Archive | Perspective RSS feed for this section

“That’s the story we’re going to tell”

3 Jul

In the season six finale of Mad Men, Don Draper is making a pitch to Hershey executives that the chocolate bar is synonymous with affection. He threads a familiar yarn about his middle class father who rewarded his yard-mowing with a Hershey bar.

“That’s the story we’re going to tell,” he tells the executives with authority.

Don Draper is always in control of the story. He’s spent his whole life creating that narrative. His career in advertising was built on telling the story people want to hear.

Only it’s not real. It’s a fabrication that tastes like the rush of sugar candy. After the initial buzz, all you can taste are the artificial flavors. After too many Pixy Stix, you feel sick and full of regret.

Draper didn’t have the stomach to control the campaign anymore. He interrupts the satisfied executives with the truth that he was an orphan raised in a whorehouse. He ends his anecdote explaining that the Hershey bar was “the only sweet thing in my life.”

*******

Today the art of professional branding has crossed over into our personal lives thanks to social media. We think we’re in control of the narrative because we craft it so carefully, but is what we’re saying true?

After spending two weeks with journalism advisers as an Association of News Editors (ASNE) fellow in Austin, Texas, I was reminded how much of journalism is listening. The talking heads and hyper-posters seem to miss this. The older I get, and the more experience I have, the less I feel I should talk. This works against my extroverted talky-talky nature. I had to work at this. What is natural for me is listening to people’s stories. But the writer in me needs to write it down.

[The] facts can obscure the truth, what it really felt like.

                                                       ********

That’s what I write. What it really is like. I’m just telling a very simple story.

Maya Angelou

In April, I started interviewing people for a personal project on community. I’ve been transcribing these interviews into my Moleskin and trying to decipher them for patterns. This project is a long-game. I don’t know what will come of it, but it’s fascinating to hear people’s tales; I’ve learned more than can be articulated clearly yet. The most important thing this project has done so far is invigorate my love for interviewing and storytelling in general. I am interviewing to understand.

People are relieved to tell their story if they think you want to hear it. I find most people don’t think their story is important or that it’s relevant. Others worry that the truth sounds bad. They’re afraid to say it.

Don Draper’s confession comes at the crux of his own alcoholic breakdown. It took him completely losing control of his own contrived identity to create an honest moment. It was as hard for him to tell as it was for his audience to hear. But never has an audience felt more about a Hershey bar than in that moment. The story told itself precisely because Draper let go of the reigns.

The question then becomes how do you let go? From a journalistic perspective, you can’t have an agenda. You have to listen. If you think you know the story before the interview, you’ll miss the best stuff. My favorite interviews have been with people I didn’t know well, or in some cases had just met. This means the comfort level isn’t there to facilitate free conversation. It forced me to listen deeper. What are they not saying? What do they want to say but are afraid to? What do they need permission to say?

My personal interviews are purely for research and I won’t be citing people specifically in whatever I write in the future. Even in that anonymous context, people still hesitate. Sometimes they feel like they have to make excuses for how they feel. The hardest thing for a person to do is just speak the truth. That’s why stand-up comedians are so important to our culture. The good ones stand up in front of large crowds and say it straight. That’s their selling point. We laugh because we can’t do that. When they hit that nerve we’re relieved.

“She said it so I don’t have to.”

I’m a fairly open person now, but I grew up an incredibly private one. Most of my real thoughts were never spoken aloud. I imagine that’s true of many of the young people I teach. What is not said keeps me up at night.

This is why I’m excited to advise my school’s newspaper next year. I want my staff to tell the real stories of our school. Not the sanitized versions, not the two-minute interview snapshots. The stories that first make people uncomfortable, but eventually help them understand.

One of the first things one of my colleagues said on the first day of the ASNE institute in Austin was “Students aren’t looking for more information. They’re looking for more ways to connect.”

In that moment I knew I didn’t have to change into some kind of Twitter-happy news hound to advise the newspaper. I could be myself and help the kids tell honest stories. As a young yearbook adviser, I didn’t have the perspective I do now. I was more concerned with not offending people, and pleasing everyone in the school. I’m sure I missed many chances to connect because I saw the book as a publicity tool instead of communication tool.

Stunned by Draper’s childhood admission, one of the Hershey executives asks, “Do you want to advertise that?”

Draper responds, “If I had my way, you would never advertise. You shouldn’t have someone like me telling that boy what a Hershey bar is. He already knows.”

We all know. We just need to see it in print.

 

Show your shame

12 May

The other morning my car wouldn’t start, so I had to take my husband’s to work. He winced when he offered me the car.

“It’s the worst it’s ever been.”

I didn’t have time to worry about that, so I climbed into the front seat, shoved a board out of the way and hooked the handle of my coffee mug onto the butterfly net riding shotgun with me. I clicked on NPR and ignored the empty Powerade bottles and gym shorts with the tags still on them next to me. Before I exited the car and headed into school, I glanced into the back seat to find a halogen light, rubbermaid containers filled with rolled up strips of cardboard, a beekeeper’s veil, and a 4 x 250 ft roll of laminating plastic. I didn’t even open the trunk, but it was filled with at least two dozen coconuts. photo(5)

Later in the morning I received the following text:

“After seeing my car at its worst, do you still want to be married to me?”

My husband was horrified that I’d seen his shame. It’s the same reason he gets uncomfortable if I walk on his side of the bed because it means I might trip on clothes, comic books, empty boxes, a suitcase, or general trash.

The only difference between his shame and mine is that I keep mine off the floor. I prefer to put it in a closet or on top of a dresser.

This whole anecdote got me thinking. Everyone needs a corner of shame. No matter how much we gloss up the outside to look organized and healthy, our humanness dictates that we allow ourselves a place for disgrace. A place we pray no one will accidentally discover. Because if we know they’re coming, we’re going to clean it up first.

What we present to the outside world is often not our complete truth. But we write it as if it were. The internet is full of “how to live your best life!” advice and tutorials. The mecca of these places is Pinterest. If you’re not DIY-ing your sugar-free life of quinoa recipes while doing squats on your Chevron-print rug, you’re not really living.

DIY Burlap Wreath!

#Eat Clean

#Abs

Homemade gluten-free bagels!!

How to organize your jewelry with wine corks.

DIY Toddler Adirondack chair with Anchor Decal (adult version comes with wine holders!)

DIY Mason Jar Herb Garden

I am not against any of these things separately, but when presented all together as prescriptions for living “happier and healthier,” I carve out a space to eat Cheez-its and watch Oprah in protest. Pinterest has upped stress in the lives of many, but I still find it useful for ideas I turn into reality, especially recipes and home improvement inspiration. The key is to focus on the things you want in your life, not the things other people want.

