Do you remember junior high? It isn’t looked upon kindly by most adults because they hold memories for us that include hair growing from new places, squeaky voices, and a face full of zits. It’s Nature’s Cruel Joke to have our bodies change at the same time young brains are switching over to maturity and we begin to naval gaze and dream about the What If? possibilities. My favorite thing about being an adult and watching such things, however, is that you get to see these creatures (honestly, that is the best word for them) muddle their way through these changes all the while looking cool and ensuring that they’re not entirely alone in the world.

Now that I’m back working at a middle school (I vary between the two phrases “middle school” and “junior high”) I can honestly say that I love both the middle and high school levels. But to work in a middle school you have to be a special kind of person. Not don’t-eat-the-paste special, although that might actually come in handy. But special in the sense that you will take this age group for what if offers. Some of these kids are just KILLING ME WITH THE CUTENESS. For example, our school mascot is the leopard. Many adults proudly wear shirts with our school logo on them and others wear leopard print clothes. (That reminds me: I need to go shopping. A gal can always use a new leopard print pair of shoes! Or a leopard print shirt! A leopard purse! The possibilities are making my head swim!) When we had our 6th grade orientation the principal pointed that out to the students and one of them raised his hand and asked, “When do we get to earn our spots?” and I swear to God I almost ran up to that kid and put a jaunty hat on him and stuffed him in my pocket because THAT RIGHT THERE IS THE ACME OF CUTE. I dare you to find anything cuter.

Since I’m back to doing playground duty I have found myself delving into the jungle with my anthropologist hat on as I watch them carefully. They don’t know who I am yet although some of them have older siblings who’ve had me before. They timidly come up to me and ask if I know their older brother/sister/cousin/family member and then BLAM! We have a connection. Those are the ones whose names I know first and I’m working on learning them all this week. Every student wants to be called by name. That’s not anthropology, either. That’s just common sense. So, as I crouched down on the bench on the playground and did my best Margaret Mead impersonation sans walking stick and cape, I began taking notes in my head.

Those must be the girls who desperately want to be cool. They all matched their clothes with one another.

These are athletes. They’re all discussing who is going out for cross country and what the best running shoes are.

This kid is a loner right now. I’ll watch carefully to see who will come and talk to him and make sure no one bullies him.

One of the reasons I took this job was to do just this. In fact, when we recently went to our administrative meeting as a district the subject of online social media came up and then that dreaded word “blog”. I’m usually the one in the room who takes a deep breath and hunches my shoulders because I just know that there are people in the room looking at me because they know about my writing. “Uh huh” a friend sitting near me said, indicating that I am the elephant in the room that no one is talking about overtly but yeah, we all know you have a blog, Kelly! Here’s the interesting thing about what I discovered about myself at that meeting: when asked if anyone had a blog and whether or not they would publish it knowing that it could be linked to a resume or personnel file I found myself sitting up straighter in my chair.

Of course I would link my writing to my job. I write carefully about my career, my students, and what I learn on a daily basis from the kids in my charge. I write passionately about them, too, and that’s probably why I’ve been offered jobs from schools where the teachers and administrators have read my blog. I am not even lying. There have been emails that begin with “you don’t know me, but a group of us teachers read your blog and we want you to come work here” and every single time I am amazed and honored at the offer.

Another reason I took this current position is that I feel very strongly about cultural representation in my position. Do I think that all schools MUST have a black principal or dean or athletic director because that is what will enable them to make AYP in our quest not to leave children behind? Absolutely not. That puts entirely too much pressure on Black educators to fix the problem of educational mediocrity in this country. But this school I’m in right now actively tries to ensure equality in the students that get to come here (via a lottery) and yet there are no black teachers here. While that dismays me I am quick to say that these students are getting a quality education and while looking over the data of this building early on in the summer I must say how impressed I am that these teachers give it their all to ensure that they are moving students into higher test score categories with their consistently high expectations. What I want to do, however, is to provide equity in who these kids get to see every day. I want all of these students to see a woman of color who is in charge. I want the white kids and the black kids to see that, if nothing else, it is possible to hold such a position and work hard to ensure a public education is of a high caliber.

