Mike asked me to do a meme last week and I’m going to try not to be suckage supreme and forget about it so let me do this right now even before I chronicle one of the biggest days in my life this past weekend. Is the suspense killing you? I know how you feel.

The rules according to Mike:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
5. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
6. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

Random Numero Uno - I’m currently not sleeping. Rather, I fall asleep quickly and then awake at awful hours and then hit the wall sometime around 2:15 each day. Luckily, my counselor noticed the baggage under my eyes and sadly they are not matching Louis Vuitton ones. Today I go to the doctor for some meds and watch how I sneak this one in: I’m also dealing with “situational depression”.

Random Numero Dos - Whenever I watch movies that have an underwater scene in them I hold my breath as long as the character holds their breath and then blow it out PPPPSSSSHHHHHEEEEEWWWWW to show everyone present that I won the non-existent breath holding contest I had with myself.

Random Numero Tres - Paul Rubens sort of fascinates me and last night I was excited to see him again in “Mathilda” and last week it was “Mystery Men” and I’m always thrilled to see him in anything. I fell in love with his power over absurd children’s television when Mallory waved bye-bye at the t.v. screen when she was 2 years old as Pee Wee’s Playhouse ended and he rode off in the sky with his bicycle.

Random Numero Quatro - I have large hands and my nails grow beautifully but I don’t bother keeping them up and looking good. In fact, I got a fungus once when I tried out acrylic nails and my right index finger is grotesquely misshapen. The other nails look great! But that one is gnarly and I try hard not to use it to point, but then I have to use my middle finger and…you see where this is going.

Random Numero Cinco - I listen to what people say about my accent or the phrases I use too much. For instance, my Canadian friend JoAnne told me that Americans don’t say “You’re welcome.” We make this high-pitched non-word “Uh huh”. As soon as she told me that, I started listening and I do that, too! We also abuse the word “literally”. Though, “clearly” is a close second for American citizens. Some examples: Clearly, you didn’t do what I asked. Clearly, he is confused and mistaken. Clearly, you are an asshole.

Random Numero Seis - Clearly, I love all things Winnie The Pooh so here is the random quote for today: “The spring has sprung, the grass is rizz. I wonder where them birdies is?”

My tagging choices are not so random but I’m going with…

Pete from Fiddley who wrote this favorite post of mine and whom I’m following closely now.

Sarcomical who is Sarbeautiful and Sartalented.

Julie from Mothergoosemouse. Don’t let the name fool you. It ain’t your average mommyblog.

Karen Sugarpants who is working on a redesign of this site and who is currently GLOWING from all the running she’s doing and looking awesome in the meantime.

Amy from Assertagirl. She’s stolen my superheroine name, but oh well.

Stefania from CityMama. She kicks ass, takes names, and then cooks up something yummy for everyone.

I would hope that you’d all join in because I don’t expect that anyone would have time to do a meme when the weather’s getting nicer and the end of the school year is nigh. If I tagged me the fact that I used the word “nigh” would be the dealbreaker and I would probably refuse.

Don’t be guilt-ridden, either. It’s not like I’m depressed or anything. Huzzah!

I am one tired woman and while I could list the amazing, unbelievable and slightly incredible things I’d had to deal with just today I fear I’d get tired all over again. After school today I had a consulting job an hour away, three hours of consulting, and then another hour drive home. Who’s tired besides me? Yeah, I’m feelin’ ya.

Your questions and comments and emails are astoundingly and generously kind. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say this: wow - some of y’all really DO use my personal email and, for some reason, I’m always shocked when you do, but in a happy way unless you’re telling me to shove off in which case might I suggest that little option you always have of not reading? But I really do love all the ones I have gotten lately, so send me your fax number and you’ll have a faxed pony and a yacht by the morning.

Enough of the love fest. I wouldn’t want readers to get the wrong idea.

Onto some of the questions and answers. If they don’t make sense, I’d like to remind you that I’m tired. Like, waking up daily at 3:30 a.m. and having my brain turn on kind of tired but I don’t want to leave you hanging.

From the email file, Beth asked How do you tell the difference between someone who does not care about your race and someone who does?

