my boat, your boat

one of the more surprising gifts i’ve been given in my current school is the opportunity to work with an extremely culturally diverse population. all major (and plenty of less than major) religions, most inhabited continents and just about every language family sit in a desk somewhere in the building, most often in my classroom. generally, this makes for a kinder, smarter, more interesting community. generally. but sometimes there are problems. sometimes there is ugliness.

quite a few of our students come here, come to this country, from countries too poor for living in, war-torn countries, places where genocide has destroyed everything but memory, places where children are still fighting wars. they come to this country believing it is made of gold and candy and new lives for everyone. and sometimes it is, but for most of the kids who come here it’s not quite like that. everything exists inside a different language and for those children, the first small pile of words they learn consists mostly of words to keep them always aware of their status as other, alien, foreign. but uglier than that is what they learn next. words to keep all the other children who are not from here off kilter. i am an alien but not as alien as you. and although in my mind every day is the small world ride at Disneyland, more often than not, it goes like this:

loud noise from the back of the classroom while students are supposed to be reading silently. i look up. silence. angry looks across the aisle. we all go back to our reading. rustling and then hostile whispers. louder, even more hostile whispers. i see one boy turned around, gesturing wildly at a group of four boys. he is albanian. they are all part of what the children here would call the spanish community. not a single child among them is spanish. the word, here, suggests a common language, not a common culture or history. and yes, i know that between them they represent three expressions of the language, but i am telling you how children see things, how they represent difference and sameness. one of the not really spanish boys is angry, calling the albanian boy stupid, his anger compressing his words into one long stream of word, rising steadily in pitch as he goes. this delights the albanian boy, cracks him up. he is watching this child slowly become less and less his new home and more and more his old as pronunciation of the words shifts more and more toward spanish. he whispers something again to the not really spanish boy and the three others nearby try very quietly to tell him to shut up.

by now, other children are glaring. some small part of me notes this and is pleased they are annoyed by an interruption to their reading. the rest of me calls the first not really spanish boy out into the hall. he is angry. i ask what’s happening. the albanian, it seems, is calling him a name. a name that he and the other children, at least these children, have determined is appropriate to use as a slur against mexicans. the child is incensed, not because the albanian has used the word, but because he has used it incorrectly. “i’m not even mexican, miss!” he wails. i ask him what he is. “ecuadorian.” and what i want to tell him is that the word isn’t appropriate, even to use when folks are mexican, but the strangeness of the situation gets me a little and i have to look up and pretend to be mad so i can hide the fact that i’m about to laugh out loud.

so i pull the albanian out into the hall, too. i ask if he’s been using this word. he denies it, looks confused. “i’m not even mexican, you idiot!” hisses the ecuadorian child standing behind me. "i'm ecuadorian!" “oh,” says the albanian, genuinely fascinated. i am not sure what to do here but they seem reconciled after this so we go back in. there is reading to do and neither one is particularly strong in this area.

a day or two later, there is some sort of ruckus between the albanian and the ecuadorian yet again. i pull the ecuadorian outside first, ask what’s happening. i do this because he is the more rational of the two children, more likely to understand diplomacy and all. but not today. he is so angry he is taking up about twice his normal space. it seems that although both boys established that this word is really for use to degrade mexicans, the albanian doesn’t know the word to use to make ecuadorians feel bad about being ecuadorians and besides, he likes hearing the ecuadorian yell. because he likes the way the ecuadorian says the word. but the ecuadorian knows this is a subtle attack on the way he says all words, on his pronunciation of words he wasn’t born hearing.

i move the ecuadorian’s seat and although he is fuming about that, too, he is sitting next to a very pretty, very smart, very nice girl who touches his arm when she speaks to him during group work time and i am more or less forgiven by the end of the period.

but i spend more time outside with the albanian, who looks, both behaviorally and academically, like a fourth grader. i intend to call his mom and talk about his behavior. i have the phone number and ask about a good time to catch her. in spite of his generally annoying behavior in class, he truly is a sweet child who means well and he suggests several times that would be good because his brother will be home then. because his mom doesn’t understand English. neither does his dad. and i start to laugh, which confuses him but he smiles a little, too although he’s not really sure why. i am not laughing at his parents. i'm in the same place i was when the ecuadorian child explained why he was mad.

