Me, my couch, and I

See How Happy the People Are?

Mixed Signals

Dystopia-lite

It seemed that nothing could be weirder or more fraught than the 2016 election and subsequent presidency.  We are on the brink already and grit our teeth counting down the days and praying that we can withstand four years.   And then BANG! a catastrophe more seismic than that giant shake commencing in November ’16.  The most popular search on Google is, “What day is it?” It takes me a beat to name the month.  I try to teach on-line for 3 hours a day. I watch a lot of TV but less news than before. I walk a couple of miles almost every morning. I cook. I overeat. I plan classes. I take a couple of online education courses.  I scour the internet for yeast. I do a lot of crossword puzzles. I play Zoom Scattergories. I tidy, but with diminishing dedication.

Sequestration, I guess has aroused a bit of the superstition I’m usually able to tamp down.  Usually I fully accept that sometimes odd stuff just happens.  But this is un-usually.  I am very not good with rodents.  Living in the hills, we suffer for years until the Rat Lady comes and rat-proofs, resulting in a peaceful decade, sans infestation.  We look up from dinner and the cats are batting around a rodent.  Spuds says it is a mouse, but I think he thinks that I will be less hysterical about a mouse than a rat.  Sort of true but I’m pretty sure this is a rat.  And later there is an event so disturbing that I cannot write about it.

A few days later I am on the road to rat (I’m almost positive that it wasn’t a mouse) recovery.  I wake in morning and see that the bathroom that we share with the cats is bloody.  At first, I think that Himself has had a nosebleed but then I see that there are bloody cat paw prints all over the tile floor and also spatter on the walls and the cabinet and bowls where cats dine.  Was IT eating while bleeding?  Or was IT eaten as an amuse bouche to Fancy Feast and Meow Mix?  Downstairs, Spuds reports having cleaned up a lot of blood from the kitchen floor.  There are blood drops on the dog’s water bowl and the biggest splatter of all is on my pillowcase.  None of the cats has a wound.  Himself has assured me that he has scoured every nook and cranny of the house in search of remains. 

Finally, there’s the buzz.  It’s a high-pitched hum that makes the dog tremble and cower pathetically.  It seems to emanate from the kitchen but sometimes it sounds like the dining area or downstairs.  We remove all of the batteries from the smoke detectors and carbon monoxide detectors (which I hope are replaced by the time that you read this).  It often happens in the early evening while I’m teaching but sometimes, I hear it in the middle of the night.  I read online that it could be a digital meat thermometer, even if it isn’t turned on.  We pull the battery from that but a few hours later, the beeping starts again.  It sometimes stops for a few days and then we hear it a couple of times a day.  It conjures Chuck McGill on Better Call Saul.

But I want to be equal opportunity superstitious.  There is unusual April rain and now unseasonal heat.  I’ve yet to see the large flock of parrots at the top of Mount Washington but with the lack of traffic it’s wall-of-sound birdsong.  The lupines are almost gone but there’s still mustard dotting the shimmering green hills. Blue and purple Pride of Madeira.  Poppies.  Nasturtiums.  Voluptuous blooming natives that I can’t name. I look down from Kite Hill to the freeway and skyline. They look fake.  A retouched postcard. Please let the blood and the buzz things just be flukes and the view from Kite Hill be the real omen.

Himself, a professor at a technical college, has been teaching a portion of his course load online for some time so his transition is more seamless than my own.  He is relieved of a long commute time.  He eats at the table and not a cubicle desk every night.  He watches TV with me on weeknights. His life, except maybe for increased TV, is bettered.  The human contact prohibition is the icing on the single slice of cake that he’d prefer to eat alone.

My teaching schedule is 3 one hour Zoom sessions a day, four times a week. Participation is low.  Some of my students can’t afford their cell service anymore.  Sara, my best student, texts me that there is no physical place in her house where she can sit and concentrate on English.  The rest of the non-participants have legit excuses too.  Florencia though, has never missed a session.  She has one of the Chromebooks that district provides for her kid. He sits with her and corrects Mom’s English.  Most of the other online students use their phones.  It’s tough to make out the lessons when I share my screen.  Their internet goes in and out. 

