Mother to Child

We used to be a team, you and I.
We went everywhere together.
We got hungry at the same time.
We went to sleep at the same time, and we dreamt together, of each other.
You affected me deeply,
and you were completely dependent on me.

I just want you to remember this when you think that I don't understand you,
when you feel like we're distant,
when spending time with me is the last thing that you want to do.
We have a connection, and it's deeper than your friendships,
more profound than your music or books.

We used to be one. We are a team.

Fly

I've been stuck inside the house with this fly for two days now.
It entered--intruded--through the back door, and immediately we both regretted it.
And then, for the next 48 hours, where ever I went, so went the fly.
To the bread box.
To the bathrobe.
To the vanity.
It followed me into every room, every activity.
It watched me sleep.
And then, at the end of the second day, as I watched it slowly give way to lethargy,
its movements more and more delayed, its flight paths progressively more clumsy,
it followed me to the screen door, and together we went outside.

Morning

Hardwood underfoot
the east windows of the small house exude dim light.
the night is retreating slowly, sleep its faithful companion.
The kettle waits on the stove, and the mixture of tea, milk, and sugar greet me warmly.
Cool air streams through the window; moisture hovers in the yard.

It is time to turn off the porch light, the faithful night watch security guard.
It is time to peek out the window, to see if anything on the street has changed.
And when it hasn't, when everything is the same today as it was yesterday,
I turn on the radio, make a nice breakfast, and think about the world.

What A Difference A Day Makes

I'm a runner. That statement tends to carry immediate connotations spanning the spectrum from dedication and endurance to stubbornness and arrogance. Most runners, once they've adopted the label, will run through anything: injury, rain, snow, sickness. Running makes everything feel better, and once you're a runner, no other form of workout can satisfy.

Well, I found one thing that I can't run through: pregnancy. Within the first few weeks of growing this adorable parasite, I noticed that running takes too much out of me. Recovery from a simple six mile run took a day or two, and it just didn't feel good. Coincidently, about the same time I accidentally got pregnant, I also got a gym membership. At first I did the elliptical machine while listening to Pregtastic, the informative pregnancy podcast, but eventually the bonding hormones that are heightened during pregnancy led me over to the group classes. The variety of classes, and the chance to dance around for an hour somewhere else besides my living room and the Blues bar kept me coming back on a regular basis. The downside: one of the reasons that I like running so much is that it's on my own schedule, so, naturally, I find it quite challenging to make it through the door on time. (Add to this the fact that these classes start as much as 10-15 minutes late or early--gym clock, not mine.)

Yesterday I thought I was going to my first Zumba class, a cardio workout set to Latin beats. I rushed over to the gym and walked into the group workout room at 9:01 to find that Step class was already well underway, and it was packed. There was one spot left, in the front, right under the speaker. Trying to be flexible and up for anything, I set up my step and joined the workout. Everything went well for the first half of class. The moves that I had learned fifteen years prior while a teenage aerobics junkie paid off. But the steps got increasingly more complicated, the commands more vague, and under the blaring speaker, trying to distinguish what the instructor was saying and what that meant, I stumbled through the second half. It is important to note that I was indeed not the only one who was lost. About 80 percent of the crowded class of gym members were lost as well, and that made Doreen mad. It started with little comments about charging people extra for individual lessons, and progressed until, during a water break, I asked her apologetically if she would mind turning the music down a notch. She told me not to work out under the speaker. I apologized again, told her not to worry about it, and explained that since I was late, that was the only spot available. During the next sequence, she forgot to say a command and explained away her error saying that her mind was wandering, she was thinking about how "if you don't like the volume level, you shouldn't pick a spot under the speaker." She continued with comments about how she didn't understand how people couldn't keep up with her choreography, how she had kept it "simple" for the new people, and how the most important thing is "to have fun," and she should know because she "does this ten times a week." Many of us were trying our hardest, but from the vibe in the room, people were not having the fun she spoke of. I cried in my car.