This is difficult because people present these options as all-or-nothing propositions. You’re either eating clean or eating dirty. Fit or lazy. Crafty and DIY or unskilled and materialistic. Organic parents or mainstream parents. They forget it’s possible to be both at different times. I think it’s because we try to convince ourselves by convincing others.

In my quest for the best workout routine, I’ve found the path of least resistance has been the easiest to maintain. The go hard-or-go-home approach is only sustainable for so long. For periods of time in my life, I’ve exercised and lifted weights obsessively; I’ve become a regular runner; I’ve taken three exercise classes in one day. I could not be stopped. Until I stopped completely. Which happened every time.

Now I’m at a period in my life where I feel like I’m doing the least amount of regular exercise, but I’ve been able to maintain the same weight the best this way. I take a weight and cardio class at least once a week, I started doing push-ups every day, and I cook healthy meals. I walk/bike/run to supplement but it’s in moderate amounts. We use our rare night of eating out to indulge in more high-calorie foods, and we eat dessert more than I ever have in my life. Small amounts at a time, but more frequently. My next feat is to work this kind of manageable routine into my job and my writing life.

While I understand the need to present our best selves publicly, I respect people more who aren’t afraid to show their corner of  shame. Or they’re terrified but go through with it in order to better themselves. I am working to develop this type of openness as I’m less and less interested in looking good and more interested in feeling good and actually being good at something.

When I moved out of my house in Richmond, I was horrified for people to see my “room of shame” upstairs. After two friends helped me start to clear it out, I felt more motivated to cipher through the rest of the house. By showing them my shame, it removed the stigma and I was able to move forward. Me seeing my husband’s car motivated him to clean it out and get the air-conditioning fixed just a week later.

I’ve been mulling over this post for the past couple of weeks (and not writing it), then today I watched a Creative Mornings talk author Austin Kleon gave in Austin, Texas. His talk is about showing your work online instead of waiting until the perfect finished product is unveiled. His talk is about honesty in the creative process. His talk is very similar to what I wanted to write this post about. He has an insanely bigger internet audience than I do, but I like to think my emphasis on shame over work makes this unique?

For the past few weeks, I’ve been interviewing people about their transitions in life, and by slowly understanding how people overcome obstacles, be they self-inflicted or outwardly-inflicted, I’m getting a deeper understanding of how to actually cut away what you don’t want in your life.

I believe you have to cut away to create.

You can’t create anything while hiding in your corner of shame.

Craftlandia

27 Mar

Back in early February, I attended a Buckler Craft Fair in Fort Lauderdale. These fairs are held all over Florida; this particular one was held in the same space as the orchid show Aaron and I went to in January. A few weeks later there was a gun and knife show there. Very different vibe.

I admit, I ventured into Craftlandia ironically. I even convinced my friend to join me because I needed back-up in case they could sniff me out as an imposter. I thought I might need craft cred. Would I have to show a glue gun upon entry? Was there a crochet test? Entry with children in hand-stitched garments required? Mandatory glitter donations?

I walked into the War Memorial Auditorium a professional noncrafter and it felt like that was cross-stitched on my forehead.

Then I started to walk through the exhibits and realized Buckler held a loose definition of the word “craft.”

Bedazzled

IMGP0022

So much to take in.

And the award for Best Bedazzled Tee goes to…

IMGP0019

And so began the “crafts” devoted to whimsical alcoholism.

This one just made me mad.IMGP0040

$5.00 for a poorly painted sign about drunkenness and denial? Is this your idea of custom home decor, Buckler? This is your woodworking?

I tried to move on, but there was this.

IMGP0042 I get that the manatee is supposed to be sad because the boats are making wake and he’s grumpy about it, but after walking a day in his flip flops, I think he needs a margarita. I hear it’s happy hour somewhere.

I feel like this is what outsiders think of Florida: cheap and drunk. On a podcast once, Michael Ian Black described Florida as full of people who’ve “given up.”

I get it. There are those people here, roasting themselves on the boardwalk…becoming beach “lifers” in the way of the older, cynical members of a chain restaurant wait staff. Vacations are meant to be temporary, and when your lifestyle is permanent relaxation, it gives you the illusion of bliss without any of the heart to back it up.

When I worked at the Olive Garden at age 21, I met lifers who never meant for a temporary job to turn into their career. I found myself trying to win over the 45-year old, grizzled veteran who reminded me constantly that I was in her way. She snapped at everyone, and I never saw her smile. It wasn’t until I crashed an entire tray of dishes onto the floor in the middle of the dining room and then amidst seconds of silence, stood up and took a bow, that she ever acknowledged me as a human. Her face lit up and she ran over to tell me that I handled that disaster in the best way possible. She smiled at me plenty after that.

I had a similar experience at the beach yesterday. I was unlocking my bike next to an orange man who wore the small black swim trunks and weathered skin of a lifer, and in my quick judgment, the pointed gaze of a creepy old man. As I mounted my cruiser to ride away, he smiled at me and said “and you’re off again!” His lighthearted tone encouraged me to smile. “Have a great ride,” he called as I pedaled away. Instantly he morphed in my eyes from creeper to sweet retiree who’s earned his beach bliss.

We pass out judgment like candy on Halloween. It’s an obligation to make ourselves feel better. I walked into the craft fair a noncrafter, so naturally I spent the majority of my time feeling better than everyone else.

“I’m a little bit country”

IMGP0029

Look, I’m from a small town in Virginia. My family is from southwest Virginia, which is even more “country” than where I grew up. Biscuits were part of life, but no one real has ever said this. And if they did, they read it on this sign.

Also according to this vignette country people “Cherish the Simple Things.” Like Santa Claus riding a rooster while hoisting the American flag.

And for further exploitation I bring you the following, sponsored by Comic Sans:IMGP0024

Look carefully, bet you can’t see me. IMGP0046

At this point, I told my native South Floridian friend we needed to seek refuge from stereotypes. I found the one place I am relatively snark-free: children’s hairbows. IMGP0032

I dare you to deny the cuteness of handmade hedgehogs and turtles. I bought these for our littlest nieces. They don’t know yet, so shhhh. Actually they can’t read yet, so it’s probably fine to reveal their gifts on the internet.IMGP0061

Fear the frame man

And now comes the portion of the post where I break a craft man’s rules.

Despite the darkness of the War Memorial Auditorium (as demonstrated by poor picture quality), no one objected to me (or other patrons) photographing the items for sale. I snapped photo after photo without so much as a “please don’t do that.”

My friend and I were looking at a series of framed prints. They were of animals, people, patriotic images, famous quotes, etc., but nothing out of the ordinary. No original art to protect here. We came upon this print and I snapped a photo:IMGP0052

My friend then took a picture with her phone thinking she might ask her formerly cat-hating friend who now has four cats if she’d like this. At this moment the craft man emerged from behind the frame wall and demanded that she delete the photo. He pointed frantically to a tiny sign we had missed with a camera and the “no” sign. I apologized and told him we’d missed the sign. Instead of being gracious, he hovered over my friend’s camera until she deleted the photo. He was aggressive and rude to a potential customer. She was considering buying the print and he’d now missed a sale.