“does your mom work?” i ask. she does. she works where she has to deal with other people. now, i do not know which words the children have settled on as being offensive and hurtful to albanians, but i know what the word stupid does to people and i ask him this: “how many times a day do you think your mom hears someone say stupid albanian or stupid foreigner or why don’t you learn to speak english?” and his face focuses for a minute in a way i have never seen. because he loves his mom and because he doesn’t want anyone ever to call her stupid or make her feel like an alien while he has been fitting in so well making by others stand out. his head drops a minute and i hear his voice, surprisingly quiet, say, “ a lot, maybe.” and this is the ugly part. it’s not just in schools that people use the words the children have settled on. it is on the street and the train and the bus. it is in stores and at work and when you have to fill out forms and see doctors. his mom hears, every day, some version of the word he uses to hurt the ecuadorian.

i do not know how long it will take the rest of the world to make these things less ugly or what exactly it will take to get to that place, but in my classroom we only have until june.

breakfast, ducks, heron

in brooklyn we have just finished reading the dobyns poem. you know the one. these are the first days of fall. the wind at evening smells of roads still to be traveled… but here, on the top side of the catskills, that whole season came and went in a few short weeks. a burst of color, a few gusts of wind. today we expect snow. the days are too short to plan now. you just have to see what you feel like when you wake up and hope there’s daylight enough after breakfast to get going.

we spend at least one breakfast a week sitting at a window table at a restaurant on route 28, smack in the middle of the space between margaretville and arkville. there are three tables by the window and the window hovers above the east branch delaware river which was a little ferocious this spring and summer but which sits generally in a shallow bed strewn with smooth rocks and an occasional log. opposite the restaurant, across the river, is a field, maybe full of hay, and then there’s the line of trees at the bank with root knuckles curled, clutching the dirt at the edge.

it is a good thing to have a window table all year, but starting right about now you can watch the ducks stop and rest and snack on the coldwater snacks floating by. there is a quick place in the river where ducks shoot by like on some carnival ride, always spinning around to sit sideways as the water leaps up. they seem to be laughing as they go over, beaks wide, heads back. and today i am ready to see the ducks. we head over to the only open table by the window and see a cluster of mallards, three pair, swirling around on the water but before we can even get to our seats a gray cloud drops from the sky and we watch- all of us sitting at the window- the blue tipped wings of a monstrously large heron flap as it lowers itself down into the water. the great blue heron is a pretty large bird, but when it sets down next to a pile of ducks, you really get an idea of scale. it stands near the bank, where a couple of dead trees have fallen, their brushy tops drooping over into the river. the heron wades into the middle of all that brush and disappears, becomes a few more branches in an already tangled mess.

we sit down. i get my tea and the sweetie gets his coffee and we watch. the couple sitting at the middle window table is watching, too. they are talking about the bird and i feel a little bit bad for the ducks shooting over the rapids now, clamoring for attention, getting nothing. they float and bob one at a time on down to the end of the dead tree and begin their snacking again, paddling slowly back upstream behind the trees and the heron, looking very much like teenagers when they find themselves behind a live newscast. they are looking at the heron, floating by, making faces, most likely, waving to their friends, mom, the entire duck world. i open the sugar packets. the heron hunches down. i empty them and stir my tea. the heron’s beak moves just slightly. i reach for the cold metal pitcher with milk and the heron darts into the water. it comes up with a fish, flapping and winking, wedged in its beak. It eats slowly. at least, it eats more slowly than you’d expect a bird to eat when it’s standing in freezing water with a live fish trying really hard to get out of that beak.

one of the men at the far table says they look so prehistoric and for a minute i don’t see it, but the heron seems to want to prove the point and walks, as dinosaurlike as ever anything has, around in front of the dead trees, lifting its unreal legs and moving its ridiculous neck the way dinosaurs in movies do, head wagging slowly, a little frighteningly, from side to side. predatory. impressive.

and then our favorite waitress comes to the table and sets down plates. for the sweetie some sort of hideous conglomeration called hash that he slathers with tabasco. for me, two eggs scrambled (there were at least three today) home fries, bacon, a pancake and two triangles of french toast. the french toast will go to the sweetie. as i shake pepper onto my eggs, the body of the heron seems to grow and grow. the great wings unfurl and you can almost see the gusts of wind they must create. the blue tips flap and, wavelike, the rest of the wing flaps, slowly. the bird is in no hurry. everything about it is liquid. there is no way something that shape should fly but the body moves with the wings and the legs are ribbons trailing below. it is gone before i take my first bite.

sunday until noon

wake up just a bit after sunrise. wonder how it is that every other day of the week your brain or your bladder or your dog wakes you in the predawn confusion of before the alarm, before 5am but then on sundays everybody just stays still. assume it is the heavy wool blanket and the coldness of the outside world. you can't feel it but your body must know about it anyway. it's out there. get up and take out the dog or tend to the fire or simply stand in the middle of the living room, confused that the sweetie you can't get out of bed with a bagpipe or crowbar most days is up before you and has done both these things. pour water in the iron kettle on the woodstove. add a bit of cinnamon and some vanilla until the room smells like a very good pipe. feel smug.