I almost didn't go to a class the next day. It didn't seem worth the emotional turmoil. But, I wanted to try Zumba, so I drove to class 20 minutes early and waited for it to start (surprisingly on time). I introduced myself to the instructor, Glo, after she greeted me with with a hearty "Beunos dias! How are you doing this morning!? I just woke up and now I'm here and it's going to be a great day!" and asked her to include modifications for pregnancy. She warmly explained how she gave commands in the class, and a diverse mix of young and old gym members filed in. That's when the party started. Glo didn't do much talking during the songs, and when she did talk, she did so both in Spanish and English. Mostly she instructed through hand motions, then threw in extra spins and hip movements, waving her head around capriciously with a huge Latina smile. Everyone was into it: the old Chinese lady that I recognized from hip-hop class, the 12 year-old Hispanic girl and her mother, the intense workout divas, and the one other white girl. We were having the time of our lives, and Glo was our convivial, fearless leader. At the end of class, after we all cheered, she turned out the lights, put on "Boom-boom Pow," and told us that this was our personal dance party. She wasn't kidding. We stood in a circle and let loose, moving in whatever way we felt. She started a party line through the middle of the circle, and, one by one, each of us sported our dance moves in the dim light of the workout room, shouting and clapping, spinning and stomping, getting that boom-boom-boom. Afterward, when I was grabbing my purse, Glo came over to me and asked, "how did you do, mamcita?" I suppressed the urge to hug her as I thanked her for the workout.

Facebook Status

Rachel Schultz wishes husbands didn't have ex-girlfriends.

Rachel Schultz wishes husband(s) didn't have ex-girlfriend(s).

Rachel Schultz wishes her husband didn't have that ex-girlfriend.

If I sat down and made a list of my flaws, lack of follow through in relationships--I'll admit it, lack of loyalty--would be on it. I've half-attempted to analyze this in the past. Do I just not care? Am I really too busy? Do I have an out of sight, out of mind mentality? Is this the one area in my life that I've designated to laziness? In the end, I like to think that it comes down to this: I don't like to force things. If someone ignores me, I go away. Enter my husband's most recent ex-girlfriend, "What's Her Face" (I'm not being either mean or respectful by refusing to acknowledge that she has a name; her current title was recommended by my counselor).

Granted, the transition faze between their relationship and ours was quite short. They had just broken up a month or two before I moved in to the apartment complex where they had lived...together. Having met while she was on a two month trip, he returned to the complex a month later to ask me out. I understand that the breakup process can be long and emotional, but their rocky relationship had lasted less than two years. Regardless, I was more than hesitant to start dating him in the first place because of the sensitive geography and emotional baggage. I broke up with him a few months into our relationship when I found out that she had called wanting to know if there was even a glimmer of hope for them, and again a few months later because it seemed she was never going to leave the complex that he had left when they broke up. In weighing the issue, however, it never seemed best to write him off for good, and, in less than two years, we were married. Take that, bitch.

Blame my upbringing or history of acceptance issues: I've always struggled with the idea of What's Her Face. And it didn't help that she popped up every now and then, calling him to ask why he picked me over her, what's wrong with her, why did she waste her time on him. Being a loyal, perhaps overly nurturing, and sensitive guy, my husband accepted her calls and tried to make her feel better about their breakup. The climax came when she called him sobbing (from Vietnam) the day after we got engaged. Wasn't he ever attracted to her? He sent her an email to make her feel better, being at the time a stupid man panicking over causing heartbreak. When I found it ten months later, I nearly left him. Knowing that he was on incredibly thin ice, he sent her an email requesting to "cut off all ties" and assured me that he'd never hear from her again.

If you so much as look at me the wrong way, odds are I won't come around again. This girl seemed to be my polar opposite, and I couldn't trust her any more than I could forget my husband's simple email password. I don't consider myself much of a meddler, but at this point in the saga, I figure I have full rights to all incoming information. So I checked his inbox from time to time. I know, this is petty and pestilent, but it felt in some ways like my right--my duty--to protect what's mine.

And sure enough, six months after the "break the ties" email was sent, she dropped a note to say hello. "It's weird we're not friends anymore...with all the promises to 'always be there for each other.'" It was reminiscent of a high school yearbook. The manipulative comments made my heart pound and stomach drop for about nine seconds, and then I got over it. (OK, OK, so the fact that I'm blogging passionately about it shows that I'm not, but...) In a way, seeing that this girl just doesn't know when to take a hint (or a blatant request to never hear from her again) restored some of my trust in my husband. If a guy that dumped you over three years ago never initiated contact with you, got married, and asked (nicely) to never hear from you again, what would you do? I'd take my cue at the break-up, no matter how consoling and encouraging his words were. Perhaps his recent appearance on Facebook sparked her insatiable need to annoy people who are ignoring her. "We want to make sure that you are, in fact, friends." Indeed, we're not.

