triptych: gifts

sometimes i write and then forget to slap the words up on the screen. these three seem to be comfortable being on the same page so here they sit, original dates right next to them so you'll know what's what- unexpected little things people gave me. i think maybe they're upside down, time-wise. you'll figure it out.

spiderman, dated 11-01-11
i first realize he is spiderman when he puts a hand on my shoulder. or maybe it's just after that when his chest muscles brush against me. this is not something i am used to from strangers but i am kneeling on the sidewalk, holding the small brown dog still so a group of children can pet him. it is always strange to watch children pet this dog on the street because he stands very still until his whole self disappears. he is a shell, silent and empty, clenching an eel in his teeth.

children do not care about this. they are used to dogs that leap and lick and nuzzle and all that evidently interferes with what the children want to do, which is pet the soft dog fur uninterrupted by the actual dog. children will pile around him and put small, sticky hands on his back, his head. he endures. they will run small hands down the length of him until parents drag them away. they will compare the textures of his different colors, will put their faces up against the softness of his ears. they will start at the bony top of his head and will walk sideways along him, dragging their fingers to his tail. some of them will pet just the tail, which refuses to move while he stands there. they will pet right over the bald spot where his fur fell out and never grew back years ago. they are grateful for his stillness.

but spiderman is the smallest in his family, the only one wearing noncivilian clothing. his mother tries to lead the children away before spiderman has squirmed his way up next to the dog. he reaches out as his mother moves forward. she hesitates, pulls her other children back. spiderman pets the dog slowly, leans against me to steady himself. this is the first time, i tell him, the dog has ever been petted by a superhero. i say it is a special occasion. the child's mother agrees. usually, she says, smiling, spiderman does not like to go near dogs. i like this one, he says,staring into the brown fur. he is so still.

light, dated 9-11-11
he asks me how we are and i tell him we're fine. we have gone from the mainland to one island and then another over two of the bridges the whole world has been watching this weekend. always potential targets, i suppose, but more likely so, according to some at least, this weekend. i have tried very hard, just like him,  this week before to avoid the papers, avoid the news on t.v., scroll quickly past webpages plastered with panic or sorrow or images i've seen a thousand times before. gratuitous suffering. fear porn.

days like these armed people paw through backpacks on public transportation with the blessing of our mayor and someone is always threatening to blow up something i will travel in, on, over or through. we are encouraged to say something if we see something, to be just afraid enough, but to go about our business like everything is normal.

but the child's other aunt has dragged her family onto a plane and flown them to washington d.c. this weekend and the realization that he cannot yet control the entire world and keep those he loves always safe is beginning to itch in the back of his head. it is unfair to hand this to him, that he should worry about so many he loves walking around in both of the cities where dark holes were left after. he is a child but he has spent the day remembering the dead and fretting over the living. he has spent his day in nebraska with a new hat he would not wear. out of respect, he tells me. because he is so far away from where he thinks things happened, so far away from where he worries something might happen again, it is what he knows he can do to put order into the chaos.

he asks if i have seen two lights in sky and i tell him i have. in fact i have seen them before. the first year i recall railing against them, not knowing how they could possibly help anyone at all. they seemed gaudy, horrible, mean. they did not restore things. they did not bring anyone back and i could not look at the loneliness of them. but this night we are driving over the manhattan bridge and there are those two lights shining up through soft rain and hissing fog. the brooklyn bridge weaves itself across the space between the lights and where we are. the city glitters in the dark, so pretty you cannot imagine anyone wishing it harm. i take one picture and then another, grainy from the night and blurry from the speed of the car. i tell him we just saw the lights, that i took a picture of them i can send him. i say they are beautiful. he knows this but lets me say it anyway. well, he says, sounding far away, i love you.

after school, dated 03-17-2011
 i do not deserve the kindness my children show me but i devour it voraciously.