open the door to the stove while the sweetie is upstairs. stoke the fire. get it roaring. realize you cannot stand up. grumble to yourself about how 41 is far to young for a person to be having back problems. call up to the sweetie or the dog, whoever will help you. feel your left leg begin to fall asleep in your precarious hunched position while you wait for rescue. consider leaning against the stove. read the temperature gauge. it is above 450 degrees. reconsider leaning. whimper for your rescuer(s) to hurry. with help, get to your feet but hunch yourself over because you cannot stand up without some horrible claw inside your spine grabbing at your insides. be dramatic. whimper again. consider who might possibly be to blame for this. maybe the dog, because he is small and you have stooped to carry him in the past. also, you have carried him in the past. but he is small and his blame is measured likewise. determine the rest of the blame, a substantial part, should rest on the shoulders of the sweetie. while he is mocking your inability to stand, hope this blame has some pointy edges that will stick into his neck and shoulders with some degree of discomfort. determine to punish him for his part in your suffering.

tell him he will have to carry both bags of laundry to the laundromat. say this with a smile. explain that you are doing all you can by burdening yourself with the coins in your pocket and the nearly empty bottle of detergent. tell him you are suffering. be dramatic in the car. if your back wasn't broken, you might have walked to the laundromat, but writhe and howl in your seat. find it difficult to haul the awful laundry from the bag on the floor up and over and into the hateful machines. consider how to make the sweetie, who bends and lifts and drops the laundry effortlessly, suffer for his gracefulness and skill. realize part of your cruelty might be due to the fact that you haven't had food yet. in your weakened state, blame this on the sweetie, too. it is so clearly his fault. think about whether, in your weakened state, you could dump him into one of the open washers. realize that even in full health it's not likely.

when everything you own that was dirty is now swirling in pretty blue water scented to match the mountains outside, walk with the sweetie, who you are by now glad you spared, around the corner to the back of the building. walk up the small steps to the railroad caboose. stand inside where the smell of food hugs you and kisses you and promises you everything will be just fine. although you are not quite sure, maybe you hear a whisper from the eggs sizzling on the grill, some quiet breakfast voice asking how your back feels, asking what you need. while the sweetie orders, walk through a crazy, zigzagging hallway to what is aspiring to be a dining room. you have eaten at the caboose before, but only on the porch, wooden, its tables shaded by umbrellas. it is cold now and it is clear the place with the beautiful smells wasn't prepared for indoor guests and is making do. stand in the middle of the room with your cup of tea and the sweetie's coffee. they are steaming and make the room smell like it is connected to the caboose you left behind past that crooked hallway, but you are in another world.

off the hallway is a tiny room with a window out into the world and a window into the larger room. just like in your apartment, you think. there is a desk there, one of those real live wooden ones, the kind teachers used to have long ago. on another corner of the larger room (there are several and you can't quite manage to explain the shape) is a bathroom but it is the room you stand in that defies explanation. there are tables scattered about. most of the chairs are wooden, the kind your grandparents had to go with their round and wooden dining room table before you were ever born. a few are plastic, patio chairs. part of one wall is torn loose from itself, with fat insulation wedged between planks. there are large sheets of something like gypsum board or plaster board, five or six of them, leaning against one wall. there are windows and a door out onto another porch. someone told you this building used to be a warehouse, part of the railroad, and the big sliding doors you see on places like that are still hanging on a wall or two. sit down, sip your tea and gaze into the corner. there's a print of miles davis, not a particularly good one, not one you like, but something that somehow goes with everything else. miles davis was a mess and a half during parts of his life but he is, simply, just better than most folks out there at things that are important to you. jazz when the word meant something specific. and this is where you are. breakfast in its purest state. let your eye wander a bit and notice that under a pile of clutter sits a pale upright piano, the kind you've seen in countless churches, the kind that tend to be in baptist churches. you know without going near it that it smells powdery and far away like a hymnal. when the sweetie brings your food, sits down to the disconnectedness and undoneness, let the bacon and eggs and potatoes, the words that mean breakfast, mend, if not your body, at least your snarling mind.

