god job

This is my 10^th motherless Mother’s Day.  I make my students answer a question every night on their way out of class.  I ask one night for them to tell me their favorite thing about their mothers.  Most of them say that she is, or was, (we’re learning the past tense this week) a beautiful person or a good cook.  Rosa, an Uber driver in her mid-forties shakes her head and mutters, “Nothing.”  “I had a difficult mother too,” I commiserate, feeling bad that this question has made her unhappy.  My own answer might also be that my mom was a good cook.  But her brisket was made with a packet of onion soup mix and her gravy contained a nasty substance called Bisto.  Yet, Mom, in her day, was considered an excellent hostess and certainly took pride in it.  She delighted in a laden table, but never passed a mirror without admiring her size three body.  Once, she stood me sideways in front of a full-length mirror and stood behind me, full frontal, demonstrating how my girth eclipsed her slender frame.  Still, my mother instilled in me a love of kitchen that results in much of my own social currency.

If someone blocked the doorway and made me aver as to why I loved my mother, perhaps “sense of humor” might be less loaded than “ambitious cook.”  My mother was quick-witted and possessed of a gallows humor that’s now passed through to the two latter generations.  But also, sometimes her humor was puerile and potty or cruel and mean-spirited.  Irreverence is very high in my retinue of coping strategies and while I strive for some refinement, I consider this another gift for which I can thank both of my parents.

It is comforting to me when I hear Anthony Bourdain admit that he has never mastered baking with yeast.  After decades of crappy challahs I’ve resigned myself to use a mix or just buy one at Trader Joe’s.  I’ve always suspected that it’s a body chemistry thing that dooms anything I attempt to knead.  Number One Son’s girlfriend however is an expert baker, and one of those hardcore types who uses a scale for ingredients instead of dry measure cups.  I watch carefully and interrogate her about creating a perfect challah.   I’ve tried her recipe now (although I dry measure, too lazy to weigh) two weeks in row and while nowhere near as delicious as hers, the results are certainly an improvement over previous disastrous attempts.

We’re doing employment prep in class and students are talking about skills and things that they can and cannot do.  Danny, a baker, says that he can roll croissants and braid a “Chaw-la.”  I correct his pronunciation and explain that the bread is part of a weekly religious observance.  He shows me a grainy black and white video of himself shaping a challah.  I do it differently.  Instead of braiding six strands together, I make one large and one small three strand challahs and place the little one on top of the larger loaf, a big short cut on the six-strand version.  I try to explain but there are language obstacles and I cannot find a picture of beginner version on Google images.  When this week’s challah comes out of the oven, I text Danny a picture.  He texts back, “Different.  But god job Teacher.”

While we do a lot of practicing in English, having a 100% Spanish speaking class makes me less inhibited about communicating with students before class and during the break.  I have a special intimacy with my current class and also atypically, there are a number of strong leaders and many students convey that they are more bonded with this particular group than any of their other adult classes.  I am informed that on Wednesdays the ordinarily priced $3 pupusas at the Delta Restaurant are sold for $1 a pop.  The class, although none of the other classes at school have scheduled a celebration of Mother’s Day, informs be that they’ve scheduled a party for Wednesday.  Marcella, a would be makeup artist, who I think would be one of the world’s most gorgeous plus sized models, takes the reins.

The room is elaborately decorated with balloons and flowers.  Items are donated for a raffle.  I make a couple dozen pink cupcakes and Marcella tops each with a cupcake topper saying “Happy Mother’s Day” or “World’s Best Mom” that she’s printed.  They haul in huge foil trays of pupusas, a dozen pepperoni pizzas and the world’s largest Igloo, filled with soft drinks.  The party planners know that I’m dieting, and I am brought a really good quality individual salad. I am presented with lots of individual gifts—cans of LaCroix, hairclips, an orchid, crafts projects and lots of candy.   Finally, there are Spanglish speeches of appreciation and the presentation of a big card signed by everyone, accompanied a crisp $100 bill.  LAUSD policy is that employees can’t accept gifts valued at more than $300 from an individual, so while I realize the hard physical work that most of them perform to enable this generosity, it is kosher for me to graciously accept it.  And even if the district prohibited the acceptance of gifts, I can’t imagine rejecting their offerings without giving offense.

After nearly two years, I am figuring out the teaching thing more and more and connecting with my fellow teachers.  I suspect that my enthusiasm and effusiveness at faculty meetings may have been a turn off, but I think that my candidness has garnered some respect.  Cracking jokes and bringing platters of cookies to meetings hasn’t hurt either. My first reaction, when as an untenured, relative newcomer I am offered a nearly fulltime schedule, is that I might encounter resentment from my colleagues but there is a touchingly positive response.  The schedule, an early morning class and an evening class and a Saturday course will be taxing and necessitate a restructuring of my business.  While my life is filled with the satisfaction of home, marriage, exceptional children and the naughty but sweet natured adolescent kitten Larry, the news blares nearly constantly.  I resent that the political climate casts a pall on the small pleasures to which I am entitled.  The only time that undercurrent is abated is when I lose myself in teaching.  I worry that the addition of two more classes and a weird split schedule will sap me and my satisfaction with the classroom experience might be diminished.  How odd that while most of my contemporaries are planning retirement, I am embarking on a new full-time career.

My Johnston College ethos serves me better now than it did when I received my diploma over forty years ago.  Johnston is referred to as a community of seekers.  I have sought.  For years I was fulfilled by weekly synagogue services and observed even the most minor of Jewish holidays. Now, although we do the candles and challah thing every Friday night, I am borderline contemptuous of organized religion and eat sandwiches during Passover. Helping my immigrant students navigate a world that has become increasingly hostile is what sustains me.  I hope that the power of this combats any fatigue effectuated by a full-time schedule that begins in August. 

My mother was difficult and dissatisfied.  I imagine that my own children are aware of difficulties that I pose myself and perhaps experience me as nosy and meddling.  But, while I often have to stop to breathe and remind myself, my life is filled with purpose and satisfaction. I think that while I get on their nerves, my children see this too and perhaps are a bit inspired. And as I Johnstonian I’ve got a lifetime license to reinvent self.  The next incarnation might be daunting but it feels like my diploma conferred on me the obligation, that despite the ebb and the flow, to be who I need to be.  Seek on.