You know when we have those discussions on race and I argue that I want people to see my color and not tell me they are color blind? It’s because of stuff like that. I need people to see my color. Not judge me by it and ascribe stereotypes, but see it as recognition that blacks are capable and confident to hold administrative positions in education.

The conversations leading up to me coming here were with a friend of mine who is a fellow educator. He’s also black. It went like this:

Him: “Did you know that School X is losing two teachers and both are black and now there aren’t any black educators in that building?”

Me: “W-w-what? Well. Someone should fix that!”

Him: “Yeah. How about you?”

Me: “Dang. I think you just swindled me. Quit hitting me in my weak spot, you jerk.”

It doesn’t matter how I got here, though. It matters that I’m here. Hopefully, I can keep using my voice in my writing on my blog to give a picture of what it’s like in a public school and a middle school at that. In fact, this morning I was joking about having pie for breakfast (pie filled with FRUIT) even though I keep a plethora of fresh fruit in my office as well as granola bars and dried cherries. Basically, I’m an advocate for eating healthy and I see too many students coming to school with NO breakfast whatsoever. It’s like trying to start a car with no gasoline. Have you ever tried to get a middle schooler to learn pre-algebra when they’re on empty?

Two girls were standing next to a teacher this morning and they were talking about how they were hungry and hadn’t eaten since last night. I offered to take the girls to my office and get them apples. The teacher was thrilled that I did that and sent them along with me even though I warned the girls not to let the eating get in the way of learning because I didn’t want to create a distraction in the classroom. Five minutes later the teacher called me on the phone in my office.

“Where did you get that fruit? I have three boys who haven’t eaten yet either and they’re hungry.”

“That’s my own stash but I’m happy to share. I’ll be right down with some groceries.”

It got me thinking, in my Margaret Mead way again, about how I can help students. Sure, we all buy supplies for them. Pencils and folders have flown off my shelves for the past three days because I try to identify who needs them. All teachers do this. But something as simple as eating a healthy breakfast doesn’t always take precedence. The First Lady Michelle Obama thinks this is important. So does Jamie Oliver with his Food Revolution. If you think it is, too, why not take a bag of apples into a school to donate? How about a giant box of granola bars? A bunch of bananas for an entire classroom? Wouldn’t that be an awesome way to give back to your community RIGHT NOW?

Trust me. I live in the jungle. We eat a lot of bananas here.

It’s not like me to shy away from controversy so every night this past week I have had a discussion with my family about Park 51. There have been points made and arguments discussed. I could link to them, but I won’t. But I’m reading a lot.

It’s already all been said so far.

Today, my feelings are all about the Constitution. It is unconstitutional to deny the builders from putting up a community center. It’s also unconstitutional for Governor Paterson to suggest that an alternative to it would be to give them land elsewhere on which to build. Really, Gov? Because I think you’re opening up a whole new can of worms when other religious institutions come knocking on your door for free land. It got so weary for me this week after debating the issue with friends (ok, so it was via Facebook WHATEVER it still ended up being a really good discussion) that my status yesterday on Facebook was simply the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

What I’ve read for this whole week about it consists of my daily news readings, political contributions, and what the rest of the world is saying about the United States. When Mason asked me about it he did so in typical teenage fashion.

“Mom, what’s up with this whole mosque issue in New York City?”

He could tell by the weariness in my voice and the sigh on my lips that I’d been thinking about it, too. We had been discussing it at dinners and at bedtime and whenever it came up on television or the radio or in the newspaper or online. He’s getting it. And that’s really just a part of my job as a parent, is it not? To teach and educate and teach some more. Well, maybe that last part is an overlap of my career choice.