some days after classes we have tutoring. my tutoring sessions are fairly informal and i have a small group that shows up every day. one child works on math, swearing under his breath the whole time. about the math. about my own evil self. another works on spelling, consistently figuring out twelve and fourteen letter words more easily than four or five letter ones. one child buzzes about the room menacing others into quizzing him on s.a.t. vocabulary words none of them can decipher the sound of. already today he is furious with me because when he asked me if he was my favorite i told him i couldn't imagine a single favorite child but that he is certainly in the pile of favorites. this is not enough. he would share the limelight with speller, probably. they are oddly protective of each other. but he is pretty sure there's no room for a third among my pile of favorites and is considering elbowing them out as soon as he figures out who they are.

they begin to wander in. one child is having trouble understanding the plot of a book he's reading. one has a question about a project due some time ago. one wants to talk about how much the book he's reading is upsetting him. the plot, the suffering and the darkness of it. this is a child who does not like to speak around other students and who likes to mumble his words so low i have to lean forward to hear. the math child is here with a poetry question. he is giddy with the knowledge he passed every class this marking period and is willing to put for a little effort in a class or two to keep that good feeling. he is even willing to write a poem.

so there is chaos. s.a.t. child is trying to explain to spelling child some sort of information about a circle and a tangent. they are at the board in front of a giant red circle, conferring in hushed voices. mumbling child is trapped in a desk whispering into the desktop while i try to figure out what is making him so upset. and math child is insisting that he has written a stanza of a poem and needs immediate assessment of said poetry with suggestions for what to do with stanza two. immediate. nobody in this group is able to be much aware of the needs of others. mostly. i turn to math child and mumbling child bristles. he works hard at not liking anyone but math child is pretty regularly oblivious to attempts to stop him from talking. so he ambles over to me and hovers, preventing mumbler from confessing some deep, dark, terrifying secret about his suffering connection to the book.

about this time spitfire comes in. she is about nothing, tallwise, but is full volume in terms of personality. she checks out the goings on of the two small clusters and situates herself between so she can chime in to either group without having to raise her voice. math child is exasperating mumbler to the point he finally snaps and spits out a brilliant suggestion to math boy who stares, open mouthed. this is the first time another student has ever suggested math child try anything except something that is physically impossible. he smiles and wanders back to pack up his things.

mumbler is confused by what just happened. he opened his mouth to say something horribly cruel and ended up saying possibly the kindest, most helpful thing he's ever said to this child he doesn't know and, as a result, absolutely despises. he smiles a little bit, too, but checks first to be sure nobody is watching, then he heads out, trusting my promises that he is strong enough to keep the book from getting loose inside his head.

this leaves s.a.t. child, spelling child and spitfire. they are crowded together at a clump of desks now, plotting something. i have been trying to convince spitfire for more than a year that she needs help with her academic work. she interprets this as an assessment of her intelligence instead of her tools. generally she gets mad, yells at me, then tells me she's not stupid. then she stomps off. i sometimes yell after her down the hall that i know she's not stupid even though sometimes she surely acts like she is. because i am graceful and dignified and always, always mature. she would be worried if i didn't yell something.

but today she brings it up. because she likes fighting with me. or maybe she wants to be sure i really care about her. or maybe she likes hearing me yell at her that i know she's not stupid. and today i have backup. so we have the argument out here in the open where s.a.t. child and speller can hear. and they weigh in. we are talking about a program i want her to be part of and s.a.t. child steps up and says, "what is wrong with you?" he tells her she'll have everything she needs to learn anything she wants, everything she needs to be smart. speller gets up, leans forward and says with a sassiness i know it is hard for her to gather up, "if you're part of the program you have connections." they both move in toward spitfire like predatory animals smelling blood. they insist half her friends are in the program and she would be a fool to keep standing there on the outside. this is all she needs. a year and a half i have been begging, pleading, whining and yelling. a year and a half. i bring this up and she smiles, says it's different coming from them.