I am unsettled a bit by the intimacy.  Rooms.  Kids.  Cooking.  Eating.  Drinking. Flushing toilets. Dogs. Benjamin logs on from his car. My life is open too.  Opie barks at anyone with the temerity to walk on the public street in front of our home.  Demanding attention, Larry the cat taps my face or pesters the other cat.  Himself wants his dinner.  Spuds grabs a beer. The first time I zoom I get dressed and put on makeup.  Now they see me as I am. 

I’ve accepted that if there is a future, it will be predominately digital.  There is something to be said about seeing students where they are, but nothing will replace breathing the same air in a classroom.  Spuds has commandeered by office, so I Zoom from the living room.  Home distracts me.  The dishwasher needs unloading.  That painting is crooked. The dog barks at the mailman.  When the school bell rings in my classroom though, nothing exists but the instruction of English.  Online there is no assurance of presence or focus.  But, except for the guy in his car, we see each other’s homes.  My laptop is too old to do one of those Zoom backgrounds. I teach from the same sofa that I’ll pass out on in a few hours.

What’s next? The school district has plunged into debt and adult ed is always the first to go.  But what if we do resume in August?  If we are to socially distance, a classroom, that we now cram 45 students in, would likely max-out at ten.  At present, I connect with fewer than 20% of my students digitally.  There is talk of providing Chromebooks but the available free wi-fi is pokey. Even if we are able to assure that each student has a reliable device and connection to digital classes, I wonder how many students will enroll.  My reaction to the events is not insubstantial but, we are paid as teachers and there’s a lot of food in the pantry.  Many of my students are undocumented and unable to work in restaurants, clean houses or babysit.  And kin in their nations of origin also depend on my students for subsidies.  Will these crashing worlds lead to abandoned studies?

Prior to the significant event, Himself and I research immigrating to Ecuador, lest the 2020 election go badly.  This feels trivial now that there is no assurance that this, or some other virus won’t wipe out every species on the planet.  I know that Himself will want to puke when I proffer “teachable moment.”  But this forced pause makes so much so clear. International cooperation is the best prophylactic to total annihilation, which would naturally be preceded by some pretty shitty stuff. The current suffering crystalizes a course to correct a litany of wrongs.  I hope it’s the view from Kite Hill and not the bloody pillowcase.

It’s unchartered territory for my psyche. We count “Alone Together” headlines and groan at the syrupy “There will be better days,” commercials. Some say that the Spring of 2020 will fade into a blur.  Will I really forget, standing six feet apart from other masked seniors in a Trader Joe’s line for an hour and praying that there is flour?  I’m lucky that day.  It’s one to a customer, but still. Generally, I’m serene (consciousness altered, and on the couch).  Jewish girl’s luck is that the day before the nail salons are shuttered, I score a manicure and eyebrow wax. Maybe another good omen is that my nails still look decent, even after six weeks.  When I look in the salon mirror, I note that my brows have whitened much more gradually than my hair.  This week, catching my reflection, I see that my brows have turned nearly snow white.  An unusually heavy application of sunblock I think. But scrubbing is futile. 

Assembly Line

Week one.

After 9/11, I think it was about a week before we returned to normal life.  We were shocked and scared and devastated but is was on the other side of the country.   I barely remember the Cuban Missile crisis but even that blew over quickly.  Himself says that I am more likely to be struck by lightening than contract Coronavirus.  I am not frightened.  I know the odds.  We are to be home for a while.  I’ve made a good dent in the to-do list.  I have two novels left but am also reclaiming an old Kindle to partake of infinite digital offerings. 