Early on in my career I quit teaching public school because I wanted a varied experience. For four years I taught at a small, private Christian school and that is where I met a great philosopher who also happened to be a janitor. Allen cleaned my room and we met one night and had the most fascinating conversation that it lead to to a phenomenal friendship until he died from cancer years later. (I’ve written about him on my blog before so you can check the archives if you’re so interested.) But I tried desperately to fit in with the teachers and with the church that was attached to the building. At times, it worked and I felt accepted but it seemed that reminders of my being different and definitely NOT like others led me to finally break off and grow up and do my own thing.

But not before I allowed Allen to come to my classroom during the day (he was the nighttime janitor) and teach my class. He read poetry with them and my little 6th graders asked him questions and while he waxed philosophical about things the subject of religion came up and he answered just as I would have him do: honestly. Allen didn’t like to use the term “God” because “Alice” was a prettier name. He didn’t believe in the devil, either, but suggested that it was a man-made manifestation that helped us place blame.

The week after he visited my classroom one of the other teachers told on me (are we adults or what?) for having such blasphemy and un-Christianlike attitudes be on display in this Christian school. In hindsight this was, for me, one of the last straws that made it impossible for me to reconcile the fact that I was using MY OWN BRAIN FOR INTELLECTUAL PURPOSES and the beliefs of the school. I was called into the office with a school board member (also an elder of the church) and questioned about my intentions and what I was hoping to do with opposing viewpoints on their Christian doctrine.

“So, I can’t teach opposing viewpoints? We’re not supposed to let children see another side of things? The authoritative dogma is never to be questioned?”

My questions went largely unanswered. I quit teaching there and Allen became one of the few links I still had to the place. The kids I taught were great. It was the overbearing poor behavior of the adults that made me want to leave.

Yesterday I was thinking back on that story as I was reflecting on something said to me about the Muslim religion. In my lifetime I have gladly attended a Jewish temple, different Christian churches, and a meeting of the Baha’i faith. I was thinking this as I left my house and waved to my Muslim neighbor across the street and smiled at her. The teacher in me wondered how much more I could know.

My mom’s got a brother named Jim who is, by far, the best read person I know. Mom talks about him in reverence and with much respect as he is a man who once read Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses when it was released when the rest of the world seemed to be shunning it out of fear, ignorance, and there were often violent protests due to the fatwa placed on him by Ayotollah Khomeini. I remember this vividly because it was the year I was graduating high school and I was aghast as what he could have possibly written to attract such attention. Here I was just starting out in the world as an adult taking my little 3 year old daughter with me and I was filled with fear.

I have since gotten over that.

As I was traveling around town for work I saw a building that made me pull over. I parked in the lot and sat there for a good 5 minutes wondering what I was going to say. It was the Islamic Society of Greater Springfield. When I went in I met Syed who listened as I stammered out that I am a mom and a former teacher and current assistant principal and I was worried, so very worried about this ridiculous debate that isn’t so much about rights or the constitution but about feelings and holy cow, if ever I understand the feelings thing it’s when I see things like the Confederate flag being bandied about, and oh, I grew up mixed in a Catholic family and my children are of many shades and I’m seeking information because I hate to regurgitate stuff that I hear from people but don’t read with my own eyes and SERIOUSLY, but I really do like to use my own brain and not hand over the keys to my sensibilities or politics to someone else and yes, I know I’m a woman who just came in off the street and you must think I’m a little bit neurotic…

It went on like that. Syed smiled. He knew I was there to learn. When I stopped babbling on in that run-on sentence I simply said, “I am here to learn.”

He gave me the name of a woman who would be happy to talk to me further and handed me an English translation of the Koran. He said to keep it. Syed also gave me 15 videos that might be helpful as I’m learning and asked that I please return them to him. But he didn’t even write down my name or ask to document just which 15 videos he gave me. He handed them over gladly, said that it was prayer time, and I shook his hand and left.

What I wish right now is that the mouthpieces of America would be in the process of learning. Not shouting or screaming or writing protest signs. Not telling me what I should believe or that I am stupid for agreeing that a community center can be built where they have planned. Not talking about of both sides of their mouths.

Whatever prayers come from my lips are this: Please let me learn. Please let me teach my children. Please let there be peace.