I really liked that question because I can see how it presents itself as a sort of litmus test for sensitivity for racial issues. You have to take this on a case-by-case basis. When there is a problem, do people point to a character flaw first? Do they suggest that someone is simply just an asshole? Or do they blame race for all those things? This has to be answered individually and it’s not always an easy process.

Ben says that he gets questions like, “Does it take a long time to braid her hair?”

Supposing there are a lot of braids, wouldn’t one guess that the answer is yes. I’m going to err on the side of curiosity here and suppose that the question has more to do with the HOW do you manage to get those braids done and is it worth the time? As a little girl I cried every single time I got braids but it was worth it not to have the trouble of doing it daily. Wrap in scarf at night, set to go! That opens up more conversation about the products and tools it takes to do the hair and I think that, like Wendy mentioned, it allows us to delve deeper into other topics. Hair can be a safe place to begin and used as a jumping off point.

My Aussie friend, Yvonne, asked why people are so afraid of offending others. Many of the comments actually sort of answered that question: people have gotten burned before and are trying hard to make sense of this mucky muck of race until we are afraid to even ask questions again. Part of this was experienced by Dana in her post because she wants to back off of political writings for another reason entirely, but the fear is there. It’s the same fearful response that we want to back away from, but I try to remember that there is a human being on the other side so if I put in the time to experience a relationship with them that fear begins to dissipate and we’re more likely to get somewhere.

Did I mention that I’m tired? Because when I look over this post I’m beginning to wonder if my answers are making sense.

The Caffeinated Librarian asks: Do we mean a culture or a skin color or are we talking about genetics…or some weird, constantly shifting version of all three?

It is my guess and opinion that the two of those three we mesh together in conversations tend to be about culture and skin color, but mostly we are talking about culture. But my answer would probably be the same as the previous one because, again, the human aspect of the people we’re talking about/with is forgotten.

Mrs. RW asks: When I am at a family gathering where older (and sometimes not-so-older) relatives make racial jokes or use terms that are derogatory to people of color, is it incumbant upon me to tell them what idiots/assholes/racist pigs they are to their face - or is thinking it just enough

This is the touchiest one because it’s so painful to think that our family members believe such hateful things that they’d let slip their nasty thoughts. It’s also painful to hear, “But my Granny grew up in a different time. Things were DIFFERENT back then.” May I just give an example of something I’ve used before as a response to that? I always like to point out that my grandmother on my mom’s side is White and she grew up in that same different time and she isn’t like that. When people say that it sounds like such an excuse, but it wasn’t everyone. My mom wasn’t the first person to marry a Black man and I can’t let that one slide. When my sisters and I told my dad that his aunt called us “half-breeds” and made us sit on the porch while all the other Black cousins watched tv in the air-conditioned house, he didn’t let her off the hook. It was the last we saw of her because he didn’t let her treat us that way.

Betsy and Kelliqua asked similar questions about the race boxes we check and the races to which we refer ourselves to.

Here’s how tired I am. I don’t care about ending that sentence with a preposition. I’m a writer! I’m creative! I’m e e cummings!

Let me tell another story. My mom, when giving birth to me and my sisters, was in a South Side Chicago hospital and the White nurse told her that there was no such thing as “mixed” and that she had to mark “White” on our birth certificates because my mother is White. Up until college I traded off which ones I checked and “Mixed Race” wasn’t even an option so one day, while at the admissions office, I stopped by to ask when that would be a choice.

“Just choose one or the other. We don’t have both.”

“Yes, I know, that’s my point. If I want to classify as both, why can’t I? Aren’t you smarter than the computer that spit this out? Can’t you make a new box?”

She wasn’t very amused by my questions and brushed me off so I asked if I were allowed to change my race whenever I wanted to and she said, “Sure. It’ll change every time you put in a request, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

When I walked out of the office that day I was Hispanic. The following semester I was Asian. I was every single box they offered until I graduated and that lady in the admissions office was SICK OF ME COMING IN but I was trying to make a point. The semester after I graduated a friend told me that “Mixed Race” was an option finally and I felt satisfied.

What I realized about how I was identifying, however, was that I felt ok with choosing. I also realized that so many people in our historic American heritage were classified as “Black” but had one White parent. Somehow, it gave me permission to say that I felt comfortable in my Black skin when so much of what I’d come up against was as Black. That’s not to say I haven’t felt the sting of “not Black enough” and boy, can I ever identify with Obama.