Vengeance is ours, frame man. I shall post this crappy photo on the internet for ALL TO SEE!

So feel free to spread this as an example of how not to keep customers.

The Golden Girls

Finally my heart was softened again after meeting two retirees who sold banana bread. They’ve been doing it since 2010.  These Palm Beach ladies had labeled samples, aprons, signs, and enthusiasm. IMGP0049

Banana Nut Heads, LLC’s secret is the nut crust on the top. They have varieties of bread involving cranberry, apple, orange, and the like. I can attest it was delicious and bought a loaf.

The best part of their story is these two friends thought of this idea while having lunch together every day. If you choose the right people to hang out with and talk to them about your crazy ideas, you might just inspire each other to action.

It was a reminder of the other stereotype of Florida: 55+ communities. Seeing these ladies proves that these seniors haven’t given up; they just got tired of being cold. It’s never too late to make a dream happen.

And to close, I’d like to present you this final treasure of the craft fair: IMGP0037

2012 was a year of lies

20 Feb

In third grade it was clear I was a procrastinator. Not only did I get my first C because I put off learning math, but I stayed up later than my parents NOT doing my homework. I was working on a research project on President Nixon one night that year when my dad tried to rescue me. I can still picture him standing over my white desk (that also flipped up into a high chair) trying to explain Watergate to me. I looked up at him, nodding, my mind fixated on the opposite of wiretaps. Eventually, I created a collage of Nixon’s presidency using rubber cement. It LOOKED great, but I doubt I was clear that Watergate was the name of the hotel.

Patching problems became my second nature, and so began my long-practiced craft of applying band-aids to temporarily fix situations. Once the pain stopped, I rarely took the time to heal the faulty process that led to the wounds. It’s much easier to buy more band-aids. This carried into the smallest behaviors of my life:

I bought new underwear instead of going to the laundromat.

When I couldn’t decide what groceries to buy for dinner, I got take out or had many sad “whatever is in the fridge meals.” The worst of which was green beans with onions. Raw onions.

I put off dealing with the reality of a relationship for years too tedious to count.

I moved the same unpacked boxes from apartment to apartment to house.

(Try not to trip over that baggage metaphor.)

I just kept purchasing those beige, adhesive warriors in bulk at 24-hour pharmacies.

I’m not too hard on myself now because I know this is not unusual: patching the surface to get by is more the norm than the exception. (Lie #1 I told myself.)

Something about moving to Florida and getting distance from the usual comforts forced me to take more action on the root of things instead of patching the side effects. Someone very close to me participates in a 12-step program, and while I don’t need the program for addictions, the tenets have proved helpful in my own search to live life more deliberately and less reactionary.

Lie #2: I don’t have my shit together enough to cook real meals every night.

This  turned out to be a true lie. At my most organized, I cooked maybe three times a week. That merited celebration; mostly, I considered myself a food-preparer. Or a taker-outer. Or a throw-a-party-to-inspire-cooking-er.

I wanted to cook at home because I knew it was healthier, less expensive, and more satisfying than the-dinner-less-planned.

Inspired by my sister who preps and shops for her family of five on the weekends, I vowed to do the same. We are two people with a cat: it’s a little embarrassing if we can’t figure this out.

In order to be a person who cooks every night, I had to learn to be a person who plans to cook every night. This meant sitting down every weekend and churning those collected recipes on Pinterest into a menu, and transforming that menu into a grocery list. Going to the grocery store only once a week meant we couldn’t talk ourselves out of cooking because everything we needed was right there in our refrigerator.

Also, once a week? At our old apartment, people at our local Publix started to know us because either Aaron or I was there every.single.day. Meal planning  equaled phone calls after work to each other asking who was going to deal with that mess?

Now we cook 5-6 nights a week, save money, and wear smaller pants.

Issues of frugality and health aside, cooking is creating. By doing it regularly, I experiment with ingredients I’ve never used, and methods that once intimidated me. I’m on month seven of being a cooker, and I love the process as much as the end result.  But there are times I hate it and it feels like work, just like writing. I used to wait until I was inspired to cook; now I do it as habit.

Since no one is asking me to write, I have to boss myself around.

Note to self: I am stubborn and refuse to listen.

Truth of 2013: Inspiration is temporary; write at least a paragraph every day.

Lie #3: I want to run a half marathon.

My college roommate and her fiance traveled down here to run a half marathon this past weekend so I thought maybe it was a sign that I was ready go from 6.2 miles to 13.1. One of my colleagues and neighbors is a long-distance runner and was even willing to help me train. But it was still an “I want to want to run 13 miles” situation. I threw myself into the process for weeks at times, then I took breaks and had to restart again. My last push came during my winter break from school and the week afterwards. I ran in Virginia in 20-degree temps, undaunted. I returned to run in Florida at 80 degrees in full sun with humidity, and motivation started to wane. Then I got sick for 7+ days and it was over. There just wasn’t time to want the things I didn’t really want to begin with.

Wanting what other people want never works. Actually, working towards something you think you want never works either.  I wanted to run two 10K’s, and I ran them, the second one faster than the first. Eventually, I might want to run a half marathon. That time is not now; it’s fine.

My 30’s have been a decade of learning the difference between what I want and what I think I should want. The difference between what fulfills me and what fulfills other people.  Running for longer than an hour at a time does not complete me.

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”

–Theodore Roosevelt

Truth of  2013: Run at least once a week, even when I don’t want to.

Lie #4: Self-discipline is a breakthrough, not a long-term battle.

This lie screamed the loudest. My procrastination habits had always crippled me without deadlines. Too often I allow distractions to shift my focus; it’s a lifelong battle to manage them. In 2012, I imitated a home DIY-er, an amateur sous chef, a real runner, a regular reader and writer, and a motivated teacher who grades essays in a timely fashion.

Home projects accomplished in 2013: Zero.

Miles run in 2013: 20 in one week then a steady zero.

Meals cooked in 2013: 35 (The system works!)

Books read in 2013: Zero.

Blogs/articles/podcasts/animal videos that distracted me from reading books in 2013: ALL OF THEM.

Oscar-nominated films seen in 2013: Three.

Papers graded in 2013: 3.14156 per hour over the square root of it never ends.

Finished pieces of writing: Zero. Not even this blog post started in 2012.

Pieces of writing worth your time: Zero (see # of books read in 2013).

Muses are fickle so I have find a way to freedom through self-flagellation. And so ends my mid-February New Year’s Resolutions post: cheers to the liars!