The news is on, not to provoke anxiety, but because I’m mesmerized.  Nothing like this has ever happened before.  Ultimately the spring of 2020 will be relegated to the repository of “big events.”  Assassinations.  Earthquakes. And now “The Great Sequestration.”  I walk every day.  The dog has never been happier.  I am loathe to admit that I find personal gratification at a time that heralds giant suffering.  The solitude of just me and CNN is in some ways tonic.  The peace of not having to be anywhere.  Almost experimentally, I’ve worn the same outfit for the whole week.  I will wash the jeans and t-shirt but can’t imagine a more comfortable ensemble, so I’ve likely got my social distance uniform.

Week 2

After a week of home solitude, I volunteer at the Los Angeles Unified School “Grab and Go” project.  I am sent to nearby Lincoln High School, one of the first schools I worked at over thirty years ago.  The office where I worked as a teacher advisor is now a small bank branch. Otherwise the campus is as I remember it.   The first day I am assigned to steer cars safely out of the driveway.  I point and smile and wave.  It is cold but it feels good to be outdoors.  And, after what must have been a very stressful week for many, without work and groceries, people are happy to receive bags with breakfast and lunch.

After being outdoors the first day, I am assigned henceforward to the assembly line in the cafeteria.   Bags are filled with breakfast items.  Cereal.  Granola bars.  Packaged pancakes.  Sweet rolls.   Juice.  Milk, sometimes chocolate.  A pear or an apple or an orange.  Lunch is bean burritos, sandwiches, or salads.  There are tiny bags of sunflower seeds.  Frozen fruit popsicles.  Goldfish.   Folks can ask for as many as five lunches and five breakfasts.  Although the volunteer staff number remains static, the number of meals dispensed increases every day.  We provide 3000 meals the first day that I work, and 7000 most recently.

I am the oldest volunteer and the only teacher.  Most of the others are tutors and teaching assistants in their twenties. We work along with the cafeteria ladies, Red Cross and Civil Air Patrol. We wear aprons, masks, ill-fitting gloves and hairnets.  It is reassuring to learn that even my younger co-workers complain about fatigue and aches from repetitive motion.  I put something in a bag and pass it on.  I feel like Lucy in the chocolate factory.  I am never fast enough.  And when an item runs out, a replacement carton needs to be fetched and opened.  Only the cafeteria ladies are allowed to use box cutters.   The choice is to hold up the line and wait or grab a box and rip it open with your bare hands.

I realize that I can perform my task efficiently from a seated position and sit down briefly.  One of the cafeteria ladies says that she knew I was a teacher because I was always sitting down.  I actually sit down for only about twenty minutes and I take umbrage.   “Teachers work hard,” I tell her.  I am usually on my feet teaching for nearly 30 hours every week.  She apologizes, but in my fatigue, I give her a cold shoulder.  Later it dawns on me, that I’m not really being dissed.  She is just taking pride in the strength and stamina of the cafeteria workers.   And they do fill the bags more quickly and load them onto heavy steel trays.  They hoist big boxes and scrub down everything with bleach.  And they arrive a half an hour before the volunteers and stay an hour later. I don’t sit down anymore, and I always smile at the “sitting down” lady when I see her.  Even though I am wearing a mask.

The shift is from 6:30 to 11:30 a.m.  We are paid a minimum wageish stipend.  I come home in the afternoon, tend to the little bit of business there is, take a walk in the green hills, and then become one with the sofa.  There are online teacher’s meetings and we are encouraged to provide distance learning for our students.  I send them little assignments but have chosen not to have Zoom sessions, despite being encouraged to do so.  Many of my students have no Internet and limited data plans on their phones.  I don’t want them to feel like they’ll be missing out if they don’t use their precious data for an online class.

Apparently, there will be a rotation of volunteers for the food distribution centers this week.  I won’t find out where or if I am to work Monday morning until late Sunday night.  I consider resigning from the volunteer corps, but I won’t. Although I won’t be heartbroken if there is no assignment for the coming week.  It’s apparent that my house isn’t going to get any cleaner and no novels will be written.  My only other occupation is finding groceries.  Fortunately, we have toilet paper from a discounted Amazon subscription, but I’ve been unable to find chicken or lentils or spinach or flour or yeast or potatoes.  The freezer and the pantry are full and there is no danger of starvation but it’s a challenge to work only with what’s on hand.

