed that I'm not a Christian and Ki, one of the fewer
than 100 North Korean refugees who are settled in Los Angeles.
We do a lesson on money.
“Ask your partner if she has two nickels.” “Ask your partner if he has change for a
ten.” “There is” and “there are” are the
week's grammar concepts. I give them a
bunch of sentences. Some are
correct. “There are four quarters in a
dollar.” Some are wrong. “There is five pennies in my wallet.” I print out a bunch of play money and give
each team $500. I auction of the
sentences. The team with the most correct
sentences wins. At first, they're
conservative and timidly bid $2 or $3.
Then they get going. I'm sure
that the teacher next door is ready to blow her (my?) brains out from the
noise. The last batch of sentences go for about $200 a pop. I try to keep a poker face when one team bids
$250 for “There aren't enough money to buy a hamburger.”
I teach them that the metal stuff is “coins” and the paper is
“bills.” Ki knows all the presidents on
the money. I take him to the
(fortunately pre-Trump) president poster and Ki knows most of their
parties. I point to Nixon, Hoover and
U.S. Grant. “Bad,” I say shaking my
head. Then, Kennedy, Carter and FDR. “Good,” I tell him. I print him a chart with all of the
presidents with brief bios and he is thrilled. I am eager for this English to
improve to the extent that I can learn his story.
The school is a ghost town when we picket at night, in the
pouring rain. A mom from the
neighborhood bundles up her kids and brings us hot tea and coffee. I bring Opie the dog one night to picket but
she's not very pro-union. Students join
us on the picket line. Some text
me. “Teacher. Class tonight?” and I tell them the strike
continues. “TODO VIA HAY HUELGA” I
respond to the Spanish speakers. I hope
that the others figure it out.
I promise Himself that I will quit smoking after the Mid-terms
and when our tenant, who hasn’t paid rent in over a year, has driven out the
other tenant of 25 years, cost us a
bundle in repairs and legal fees and to whom we will pay about two years of my
teaching salary to move out and leave the place thrashed, is gone. Friday, we serve a 60-day notice. She may not comply, and we will have to begin
eviction proceedings again but when she turns in the keys, the escrow company
will write her a fat check. March 20 is
the magic day. And I hope we have enough left in the checking account to pick
up some Nicorette.
Not because it makes the writing particularly better but
because it makes me feel like less of a loser, I try to end these ramblings
with a ray of hope and remind myself of the folly of obsessing on my own miscalculations
and trivial misfortunes. Infinite time
could be spent chewing through a litany of failures and stupid decisions. But during a maddening week, I have long
talks with both of the kids. They are
warm and tender, and I am reminded that we’ve raised compassionate, empathetic,
and of course dark humored kids. The comfort that they proffer makes me feel
safe. My friends are true blue and generous of
spirit. And I still look forward to
hearing the beeping of Himself’s electric car backing down the driveway.
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