The Ballad of Ginny Brown

Ginny Brown traveled down from her northern town to visit her sister
Before she became Ginny Brown.
She had been Ginny Giess, a tall Union girl, nice,
Who feared that she'd never marry.

But that wasn't true, for out of the blue appeared Brownie Brown (from a southern town)
Who saw Ginny Geiss as his future wife.
He dropped to one knee on date number three
And the Lieutenant's proposal was answered with glee.

And in the next breath, not parting 'til death
nice Ginny Giess, now Ginny Brown, stood waving goodbye to the sea.
She cried and she cried, with baby inside, and watched Brownie sail off to the war.
Then the bullet that grazed his helmet and temple

Knocked dear Ginny over and then broke her water, and Cathy Virginia came into the world,
A beautiful baby daughter, halfway 'round it from Lieutenant Brown, her eager and affable father.
Eleven months later they welcomed him home and continued to grow their family,
And the United States Army sent the Browns to live across the sea.

Cathy and Collie and Latham the Junior learned to say "bonjour," "aloha," and "hi,"
And nice Ginny Geiss, who was now mother Brown made homes out of houses, all kinds.
The sound of piano and yodeling and laughter, the smell of baked goods, suppers and plaster,
Filled the air of the compound, chateaus and apartment, up into every rafter.

Now when Brownie Brown, who since became General, retired to the north side of Indy,
Nice Ginny Geiss, now Ginny Brown, began to sell homes for a fee.
The business grew as her family had grown, she kept house and threw parties
And made her name known

As Grandma and Realtor and woman of the town Ginny Brown,
Who came from the north to visit her sister
And met Brownie Brown who asked that she join him
On his journey through life to watch her blossom from the nice Ginny Geiss into the renown Ginny Brown.

Cut Pig

A few months ago I took my Advanced Freshman English class through a WRITING PROMPT MARATHON. We wrote to a prompt a day outside of class, and then graded and discussed them in the class the following day, one a day for the entire week. (I firmly believe that teachers should do the assignments that we create; one can always use more empathy.) I knew that for this to work I would need total buy-in, so I threatened them: no essay equals a trip to the discipline office. This would be fleeting for seventy percent of the student population, but it produced a host of fearful gasps from this crowd.

Day one ushered in, and the students pulled out their essays: Jesus? Yes. Yovanna? Yes. Jennifer? Yes. Edeiba? Yes. Chai? Yes. Chris? No. Gulp. Christopher Vue. Short, awkward, dubious Chris looked up at me with slightly despondent, slightly fearful eyes: "I didn't do it."

I resolved to remain as stoic as possible. I was trying to prove a point, after all. "OK, Chris. You know what that means," I replied.

I bided my time and guided the students through the grading process before I filled out the referral and called the "Batphone" for a hall monitor. The Discipline office felt that it was rather late in the period to pick up a student. No, I thought. I have to have follow through or they'll find out that most of my threats are empty. I looked up and saw the scariest Vice Principal on campus walk by. Jackpot. I knew he'd play along.

"It's fine," I said through the phone, "I see Peterson walking by. I'll just grab him." Terror filled Chris's eyes and radiated throughout the room. I hung up the phone and started walking toward the door. "You'd better have a really good excuse," I said to Chris in a dramatic tone.

Chris squirmed and cleared his throat. "Well, it's just...um...the people came and my dad said cut pig."

I looked at him squarely. "Your dad said cut pig?" I asked, flatly. "Really? You had to cut pig last night?"

"Yes." He wasn't lying.

"Excused," I said. "But you better have it by tomorrow." Chris breathed a massive sigh of relief, and finally, another student entered the tense conversation with "Dude, cut pig. That take like three hour."

---

Yesterday the same class turned in a portfolio project on the novel, _Bless Me, Ultima_. One section of the portfolio was a theme study on coming of age traditions. Here is an excerpt from You's portfolio, unedited:

In the hmong cultural way of coming of age is when the son or boy is cutting pig. Cuttin pig is an important role in the way of hmong cultural way of growing up because it give the family a good name. Cutting pig need to be learn because it is use in marriage to show your mature and not a child anymore. Cutting pig is shown in coming of age because it shows others you're not just some lame kids who don't know how to do anything but a kid who is given respect because of this. This is a major role in the hmong boys way of growing up because it is used basically every year. Another thing in the hmong culture that shows growing up is when a son is ready and is mature enough to learn a ritual saying. This ritual saying is a big part in hmong cultural life because it is used to feed the dead to bring good luck for a new year, and bring back spirits that are lost. This saying can only tell to the son only if he is ready to start a life on his own...as for me, growing up to take my family tradition is difficult because I could barely cut pig.