The last week of school we are working on getting the students revved up to complete the Census.  As they file out one night, I have each of them tell me how many people live in their house.  Most of them live with five or six people and a number report nine or ten residents.  Our split-level house allows each of us to sequester on a separate floor.  While I can’t find a lot of the things that we’re used to eating, the pantry and freezer are full. Himself is teaching on-line and we’re both being paid.  Many of my students work in restaurants or as housekeepers.  Even when the stimulus and unemployment payments start, most won’t be eligible.  I’ll stuff food bags for as long as I’m called to.  We have ample toilet paper, so I won’t have to weigh in with my Facebook friends on the quest for the perfect bidet.  And I don’t look as bad as I thought I would in a hairnet.

Sequestered

My writing has been sporadic.  Teaching full time and running a business are taxing but also, my schedule has grown so routine, weeks go by and there are no experiences or revelations worthy of blabbing about to the world. Now, on a work hiatus, the last few weeks have been so eventful that I’m not sure where to start. 

I filter all of the archival footage requests for my business.  These are likely written by production assistants, kids in their twenties usually. One request is for footage of “Martha Mitchell—an obscure figure from the Watergate era,” and another is for “a pianist named Liberace.”  My children have expressed particular concern about the coronavirus because of my age.  When I was born the life expectancy for an American female was 67.  The odds are now that I will live longer but the consciousness of being closer to non-existence looms more and more in my day-to-day.

At the February 2019 college reunion, I attend the memorial service. Professors are inordinately remembered but there are much younger alumni noted on the program.  My classmate Rachel is diagnosed with blastoma.  We arrange for golf carts to take her around the campus and dote on her.  Her spirits are good but she, one of those fit, outdoorsy women, is obviously physically diminished.  Rachel’s good cheer evaporates at the memorial service.  It ends, and she is crumpled.  We have reunions at our small college every five years.  Rachel waves the alphabetical list of names.  “I don’t want to be on this list at the next reunion.”  We all know her diagnosis and don’t bullshit her.  We just hold her close.

It’s funny that memories of the home base are hazy.  The days and weeks are all so similar and bleed together. Memories of other places are so much more distinct.  I visit Rachel in Albuquerque last spring break.  She is receiving an experimental treatment developed in Israel, a helmet with electrodes that zaps the cancer cells in her brain.  She’s in better shape than at the reunion.  We drive the Turquoise Trail to Madrid listening to local radio.  We shop at her food coop and I make dinner for her kids and boyfriend.  Unused to an electric stove, I leave a loaf of bread on a burner, not realizing the heat is on.  The Pyrex pan explodes and shatters into a million pieces and we sadly sweep up and pick the tiny shards of glass from the stove with a tweezer.  The bread is trashed. Rachel’s sons are the same ages as mine and we dine, sans bread, on her candlelit patio, the aroma of sagebrush wafts after an afternoon rain. I still feel bad about the bread and learn this week that there will never be a chance to bake her another loaf.

On the same day I learn of Rachel’s death, Himself forwards me a communication that he receives via Ancestry.com.  An adoptee, about ten years ago Himself connected with his birthmother.  This has been an emotional roller coaster, although recently the relationship has been less fraught.  He has learned to navigate Birthmother and largely avoid discord.  Essential to this course is that my communication is limited to buying greeting cards and signing them “with love.”  Ancestry has identified what is categorized as a “first cousin.”  The fine print states though the possibility that the match could also possibly be a half-sibling.  Himself has a half-brother, a year and a half younger, also surrendered for adoption and living in the Bay Area.  The kids and I, and even the kids’ friends, go berserk and sleuth and stalk, but Himself is rather non-plussed and curiously uncurious.  I think he has keeping himself reined in and cautious in reaction to the revelation and the complications it presents, but I also suspect that he has always sensed in his bones that there is a brother.