When my sister became a grandmother I took pleasure in teasing her quite a bit, but she says she was ready for it even though she’s a mere 40. Last weekend I visited with my family in Chicago and took my good camera (I have a point and shoot as well) and decided that I was taking no less than 60 gazillion pictures of my very fun, extremely photogenic great-niece who seemed to be in the best mood ever for an almost 2 year old. Much of the time she sat in my lap and let me snap away. Every time I looked at these I thought, “You ought to be in pictures”. The curls, the eyes.

Being with my family always makes me happy and any time I am feeling down I am going to look at these pictures to remind me of it. Anyway, I thought I’d share. (And please, don’t steal them. Her grandmother would hunt you down and remove your spleen with her bare teeth. No kidding.)

The fact that she sat still long enough to get good pictures shows that she probably needed a nice long nap.

Her eyes are like dark pools that draw you in and then BAM! You’re mesmerized! Hoodwinked! Bamboozled!

Eating my camera lens cover because they are soooooo delicious.

“The happiest people are those who think the most interesting thoughts. Those who decide to use leisure as a means of mental development, who love good music, good books, good pictures, good company, good conversation, are the happiest people in the world. And they are not only happy in themselves, they are the cause of happiness in others.”      - William Lyon Phelps

Most of my days are spent thusly: I wake up and grab a cup of coffee, start rooting around the kitchen for breakfast, and then begin the ritual of taking out the carrying tray that I take up to my mother. Mornings are hard for her and I bring her food to her since it’s hard to get up and moving. She usually needs her water bottles refilled because, as a person with congestive heart failure, she tends to retain too much water. With a weakened heart, it’s difficult to get a lot of exercise and without circulation to her heart and body and then the process begins of holding onto too much fluid. It’s a vicious cycle and this disease is a real mystery. The procedure of bringing her food starts again at lunch and then once more at dinner. In between those times I can be found doing things that summer is made for: laundry, tennis, bike rides, reading, and writing. I’m really going to struggle when I have to go back to work, but that’s nothing compared to what she’s going to have to do in order to make her meals when I’m gone.

This morning when I went upstairs I stayed a while to chat while she got situated in her big comfy chair that she eats in and we started talking about the books we are reading. I made a confession to her.

“This book I’m reading, The Help, is annoying me to no end. I’m not even halfway done with it yet and I hate it. HATE it. I’m tempted to write a review of it and I’m not even finished.”

“Don’t do that. Finish the book first. You know better and plus, it might get better. You never know.”

She asked me what it was that I hated about it and I admitted that I’m fearful that Skeeter, one of the three characters narrating the book, will end up being the Great White Savior to the Black maids in the story. I’m so bothered by the fact that the author IS MY AGE and grew up with a Black maid. Her characters have great voices (I’m listening to it on Audible, but I mean that in both ways) and she makes convincing cases for their interactions with one another. One of the white women asks some of The Help, Aibileen, about educational integration:  “You wouldn’t want to go to a school full of white people, would you?” As expected, the Black maid agrees with everything she’s asked and by “agree” I mean that she tells them just what they want to hear. No one is asking her the important questions, though. In 1962 Mississippi we are to expect that when blacks start disagreeing with their masters employers they will find themselves jobless.

The other thing bothering me in this book is that I’m not at all convinced that Skeeter’s romance is anything but convenient. Not for the lackadaisical nature of people getting romantically involved when it’s advantageous, but it seems too convenient for the plot and where I think it’s heading. (See what I’m doing here? I’m trying not to give any spoilers for those who haven’t read it yet even though I’m not done reading so it’s like a unspoiled unspoiler.)

So then I started reading the surrounding controversy of this book (the ones that didn’t offer spoilers) and was astounded SIMPLY ASTOUNDED at how many people were defending the complicated loving relationships between Black maids and the White families they served. It was all very we-love-them-and-they-care-for-us-and-then-we’re-expected-to-care-for-them-when-they-get-older-that’s-just-the-way-we-do-things-you-wouldn’t-understand and it made me want to vomit. Attachment and dependence are huge themes of this book so far. So, I should be glad that someone like my grandmother got to raise YOUR family and then you’ll take care of her health bills later on when she gets sick? Excellent plan. Let’s write about it and glorify it.

