I'm Back. Pretty Sure of It.

I'm feeling pretty good. Thank you all for your fantastic comments and support. I felt the love. Thank you.

For seven days, I've eaten only fresh, whole foods; food not processed, purer food like fruits and veggies, obviously, plain brown rice, plain potatoes, raw nuts, plain beans. It's been about 60-70% raw. The only processed items I've eaten has been soy creamer and coffee, a cup in the morning. Breakfast has been dick-like fruit with raw nut butters and berries. Lunch has been huge salads with the homemade flaxoil dressing and beans. Dinner has been more raw veggies, some steamed plain veggies, brown rice. Fresh fruit for dessert, which I've never been able to say with a straight face because fruit as dessert has always seemed like a fantasy standard that I've never been interested in adhering to -- until now. I'm not fucking around.

If this were about my weight, I would have blown this off on day one. I woulda had a fair amount of real desserts by now. But dudes, I felt so badly the last 2-3 weeks. I don't want to feel that way again. Every-day stress and a super busy life aside, I feel that food is the the culprit as well as the cure to a great many things. Just like my friend's mom thinks that teatree oil is the cure for everything. Or that movie where Windex was the fix all? Whole food is that for me. When the girls feel badly, I run through this list: What did you eat at school? Have you eaten a fruit or vegetable? Why not? Have you had enough water? Did you sleep well last night? Within these questions, I think I can solve anything. Sprained ankle? Ice it and drink some tea. Heartache? Sleep. Tired? Water and more fruits and vegetables.

The majority of the time, I eat whole and healthy. But now I'm traipsing through purer territory where I believe most everything is too processed. The quality of packaged foods is so poor, but I can't say that I haven't mindlessly eaten vegan shit food. I go through periods where I don't realize how much, like recently.

People I know, but don't know very well, have anointed me their food parole officer some how. When they find out that I'm vegan and that I strive to be a healthy vegan, they like to blurt out what they eat or haven't eaten or how little cheese they consume a day, like I'm reporting back to Vegan Headquarters. I feel badly when they do this because this obviously isn't about me. Maybe it's a justification/defensiveness to decisions they feel might not be so good for them. Or maybe they think that I'm judging every morsel they consume when usually I'm the one that gets the tone and looks like, Great, she thinks she's all better than me with her fucking salad. I gotta say, it's strange. If I'm with a group at dinner, someone around me will tell me why they've ordered what they did or "I never usually eat like this," when I'm thinking, I don't give a shit. The thing is, I don't want to make anybody feel badly for whatever stage they're at with their food awareness or for any choices they make, period. If I positively influence someone, cool. If someone thinks I'm an uppity so-n-so, well, damn, that sucks, but fuck it. The dangerous territory is when I'm asked advice, which I'm hesitant to give. Unless I know the person really well, my advice is very general. One of Husband's friends asked me recently what kind of program he should go on to lose weight? This guy lives a bachelor life, fast food, drinking, not as active as he used to be. I told him to maybe go through the drive thru less and eat more fruits and vegetables. Maybe? Then I flinched for the resentment, but he was cool.

I really don't want to eat the majority of food that's out there in the market or in restaurants. I've felt that way for a long time and my body and psyche are wanting that more now too. But I feel that with this more limited way of eating, I'm taking another step towards being a bigger pain in the ass socially. Ultimately I will do what feels best, but I kinda think, ah man, nobody pay attention to me when I order or don't eat so much.

Seriously though, I'm not fucking around. I can only think about how I felt, and that's such driving motivation. I'm so serious, in fact, that I'm trying to coin a clever word for what I'm becoming. Wholefoodegan? That's lame,right? Help me. Freshian? Wholer? I feel better every day that I'm a simpletarian. I take little slides in my mood here and there, but I understand the detox process. I also understand the mourning process of mindless eating. I'm aware of the comfort in that, and the rebellion. All these things I'm trying to mourn properly. Wish me well in my more radical, pain in the ass step.