I can’t possibly tackle Please explain ebonics. Is is a real language? yet. Can I get a pass on that one until I get more sleep?

3:30 a.m. will be here soon enough.

I’ve been deeply interested in the posting and responses to Dana’s piece over at BlogHer and spent much of the weekend returning to the site to see concluding reactions. I left my own response to it and won’t share it all right here, but I am genuinely interested in those “questions” I mentioned.

What ARE those ‘ignorant’ questions about race you’ve asked and been checked on even if the response was in anger?

Are there questions you wanted to ask people of color (mostly I’m thinking of Blacks, but I’ll take any query)?

Really, what are your questions? I’m not promising to answer them, but am compiling a list for my own mini-research on an interview Rita is working on with me. She’ll write it up far better than any attempt I could make, but you never know. Some question may be too juicy for me to resist responding to, but beware. You may just get an answer.

While I haven’t devoted an entire post to what I do in my position, I realize this differs from place to place so I can only sum up easily by stating that I take care of the academic needs of students with regard to classes, interventions as a support for them, and finding ways to bridge the superabundance of parental/parole officer/community resource phone calls that come my way. Anytime one of the deans does something that’s not listed on our job descriptions we jokingly whine, “Other duties as assigned”.

This year, that list has grown to some things I would never have imagined to be part of my responsibilities:

Riding in the ambulance when students are hurt or visiting them in the hospital after injuries or surgeries.

Going on home visits to find truant students and convincing them to attend school.

Telling students to pull up their pants.

Being called into meetings that don’t always fall under the category of “responsibilities”.

Giving students proper clothing.

Handing out tampons and pads to the girls.

Driving the girls home who need to change clothing due to aforementioned “duty”.

Doing body searches when there is a risk of drugs or weapons. So glad all the girls have had on clean underwear if I have had to do it.

Being grateful when one of them simply hands over the paraphernalia.

Doing searches on backpacks and finding it filled with condoms. Filled.

Thanking the student for being sexually responsible.

Hoping I’m not going to hell for wishing they wouldn’t procreate.

Using lots of hand sanitizer.

Providing students with lotion. I am the current Lotion Queen and sometimes they just stop by my office, put on moisturizer, and leave with a simple, “Thanks! Bye!”

Telling students to PULL UP THEIR PANTS.

Tying their belt loops together with twisty-ties when they just keep on breaking that rule.

Discussing possible abuse with DCFS workers or police officers.

Cry, cry, cry.

Keeping a supply of hand wipes and deodorant in my office.

Keeping a supply of breakfast bars and snacks in my office.

Shooing away critters who want to devour the food in my office.

Calming down the students in BD classrooms when I am called because they don’t listen to anyone else and I offer a gentle touch. (Fear not, I am known to get tough when they’re acting like jerks and have recently been referred to as the ______ Whisperer. When Jermaine acts up, I’m the Jermaine Whisperer. When Herb acts up, I’m the Herb Whisperer.)

Finding students jobs for the summer.

Hunting down students in classrooms who I know still didn’t pull up their pants.

Smugly walking away when they think I’m “everywhere”.

Catching students skipping school when I run an errand for the school and not being ashamed of rolling down my window and yelling, “You get your butt in school RIGHT NOW.”

Defending my position when I won’t give students Driver’s Education if they fail to have 4 credits. (Stock response to their frustration: “If you can’t pass English, I don’t want you driving on the road!” Parents ALWAYS agree with me and have gotten many thank you, Mrs. Mocha from it.)

Handing out tissues and comforting them even when they’re practically crawling into my lap.

Buying paper and pens and alarm clocks for students who need them.

Explaining to students that farting silently in class is simply NOT good manners.

It is a truth easily identifiable that Education is a difficult place to be. Especially now with political correctness, impossible NCLB standards, and children who learn so differently that it’s easy to blame technology for all those ills. Let me be plain before I explain further in my story: they learn differently, but we are responsible for teaching them nonetheless.  Still, I am flummoxed at our nation’s denigration of our efforts.