Honestly, I want to rip out my own eyelashes over this nonsense.

Even before I finish this book (and I will finish this book because I have to do that once I start and I’m also doing it for a book club I’m in) I will state my distaste for the fact that a White author is doing the speaking for her Black help. Kathryn Stockett probably had in mind to force this to meet somewhere in the middle and I’m finding that a hard pill to swallow. It reminded me of a quote that I can’t attribute to anyone at the moment that reads: “You can’t make both ends meet while you’re sitting on one.”

“Colored people and white people are just so…different.” one of the characters, Miss Hilly, naively and foolishly points out. While I would hate to naively and foolishly call Stockett a racist, I will just offer this video from the incredibly pointed and opinionated Jay Smooth (whose videos I keep up with on his website Ill Doctrine) to speak for me.

Mallory came over last weekend to help take care of her grandmother while I was away.  Mason was also here in between his work shifts. They made sure the dog was taken care of, too, but they really helped by making sure the routine was kept up to keep their grandma on a schedule. They watched movies and when they stopped to see that “Corrina, Corrina” was on my mother joked, “That’s what I need. A Black maid.” to which Mallory replied, “Umm, Gramma? You’ve already GOT one of those.”

Which reminds me. It’s time to go get dinner made, take it to mom, and finish reading my book. I’ll let you know how it ends.

My sister has been at my house every weekend for the past three weeks. I’ve lived in my new house for three weeks. That right there is some serious sisterly dedication. The first weekend was to help me move, the second weekend was to attend Mason’s graduation, and this last weekend was to help me out with mom’s illness and her unexpected hospital stay. Erin went into the quintessential Eldest Child Mode. Cleaning, organizing, getting nurses to take care of business, filing papers, going through photographs, ensuring that mom will continue to get good care.

If you are familiar with that classic tearjerker film “Terms of Endearment”, you know that Shirley MacLaine’s character is the best possible advocate for her hospitalized daughter. Remember the scene where Debra Winger needed to get her shot and her mother would not give up until the nurses took care of that? That’s my sister, Erin. Everyone in our family wants Erin present if they become ill. She will get all, “It’s past ten. My daughter is in pain. I don’t understand why she has to have this pain. All she has to do is hold out until ten, and IT’S PAST TEN! My daughter is in pain, can’t you understand that! GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT!” and then everyone in the entire hospital, nay the county, will be afraid and start giving shots to everyone just because my sister said so. She is just that badass.

Any free moment that mom slept back at home, Erin was out in my garage. She’s been fascinated with all the stuff my mother has collected over the years. I’m not so much fascinated as I am WHEN CAN I PARK MY OWN CAR IN MY OWN GARAGE? with the whole thing and I’m struggling with patience over the seemingly eternal mess of boxes. Moving, as everyone knows, sucks. That’s the word people use for it, too, anytime you mention that you are moving.

“You’re moving? Ick. Moving sucks.”

“How’s it going with the move? Moving sucks.”

“There’s a devastating oil spill? Moving sucks.”

Every day for the past three weeks I have spent time out in the garage futzing around. That’s what I say when mom asks what I’ve been up to when I’ve spent any length of time downstairs.

“Hey, mom. You ok? Need anything?”

“I’m good. What are you up to tonight?”

“Oh. Futzing. You know.”

Here’s how futzing works. I take a large glass of ice water and my phone with me to the garage, search for the corner I want to work on, and start moving stuff around. Or futzing, if you will. (And you will. Because I have already used that word a ton.) Sometimes I just want to clear a path or find the box of coats that still need to be hung up in the front closet. Other times I am distracted by things I’m moving to a specific corner of the garage so that when mom feels better she can start to go through stuff. The thing that is constant is that I find something from my grandmother or from my childhood or even from my marriage that will make me stop and have need to sit down and cry about it. What have we learned so far, boys and girls? We’ve learned that moving sucks and there is crying.