* * *

So, Husband had to leave again tonight for Mexico. They told him midday today. He just got home Friday. I'm taking it in stride. He is too. Where TeaCake at? Get the bed warm, buddy.

My sister in law is getting married in late January. In Puerto Rico! We were all so excited when we first heard, but as the weeks have rolled on, the financial burden of a trip for four weighed us down, squeezed out all the fun. I prepared my mind to not go, but last week, Husband got a bonus for working so hard. Out of the blue! And it was about exactly what the trip would cost. Things divine have the most impeccable timing. Thanks so much, Universe! And Papi.

I'm going to Puer-to Ri-co. I'm going to Puer-to Ri-co. In honor, here's a little video for you that plucks at the blood strings of every boricua no matter how faint or faded or mixed. "Hijos de liberdad!" Where Poundpapi at? I need an amen. I don't care what anybody says about Marc Anthony. I love him, and this song gets me every time. Nothing beats singing it at Madison Square Garden either. At 3:12, choked up, by 4:00, full waterworks. If you think this is cheesy, keep it to yo'self!

Bringing the Upswing

I can't seem to shake this blasé dissatisfaction. I'm stuck in the in-between of a near upswing and tumbling way down. Something deadened my heart a little, y'all, and ooo I'm trying to shake it out, off, away.

Complaining upsets me. Because my life is a series of choices, right, and I've made all of these choices to be where I am now. And I'm sifting through my choices, thinking where the change needs to come and I like and am grateful for most of it, and I'm frustrated by only a part of it. So, who am I to complain, y'know. Then I settle back into the in-between.

Well, I just cried on the phone to Husband. He's in Mexico, again, for work. This is the second trip in two weeks. Actually we texted. I cried while texting. Don't judge. I express myself better when writing and I’d be close to mortification if I were to complain verbally; I'll gladly, toxically swallow it all away rather than say it out loud. But not when I'm justifiably angry though, or when clear boundaries are crossed or when it comes to the kids -- but this personal, unknown space of beat down and tired and robot-ness and random, unwarranted feelings of failure. These things I can't say out loud. Don't make me. I don't want to. Let me text them.

Husband and I don't often have emotional heart to hearts, just when absolutely needed, which is fine with me. I’m not sentimental in that sense; I want it parceled organically, in extreme moments. This way the talks feel magnified and hugely meaningful. We soften and are all-attentive, all-important, kind, melting. He stops the world for me, and tells me bottom-of-the-soul stuff. I rarely need that, but today I did.

And I feel better. Because the basics make me feel better; a base of love, cherishedness. Back to Maven's vows -- and it really is the base of a rock-solid relationship -- championing each other. He said, to my money worries, "Rich or poor, I don't give a shit. I just need you. We've been piss poor before. I just need you." So, that's the basics. That's all I need. Nothing else matters.

I will say that when I was younger, I wouldn't have allowed myself to feel dissatisfied. Not that that's healthy or better. I do feel that I'm way more in touch with myself, which brings awareness to the good and bad within. I allow that now. I realize this is progression. But, I think back on my young hardness to any bullshit emotions (I believed) and I realize that this is just the way it is for the downtrodden, the ones who have to really pound it out to survive. When I had real stress about a beater car or no car or the rent and gas money or food money, I felt I had no right to complain about a job or two jobs, or how long it took to get there or the hours I put in . That would have jinxed it all for sure. Just hustle and make that rent, and hope it gets better. It was a servant mentality. I asked nothing from my bosses, just tap danced as hard as I could, and hoped for the best. I'd get choked up at good reviews, when given a raise. The trabajadores of the world feel no sense of entitlement. We just hustle. And my life is far from that now. I shop at health food stores most of the time for fuck's sake. I have a buttery apartment in the greatest city, so what with 2 bedrooms and crumbling kitchen cabinets. I have lazy-ass, spoiled dogs! And really, my young self would be embarrassed. I mean, she'd be happy that all that she put in led to my life now, but she would be embarrassed that anything makes me feel failed in any way or sense. I'm sorry, young self. You did so stellarly with your half of life with hardly anything.