---
Three days after the cut pig incident in first period, Xi from fifth period wanted to ask me a question. There were two minutes left in class and deep concern in his eyes, so I sat down in the desk next to him. "Sure. What's going on?"

"Never mind," he said, and shifted in his chair. His brow was furrowed.

"Is everything all right?" I asked. The class was looking at us querulously.

"Oh, no, I'll ask you later."

"OK, but now how have me curious," I said lightly.

"Well...it's just...what happens when you see water...and you don't listen...and then something happens. What happens?" He looked at me with desperation, but also with a bit of relief.
I sat there for a moment. "You see water."

"Yes."

"Like, real water?"

"No. It's like in your mind."

"OK, do you see real water in your mind, or is it a symbol for something?"

"It's a symbol," he said, and another student piped in with the Hmong word for it. "It's an emotion," Xi said.

"But not crying or anything, right?"

"Right."

The bell rang. "I'll think about it. Hang in there, Xi."

Over the next few days, I ran an informal survey with Hmong teens and adults, asking them what it means to "see water." Only a few were familiar with the term, and their reactions were strong: "He need to see Shaman right away! Something bad gonna happen to him!"
I caught up with Xi a few days later, and the look on his face was tranquil again. "How are you?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm much better," he said. I talked to my mom when I got home, and she said that if something happens it happens, but I shouldn't worry about it."

"That's good advice," I said. "Does your family go to a Shaman?" I asked. Not all Hmong families see Shamans; some have converted to Christianity or Mormonism. Some do both.

" No," he said. "My dad's old enough to have his own ancestors."

"So, your dad does your ceremonies?"

"Yeah, and I'm learning how to assist him, but it's a lot to memorize."

---

A Day in the Life

I teach high school English. This simple, declarative sentence has a myriad of meanings. Here's what mine entails:

Friday, March 27:

5am: Wake up and go for a run. If I don't run now, 1) I'll be a step behind my students, not a step ahead of them, and 2) I'm so exhausted at the end of a day that I risk not going at all, which points back to reason 1.

620m: Make tea and check email. There are already five or six emails from my tremulous Freshman Nine Advanced students, concerned about the project that's due today.

630am: Shower, do hair, makeup, and try to find an outfit that will be comfortable, professional, and cleavage/midriff proof.

730ish: Arrive (later than I like) to school. Ms. Brumbaugh needs me to do her hair, and I’m already fielding questions and phone calls from teachers.

Today’s agenda is pretty laid back since all of my students have completed culminating projects this week. All we need to do is take a vocab test, collect weekly work that I didn’t collect during the week (I was out at the training for two days), and put finishing touches on / reflect on the projects. Add to that the following items, and you’ll see why I drink.

First Period

-Adam's printer ran out of ink and his family can't afford more. There are about six more stories identical to this, plus a handful of students who have funerals and other cultural obligations, which will take up all of their time for the next three days. I farm out the students who still need a computer / printer, and pray that it won’t take the computers 20 minutes to log on like it did last time. I help students put report covers on their portfolios and listen to them whine about how much work it was. Most of them had several 3am nights getting this done.

Second Period

-On my way to my formal evaluation with the vice principal, I run into the IB Spanish teacher, who wants to talk about my SLC’s direction for IB Languages. We chat for a while, and I walk away, adding to more items to my mental list of long-term goals.

-My formal eval takes up the rest of second period, which is meant to be my prep period. He wants me to write up a training plan to share with the rest of the staff for my goal sheets. I wonder when I’ll have time for this.

Third and Fourth Period

-Eleventh grade assessments are due, and several students were absent yesterday when we took them, so they need to be set up for the test. Also, I thought it would be great for them to evaluate their own assessments, so I copied them (I’m not exactly sure if that’s legal) and gave them rubrics to score their own. The only problem is that I didn’t write their names on them (I had a good reason for it at the time), and now sixteen year olds are trying to identify their own handwriting—a formidable task, it turns out.

Lunch

-The French teacher has assigned a project which interferes with Monday's field trip, which I've already purchased non-refundable tickets for. This results in a passing period chat, a few emails, and a visit with the involved students during lunch.