This transpires during the week that we are teaching our students to wash their hands correctly, singing “No virus for me…” instead of “Happy Birthday” to the tune.  We suspect that the schools will close.  When I hear the announcement on the radio I cheer.  I love teaching but we’ve had a particularly grueling couple weeks of testing and I am relieved for the paid vacation.  When I admit that I’m happily burrowed in at home my friends bristle.  I figure that there’s nothing that I can do but keep myself and those around me safe.  The virus is going to take its course and while the consequences might be harrowing, there’s nothing that I can do and no value in panic.  That said, we have discounted toilet paper on monthly delivery from Amazon and a full freezer.  Still, I regret that my communication with friends takes a less grave tone than is expected.

I write this, having missed only one of the nine weekly classes I ordinarily teach.  I’ve survived long lines at Sprout’s and Food4Less.  There is a list of things to get caught up on, like filing taxes and getting the car serviced.  I have two and half unread novels checked out from the now shuttered library.  Some edible marijuana is delivered.  The driver has trouble finding the house.  I flag her down.

“I should have known it would be that beautiful painted gate.”

“What, does it scream ‘Pothead?”’

“Yeah.”

My first few days of diminished social interaction are pleasant.  This will be a test however of how long I can be confined to quarters without suffering cabin fever.  Perhaps the advantage of this advanced age is having survived the AIDS plague and earthquakes and 9/11, I know that while there might be painful consequences, eventually the panic will subside, and memories will fade.  And the edibles will certainly help me keep chill until the headlines change.

Blah, Blah, Blah

My morning class is unchanged.  Attendance is sketchy and I feel like I’ve made little progress with the ladies.  I grow impatient with Isabel, the senior citizen, although she is the most regular attendee.  “No entiendo.”  No matter what worksheet I give her or question that I ask.  Oddly, she isn’t bad using the computer although I give her literacy materials which are less challenging than what I do with the rest of the class.

I face fifty new beginning ESL students in the evening.  All, with the exception of two Koreans, are Hispanic.  The evening class energizes me and after three years, I feel on the cusp of effectiveness.  I realize that students value routine. This iteration of an ESL1 class commences with the projection of a painting or photo to inspire some conversation.  Norman Rockwell is a big favorite.  The painting of the child watching the vet examine his dog. 

“Is the boy happy?” 

“No, is nervous.  He scared.”

What’s he wearing?”

“Blue jeans.  White and black shirt.”

“What’s that in his pocket? No idea?   It’s a handkerchief.”

(writes word on board-spelled incorrectly I see here now, thanks to spellcheck.  Glad it’s level 1.)

“Before there was Kleenex…”

(mimes blowing nose)

They drift in during the picture talk.  I wind up talking a bit about the artist and some of them copy the name into a notebook.  This is followed by a quiz.  I’ve been stricter about assigning homework this term.  They are assigned one or two pages from their workbook every night.  I write the assignment on the board and also text them a photo of the book with the page number.  I compose a short quiz, based very closely on the homework.  I correct this with a (I know unPC ) red pen and return the papers immediately after the break.  This, I hope is ameliorated by the crude happy face that I scribble on each one.  Every perfect paper (usually one or two, maximum is five) gets applause and a tiny candy bar. 

I like my textbook, which is digitally enhanced and includes a lot of things that they can do on their phones.  The worksheets are multi-level.  I let the students decide which ones they want although I give advice.  I hand the different worksheets to three students.  Each student has to approach the worksheet monitor.

 “Please Juana, I’d like an easy worksheet.”

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

While the questions vary in level of complexity, all of the student answer input is the same.  I project one of the blank sheets onto the board and pass out markers for students to write in answers.  We practice the sentences and paragraphs aloud, sometimes all together and sometimes in small groups or pairs.”