What it means to be silent

18 Dec

When I was a senior in college, I traveled to the Bronx, NY, to interview for a job as a community organizer. During the interview process (which lasted all weekend), one of the organizers spoke to us about why she left her career as a stage manager to become an organizer. She said something that made such a huge impression on me that I re-evaluated everything I knew to be true.

“Art doesn’t bring social justice.”

This put two of my most cherished ideals in conflict. I was the English major who’d devoted time each summer since the age of 13 to ending hunger and homelessness. I read poetry and I gleaned corn. I studied Shakespeare and the reasons for domestic and global hunger.  I became a vegetarian. I recycled. I volunteered at the local homeless shelter when I could.

I also auditioned (unsuccessfully) for plays, read my poems at open mic nights, and took in all the live music I could get my ears on.  I decided to major in English while loving every last word of a mythology poem. If I could savor each word so specifically, what was I doing majoring in psychology or sociology? Even after I declared, I had no real plan. Someone just said, “major in the thing you love the most.” When you make it that simple, it becomes an easy choice. I finally decided to be a teacher while reading a book. Every decision I’ve made that seems to fit me has come from following my heart.

Being a community organizer was something I felt like I should try. It seemed like a tough but important opportunity. So when that woman said art didn’t change anything, I took it personally. Not  because I owned art or even considered myself a part of art, but I definitely believed art changed people because it changed me.

But I was 21 years old, optimistic and impressionable, and I thought this meant that I couldn’t have it both ways: I couldn’t pursue feats of imagination when people lacked food and shelter. If I was serious about wanting to “change the world,” I had to choose.

Dear 21-year-old me: That woman lied!

The only thing that changes complicated political/cultural/social barriers is Art.

Art and service to each other.

It’s not partisan activist groups.

It’s not unions.

It’s not xenophobia, racism, ethnocentrism, or tribalism.

It’s not gun control Facebook fights.

It’s not passive aggressive gratitude posts.

It’s not gloating after your side wins an election.

It’s not a lot of things that pretend to change the world.

The world is changed one person at a time, over long periods of time.

Back in May of 2011, comedian Marc Maron interviewed Garry Shandling on his podcast and the two were discussing solutions to political and spiritual dilemmas. Maron, who once worked for the now-defunct Air America talk radio, speaks about turning away from politics because he came to believe people’s real problems were more existential than political. I take that to mean that we need to grapple with our own decision-making (free will) versus picking a side or a team.

Garry Shandling said maybe the only thing that could transcend those differences is art.

Marc Maron said maybe the only thing that could change things is heart.

“I think it’s heart,” Maron repeated softly, with a vulnerability that makes you listen closer.

Others might say faith.

I was taken right back to that moment of truth from my youth when I thought I had to pick a side.

It’s a false choice.

I didn’t end up getting that job as an organizer. Thank goodness. I would have spent that entire year trying to be someone I am not. Someone too cynical about “reality” to honor the power creativity has in lifting the most burdened body or soul.

“We have our Arts so we won’t die of Truth.”

–Ray Bradbury

If ever a person was in love with the world, it was our recently departed Bradbury. He put a microscope on the truth, then he moved forward in pursuit of joy.

The fire was gone, then back again, like a winking eye. He stopped, afraid he might blow the fire out with a single breath. But the fire was there and he approached warily, from a long way off. It took the better part of fifteen minutes before he drew very close indeed to it, and then he stood looking at it from cover. That small motion, the white and red color, a strange fire because it meant a different thing to him. 

It was not burning. It was warming.

He saw many hands held to its warmth, hands without arms, hidden in darkness. Above the hands, motionless faces that were only moved and tossed and flickered with firelight. He hadn’t known fire could look this way. He had never thought in his life that it could give as well as take.

****************

There was a silence gathered all about that fire and the silence was in the men’s faces, and time was there, time enough to sit by this rusting track under the trees and look at the world and turn it over with the eyes, as if it were held to the center of the bonfire, a piece of steel these men were all shaping. It was not only the fire that was different. It was the silence.

  –Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

There is too much talking right now and not enough silence. In honor of those 20 children in Connecticut, and the adults who tried desperately to save them, I choose to listen before I speak. I choose to celebrate service before I give an audience to hatred. Those teachers, among whom could have been my own sister and one of my dearest friends, did what teachers do every day. They protect their students, they expose them to art, history, science, math, literature: they give them a glance into something bigger than themselves.

When I was in second grade, my teacher said to me: “You like writing, don’t you?”

Yes, yes I do.

Of ants and orchids

18 Sep

South Florida defines transition. Its very nature is ever-shifting and wild. This makes it the perfect place to rip yourself from comfort.

It is a collision of things you would never expect to find together in one place—condominiums and panthers and raw wood and hypermarkets and Monkey Jungles and strip malls and superhighways and groves of carnivorous plants and theme parks and royal palms and hibiscus trees and those hot swamps with acres and acres that no one has ever seen—all toasting together under the same sunny vault of Florida sky.

….

Sometimes I think I’ve figured out some order in the universe, but then I find myself in Florida, swamped by incongruity and paradox, and I have to start all over again.

-Susan Orlean, The Orchid Thief

We have four species of ants living in our house, including giant carpenter ants and the invasive, persistent white-footed ants who form super colonies. As in multiple queens fed by foraging workers who serve more than one mother. The lines between colonies become invisible  since they all share a communal stomach. This means the same amount of bait toxicant that would normally eliminate a colony invading your house is just a drop in the ocean. Since the super colony can extend at least a football field’s length away from wherever you happen to observe it, you need more than a drop to stop the ants from marching like, well, ants.

In this kind of environment, you adjust to having ants around. It’s weird to brush your teeth in the morning and watch them crawling into a Terro bait inside your medicine cabinet, sure. But they aren’t actually stopping me from good dental hygiene. Do they occasionally crawl inside the water glass? Yes. I’ve learned to keep the glass on the bedside table and take it with me to the sink. Adaptations.

I’ve turned a new corner in my transition this year. Last year, I fixated on the ants. I felt them crawling on me even when they weren’t touching me. When I saw them on the kitchen counter, I worried about my food being contaminated. I obsessed over how to expel the current ants and stop future ones from coming in. Every new place I found an ant, I alerted my entomologist husband, as if to say: “Isn’t it your job to control this?” I could have this many ants on my own!

My professional life felt like it was spinning out of control: I had questioned my identity as a teacher all the way down to its ugly, seedy core. For the first time in my life, I was honestly investigating other careers. The merit pay system instituted in Florida that set out to dismiss poor teachers and reward the good ones had given ineffective administrators tools to micromanage and inflict doubt upon those who already practiced heavy introspection. The others learned to get all the surface things shiny.

