Allow me to indulge for a moment in a moment of Mama pride: my daughter won 7th in district at the fourth grade level at tonight's Math Bonanza, and top 4th grader at her school. Until that moment when I heard her name I really wasn't thinking about how well she would do or whether she would even place; really, I've just been so tickled about her enthusiasm in going at all. She just likes doing math. And she had such a great time last year. She didn't place, but she felt good about trying her best on some really tough math, got to eat a bunch of pizza, and cheered hard for her classmates. So when she had the opportunity to go back this year, she waved the paper in my face and said, "We're doing this again, right?" It really wasn't even a question.
And it was a terrific night. I fully admit that at 2:10 this afternoon, knowing I still had a meeting of my writing club between school and collecting my children and then we would have just enough time to stop by the house for a quick bathroom break before rushing over to the elementary school that hosts this contest, I really wished I could just come home and put on pajamas at four o'clock and read. But. Isaac gathered his bag of entertainment (over four hours of hanging out in a hot cafeteria is a long time for a five-year-old, and it was a struggle last year) and I washed my face and brushed my teeth, and we headed back out into the afternoon. The sun was beginning to slip behind the trees as we parked, and the air was bitingly cold. The kids slipped their hands into mine, and I relished the moment for exactly that: this sweet little sliver of time when they are little enough to unselfconsciously hold onto me, but big enough to let go and run over to the registration line to greet a friend (Suzannah) or sit alone at a table in a crowded room and color and be just fine (Isaac) while I go buy concessions and chat with my friend and colleague who runs this event.
This year was also lovely because I shamelessly exploited my "VIP" status. I have exactly nothing to do with the execution of this night, but I am lucky enough to call the teacher who runs it my friend and colleague, and the tests are scored by a group of volunteer students from my high school, most of whom I know, many of them whom I've taught over the past couple of years. So when I learned that they'd be arriving for orientation at 4:45 but didn't actually have orientation until 5:15 (high school students need decoy times, just like my husband), I thought I'd go say hi. And then I thought, what if I hang out in the library with my restless son instead of lined up along the wall of the cafeteria? We can spread out on an actual table, and and it's so much cooler. As I walked to the scoring room, an official-looking person asked if I needed any help (which was obvious code for, "Excuse me, but who are you? The sign says no parents or coaches allowed") and I said, "Oh, those are my students in there, and I'm with Mr._________." (Matt was all, "Well, that was shameless.") It was a good move. Isaac had tons of things packed that he could have played with, but he settled into coloring a mandala with gel pens. He is my little artist; he can concentrate for a spectacularly long time on drawing or coloring. (One of the seniors walked by and said, "Man, he's good. I can't color like that and I'm eighteen.") He took breaks to eat popcorn and pizza, but other than that, he was totally absorbed. I tried to read a bit -- math contests are not exactly the most thrilling spectator sports, so I didn't feel badly about not staying in the cafeteria -- but I felt too distracted. I kept watching my students, marveling at the way they were both goofy with each other and serious about their task. I kept watching my son, bent over his paper, absorbed in his coloring. I thought about my daughter, bent over her paper in the cafeteria, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room. And I just felt so deeply in love with all of it.
Seeing my kids -- as in, the teenagers I love so much -- spend their Friday night scoring math tests at an elementary school was just about as heart-bursting as watching my own daughter lock into fierce and lovely concentration. Two of these kids in particular made me so crazy as sophomores. I mean this seriously -- not crazy in the fun way, but crazy in the way I feel when teaching actually hurts. I worried about one of them, and I didn't feel like I could help him enough. The other one spent at least a good semester just pissing me off. And now when I see them I feel nothing but pure affection. I feel sure that they will, ultimately, be okay. I laugh with them so easily. I still lecture them, because I still feel they need it and because I think they actually respect me, but mostly I'm just happy when they stop by my room to say hi. I'm going to miss them next year, and if they don't let me know how they're doing, I'm going to think about them, and wonder, and hope.