I am fortunate to be in the largest classroom in the school.  Most of us are in bungalows which make it impossible for students to sit around a table and work cooperatively.  One night each group is assigned a country and given a map.  They are to use their phones to find out the capital, language spoken and population and make a poster which includes a drawing of the flag.  I give them giant poster sized Post-Its, put out paste and markers and scissors. 

Each group presents their research to the rest of the class.  We practice saying numbers in the millions except for Greenland, which surprisingly has only 56,000 residents. The Italy group has written “Roma” instead of “Rome” and I bust them for ignoring my admonishment to switch their phones to English, at least during class.

Another night they have to introduce their groupmates to the class.

His name is Oswaldo.

He’s from Honduras.

His favorite color is purple.

His favorite food is Chinese.

He has four brothers and no sisters.

(Say “no” instead of “’zero’ brothers and sisters.”)

Three weeks in and I’ve already administered two mandatory tests.  This week we will be fulfilling our civics obligation, by preparing students for a badly designed test about The Census.  The Adult Division has Census madness.  We are given fat, badly designed teacher’s manuals and each student is given a fat, badly designed workbook.  The test itself is confusing and culminates with the teacher pretending to be a Census enumerator, using a script that’s provided.  One line of dialogue is “blah, blah, blah.”  The student is evaluated based on whether she is able to ask for clarification.  The tests are to be administered before the end of February and will likely be long forgotten by the students when they actually receive their Census forms in April.

It is important to assure the students that the Census results are confidential.  In these days when so many legal norms are being trashed, I hope that it’s truly the case.  I will teach them about counting and allotting and explain how public projects and services are funded and how legislative representation is determined by the Census.  We will have a Census kiosk on campus.  Instead of felling a forest to create crappy materials we could simply make sure that each of our students understand the rudiments and that all of their households are in compliance. The Census comes around every ten years.  It is available in every language under the sun.  The materials we’ve been provided would take months to teach and would unlikely result in much better test results.  I would rather spend my precious class time on more practical language objectives instead.

I’ve gotten Himself hooked on the video game style teaching platform called Kahoot, essentially a quiz that they can answer competitively on their phones.  Every class I’ve had adores these, but I can only manage one about once a week.  They take some time to design and also, there are always a couple of students who have trouble logging into the application, and I have to allow around 45 minutes for the whole shebang.  This week we are learning prepositions, so I use wacky animal pictures.  A cat, lounging in a shower cap with floating slices of cucumber is in the bathtub. The (pre PETA) elephant is on the box. The cat is under the chair.  One of the incorrect answer choices, “This cat is smarter than the teacher,” is selected by a couple of the students.

I still make them talk to me one-on-one every night before they leave. 

“What’s your favorite TV show? “

“Novelas.”

“News”

“Soccer”

“Dora the Explorer”

“The Big Bang Theory”

“David Attenborough’s Life on Earth”

Federico, from last semester is an aficionado of Narcos and Forensic Files.   I’m hoping that one of the new students might be as eager for the new seasons of both shows as I am.  Former student Jose has a sophisticated taste in music, and I’d like to know that he thinks about the new Thom York.  So far there’s been no special bonding this semester but as I steer them more and more towards self-discovery, I’ll do a bit of discovery myself and am likely to come up with some kindred spiritedness.

Himself and I are pretty much we are numb to all of our seething resentments.  I navigate around his dislike of social events and aversion to parting with even the slightest physical object.  He keeps his mouth shut about my smoking and general fussiness.  This week however there is a flash of spat and I am told, with genuine irritation, to give it a break with the election.  The optimism fomented by the mid-terms has worn off and despite my efforts to distract myself, except when teaching, I am always fretting about the coming election. In 2018 it felt like the nightmare would be over, come 2021, but I am despondent and panicked that this might not be the case.