I like change, lots of it. For work, for my personal life, and for the learning that accompanies it whether I take it at the time or have to learn the lesson later. My career thus far has spanned teaching English/Language Arts in four different school buildings, one private school, two middle schools, two high schools, and a plethora of different people. During this tenure, I have been classified as a teacher, teacher leader, literacy coach, and administrator. Much of what I learned about myself, then, is that I love to work with the less fortunate, the humble, the ones who crave learning. The biggest difference between teaching at a private school was the sense of entitlement and I’m ever grateful for the learnings I acquired from a simple, old janitor named Allen. When I left that building I digested much of the attitude of those teachers and sorted through it to discover that kids are kids and my job doesn’t change just because the population does.

Leaving that school I went on to work at the highest poverty middle school in our district and gave as much as I gave previously only to discover that for those students there was such an appreciation for my efforts. Their parents expressed it, too, and it was then I studied the amount of triumph of those students was proportionate to how deserving they felt. What a sobering thought, but that’s just the reality of it.

Recently, I ran into two of the private school teachers who asked what I’d been doing in the six years since I had taught with them. I rattled off  the litany of accomplishments and what I’d been busy with and we chatted cordially. We were, it needs to be said, in the middle of a department store and I knew it was the kind of polite conversation one has when catching up with acquaintances.

“So, you went over to teach at School X. Hmmm. How was that?”

Her meaning wasn’t even thinly veiled. She wanted to know, “What’s it like working with poor kids? With lots of Black kids? With those heathens and hoodlums who only come to school to fight and wreak havoc?”

It was to be a polite conversation. This really shouldn’t ruin it, but her tone set my blood to boiling in a matter of seconds. So I began the process of heaping burning coals on her head.
“It was great! I loved it there!”

“Yes, but was it different?”

I hated the way she said that word. Different. It crossed my mind to slap her right upside the head.

“Absolutely not. Twelve year olds at one school are the same as twelve year olds at another. They all have the same basic needs and deserve an education. They are all teachable.”

“Oh.”

Not the answer she wanted, I assume. Not what she hoped to hear that perhaps I feared for my life on a daily basis and that I’d been caught up in a fight or two and had to put someone in a headlock. That was, of course, true. But she was positively dripping with anticipation of hearing this. She nearly drooled to get The Goods On Poor Public Educators.

“So, you left there. Where are you now?”

I was under the impression, what with all her salivating, that she already knew. She had heard that I pretty much followed those Poor Kids to the high school where I am currently a guidance dean so I offered it up to her minus any fanfare.

“Oh. WOW. You’re there?” There was no way she wanted to hide her incredulous response. She reminded me of the viper news reporters chomping at the bit to get a juicy story.

“Yeah, I love it. It’s great.”

“Well, I hear bad things about that place. What are YOUR thoughts on working there?”

While I am ever conscious of the fact that I represent my school, my district, my city, and my career in education I know that I am to always be positive. It pains me to give anyone ammunition with which to shoot all educators. Yet, here I was in the middle of a store browsing the aisles for sweater sets. My arms were full of a couple of outfits and I had yet to try them on and didn’t want this to ruin my day.

But I didn’t even have to reply to her.

Out of nowhere a woman came around the corner. She had been listening to our conversation on the other side of the dress rack and came to confront the woman to whom I was speaking.

“What’s the matter with you!? Am I to understand that YOU’RE A TEACHER? There is nothing wrong with where she teaches or works or whatever she does there. My daughter went there and just graduated and I was skeptical of sending her there because of PEOPLE LIKE YOU who bash everything in this town when you don’t know anything about it. Why don’t you take your ass over there and see for yourself? My kids have gotten great educations at both those schools this lady just mentioned!”

It occurs to me that, obviously, I am This Lady.

But This Lady, the one who rocked my world by coming to my defense and the defense of all whom I care to represent, was now my favorite person on the planet. Would she balk if I kissed her full on the lips? Would she hate it if I picked her up and twirled her around the store? Could I send her on an all-expenses paid cruise to the Caribbean?

This Lady, me, will forever be grateful for that bitch slap moment when I didn’t have to sigh and explain myself ad nauseam about why I do what I do. The relief I felt after watching this stranger unleash on former colleagues was thoroughly satisfying.

To The Lady who saved me from having to defend my passion for educating ALL STUDENTS: you are my heroine. I didn’t even buy a dress or those sweater sets. You also made me restructure all future “polite conversations.”