God, my husband made me feel better. And my tattoo makes me feel better. And my girls make me feel better no matter how much time they demand. And my cat, TeaCake, when he sleeps in my absent husband's spot on the bed at night, that makes me feel better. And my new favorite breakfast, pictured below makes me feel better. I have to admit that though I felt kinda low for a couple weeks prior, the Halloween baking/testing and pie eating really pushed my head under water more. It must be tiresome to read about my sugar darkness yet again (though they get farther apart), but to be honest, it didn’t occur to me (yet again) until a couple days ago. I have sugar amnesia. Or after the low feelings fade, I convince myself that I’ve hype up the sugar blues more than they are. But god no, I really don’t. Eating it is impossible. Anyway, after kicking myself again, it’s back to the food basics too. Starting with:And this picture makes me laugh.
And this song by Los Tijuana Five makes me feel better (posted by Lisa on her FB)

And you guys make me feel better. Thank you.

Resisting the Cave

So, there I was, laying down my parental wisdom (again) on my girl, Maya; giving a fab speech about high school drama. She's been in the thick of it lately with crushes & breakups -- her own and in the middle of her friends'. I was telling her not to get caught up in what other kids say and not to tell them too much of her own business because this only becomes fodder for them to exploit, and then Maya stopped my speech and said, "Mami, you don't like ANY drama at all. But I like a little bit of drama." This stopped me in my tracks for a minute because I've spent 14 years teaching her to have her own mind, and I admire her for taking me up on that piece of sound advice, but for a second I was bummed that her own mind was separate from mine -- just for a second I felt that. I'm allowed, right? I did not express that to her, of course. Then I was proud of her for being so honest and self aware.

And then I felt lonely.

I can't express enough how parenting is an all day, every day, every minute venture. It takes a type of dedication that wins medals and cash money and nobel prizes outside of the parental arena. And I'm getting to that stage of parenting where we are supposed to know how to gracefully pull back the intensity. Where we give them space to be themselves, ease up on our gas and so delicately not dump any of our own shit full-load onto their heads. We are told to be prepared for all of this and it's just supposed to be so seamless to shift gears and watch them drift away. I mean, I know we want this. I know it will happen. But ain't that a bitch?

It's that I like them so much. The three of us are joined together and do so much together. And it's time that I peel away from Maya a little, unnoticed, and let her text out her dramafied scenarios by herself and hang out in her room with her ipod, while I take up something else that will fill that intense parental-focus hole. Cage Boxing, maybe.

In the scheme of all things teenage, Maya really is a breeze. I'm fully aware and thankful. We've just had a series of independent baby steps lately. I shouldn't be surprised by how lonely it makes me feel. I'm just very attuned to how loneliness feels, I think, and it doesn't necessarily panic me, but makes me shrink back a bit. Like, loneliness or aloneness is supposed to be my natural state. Like, I come out of a cave to connect with people just a little bit and then burrow back down into my mind. Husband is out of town too and his work, in general, is beating him down big time, so with that, I feel exposed to how much emphasis I put on the girls especially when Maya and I go through these natural and smooth baby steps towards independence. It makes me question the time I've put in. Like, was/is it too much. Obviously not, but I guess it's natural to question every step we've made as parents. I second guess, sometimes, making their emotional state at all times the golden number one. It wouldn't have happened any other way though.

Objectively, I gladly sling shot these kids into the stratosphere and without a trace of my bullshit smeared on them. And I know, too, that it's ok to feel how I'm feeling even if it’s quietly (other than the blog!) and even if I want to fight the loneliness for once.

Begone Woe Tattoo

Hi Friends,

I've crossed over. I am the tattoo lady. I'm sleeve bound perhaps.

But this, this put a high bounce to my step when lately I've had a hard time catching a rhythm or any kind of spark. Here is my Begone Woe tattoo, right on the inner forearm. No hiding it now. Behold:

Bye woe, with her lil kerchief.
A petal on the bike wheel! Heartgush.