As both children are all in-with money and sweat equity-for Bernie, to honor this, and their future, I’ve promised my vote.  And then regretted it.  And then didn’t regret it.  And then thought Amy Klobuchar might have what it takes.  But Mayor Pete is so nice to listen to and he’s got the Christian/veteran thing going.  And then Elizabeth Warren, Phoenix-like gets Bloomburg bullseye in the cajones.  Maybe we should just bite the bullet and go with Bloomberg’s money.  Perhaps Obama going all out for Biden will seal the deal.  “Who can win?  Who can win?” the ceaseless mantra. The aggregate of all of the negative things that every single candidate has done in her or his whole life pales in the light of a single day of the current White House resident’s malfeasance.

Given the prospect of four more years we do both agree that hightailing it requires serious consideration.  Ecuador.  We pour over ex-pat boards and videos.  Prices are low.  There’s good medical care.  We wouldn’t have to work so hard, if at all.  But, what about our kids?  Our friends?  Our pets?  Our stuff?  Consideration of the amount of effort required to effectuate the move to another country exhausts me, but the thought of continuing to watch my country descend further and further into cruelty and ignorance is unbearable. I wish Michelle Obama were running.

Glad Tidings

I am not leaving my home today.  There are a couple of gifts to pack and this piece that I’m writing now followed by a season of British Baking Show.  My teaching schedule changed radically in August.  I teach three different classes on a split shift.  There is other change afoot at the school.  Our courses are accelerated. Now, more than ever, we can’t accomplish much beyond teaching to the test.  We administer at least eight tests during the course of the semester.  Classes are cancelled for staff meetings.  Every class takes a field trip to the library, intended to be accompanied with classroom activities that also require a chunk of time. 

I return to school January 14. There will be two additional weeks of class and then a new semester will begin.  I will have to make the call about promoting students to the second level or making them go back to “Hello my name is Jose.  I’m from Nicaragua.” After determining who will go and who will stay,  I start with a new giant class and a long time till the weeklong spring break.  I have batteries for the remote and groceries in the fridge.  Usually I feel shiftless when a day is binge TV’ed away but today I feel less profligate.  Both kids will be in Portland.  I have promised not to watch the news and to read at least one book.  There are a couple of casual social events. That’s about it.

Because the semester for my evening class ends after we return, I discourage them from having a Christmas party.  There was no door decoration contest which is actually a relief, having had such harrowing experiences with prior competitions. The school collects food at Thanksgiving and toys before Christmas for charities.  My students fill a giant table with offerings.

Elvira is tiny and meek.  Her eyes dart when I speak to her.  She is wearing a white graphic hoodie.  Unfortunately, one of the graphics is “Fuck my enemy.”  I pull her aside. 

“Your shirt has a bad word.”

 “What is it?” 

“I can’t say it.”

“What does it mean?”

“’Chingar’”.  But way worse.”

“It was a present.”

“Not a very good present.”

 I bring in card stock and some washi tape.  The objective is to write your own name and address legibly.  Copy another student’s address.  Correctly address an envelope, make a greeting card, write a message (non-religious) inside the card.

We are divided into groups and managers are appointed to provide assistance and leadership.  Each group is given a folder with cards, envelopes, practice writing forms, scissors, 2 rolls of washi tape accompanied by step-by-step instructions with photographs.  Blanca, whose Halloween extravaganza was unrecognized, is disappointed that there is no Christmas door to create.  Her friend Flora, who works as a housekeeper at a downtown hotel, has had family problems lately and has missed a number of classes while traveling back and forth from Baja.  Blanca is recovering from a bout of bronchitis.  They ignore the written instructions and lose themselves.  Both create elaborate illustrations.  Torn away long enough to draw a name from the hat and correctly address an envelope to another student, at the mailbox, I notice that both of the girls have neglected to affix a stamp.