Sometimes when I tell friends that I'm going to literacy night or math night or science night or family night at the kids' school, I get that sympathetic eye roll. Because we're all tired, and we've taught all day, and the thought of eating terrible pizza in an elementary school cafeteria at five o'clock is not incredibly exciting. It'd be nice to come home and heat up some leftovers instead. Or it'd be nice to toss the kids in the bath and chop vegetables at the kitchen counter while listening to NPR, or really any scenario would be lovely as long as it involves changing into sweats before five o'clock. But they don't need to pity me, even on days when I pity myself, for heaven's sake. Motherhood is often lonely, and some days I am so very aware of the fact that I can't go to happy hour when I really, really want to. But also, this time is golden. It's golden. My children are so happy to be exactly who they are right now, and they seem to just really like school, and they are young enough to really want Matt and me to do these things with them: to show up at their events, and chat with their teachers, and beam. And there is almost nothing as magical as seeing your kid see you beaming at them from their spot in the front of the crowd.
Last year, the week before the contest, she teared up at home when she couldn't make sense of some of the practice problems. (The math skills aren't inherited, but the perfectionism might be.) We talked through that. I told her it's okay that it's hard, that she can do hard things, and that there will be things she doesn't know. Always. This year, she says things like, "I like math best when it's a little bit hard. It's better than when it's too easy." And that grit, right there, that's what makes my heart burst. That's what I hope I can help to teach her (I certainly can't do that on my own), so much more than the actual math.
Matt managed to get home from work in time to make it to the awards part of the night. We crammed into the hot cafeteria and waited, and I fully expected to smile while my girl clapped for her friends. But when I heard her name announced I turned to my husband and saw, I suspect, a mirror of my own face: bursting with happiness and this sweet, shared moment of parental pride. That's our kid up there. Look at her. Just look at her.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Thursday, November 19, 2015
On leaving the door open...
I'm currently hunkered down in the study, hiding from my children who are fighting about who takes the first bath tonight. Neither of them want to, and they are hissing terrible things at each other right now, and I can barely bring myself to care. In fact, I don't, really, until the whining and screeching becomes too annoyingly loud. Where is my Mother of the Year award? Is it around here somewhere? Well, actually, I think I'll just drink a glass of wine and call it good.
...Okay, but if I hear "That's not fair" or "I'm telling Mom" one more time I'm going to switch to something a bit harder.
Anyway.
It has actually been a good day. Sometimes I find good days unexpectedly follow the days in which I feel crazy and cry a lot, which happened yesterday. I woke up this morning feeling fairly calm, though. I didn't stay calm, because this also turned into one of those teaching days that requires flailing and threats and semi-deranged rolling of the eyes. That felt necessary today, but not exactly bad, and I left my toughest class at the end of the day feeling wildly, stupidly optimistic. I don't know whether this is a strength or a weakness: my wild, unkillable optimism. I pulled aside a boy I know well -- this is my second year with him -- who is crashing spectacularly. It's not the first time I've pulled him aside. Last time, in fact, I basically threw up my hands and said, "I'm all out of tricks! I don't know what's going to work! I just know things are hard for you, and I'm sorry. I'm also sorry that I'm probably going to continue to get on your nerves, because I care, and I see you, and you're not ever going to slip off my radar. So, okay, I'm sorry in advance. I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be mad at me. I know I piss you off. You piss me off. I'm still not going anywhere." We've butted heads hard a few times, but he smiled at this. It was not exactly my most eloquent speech ever.
It also didn't work. That was weeks ago. Today something seemed different, so I gave him a similar version of what I'm beginning to think of as my Desperation Talk, and then I said, "Look, you and I both know you're good at bullshitting adults and telling them what they want to hear." He laughed, because, you know, teachers shouldn't say bullshit or whatever, but then he said, "Yeah, I know. But I don't think I'm doing that now."
And I said, "If you're telling me that this is a turning point for you, and you mean it, and you show me that in the next week or two, I will make it possible for you to pass my class."
I held out my pinky. Forget handshakes; teenagers know that a pinky swear is serious. He hooked his pinky into mine and I leaned in and hissed, "I swear, if you're bullshitting me now, I will break your pinky."
I'll just go ahead and put my Teacher of the Year award next to my Mother of the Year award, yeah?