The details slay me. Look at the hem of her dress and her precious face, and the sash and the jewlery! I love her so much. And the details of the bike; the itty bitty shield thing on the frame. Happy Friday Familia. Feels good to be on the upswing again. Begone Woe! Come, Hope.

Impossible Motherhood

A couple days ago I read an article in the LA Times about a book called Impossible Motherhood by Irene Vilar. The title of the article was: Memoir of a former abortion addict. The by-line: In 'Impossible Motherhood,' Irene Vilar, now a mother of two, writes of what led her to have 15 pregnancies ended.

Vilar writes of her fifteen abortions.

I was sort of stunned when I read the title because as an adamant pro-choicer and a feminist (are we comfortable with this word yet? I am) I still felt squeamish and light-headed by this notion.

Before reading the article, I tried to imagine what would lead Vilar to this level of self-abuse. Standard and societal judgments leapt to mind. It's easy to dismiss someone as careless, ignorant, which I could not keep myself from initially feeling. When I stopped myself from this sort of judgment, I considered that we fight for rights period, right? We don't fight for rights to then judge the extent by which they are exercised.

Then I read the article. The complexities of Vilar are so entangled that simple judgments of her are trite, insignificant. I have not stopped thinking about her. One publisher -- one of the 51 who had first rejected the book -- said that the memoir was too painful to publish. The reason the book finally did get published was because it is intelligently written even if her story hangs in the balance of an undeniably complicated issue.

Vilar's abortions were a protest of sort; self-abuse as revolt. That is my interpretation, and this thought hurts me. Much of Vilar's revolt seems subconscious, a sickness that she was unable to stop for a long time. She explains it like another other addiction. When I learned more of the complexity of her rebelliousness against her ex-husband (she was 16 and he 50 when they met; he insisted they have no children) and even more compelling, her familial and cultural history, Vilar's story became a multi-generational, gender-encompassing tragic flood.

Vilar grandmother was Lolita Lebron, the Puerto Rican nationalist who moved to NY in the 1950's - leaving behind her family -- and then shot up the U.S. House of Representatives, wounding five congressmen. She was convicted of trying to overthrow the US government and served 25 years in prison. Lebron left behind Vilar's mother in PR, an infant at the time of the shooting. Vilar's mother eventually killed herself by jumping from a moving car while 8 year old Vilar tried to hold her back. Several factors contributed to Vilar's mother's severe depression: Being abandoned by Lebron, her cheating husband, and a coerced, unneeded hysterectomy at age 33.

Here's a passage from the article:

"Puerto Rico, at the time, was a living laboratory for American-sponsored birth control research. In 1956, the first birth control pills -- 20 times stronger than they are today -- were tested on mostly poor Puerto Rican women, who suffered dramatic side effects. Starting in the 1930s, the American government's fear of overpopulation and poverty on the island led to a program of coerced sterilization. After Vilar's mother gave birth to one of her brothers, she writes, doctors threatened to withhold care unless she consented to a tubal ligation.

These feelings of powerlessness -- born of a colonial past, acted out on a grand scale or an intimate one -- are the ties that bind the women of Vilar's family.

'If there is something that is intersecting across generations -- my grandmother, my mother and me -- it's the issue of control," said Vilar. "I chose a very private drama to show my problem of control, my mother chose a personal one, not as intimate as mine, and with my grandmother, it was the ultimate political control.'"

I'm so heavy-hearted about the depth of this story especially as the book starts to kick up a duststorm for the Pro-Life movement. They use Vilar's story as an argument for them, an example of how we women cannot control ourselves. Women must need governmental parenting. The push for their own agenda demeans any significance in relation to our historical damage. This is not to say Vilar has nonchalantly experienced her abortions. Many were followed by suicide attempts. If she is brutally honest about her experiences, she is also very humbled by the feminist movement which kept abortions safe and legal in the US. She is alive because of the movement, she says, because she would have aborted anyway, by any means. Her addiction and struggle with self-determination and control may have been a painful revolt, but they were still exclusive from the positive gains that the feminist movement championed. Vilar's revolt was strictly personal, yet it still makes me think of our long history of oppression. I feel it so deeply with her story.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you about the book because I think it will be kept pretty low key, except by Pro Life advocates, which is unfortunate. Pro Choicers seem to be fairly mute on Vilar's story, but I could imagine that the basic battle to keep abortion laws in place is difficult enough without having to debate Vilar's situation.