Sota and Yuki are missionaries from Japan.  They belong to the Hon-Micchi sect, which has a branch on Wilshire Blvd.  Half a dozen boys from the mission attend classes at our school.  There is very little information available about Hon-Micchi, except that it’s a doomsday group.  Some teachers at the school have been invited for “lunch” which turned into a big proselytizing effort which is described as “creepy.”  The Japanese boys, sit among other single guys in their twenties and there are lots of high fives and bro hugs.  There is an arm-wrestling match between Sota and a particularly fit Guatemalan construction worker.   String bean Sota holds his own for an astonishingly long time.  “No more Fight Club!” I admonish them.  The guys pepper Sota and Yuki with questions, sometime resorting to phone translations.  “Girlfriends?   Beer?   Marijuana?” “Stop it!” I yell.  “They’re good boys.  Missonarios!”

Sota and Yuki are absent the night we go to the library.  It is their only absence, so I assume there’s been some prohibition.  They score off the charts in all but the speaking tests, where they have difficulty.  Yuki brings in picture books from Disney movies.  I teach him the word “mermaid.”   After our non-Christmas party, the students file out.  “What do you want from Santa?” I demand.  Yuki says something unintelligible.  Finally, I make out “concert” and then “Frozen.”  “So, you want to see the live show of Frozen?” “Yes.  Yes.  Live show.  Frozen.” His smile is wistful.  We both know that he’ll not be going.

A couple of students want Iphone11s from Santa.  Benito says he’d settle for a 10 but also wants a car and a house.  Lots of them say, “Time with my family together.” For some, their immigration status makes this just about as likely as a house or car.  “World peace” is a popular selection.  Stella always wins at the Kahoot game and scores very high on all of the district tests.  She is goth-y.  Black everything.  Leather.  Ripped jeans. Jet black hair, Kabuki foundation, calligraphed eyebrows and the kind of nose-ring that makes me think of cows.  I make her help me take roll and pass out tests.  She’s keeps cool for most of the semester.  “Do I make you nervous Stella?”  “Yes.” We roll our eyes in unison. “Stella, what do you want from Santa?”  “A warm house for every dog in the world.”

My Saturday class is dinky anyway, but on the Saturday before Christmas, there are only five students.  I bring brownies and the students bring tamales and macaroons and soda.  We do some easy, fun lessons and show them a couple of videos of Jim Carrey doing Fire Marshall Bill.

There is one Korean, two Mexicans and two Salvadorans.  They talk about food and kids and more about food.

The morning class is also sparse.  A couple of retired attorneys from Colombia, Martin and Margarita have enrolled in my class.  They have five children in the U.S. and are spending six months her, visiting a daughter and a new granddaughter.  They’ve been on every continent.  I bring brownies on the last day before the break and make coffee and tea.  Sarah brings some salad, and Maria brings fresh handmade tortillas and a rotisserie chicken. 83 year old Isabel, who’s lived in L.A. for 30 years and had never been downtown, wraps her food with a napkin to take home.    It is the last class I’ll teach in 2019.  We sit around a little elementary school table and scoop food into cardboard trays that are used for the kids’ breakfasts.  We talk about kids and food and more about food.

I am so indolent that a week of inertia has passed since this is written.  Only two more weeks of vacation now.  I attend two gatherings of folks I’ve known since the kids were in nursery school.  Many of my peers are retired.  Kids are married and most are relatively financially independent.  We reminisce about carpools and playdates.  Driving permits.  College applications.  The packing up and shipping off.  The house full of college friends and giant batches of French toast and the washer running constantly. And packing up and shipping back a few times.  But now it is unlikely that we will share a common residence again.  They visit.  I visit. 

Students text me Christmas greetings. Mostly in correct English.  Many with God’s blessings.  I think sometimes that it would be nice to be retired but for a while I’ll just pretend retire on school breaks.  Solicitude is sweetened by long bouts of satisfying publicness. There will be a wistfulness a day or two before my return to school and I know that soon I’ll be counting the days until spring break. But back in my classroom there’s that same companionable feeling as when the house was filled with kids and the washer and dryer spun 24/7.