But I'll tell you what, these moments when I really believe in what's possible are it. They're what keep me going. When what's possible actually happens, it's magic. There's a perfectly solid chance that I'll feel crushed and disappointed, because sometimes kids just don't know how to get it together when they're teenagers and they're a mess, despite our best efforts. And honestly, while I used to believe they have to care more than I do, I no longer believe that's true. They're kids, and they don't see the bigger picture. And also, I can't judge where they're coming from if I don't understand it -- sometimes school just isn't a priority, and for good reason. I frequently care a lot more than they do, and that hurts sometimes. But I also believe that even if it doesn't mean they get their act together right now, today, this month, or during their entire junior year, something might stick, and we have no way of knowing how that will matter later. So in the meantime, I fumble along, sometimes desperately. I sound like a crazy person. I rant, and I get angry, and I accidentally use the word bullshit. But underneath that all, I hope what comes across is this totally helpless love. I can't help it. I do love this. I keep coming back. And if nothing else, I try to leave the door open.
...Okay, but if I hear "That's not fair" or "I'm telling Mom" one more time I'm going to switch to something a bit harder.
Anyway.
It has actually been a good day. Sometimes I find good days unexpectedly follow the days in which I feel crazy and cry a lot, which happened yesterday. I woke up this morning feeling fairly calm, though. I didn't stay calm, because this also turned into one of those teaching days that requires flailing and threats and semi-deranged rolling of the eyes. That felt necessary today, but not exactly bad, and I left my toughest class at the end of the day feeling wildly, stupidly optimistic. I don't know whether this is a strength or a weakness: my wild, unkillable optimism. I pulled aside a boy I know well -- this is my second year with him -- who is crashing spectacularly. It's not the first time I've pulled him aside. Last time, in fact, I basically threw up my hands and said, "I'm all out of tricks! I don't know what's going to work! I just know things are hard for you, and I'm sorry. I'm also sorry that I'm probably going to continue to get on your nerves, because I care, and I see you, and you're not ever going to slip off my radar. So, okay, I'm sorry in advance. I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be mad at me. I know I piss you off. You piss me off. I'm still not going anywhere." We've butted heads hard a few times, but he smiled at this. It was not exactly my most eloquent speech ever.
It also didn't work. That was weeks ago. Today something seemed different, so I gave him a similar version of what I'm beginning to think of as my Desperation Talk, and then I said, "Look, you and I both know you're good at bullshitting adults and telling them what they want to hear." He laughed, because, you know, teachers shouldn't say bullshit or whatever, but then he said, "Yeah, I know. But I don't think I'm doing that now."
And I said, "If you're telling me that this is a turning point for you, and you mean it, and you show me that in the next week or two, I will make it possible for you to pass my class."
I held out my pinky. Forget handshakes; teenagers know that a pinky swear is serious. He hooked his pinky into mine and I leaned in and hissed, "I swear, if you're bullshitting me now, I will break your pinky."
I'll just go ahead and put my Teacher of the Year award next to my Mother of the Year award, yeah?
But I'll tell you what, these moments when I really believe in what's possible are it. They're what keep me going. When what's possible actually happens, it's magic. There's a perfectly solid chance that I'll feel crushed and disappointed, because sometimes kids just don't know how to get it together when they're teenagers and they're a mess, despite our best efforts. And honestly, while I used to believe they have to care more than I do, I no longer believe that's true. They're kids, and they don't see the bigger picture. And also, I can't judge where they're coming from if I don't understand it -- sometimes school just isn't a priority, and for good reason. I frequently care a lot more than they do, and that hurts sometimes. But I also believe that even if it doesn't mean they get their act together right now, today, this month, or during their entire junior year, something might stick, and we have no way of knowing how that will matter later. So in the meantime, I fumble along, sometimes desperately. I sound like a crazy person. I rant, and I get angry, and I accidentally use the word bullshit. But underneath that all, I hope what comes across is this totally helpless love. I can't help it. I do love this. I keep coming back. And if nothing else, I try to leave the door open.
Monday, November 16, 2015
I'm just going to hide out here for awhile
I briefly considered squeezing in a little exercise after school today, but then I stepped outside my classroom at the end of the day and surveyed the garden and courtyard, dark and slick with rain. Instead, I picked up the kids and asked them if they wanted popcorn, which I made immediately. And I'm just going to be okay with that.