Here's the LA Times article here if you want to read a bit more.

Gonna Ramble Myself Out of a Rut

John Wooden was a little ahead of my time though I still bow down to him as the basketball god that he is. He turns 99 tomorrow. He might be waiting around for another UCLA championship, but he'll be well past the century mark if that's gonna happen. Though Wooden is rightfully revered, Chick Hearn was the old basketball dude who I loved. I pretended he was my grandfather when I spent plenty of nights alone, watching Laker games of the Showtime era on our thirteen inch black and white TV that got three channels. And one of those was channel 9! Thank god; home of the Lakers and home of the voice of Chick Hearn, my fantasy grandfather and long-time Laker announcer. Inches from the screen (because that shit was still kinda snowy) I'd eat toasted almond ice cream by the bowlful, enraptured by the drama that was playoff basketball of the 1980's. Man, I would laugh at Chick's sayings (THE JELLLOOO'S JIGGLING!) and whoop at the TV when the Lakers kept my hope buoyant. Chick Hearn was the only celebrity that got a tear from me when he passed. He was good company for a lonely kid.

Hope, my specialty, is kinda waning lately. I'm not sure what it is. I mean, I kind of know, but it's the kind of know that I'm not good at talking about. If I talk about it or complain about it or let it in too much, then what? I dunno. Good, healthy complaining is not what I'm good at. I get frustrated and embarrassed. I get self conscious. I feel weak. Suck that shit up, y'know, because then what? I take a road so high, I'm out of sight. I'm on high, lost road. Where am I?

I took the girls to a couple more writing workshops at 826LA over the weekend. They were split in different groups on different days this time; more in their own age group. Mina's was back in Echo Park. While she wrote about Creatures of the Future, Maya and I went to the second-hand store across the street and browsed. I tried to convince Maya to get a navy corduroy jacket from maybe the 80's that had a huge sew patch on the back of the University of Wisconsin Eau Claire. On the front, in yellow, the name Andrea was embroidered and underneath was her title (I don't remember it now) in the Agricultural department. Then I tried to convince Maya that bowling shirts used to be the main reason we went to thrift stores back in the day. I held up a shirt for her to try on, and she said, "I can't wear that shirt. It says Lorraine on it." I was like, Yes! That's -- you want to -- Lorraine! It says Lorraine, dude. She wasn't having it. But she did go for the old blue Boy Scout shirt with the many patches. So, I got through a little. On Sunday, Maya's workshop was called "Secrets & Lies." Nice! It was about telling truth through lies through dialogue. How cool is that? This workshop was at the Venice location, in an upstairs office of the SPARC building. SPARC is the creation of Judy Baca. Baca has been the premiere, political muralist of Los Angeles for three decades. This is the building my mother worked at for years in the late 70’s, early 80’s. SPARC used to be the old jailhouse in Venice and I remember as a kid loving that some offices were actual jail cells, with bars and everything. While Maya was in workshop, I wrote a bit. But then I wandered the halls of a closed SPARC, swearing it used to be bigger and still awed by it. I didn't have my camera, but I took a few photos with my phone. Baca's work is still so relevant and interesting and phenomenal. She exudes power, mainly. Power in dissent. Power in cultural and gender self acceptance. It's the feeling I had there as a kid; these halls makes one feel powerful:

Here's some outside:

Usually, I would feel waves of inspiration from these, but I don't. I feel a warming, a homecoming, a deep resonation for sure, but I'm worn out. I wanted to curl up at the foot of the Goddess Tree painting and feel nothing. I guess the comfort was good. But inspiration is lost on me right now.

It's raining. We've waited for rain since June around here. There has been no rain since then, and the anticipation of the cooler weather and the bluster -- and the rain -- was temporarily uplifting. The rain is nice, but not as good as dancing around the house yelling, "Rain is coming!" It's been a long time since I've heard the syncopated clank of the roof drains and the constant ringing of Molly's wind chime. It's nice. I don't feel much more.