There is an argument that strong teachers shouldn’t worry about this system, as it’s set out to codify just where they excel. Let me be clear: I have no worries about losing my job due to this evaluation. I’ll keep being “effective.” But what I’m already seeing is mediocre teachers performing to get these marks. They give the kids scripts and follow principals’ fixations on surface elements to ensure that data mark gets checked. I also see excellent teachers who cannot tolerate less than “innovative” ratings because they know they are highly effective and want the paperwork to back it up. While I understand the former’s insecurities leading them to performance AND the latter’s need to have evaluations that reflect their master teaching, I had to withdraw from this battle in order to stay in the profession.

Last year I read obsessively about what was happening to teachers all over the country; I became impassioned; I formed discussion groups; I wrote things. Then I spent too much of last year in misery because I kept trying to stop the ants from getting in. I needed to make sense of it. I needed rational voices leading my people. They weren’t to be found in any capacity that controlled my reality. It started to feel like more than just a bad year to get through, and more like a culture change that was here to stay. The more I educated myself on this culture, the more I decided I was ready to leave teaching.

Those thoughts were so foreign to me that I often felt like a stranger to myself. Thankfully, I had colleagues I respected who saw me through one of toughest years in my career, one so riddled with self-doubt that I nearly crumbled at one point. I had not until last year been treated as anything but a professional. I saw my administrators as my support system, not people working against me and my fellow teachers. Now I am in an environment where from the school-level to the district to the state, I am to be micromanaged. I cannot be trusted to educate myself on the best teaching methods or to constantly perfect my craft a little each year. I need to be mandated down to a script on how to get my students to be critical thinkers. This irony escapes no teachers, but most education policy makers.

The blessings of not having been micromanaged my entire career made me ill-prepared to be treated as a factory worker instead of a teacher. I worked a few temp jobs during the summers in factories in my formerly-industrial hometown. I expected to be micromanaged there; I was inspecting air-conditioner parts–I needed black and white directions on what to do in order to be successful on the job. As much as educational reformists want to make the art of teaching an industrialized matter, teachers all over this country know it’s gray matter. We help mold that matter of our students into useable skills; we help them become bigger thinkers and better writers. Unfortunately, the people who are data-marking us do not always have the ability to recognize it even when they see it because it doesn’t look like the blueprint a standardized testing company passed down to them.

I chose to stop listening to all the noise and listen only to my respected colleagues and my own voice. That voice told me to focus on what’s best for the students. I will take the advice of my superiors when it makes me a better teacher (I am not obstinate), but when it feels like a performance for an adult versus a better lesson for my students, I will go my own way. I will always be rated “effective,” though likely not “highly effective” for this refusal to play the game. I’m okay with that; it frees me up to actually be innovative.

If this system somehow rates me as “ineffective,” then I’ll know it’s my time to leave. Not because I haven’t done ineffective things in my classroom; I have and will again as I continue to try new things that challenge both my students and me. I will learn from those failures and turn them into future successes. Any system that determines that process isn’t “successful” is not a place for me.

Here’s what “reformers” miss: If you’re busy trying not to look bad, you miss the chance to get good. I’m old enough to not be content with looking good; I want to BE good. That’s the same I want for my students.

For now, I’ve found a way to ignore the noise that made me start to hate teaching last year. I know this won’t last forever, but at least for now I’m enjoying being in the classroom again. I have twice the students and half the planning time this year, but compared to my outlook last year, I’m still happier.

Florida has transformed me into a person who appreciates the ants as much as the orchids. It’s impossible to board out nature down here: you have to embrace it. Grass grows inside our screened porch during rainy season; the moat that forms around our house leaks into the guest room. We have to wait until it dries out completely before we can paint the sealant on the house, but it keeps on raining.

Before the swale drains out, the ants seek refuge inside our house again. They eat the bait and feed it to another inch’s worth of the colony’s trajectory; a few more drops in the ocean. We learn to accept the ants as temporary residents and go on about our day. I barely notice them now, as they are much reduced since the initial invasion. It’s the moment I stopped focusing on them that I stopped viewing them as obstacles to my happiness. I finally stepped back to take it all in.

It was in the nature of Florida, this kind of abundance, the overrichness of living things–so many of everything that all of it blurs together and you have to decide whether to be part of the blur or to be a distinct and separate being.

-Susan Orlean, The Orchid Thief

Grateful for the swale

6 May

My destination on Monday, May 1, was a doctor’s office in an anonymous looking medical park. This was another step in a process my husband and I recently began in order to discover why we haven’t yet conceived a child. And it’s not for lack of trying.

At first I felt paralyzed by our situation. It became yet another thing in my life that felt in a holding pattern: my career, my home, and now my future family. My reaction to this put some strain on the one thing I never questioned: my marriage. I couldn’t stay at peace with so much uncertainty swirling around me and this caused my husband duress as he started to feel partly responsible. He did move us down here to live with alligators and twice the mosquitoes (and of course termites.) And the bees are mean here. MEAN I TELL YOU!

But I don’t blame him. I blame my personality (ESFP: Extravert Sensing Feeling Perception.) My people are optimists who “live in possibilities,” and too many negative ones do not rest easy in our minds. We are also driven to “meld ideas into a structured format,” which explains my need to write (and let’s face it, teach.) This post is an attempt to attack what I’m bad at (sitting with negative possibilities) with what I’m good at (writing the ideas into words.) If you don’t remember your Myers-Briggs results, find them out again. It helped me understand why I’m reacting so poorly to obstacles this year, when normally my optimism is steadfast.

A swale of a tale

Last weekend, outside my window pounded the third day of rain in SoFlo. Not spring showers, but the kind of unrelenting downpour that reeks of hurricane season. The humidity hung in the air like a ghost as I moved through each day. As I drove down any highway, I was surrounded by low-lying areas swollen with water, holding in buckets of moisture until the soil is ready to receive them. Long after the rain ceases to free-fall, these temporary ponds now havens for water fowl morph back into mere dips in the ground. The water absorbs back into the earth without a trace. The sunshine the state is named for reclaims its place in the sky, and the landscape pumps enough vitamin E into our veins that we forget all about the foreboding, yet inviting nature of those low-lying areas called swales.

It was Monday, day three of rain, as I drove down the highway obsessed with this idea of swales. They flanked every road I drove down, and they started to feel familiar. Ever since I learned this term, I’ve been fixated on it. Swales hold the water in for days as the soil absorbs it gradually. This makes our groundwater healthier, even though in the meantime it’s a mess to be out in the world.

Nature dumps inches of precipitation onto the earth and the soil says “not yet.” Hold onto that for a while. I’m not ready.

It’s only after the downpour that you notice the saturated swales that fade into the background when empty and dry. But they’re always there, waiting for the right moment. We’re just not paying attention.