On Friday evening I decided to take a Facebook break, but I haven't actually done that. I've read sporadically, but it's been enough to upset me. Look, if you're going to make blanket statements about not wanting refugees in your state, thank you very much, I challenge you to look into the eyes of a refugee child you work with every day and say it again, out loud. But! You don't work with any refugee children, do you, so it's a lot easier for you to post such things without thinking about it too much before you go on to post a recipe you found on Pinterest. (That was unnecessarily snarky, perhaps, but I am making a point, a big fat point, in my own tiny little corner of the internet.) You are perfectly comfortable. And scared; you are also scared. I understand that. But we cannot allow our fear to govern our humanity. I still deeply, passionately believe that. If I am to continue in the work that I do, I have to keep and hold a part of my twenty-two-year-old self, however insufferable she might have been.
But my point is that I am done reading on Facebook for awhile, and by "awhile" I probably mean a week, but I really do mean I'm not going to read it. I don't really believe in fancy cleanses when they pertain to food because I think we just like the word "cleanse" and don't really get much benefit out of cutting things we plan to add right back in ten days later or whatever, but occasionally I think a social media cleanse can help a great deal, even if it's just to quiet the noise in my head for a time and not walk around in this huge cloud of angry resentment directed towards people I generally like who post careless (heartless? ignorant?) things online. So I'm going to maybe write a little more here instead, because I still love to tell people what I think, and I still like to fling my tiny little thoughts out into the world, even if they just land in empty space. I'm going to resist the urge to call out to my Facebook friends, "Hey, I just wrote a blog entry!" which means the traffic here will be pretty light. I'm going to be okay with that.
And maybe, because of that, because I won't be writing with a particular audience in mind (although that's not entirely true; I always write with a particular audience in mind) I'll be okay with throwing silly little things up here, things I'd normally write on Facebook. And I'll know that it might not be my Best Work, and it might be read by three whole people. And I'm going to be okay with that, too. Maybe I'll just write things like, "There is a decided lack of brownies in my life tonight and I find that distressing." Or I might record silly conversations I have with my sophomores.
Sophomore Boy: You know what's hard? Just being shut down. Like, I try, and then I get shut down and I don't want to even try anymore.
Me: Who shut you down?
Boy: *names a girl*
Me: Hm. Are you sure she was trying to shut you down? Or is it possible she was simply politely disagreeing with you?
Boy: No, it was definitely mean. Like she thinks everything I say is just irrelevant.
Me: What did she say?
Boy: She said I was a BIG PHONY.
Me: Um, she really said that? (Note: I resisted the urge to make a comment about Catcher in the Rye.)
Boy: Okay, she didn't actually say that. BUT I KNOW SHE THOUGHT IT.
Oh, bless them.
Last night I read an article about being an HSP -- a Highly Sensitive Person. I must have heard about this at some point, because this doesn't seem like a new thing, but suddenly I found myself demanding that Matt listen while I read parts of it aloud.
"This is me, isn't it?" I said. I ticked off traits: We're going to cry when we're happy and sad and angry, because we feel deeply and react. We notice subtle changes in tone. Repetitive and loud noises are particularly distressing. We startle easily. (I wasn't sure about that one, but Matt confirmed it, and he knows me better than anyone else on the planet.) Violent movies can be incredibly distressing. We're constantly told we take things too personally. We crave deep relationships.
Matt nodded and seemed to think it was pretty accurate. Today I took the same article to a friend at work and said, "What do you think?"
He laughed when he read the bit about noticing subtle changes in tone, because I confessed that yes, if he sounds different when he sends me a text message -- more abrupt, say -- then I notice; as in, I actually spend time wondering about it.
"That is a colossal waste of time," he said, "but the part about you being overly-empathetic is very true, and I love you for that." And because I am apparently highly sensitive, I felt all warm and fuzzy over that.
(For the record, it's not all true across the board; I don't think I have a terribly difficult time making decisions, and I don't think I have a particularly low pain tolerance. But the rest felt true.)
I can think of no artful way to end this, so I'm just going to sign off now, because I have dinner to make and floors to vacuum and children to bathe and, if I can stay awake after those children are tucked in, a book to read.
I'm not doing school work tonight. And I'm going to let that be okay.
On Friday evening I decided to take a Facebook break, but I haven't actually done that. I've read sporadically, but it's been enough to upset me. Look, if you're going to make blanket statements about not wanting refugees in your state, thank you very much, I challenge you to look into the eyes of a refugee child you work with every day and say it again, out loud. But! You don't work with any refugee children, do you, so it's a lot easier for you to post such things without thinking about it too much before you go on to post a recipe you found on Pinterest. (That was unnecessarily snarky, perhaps, but I am making a point, a big fat point, in my own tiny little corner of the internet.) You are perfectly comfortable. And scared; you are also scared. I understand that. But we cannot allow our fear to govern our humanity. I still deeply, passionately believe that. If I am to continue in the work that I do, I have to keep and hold a part of my twenty-two-year-old self, however insufferable she might have been.