after breakfast, renewed, drive to the dump. the transfer station. marvel, as you do every time, that your dump has the prettiest view anywhere. make the sweetie pull over at the side of the road so you can take pictures of your mountains from the road beside the dump. feel smug. the dump photos put a bee in your bonnet and you walk down toward the highway with your camera, promising you'll meet the sweetie at the laundromat later to rescue your clothes. walk past the coffee place with an auction in back. walk past the laundromat/pizza place with the caboose full of scrambled eggs in back. walk past two places advertising pizza, side by side, and then the fish place that always looks, through the open kitchen door, like a dorm room. walk to the bridge. it is a good place to take photos of the way the season is moving through the mountains. kneel against the railing on the low side of the bridge. stand up when you realize the owner of the trans am, the one that's been for sale the past year or so, panics as he drives by you because he thinks you are hurt. walk back to the laundromat. sit on the bench outside. knit a while. take another photo. go in and start to pull the warm clothes out of the dryer and into the wire basket. when the sweetie walks in the door, explain your adventure over the folding of towels and shirts.

reading

they’re back. 61 ninth graders and 18 tenth graders. it’s been three weeks and although i only know about twenty names well enough to use them when calling on someone i am already smitten. beyond smitten, i suppose. they are not what i expected at all, not what i’m used to. they can’t read worth much yet and can’t write much either and they complain of boredom. they’re tired or hungry or thirsty or in need of a bathroom just about every ten seconds and sometimes they’re angry but what makes this group different from any other group is that they don’t want to be angry. they come in that way some days but they seem willing, almost needing, to let someone drag them off anger and plop them down somewhere just a little more useful. they seem to have a desire to be- to be something, to be someone, to be more than just an occupier of space. they have expectations.

i do not know what to do about this because now i have nobody to fight with. there is nothing to struggle against. sure, there’s small-time drama, i've had to drag one entire class out into the hall twice now, explain to them how human beings enter a room, then let them go back in, singly, silently, but that's standard. i do that every year. tons of times with some groups. and i have to say things like "quit popping gum while i'm trying to explain your homework" and "books are not to be used to hit someone you don't like" but i've also said, "wow! i never thought of that. can you tell us more about that?" and "that is the most awesome sentence i've seen all year!" and they use words. fancy words. words they're not sure how to spell, but words they know ought to be out there being said. so i get to jump around and howl about these pretty words. and they smile these shy smiles, relieved they said the word with all the right sounds and then also that they used the word to mean the thing they meant.

then today one of the support staff in the room took me aside and mentioned one of our kids can't read. i laughed. none of them can read. that's why they're here. no, she said, i mean really. really. so i took the child outside. she'd been grumpy already, sensing something might be up. she stood outside with me, with her book, angry, defiant, scared to death. i turned to the first page of the book, one she'd chosen to read on her own, and said, "read that first sentence." and she glared at me. she said, quietly, "no. i don't want to. i don't feel like it. i could if i wanted but i don't want to so i'm not going to." and i said, "i'm not sure this is the right book. i'm thinking it may be too boring or too difficult or..." "it's not too difficult. i just don't feel comfortable reading around you." this is a child who, days earlier, professed undying love to me because i am awesome. it is difficult to be awesome when calling a child's bluff and saying, in real live words, "i know you can't read." she knew what i was thinking and she started to read. the. and then she looked at me, glared. "i don't want to. i'm in a bad mood." the next word, by the way, was cast.

we stared at each other there a while and she said, "so i'm stupid. whatever." she's not stupid, though, and i told her exactly that, said i knew she was smart, had been listening to the things she said in class, all smart things. and i looked her and said out loud, plainly, "you're smart. you just can't read. we need to fix that." and her eyes got big. she blurted out, "and how do you think i got to ninth grade without being able to read?" i didn't say what i thought. that there are people who, out of kindness or ugliness or neglect simply send children on, literate or not. i just said, "it happens a lot." and we stood out there maybe ten minutes, her glaring and huffing and saying ridiculous and contradictory things. i just kept saying the same thing. "we'll teach you to read."

and eventually we both stomped back into class. she sat in her desk and rooted around in her bag, huffed a while, snarled at people sitting around her. i read aloud from our classroom book. i glared up at her once while i was reading because she was talking. and she glared back. she kept her book open but didn't look at it. i waited for her to ask to go to the bathroom, the water fountain, her guidance counselor. after the reading, i always ask the kids questions, some just to see if they were listening, some to see if they can think beyond the surface. and i asked. a deep question. a thinking question. her hand shot up. she couldn't sit still. the glare she'd been working so hard to keep on her face had slid off somewhere and her eyes were shiny, flashing. when i looked at her she opened her mouth and out poured all sorts of brilliance. word after word after word.