“Stay off the Swales”

Monday was my third  appointment with my doctor, and every step of the process so far had made me feel better; action defeats uncertainty every time. This time was different, though. Something happened in the exam room I didn’t see coming. After being asked to disrobe from the waist down, the nurse left me to drape myself in a “sheet.” And naturally, as soon as I sat down on the crinkly paper-covered exam bench, my “sheet” ripped in the back. In its defense, it was made of paper, and modesty isn’t really something I needed for what was about to happen.

I was here for a transvaginal ultrasound. And this wasn’t my first time, either. Over my right shoulder, I could see the implement to be used during the exam: it resembled a giant dildo, or “wand” tipped with lube (or “gel” as they call it). I promised myself not to joke about this with the doctor because it would shake her professional nature. But it was so hard. SO HARD! And there I did it without even trying. While I’m in the mindset of a 13-year-old boy, I would like to add that if I were legally forced to have this procedure, I do not think I would enjoy it as much.

After about 15 or 20 minutes, I started to get impatient and realized I need to pee again. They insist that you empty your bladder before the wand action, so I started to plot how I could quickly dip in and out of the restroom before they came back in. Before she left, the nurse had asked if it was okay for my doctor’s male intern to join us, and of course I said yes, I mean, the more the merrier at a vagina party, right? But this meant more anxiety over being caught getting off the table with the ripped paper sheet as they walked into the exam room. Minutes of indecision went by before I finally jumped down and backed into the bathroom just in case. The upside was that I got a new sheet. Which promptly ripped upon sitting down again.

The wait was now approaching 25-30 minutes, and that’s when I really started focusing on the thing I was avoiding. The blank sonogram screen screaming from my peripheral vision. That same screen that I’d seen on TV shows and movies filled with a potato-looking blob and a discernible heartbeat.  The exact screen that becomes everyone’s profile picture on Facebook as soon as they get past 12 weeks. This was the first time I’d seen a blank screen. And it had my name right at the top. My actual name typed in like a permanent record.

I could feel the power of this screen, the draw of this bad omen, and I vowed not to stare at it for too long because it started to haunt me. It punctured a part of me I didn’t realize was there. It was the swale filling up with water after three days of rain: I didn’t notice it until it rained enough to be right there at the surface.

There is a sign in our neighborhood that says “Stay off the Swales.” This very sign prompted me to research what exactly constituted a swale: was it the low-lying area filled with water, or the low-lying area itself? It’s the latter. The swale holds the water in one place to prevent the whole area from flooding. These areas of over-saturation are necessary to protect our safety. The problem is our culture says to avoid them, so we pretend they aren’t there. We put on faces of strength and dildo jokes, but in certain moments the swale gets over-saturated and we have to get wet. It’s there to protect us. Allowing myself to feel the pain of that blank sonogram will keep me healthy and focused on the path ahead, whatever lies in front of us.

It seemed like a such a cliche: a 35-year-old woman who can’t get pregnant and is upset about it. The truth is even if my family is just my husband and me for the rest of our lives, I would be happy. We have a great life together, and no news I can get during this process is going to shake that. I’m not sure I would have been able to say that until I fully felt the weight of not being able to have a child on that rainy first Monday of May.

So, I’m grateful for this swale and the clarity it gave me. I just hope I’ll be able to recognize the next one before it becomes a flippin’ lake.

Judging Amy (and Whitney)

26 Feb

The first thing people do when a person dies of drug or alcohol addiction is to start making “I told you so” jokes. During my senior prom, the DJ dedicated “Another One Bites the Dust” to Kurt Cobain, who had just committed suicide after battling depression and addiction for years. Instead of scoffing at such a tasteless gesture, I laughed.

As a teenager, I didn’t appreciate the complexity of the disease of addiction. I saw it as people making bad choices, choices I could avoid. As an adult, I’m not comfortable defining people solely by their disease. I’m much more interested in the humanity underneath.

When 27-year-old talent Amy Winehouse died in July, rehab jokes littered my Twitter and Facebook feed. While some of them were clever, it made me sad that people’s wit outweighed their human empathy.

The reaction to Whitney Houston’s death took longer to descend into judgment and cruelty. I think that’s because at 48, she had a larger number of people who remembered her before drugs claimed her dignity.

Lately, I find myself humming a nameless tune that morphs into “I Will Always Love You” every time! I haven’t thought about that song since 1992, 1993, 1994, or whenever it finally stopped. But I was for it before I was against it.

What makes Whitney’s cover so unforgettable is not her voice but her vulnerability. Those initial a cappella notes made us shiver in the 90’s (mostly because it’s before the saxaphone solo). While later she retreats into the controlled power of the drum-beat punctuated second chorus, it’s the those slightly shaky words “If I should stay, I would only be in your way” that propelled the goose bumps. It’s the first few moments that keep you hanging on for the dramatic ballad it turns into.

I’m not sure what surprises me more, Whitney Houston’s insecurity or that I’m about to quote Kevin Costner, but here goes. He said in his eulogy that Whitney feared the on-set makeup during the filming of The Bodyguard wasn’t sufficient and added the thicker music video makeup she was accustomed to. As the hot set lights melted her mask, she approached Costner with foundation running down her face, only she didn’t know it until Costner turned her around to face the mirror. She was horrified.

Costner painted Whitney as the talent who constantly asked: “Am I good enough? Will people like me?”

“It was the burden that made her great, and the part that made her stumble in the end,” Costner said.

Chasing Amy

Most of the world didn’t hear the sultry soul of Amy Winehouse’s voice until “Rehab” became so popular that the irony was screaming at us. So the public, famous face of Amy became that of drunken live performances on a drug-riddled frame. The beehive hairdo and extreme eyeliner were only add-ons. The fresh-faced girl who auditioned for Island Records in 2002 was largely unknown. We only knew the masked Amy. In and out of rehab for years, she tried to live clean and sober, but the pain ate away at her young soul and she eventually reached for the solace of a temporary fix. The last time she reached too far.

Flannery O’ Connor was right: we resist grace because it means change and the change is painful. It continues to be painful. I am still just as neurologically geared toward the fix, the hit, the conflagration as I ever was; just as prone to be ruled by fear, just as driven by the need for approval, for adulation, to feel better.

–Heather King, NPR commentator and author, writing after 18 years of sobriety in her memoir Parched

Amy, like Whitney, struggled to accept herself. As quoted in The Guardian UK, Amy said:  “The more insecure I feel, the more I drink,”  and when asked about her rapid weight loss, added: “And the more insecure I feel, the bigger my beehive gets.”

In the last year of her life, Amy tried spending time in St. Lucia away from London to work on a new album. This geographic cure made people hopeful she could pull herself out of “the abyss.” But as the saying goes, “no matter where you go, there you are.” The demons inside her would follow her wherever she went. She laid her lot out in her lyrics:

And I tread a troubled track, my odds are stacked

I’ll go back to black

–Amy Winehouse, “Back to Black”

In the end, after giving up hard drugs, she died of alcohol poisoning. Her disease was stronger than her will to fight it.