We watched a movie called Chocolate. It's a Thai movie about an autistic teenage girl who could pick up martial arts moves just by watching them -- then it was time to avenge her mother! It was awesome. The movie had some of the best fight scenes we've seen in a long time. The film was on the cheesy side - it's martial arts flick -- but seriously, that girl kicked ass, Muay Thai style. Mina watched it twice. One of the best fights, though one of the shorter ones, was between the girl and the bad guy's pawn who was more severely autistic for Battle Autism. The boy fought in a series of unpredictable twitches and B-boy moves. He wore Run DMC glasses and an Adidas track suit! The girl was taken aback until she picked up his moves - because that's her power! She was so good.

Writing a novel jammed in limited amounts a time -- and in the time that is the leftover dregs of the day – feels a tad futile and insignificant. It feels rushed and tangled. But maybe I'd think that with all the time in the world too. Plugging away . . .

I'm getting a new tattoo in a couple weeks. I'm excited, but because of how I'm feeling, I'm worried about it too. Like, maybe it's too much money to spend on fancy skin decoration. But it's going to be super dope. But as I get older, is it lame to keep getting tattoos? Don't answer that. I know how I would answer that, but still. I dunno. Then I think, maybe I should get a full-body tattoo because I think that looks better than old lady skin. I dunno.

I'm ok. I'll feel better soon. Got to, right? Where my high road at?

Queen of the Setting Sun

That's the third line from my high school anthem, where Maya goes now. I went to Back-to-School night there last night, and though I experienced much trepidation when visiting her/our middle school, I felt energized on the high school campus. I do have very fond memories from the place. I didn't exactly realize that until the class reunions, and now, spending a fair amount of time on campus and reliving it through Maya.

All of Maya's teachers are great, but I'll make special mention of her honors English teacher who is young and smart and funny and puts literature on a golden pedestal. I almost begged to audit his class for the year. I wanted to hear every discussion about the books they'd read. Of course, this is Maya's time to sort out and discuss and fall in love with it all, which will certainly happen in this class. She and I are going to read some of her assigned books together so we can talk about them. I say it's to discuss together, but really rereading these classics has been so joyful for me. I told you how I felt about recently rereading To Kill A Mockingbird. Now I'm reading The Great Gatsby and man, it's so good. Why was it not this good before? Oh, it was? My mind just hadn't busted through its young fog yet? Maya's teacher is a leading authority of Steinbeck's work; he gives lectures across the country so, whoa, cool. He's going to be great for her, just like my high school literature teacher was for me.

Did I tell you Maya made the freshman basketball team? That experience has been pretty magical in itself. I don't think you can beat the whole budding-into-adulthood-team-bonding experience. Maya's thrilled about it all and so far, the girls have been great. Maya's jockeying for the JV team already, which I heard from the head coach. He said that Maya told him straight up she wanted to be on JV. And I threw my head back and laughed. I told him, "Good for her." He nodded, "Yea, I liked that." The JV coach told Maya, "Someone's gonna be a leader of my team pretty soon." And Maya said, "Oh yes I will be." Haha, man, I love hearing about the bravery of my girls from other people.

The high school football games have already been seriously dramatic for Maya. She attended the first game of the year, her first game ever, and she was jazzed by the whole experience of rooting with her friends. Tragically, during the game one of our players was seriously hurt. His neck was accordioned in a tackle and he lay motionless on the field for 30 minutes as the paramedics took their time getting him carefully onto a gurney and rushed to the hospital. It's been three weeks now since it happened. He's still in ICU, his breathing tube just recently removed, and they aren't saying much about the long-term effects. That does not sound good, but we can only wish him the best of thoughts. The whole school rallies for him; this is obviously very impactful on the students. The USC football team and Pete Carroll have called him, encouraging him. Last week, Maya went to the football game again. It was a close one against a long-time rival, and right after the game, outside the stadium as kids filed out, a non-student was stabbed by another non-student. Cops were already there monitoring the exit of crowds and the kid was immediately arrested; the stabbed boy will make a full recovery. It was gang related, apparently. The two towns, ours and the opposing football teams', have always had a latin gang history. The cops and the school acted perfectly. Their presence already there during the incident, but still, another big-life/near-death incident for these kids to ponder and secretly stress about.