But my point is that I am done reading on Facebook for awhile, and by "awhile" I probably mean a week, but I really do mean I'm not going to read it. I don't really believe in fancy cleanses when they pertain to food because I think we just like the word "cleanse" and don't really get much benefit out of cutting things we plan to add right back in ten days later or whatever, but occasionally I think a social media cleanse can help a great deal, even if it's just to quiet the noise in my head for a time and not walk around in this huge cloud of angry resentment directed towards people I generally like who post careless (heartless? ignorant?) things online. So I'm going to maybe write a little more here instead, because I still love to tell people what I think, and I still like to fling my tiny little thoughts out into the world, even if they just land in empty space. I'm going to resist the urge to call out to my Facebook friends, "Hey, I just wrote a blog entry!" which means the traffic here will be pretty light. I'm going to be okay with that.
And maybe, because of that, because I won't be writing with a particular audience in mind (although that's not entirely true; I always write with a particular audience in mind) I'll be okay with throwing silly little things up here, things I'd normally write on Facebook. And I'll know that it might not be my Best Work, and it might be read by three whole people. And I'm going to be okay with that, too. Maybe I'll just write things like, "There is a decided lack of brownies in my life tonight and I find that distressing." Or I might record silly conversations I have with my sophomores.
Sophomore Boy: You know what's hard? Just being shut down. Like, I try, and then I get shut down and I don't want to even try anymore.
Me: Who shut you down?
Boy: *names a girl*
Me: Hm. Are you sure she was trying to shut you down? Or is it possible she was simply politely disagreeing with you?
Boy: No, it was definitely mean. Like she thinks everything I say is just irrelevant.
Me: What did she say?
Boy: She said I was a BIG PHONY.
Me: Um, she really said that? (Note: I resisted the urge to make a comment about Catcher in the Rye.)
Boy: Okay, she didn't actually say that. BUT I KNOW SHE THOUGHT IT.
Oh, bless them.
Last night I read an article about being an HSP -- a Highly Sensitive Person. I must have heard about this at some point, because this doesn't seem like a new thing, but suddenly I found myself demanding that Matt listen while I read parts of it aloud.
"This is me, isn't it?" I said. I ticked off traits: We're going to cry when we're happy and sad and angry, because we feel deeply and react. We notice subtle changes in tone. Repetitive and loud noises are particularly distressing. We startle easily. (I wasn't sure about that one, but Matt confirmed it, and he knows me better than anyone else on the planet.) Violent movies can be incredibly distressing. We're constantly told we take things too personally. We crave deep relationships.
Matt nodded and seemed to think it was pretty accurate. Today I took the same article to a friend at work and said, "What do you think?"
He laughed when he read the bit about noticing subtle changes in tone, because I confessed that yes, if he sounds different when he sends me a text message -- more abrupt, say -- then I notice; as in, I actually spend time wondering about it.
"That is a colossal waste of time," he said, "but the part about you being overly-empathetic is very true, and I love you for that." And because I am apparently highly sensitive, I felt all warm and fuzzy over that.
(For the record, it's not all true across the board; I don't think I have a terribly difficult time making decisions, and I don't think I have a particularly low pain tolerance. But the rest felt true.)
I can think of no artful way to end this, so I'm just going to sign off now, because I have dinner to make and floors to vacuum and children to bathe and, if I can stay awake after those children are tucked in, a book to read.
I'm not doing school work tonight. And I'm going to let that be okay.
Friday, November 13, 2015
What is there to say?
What is there to write, really, on a night like tonight?
On an ordinary Friday night in November, I might write about the rain, how because we didn't lose power tonight the storm is soothing to me, coaxing me into pajama pants at five o'clock as soon as we pull into the driveway after running errands. Ordinary errands: a haircut for Isaac, a quick stop at Trader Joe's. The kids slurp on their suckers and bother each other and I sneak a package of special holiday Joe Joe's into the basket while they're not looking. Matt and I hide these in the laundry room and dole them out slowly, or we eat them secretly ourselves. Usually the latter. The kids have plenty of Halloween candy still, and they only eat that a piece at a time. Their stashes last all year long.