Whitney Houston’s long battle with drug addiction finally ended in a hotel bathtub in Beverly Hills, after consuming a mix of prescription drugs and alcohol. This was just eight months after her voluntary entrance into an outpatient rehab in May of 2011. Other reports say she was planning to “deal with her addiction” by going to rehab again after the Grammys (held the night after she died). She wanted to put off grace for one more day, only her disease wouldn’t give her more time.

Beneath the tabloid photos that show the ugly face of addiction were two visionaries who influenced the next generation of talent. Whitney Houston paved the way for Mariah Carey and Jennifer Hudson; Amy Winehouse forged a path for Adele and Duffy. To reduce the tragedy of their deaths to crackhead and rehab jokes is heartless. If you haven’t lost someone to this disease, be grateful instead of cruel. If you haven’t personally struggled with addiction, read deeply about it before you start measuring a person’s worth by the symptoms of their disease.

Alcoholism and addiction are diseases of the mind, body, and soul. All three must be healed before a person can maintain sobriety, and that process is gradual and life-long. In 2007, Late Night comedian Craig Ferguson, now 20 years sober, dedicated his monologue to this very issue. He explained the fallacy that 28 days in rehab could cure a person of a “thinking problem.” It’s a disease that requires lifetime maintenance; it cannot be cured with wealth or influence. Amy and Whitney are just the latest examples.

Someone in Amy’s entourage referred to her as “Just a sweet tiny thing with a huge great voice.” What a beautiful summation.

It reminds me of those videos of Whitney signing in church with her mother. Whitney once said that music was love; she advocated music education in schools because it was the easiest way to spread love to our children. She first learned that when she was a “sweet tiny thing” singing about God’s love at New Hope Baptist Church in Newark, NJ. At her funeral at that same church, CeCe Winans invited the world to sing “Yes, Jesus Loves Me” with her.

Even a crackhead deserves that.

You have to live it to get it

15 Feb

I live in South Florida, bad driving capital of the South. Conventional wisdom says it’s because of the influx of drivers from other places who’ve all learned to drive under different rules. Or sometimes no rules at all. Despite its dangers, I walk places as frequently as possible, including the grocery store across the street. The other day I was doing my daily cross-the-street maneuver with permission from the “walking man” street sign. As I walked in front of impatient drivers stuck at red, three different cars turning right into to my path (with “green” lights) attempted to run me over. They gave me “the NERVE of YOU!” looks as they slowed down to avoid vehicular manslaughter. I gestured at the pedestrian walking man to prove my rights. They were not concerned. It was all about them getting where they’re going as fast as possible. The only thing that would change that is if they were in that crosswalk with me as 1500 lb. boxes of metal lunged at them with no apologies.

But they likely never walk anywhere, so that perspective shift may never happen. And thus the cycle of impatience and blame will continue.

Nothing truly matters to us until if affects us personally. We might think we empathize with others, but we don’t actually get it until it lives with us every day. This is the strange position politicians are in–trying to solve problems they don’t fully understand.

I know how expensive healthcare is for small businesses because my dad owns a small business of himself and two employees. I also know how grateful he is to finally be on Medicare. For the period of time I had a “pre-existing condition” and paid insurance out-of-pocket while in graduate school, I realized how high the burden would be if I had a family to support as well. But since knowing and living with my type I diabetic husband, I finally GET IT. Even though he works for a major university with group health insurance, he still battles with the  insurance company every six months to maintain his insulin supply. Every time he bargains over how the insulin will be delivered, and how much they will or will not cover, I cringe. I also realize that I’ve been sheltered from the reality of our healthcare crisis. I’ve never had a permanent disease that will result in death if I don’t get medication. It’s one thing to read about it–it’s quite another to watch the love of your life stress over whether or not he’ll have to pay $250 more per month to NOT DIE.

In a similar vein, I recently learned that merit pay for teachers (at least the way the state of Florida is going to implement it) is purely a political move. The “reward good teachers” promise made at the stump is great lip service for politicians making deals with education specialists and testing companies. The way our pay scale was presented to us through a district training is that 6%-89% of teachers will be rated “Effective.” So only those in the 90-99th percentile are even eligible to earn the coveted rating of “Highly Effective,” the only rating that earns you a raise. How that raise is determined is based on 60% teacher instructional practices (as determined by a model sponsored by a paid education consultant) and 40% student achievement. It’s how the 40% is determined that will make your head spin. My district is going to implement this plan before they have standardized tests for every subject. This means that if you teach a subject or grade level that doesn’t have a state test yet, then your 40% will be determined by the school grade (in Florida we get graded A-F based on test scores, attendance, enrollment in upper level classes, etc.)

Yes, you read that correctly. You could be a highly effective theater or Spanish teacher who doesn’t get a raise because you teach in a high-needs school whose grade is a C or lower. Where’s your incentive to teach in a high-needs school? Where’s your incentive to look out for anyone but yourself?

I’ve been coping with a lot of guilt over not wanting to teach anymore. When I got laid off I was a little relieved because it forced me to find out my new path. Then the fear of not having a job took me over and when I was offered a position a few months later, I was temporarily excited. You know, “grateful to have a job.”

Only after several weeks, I wasn’t so grateful. Hello, guilty, my old friend…

It wasn’t until this year that I experienced real burn out with classroom teaching. This is my second year of all-classroom teaching and no advising. Deep down I knew the advising (although with its own stress) kept me from cascading into the reality that as much as I tried to convince myself that public school education is my lifetime calling, I’m not sure that it is. I think it was for a decade, and I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. And I’m not even saying I’ll never go back.

In addition to lacking a creative outlet at work, this year I ended up with a schedule of mostly low-level freshmen during a year when class sizes went through the roof. Everything going out, and very little coming in. Ending your day with 38 boisterous ninth graders who are only in your “journalism” class because they didn’t sign up for history feels more like corralling than teaching. That wasn’t even my worst class last semester.

Fight or Leave

If I knew I wanted be a classroom teacher for 19 more years, I’d be much more prepared for the fight that will likely continue for another five years (or however long it takes people to realize one-size fits all standardized testing is not the answer). Instead I’m battling a serious ultimatum, because teachers who stay will have to fight. And fighting for what you’re not sure you want to do anymore feels awkward. And it’s not fair to my colleagues who know this is their life’s work, the ones who deserve more money and better treatment. Instead this War on Teachers will give them uncertain, irregular pay that is determined by too many factors they can’t control. Don’t believe the hype that merit pay will allow us to fire bad teachers and keep good ones in the profession in order to boost student achievement. This is something I once would have agreed with because the kids motivated me. However, after all the research I’ve read and especially now that I’ve seen how the fourth largest state plans to implement merit pay, I see it for the political ruse that it is. I laugh now when I think how Michelle Rhee was on to something when she said that the problem with education isn’t the kids, it’s the adults.