The quick and dirty on The Garage: My mom has a lot of stuff. My grandma’s stuff makes me miss her and is a source of pain when I go through it. There are some unidentified footwear that I keep moving to a new spot. I have a new gas can (but no mower – go figure) that I try hard not to trip over. I’ve done the calculations and about 10% of the stuff belongs to me. Everything else of mine has made its way into the actual living part of the house.

I think that by now I have touched every single thing in the garage and it still looks a mess. Let me provide a visual for you (taken with my phone of course):

Thank you, Angella, for helping me label my horridly taken photograph of my disgusting garage. Next time, I’ll let you Photoshop my head on Halle Berry’s body.

It’s a treasure hunt out there for sure. There are family heirlooms that would be worth quite a bit to a collector. My grandpa’s cowboy hat, an old tractor seat, and a box of photos of relatives who came over on the boat and photos of my great aunt who was a state representative. I know I come from good stock when I explore the richness of my heritage, but some things just can’t have a price put on them.

During her first visit, Erin found something in the basement when we were packing up at the old house. It’s from a Freshman English extension course she took in 1968 in Lemmon, South Dakota.

Basically, no man of the white race is superior to a man of another race. All men’s tears are wet and salty, all men’s blood runs red, whether his skin is yellow, brown, black, white or red. The pangs of hunger, the bliss of happiness, spasms of pain, the fury of anger, or the blessed relief of sleep for a tired man are universal feelings for all with no regard for the color of their skin.

But it was the first paragraph on the second page that really did me in with her words.

Should one of my children wish to marry a person of another race, all other things being equal, I would not exclude them from the family because of the color of their skin. If they are the means necessary for my child’s happiness they will be welcome in the family. Oh, yes, I’ll admit there would be some fear in my heart because I am well aware that the world is not ready to accept inter-racial marriages, particularly the black and white, and of course no mother finds it easy to see her children experience heartache.

It’s never occurred to me that I had to question my grandmother as to how she felt about my mother marrying a black man or how she felt about me and my sisters being of mixed race. Not once as a child did I question whether or not she loved me as much as my all-white cousins. When we visited her in South Dakota and stopped by her work as we pulled into town she welcomed us with open arms and introduced us to her friends and co-workers like we were family. Because that’s what we were. It only occurred to me to start wondering when other people asked me. “How did your mom’s parents feel when she brought home a black man? Was it like Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?” If I were smarter and sassier back then when I started getting those questions I might have retorted with, “I don’t know. How did your family feel when they brought home such an asshole from the hospital?” Grandma pulled out her best jams and homemade breads and fed us amazing homemade foods when we arrived for a visit. Every family does that, right?

When people ask what it was like growing up with my heritage I usually have to stop and wonder what they mean. My experiences are mine. Yours belong to you. I grew up eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and we went on trips and we visited museums. Didn’t other people do that? My guess is that people want to know things like how my white mother figured out how to do my hair. Incidentally, she didn’t, it was a total mess that my father took over and after I was old enough to get corn rows the older black girls in my neighborhood took over from there. Or maybe they want to know how I identify and the clear cut reasons as to why I associate with what. Perhaps their queries are geared to the perspective we had as young children and how people, all completely ignorant, responded to us and asked us to whom we belonged and why such light-skinned kids were hanging out with such a dark-skinned man. Did it not occur to them that he might be our dad? Those were the most confusing questions from strangers because it seemed so obvious to us.

The other papers my grandmother wrote were about Orwell’s 1984, a critical essay responding to an exhibit of the Indian peoples of the Dakotas, a critique of Herman Melville’s novella Bartleby the Scrivener, and two character studies. One of Calpurnia from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird and the other from an Irwin Shaw short story entitled “The Girls in their Summer Dresses”.

In 1968 my mother was 20 years old. She would marry my father two years later and give birth to me another year after that. Grandma was a good writer. She got an A from her professor on that paper.

But I couldn’t possibly ascribe a grade to what reading those words gave me.