Earlier this week, if I had sat down to write, I'd have ranted: about how one whackadoo pastor gets actual time on CNN for complaining about Starbucks coffee cups being anti-Christmas or anti-Jesus because they don't have snowmen and reindeer on them, about how I read like eighty-five posts in a row on Facebook about how ridiculous that was, and about how I just wanted to say, Stop feeding the trolls, people, everyone knows no actual Christians are mad about the fucking Starbucks cups because I did not and do not know one single real-life person who actually believes that the sign of the devil comes on a coffee cup unadorned with snowmen and reindeer. Perhaps my rage was disproportionate to the situation. I think any time I find myself raging at Facebook I should probably just take a two-week break. It's probably about that time.
But aside from that, I had a few rocky days. What would I have shared about that? Something terrible happened to one of my students and it shook me but out of respect for her privacy I will not use her story to Make A Big Fat Point. And it's not my story to tell, anyway -- only, possibly, to learn from. I might have written about a friendship that means a great deal to me, about how I felt particularly grateful for it this week. About how the moments that crack my heart make it bigger.
There were lovely moments, too: taking my kids to Freighthouse Square on Wednesday, eating a cozy lunch and riding the Link to Union Station. Walking to Hello, Cupcake. Watching movies as the afternoon grew darker. Meeting my brother and his wife for dinner in Tacoma and tucking my babies into bed, too late for a school night and smiling because they are old enough to understand that indulgence.
But how do I do that, when the world is as absurd as it is? When I'm driving through the rainy streets to pick up my children from school, listening to NPR, and I hear about the attacks on Paris? When at home headlines scream "THIS IS A HORROR"? When I realize I've been living my blissfully ordinary, beautiful, safe little life while others are, right now, learning what it means to lose everything?
(But that's not new. That has never not been true.)
I logged on to Facebook, which was stupid. I understand why people are posting "Pray for Paris" and sharing artful photographs of tearstained faces superimposed over the Eiffel Tower, I guess, but the more I scroll the more inadequate it feels. It's easy to push a button and share an image and say poignant things, but I guess I also just don't think it matters: Facebook, that is, and whatever we throw up there. I guess I just don't think it's going to mean anything if I say I stand with Paris. I'm just one person on the internet, one person on the other side of the world -- and so I don't post anything, because what is there to say? But I keep reading, like an idiot, scrolling past more of the same thing, and suddenly it's like the drinking game: how many comments in any news article about anything ever before somebody blames the president? Hashtag Obama Sucks! Because that's a logical place to direct our anger right now. And if you're not angry at the president, be angry at the people who don't also post about Beirut, or Syria. How can Facebook show what's in our hearts, and what if we show the wrong thing at the wrong moment, anyway? What if we leave something out that someone else things we should include? I want to punch the whole internet in the damn face. It's not big enough for our hearts.
So I will just say this: Everything seems terrifyingly absurd. I feel crazy. (I have the luxury of sitting in my own safe house and feeling crazy; this is not lost on me.) Paris is under attack and my student is under attack in her own life right here and I am sitting on my couch in my own comfortable house with my children tucked into bed. And I know that's all people are trying to make sense of when they turn to Facebook, really, because the world is grieving and afraid, so I don't mean to sound like a jerk. But all the same, I find no comfort there, only more absurdity, and I don't think I can be of any real use anywhere if I keep reading it.
Today before any of this unfolded I had a conversation with some of my students about this very phenomenon, about how desperately glad I am that Facebook and social media didn't exist when I was in high school. I was a little surprised at how quickly, and how sadly, my kids agreed with me. But then again, teenagers are smarter and more savvy than many adults give them credit for. And sometimes my heart hurts for them and what they have to bear.
I'm just one person, on the other side of the world, trying to cling to a little hope and a little gratitude every day for this cosmic lottery that I seem to have won through no virtue of my own. And probably my restless tapping away in this little text box is my own version of "Pray for Paris." And it's still not enough.