The kids are always going to make it hard on teachers: that’s their job. When the adults decide it’s their job to make it even harder by micromanaging the minutia of their classrooms, it leaves many teachers with little left to give to the kids. It’s like drinking hot coffee with a perpetual burnt tongue and then being asked to smile as the district and state pour an entire pot into your face. “Teach on!”

When people try to dissect your craft into too many pieces, it stops feeling like it’s yours anymore. It feels more like a Skeksie draining a Gelfling of its essence. And this Gelfling is in a Dr. Seuss-esque slump.

“And when you’re in a Slump, you’re not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked. A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin! Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in? How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And if you go in, should you turn left or right…or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? Or go around back and sneak in from behind? Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.”

–Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go

Why I wanted to kill a cat

9 Jan

I love animals. I especially love other people’s animals. I’m a one cat/one dog kind of person. Or maybe two cats and one dog. But that soon leads to two cats and two dogs and then boundaries get blurred.

House/animal sitting is something I used to do occasionally, and it was the perfect way to experience multiple-animal ownership without the permanent responsibility. It’s like babysitting, but easier.

On this 10-day sitting adventure, I cared for two dogs and two cats. Dog #1 (let’s call her Squirrel!) was a hyper, 2-year-old golden lab  mix who jumped up to your neck every time you approached her. Dog #2 (let’s call her Ruby) was an elderly, arthritic black lab mix who only jumped up to your waist.

Cat #1 (Let’s call him Morpheus) was an orange tabby who I was afraid of. He didn’t like strangers, yet wanted to be in the room with me when he was inside. Just so he could stare at me. Or meow in a mournful Siamese yelp.

Morpheus was never relaxed, and neither was I. He would sit at my feet staring at me, but I was terrified to pet him. Does he want me to or is this a trap? Cats can smell fear. If I stood up, Morpheus wanted to go outside, and I happily obliged, allowing him to stay out all night. I feared there could be a Stephen King Cat’s Eye situation if I forced Morpheus to stay inside against his will.

This brings me to Cat #2. Let’s call her Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. Or Walking Dead.  DQMW/WD was a bazillion years old and just trying to die. But her owners were not ready to let go, so I had to assist the neighbor in giving her kitty dialysis. Cut to me in a shower stall holding down DQMW/WD while the neighbor (who was also my friend) injects an IV bag of saline into her kitty veins.

If that treatment had rejuvenated DQMW/WD and caused her to chase a feather around the house, I’d be in full support of these life-continuation efforts. However, it did little more than enable locomotion. So I spent the rest of my days in that house praying this fur skeleton did not die on my watch.

The dogs were sweet and affectionate, but stressful. They were jumpers. They stayed outside in their doggie garden during the day, and when I got home they pummeled the gate in excitement. Squirrel! jumped straight up, leading with his nose. Ruby’s arthritic knees wouldn’t let her leap that high so she compensated by barking louder than Squirrel!, which I didn’t think was possible until I heard it. Once I entered the doggie garden, they were relentless, throwing themselves at me like defensive players scrambling for a fumbled football. I was the loose ball.

Squirrel!: You’re here! You’re here! Did you miss me? I missed you. Do you love me? I love you. Please don’t leave again. Food! Do you have food? I need to lick you. I NEED TO LICK YOU! It rained here! I have muddy paws! Smell my mildew!

Ruby: It’s been 8 hours. Here. With this. Go ahead, I’ll look the other way when you crush up that powder into my food. I’ll pretend not to taste its bitterness. Just love me now!

Then I go inside for the elaborate feeding ritual. Squirrel! had to be fed outside separately from Ruby, but I can’t completely remember why. It was a combination of Ruby eating Squirrel!’s food and the potential for Squirrel! to eat Ruby’s arthritic medicine food as a result. Older dog takes what she wants.

While the dogs are eating voraciously in separate chambers, I check on the cats. Morpheus is happy to use me for food, only after giving me a howl to terrify me as I set down his food dish. But I can’t find DQMW/WD. *Heart starts pounding.* I pace the house searching for the potential cat corpse, flashing back to when I found my childhood cat dead in our backyard when I was 10. Please don’t let this cat die on my watch!

I finally leave her food out and take a break from the search. Later that evening I’m seated in the living room with the dogs, who were finally exhausted enough from our nightly walk to sit still on the floor and chew on tupperware. Morpheus was safely outside and I was starting to relax a bit.

That’s when I hear it. The sound of un-retracted claws hammering the hardwood floor down the stairs. My whole body tensed up like a blood clot. DQMW/WD looked like a crippled ghost being hurled down the staircase in slow motion. She let out a death cry that made me ache inside. It was as if she were screaming “Kill me! Please just kill me!” I pitied her as she lurched forward to get to her food and water bowls. But she was technically alive. Not on my watch indeed.

We survived another few days like this, and I even trained the dogs to sit and wait for me to come inside the gate before they got some affection. All that stress of the jumping coupled with the dead cat anxiety was too much: the dogs’ behavior seemed fixable since they were so eager to please. So that evening, I was much more at ease, having stopped the dogs from trying to knock me down upon arrival.

Before bed, I went down to the basement to get more dog food (which was housed in a giant metal trashcan with a shovel scoop). I look to my right and I see DQMW/WD asleep in her litterbox. Curled up next to her own clumped urine and feces. Now I’m no veterinarian, but even I know death is imminent in this situation. *Dead cat anxiety increases tenfold.* Very likely on my watch! I start brainstorming explanations for the owners when I have to call them to say DQMW/WD is sleeping-in-the-litterbox dead. Not walking, just dead.

To my great surprise, that cat lived to see another day, which was fortunately my last day inside that house. She did not die under my care, although I kind of wanted to mercy-kill her.

I love my own cat like a family member. I understand DQMW/WD’s owners loved their cat so much they would do anything to keep it alive. It’s emotional. It’s hard to let go of something you love so much. But in the end that cat was not happy, just suffering, begging her humans to let her go. They just weren’t ready to read the signs.

I understand the owners’ perspective and the cat’s perspective. I’m so emotional when I think about leaving teaching because it’s something I considered doing for the rest of my life. And something I did truly love. Then the last couple of years when a part of me was open to new things, instead of truly investigating those possibilities, I kept trying to resuscitate my teaching career. Because it’s what I know. It’s almost a safety net. It’s the kind of job I know how to get. So when I moved to Florida, I went back to my roots–I wasn’t ready to jump yet. I was giving myself saline.

This year I feel more like the cat: I just want to move on to the next life. At least for a while. It doesn’t have to be permanent: Cats have 9 lives, remember.

There is a third possibility, though: I’m just a mean lady who wants to kill a cat.

“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”
― Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God