* * *

During Back-to-School night last night, the parents had to file into the auditorium to hear, I'm not sure what, because I jetted - ditched the entire meeting -- when after looking at the night's program I realized that my favorite teacher of all time, my literature teacher, still taught at the high school. By the light of my cell phone, I saw his name in the program and I ran out to find his class as the choir was singing a lovely rendition of the national anthem. When I found his class, I knew he'd be alone because all the good parents were in the auditorium still.

I remember him as a little hemmed up, soft-spoken but with a dry, tight humor. His neck was potmarked and his mouth smaller than most people's, so were his eyes actually, but he laughed easily. He was probably in his early 30's when he taught me and he wore brown corduroys and brown oxford shoes and buttoned-up plaid shirts and horn-rimmed glasses. His age was only revealed in his hair, which displayed a youthful wave. He probably was unaware of the good bounce to his hair. Most importantly, he loved literature and he displayed a thoughtful and kind examination of it that unlocked my own unique and thoughtful examination. He read things similarly to me, obviously on a more advanced, less foggy level, and he held out his hand to me to pull me deep into the full and meaningful view of literature; not always the straight-on perspective. I had him every year for English because I picked his classes as electives too, which included Mythology and Folk as Lit and Bible as Lit. He also ran a lunchtime ping pong club that I frequented. This ping pong club also ran a few games of pickup basketball in the park. I never missed those. He still runs the Ballroom Dance Club at the high school. See? He's perfect.

Last night, when I found his class, I spied into his room from the hall. He was standing over his podium, reviewing papers, and I felt a sudden crash of sadness. His hair was gone, shaved to a too-close buzz cut. And I was sad because he was older and I didn't want time to pass for him. I wanted him vibrant and perfect still. I said his name walking into the room. I was wearing my glasses which is an instant disguise for me. Hardly anyone recognizes me with glasses, even people I see regularly. Though his hair was gone, his face looked very much the same, effected only by a bit of a time sag. His attire, his glasses, his small features and potmarked neck, all the same. I said my name and his tiny mouth smiled in surprise. I hugged him though he wasn't really prepared for that and his voice jump started into an easy excitement. We reminisced fondly. I told him about Maya, and he shook his head. I looked at his hand for a wedding ring and saw none. The school rumor back in the day was that he lived with his parents, a man-child with never a love interest. He told me his parents had died a few years ago. I didn't ask about a wife or a partner. We did not have that type of relationship. I was sad again for him. He walked over to his class filing cabinet and without effort pulled out a file and sorted through some papers and 8x10 class photos. He pulled out the photo of my entire 10th grade Lit class circa 1983, and I laughed hard when I saw myself looking earnest, trying not to smile, trying to look scholarly but it was just a parody of that look. I was wearing a bandana on my head, 1940's style, and I was holding a ping pong paddle in my hand across my chest, pledge-like. He said, "See? You were a stand out." I knew not to say, "I was?" because when I was younger he had made me feel like all my comments had been insightful and ahha! worthy. He asked me what I did now. I said, "I'm in technology, but really I'm a writer." He said, "I knew it." Just then a parent came in with a student forcing us to end the reminiscing. I got his email address and went on to Maya's first period on a high, but mad I didn't get a chance to tell him, You were the best. You were my favorite of all time. You encouraged me to love things how I love them now. But I have his email and believe me, these sentiments will get to him soon enough.

I honestly believe that Maya will feel the same about her young and vibrant Steinbeck scholar. She has already cried to me about the ending of Of Mice and Men, and I'm already forever grateful to her teacher for that.

We’re in month one of high school, people. It’s going to be a profound ride as it was for most all of us.