On an ordinary Friday night in November, I might write about the rain, how because we didn't lose power tonight the storm is soothing to me, coaxing me into pajama pants at five o'clock as soon as we pull into the driveway after running errands. Ordinary errands: a haircut for Isaac, a quick stop at Trader Joe's. The kids slurp on their suckers and bother each other and I sneak a package of special holiday Joe Joe's into the basket while they're not looking. Matt and I hide these in the laundry room and dole them out slowly, or we eat them secretly ourselves. Usually the latter. The kids have plenty of Halloween candy still, and they only eat that a piece at a time. Their stashes last all year long.
Earlier this week, if I had sat down to write, I'd have ranted: about how one whackadoo pastor gets actual time on CNN for complaining about Starbucks coffee cups being anti-Christmas or anti-Jesus because they don't have snowmen and reindeer on them, about how I read like eighty-five posts in a row on Facebook about how ridiculous that was, and about how I just wanted to say, Stop feeding the trolls, people, everyone knows no actual Christians are mad about the fucking Starbucks cups because I did not and do not know one single real-life person who actually believes that the sign of the devil comes on a coffee cup unadorned with snowmen and reindeer. Perhaps my rage was disproportionate to the situation. I think any time I find myself raging at Facebook I should probably just take a two-week break. It's probably about that time.
But aside from that, I had a few rocky days. What would I have shared about that? Something terrible happened to one of my students and it shook me but out of respect for her privacy I will not use her story to Make A Big Fat Point. And it's not my story to tell, anyway -- only, possibly, to learn from. I might have written about a friendship that means a great deal to me, about how I felt particularly grateful for it this week. About how the moments that crack my heart make it bigger.
There were lovely moments, too: taking my kids to Freighthouse Square on Wednesday, eating a cozy lunch and riding the Link to Union Station. Walking to Hello, Cupcake. Watching movies as the afternoon grew darker. Meeting my brother and his wife for dinner in Tacoma and tucking my babies into bed, too late for a school night and smiling because they are old enough to understand that indulgence.
But how do I do that, when the world is as absurd as it is? When I'm driving through the rainy streets to pick up my children from school, listening to NPR, and I hear about the attacks on Paris? When at home headlines scream "THIS IS A HORROR"? When I realize I've been living my blissfully ordinary, beautiful, safe little life while others are, right now, learning what it means to lose everything?
(But that's not new. That has never not been true.)
I logged on to Facebook, which was stupid. I understand why people are posting "Pray for Paris" and sharing artful photographs of tearstained faces superimposed over the Eiffel Tower, I guess, but the more I scroll the more inadequate it feels. It's easy to push a button and share an image and say poignant things, but I guess I also just don't think it matters: Facebook, that is, and whatever we throw up there. I guess I just don't think it's going to mean anything if I say I stand with Paris. I'm just one person on the internet, one person on the other side of the world -- and so I don't post anything, because what is there to say? But I keep reading, like an idiot, scrolling past more of the same thing, and suddenly it's like the drinking game: how many comments in any news article about anything ever before somebody blames the president? Hashtag Obama Sucks! Because that's a logical place to direct our anger right now. And if you're not angry at the president, be angry at the people who don't also post about Beirut, or Syria. How can Facebook show what's in our hearts, and what if we show the wrong thing at the wrong moment, anyway? What if we leave something out that someone else things we should include? I want to punch the whole internet in the damn face. It's not big enough for our hearts.
So I will just say this: Everything seems terrifyingly absurd. I feel crazy. (I have the luxury of sitting in my own safe house and feeling crazy; this is not lost on me.) Paris is under attack and my student is under attack in her own life right here and I am sitting on my couch in my own comfortable house with my children tucked into bed. And I know that's all people are trying to make sense of when they turn to Facebook, really, because the world is grieving and afraid, so I don't mean to sound like a jerk. But all the same, I find no comfort there, only more absurdity, and I don't think I can be of any real use anywhere if I keep reading it.
Today before any of this unfolded I had a conversation with some of my students about this very phenomenon, about how desperately glad I am that Facebook and social media didn't exist when I was in high school. I was a little surprised at how quickly, and how sadly, my kids agreed with me. But then again, teenagers are smarter and more savvy than many adults give them credit for. And sometimes my heart hurts for them and what they have to bear.
I'm just one person, on the other side of the world, trying to cling to a little hope and a little gratitude every day for this cosmic lottery that I seem to have won through no virtue of my own. And probably my restless tapping away in this little text box is my own version of "Pray for Paris." And it's still not enough.
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