-Because of budget cuts, many of the program directors are losing a prep period, which creates a need that my principal seems to think that I can fill, which creates a need in my SLC for some of the Lead tasks. I think of a teacher and run it by him, which results in scads of questions and phone calls. He wants to know the status of things, so I run out the quad to talk to the principal about things after meeting with the math teacher. There goes eating.

-Lucy the Giant Tongan might not graduate. She doesn't really care because she's planning to move to Tonga anyhow, but we're trying everything we can to get her to class on most days. The latest plan is that she goes to my room at the end of lunch and I walk her to fifth period. She doesn't show today, and I don't realize it until 3am--yes, I wake up in the middle of the night and worry about how I didn't walk Lucy with her frizzy hair, gold teeth, and hearing aides to her second time through English 11.

Fifth Period

-The Seniors just found out about a scholarship and are scurrying to get things in on time. They think it’s easier to walk to my class to ask for a transcript (while I’m teaching, no less) than to go ask the counselor all the way up in the A wing.

-My students are editing Mr. Ferlazzo's students' essays, and he wants to know when we'll be ready, but my students are busy trying to turn in a fifteen page report and I'll be out on Monday. He wants to get together before the break, preferably Tuesday, and he's asking me all of this during passing period. I collect the reports that are completed, and get my students started on editing the essays. They grow frustrated with the confusing sentences and paragraphs, and, I look at them knowingly.

Sixth Period

-I have to go to the train station TODAY to pick up the tickets that I have reserved for the field trip on Monday. I do this during sixth period, and manage to snag a sandwich and scarf down my first substantial meal of the day while walking briskly back to my car.

-When I get back to school from the train station, there's a new student folder in my box. It's Pedro, who ran amok on campus last year, and apparently flunked out of Pleasant Grove High. I call home after making his schedule and give him a lecture about making this a "clean start."

After School

-We have a Lead Teacher meeting after school today to discuss the Master Schedule. Since I just became Lead I’ve never done this before, and now have to make decisions about Math blocks and new courses.

-On Friday I reset my seating chart, and in this case I have to type in all of my students' names into the document. I call Dennishia’s mom because of her excessive absences, which her mom apparently knew nothing about.

-Friday is vocab quiz day, but I had been out two days at a training for the new scheduling system, so I also hadn't collected the vocab sentences or the goal sheets, both of which the students take strangely seriously. This means I have to grade and enter goal sheets, vocab, quizzes and weekly participation into my grade book, not to mention all of the late work that students desperately dropped off (because I'm a SOFTY!). All of this absolutely has to be done today because my students receive updated grades every Monday. Since I'll be on the field trip on Monday, I can't do this before school. This leads me to the next issue.

-I have to have 1) my room spotless and organized and 2) a fool proof sub plan printed and ready to go for Monday, including updated grades and copies of articles for the lessons.

6:45pm

-I finally leave class with dry erase marker residue all over my hands, and call my husband back (by now he’s been trying to get a hold of my for a while). All I can say is that I’m exhausted…

Baby

Lately, when I look at people, I can't help but think: how did your mother manage her pregnancy?

Did she drink caffine? How much weight did she gain? Was she given to drink? I went off of birth control a few weeks ago, not because I want to have a baby, but because I don't want to be hormone-ized. I want my body to go through natural shifts and changes. After a handful of sobbing breakdowns (one at work, no less), my body has adjusted back. So I gave up coffee. I mean, what if I do get pregnant? And what about alcohol? I surely can't drink that if I might somehow get pregnant. Sometimes I think, this can't be what every "unprotected" woman goes through. Then again, most women don't drink a daily ration of wine and coffee. 

When

will you be home and

where exactly 

is it?

why does the rain make it smell both

musty and clean, and age bring rot and charm?

this old neighborhood is full of cracks

on the sidewalks and the foundations of its houses, yet

young couples dream of staking

their claim next to the elderly who can no longer maintain

what they've possessed for two or three generations.

half of the houses on this block are being renivated

but the trick is to also maintain the house's original charm.

gut the rotting wood, save the facade.

the woman with cotton candy hair and small dusty figurines in the window

is building a ramp to the door of her azure house three doors down.

through her dingy curtains i watch her watch

her daily shows: the price is right, jeopardy.

and for me the jeopardy lies in the question made out of the title.

what is the price of all this

and how does it go from a thirty year fixed loan

that only white people can secure

to home?