Zora Travels

Robot Cat

One of my favorite people in the entire world turns 5 years old today!  Sam is a light in my life.  Such a smile, such a tiny row of little teeth, such a breathy way of asking "let's hide."  His giggles, squirming, and squeals are some of the greatest sounds ever.

When they visited this past February, all he wanted to do was play hide and seek.  The ecstasy in his voice when he'd ask to hide and then the loud outbursts as the "hunter" tried to find us were pure joy.  As Daniel would approach the door, he'd whisper "we're in here," and even though this revealed our stealth status he feels that everyone needs a hint...and it didn't stop the heart-beating twitching of his excitement under the covers.

So, this is the second year that I've cajoled Daniel into making him a "Happy Birthday" singing video.  And upon receiving it this morning, Kathy emailed me that he said "thanks" and that he wanted a Robot Dog.

Having no idea what that is...I decided that I could offer him a Robot Cat.

Here's the cheesy video.  Happiness is being an Auntie.  Happy Birthday, Sweet Sam.

Pine-scented

There's nothing quite like coming home to a house perfumed with pine.  Our awkward Christmas tree or "ghetto bush," as Daniel likes to call it, is now nestled into the window seat.  The Bohemian fabric angel that I picked up in a Viennese boutique back in '99 adorns the top branch.  Barren branches sprinkle needles at the batting of curious kitten paws. 

Daniel sprays citrus pet-stain remover on a mystery stain. 

And I unleash my abdomen from the vice-grip of a back brace.

The aged wall heater thumps and twitters and taps out a few more puffs.

It's a Wednesday night...the eve of my nephew's 5th birthday.  The eve of my 4th day home from work.  Potential acupuncture awaits me tomorrow.  As well as an evening of decorating the tree, sipping cocktails, and listening to our neighbor Marisa play Silent Night on her banjo.

Earlier soups and baguette appeared under the knitted wonder of Emmanuelle and I caught myself soaking in the golden autumn light, sipping red wine, and being grateful for a friend who seems to often know just what gentle prodding words I need to hear.

Rosary on the dash

It's nice to know that in this season of joy, abundance, merriment, and caring, even burglars can be sweet.  The burglar, who cleared out the entire contents of Daniel's car (including my Christmas presents lurking in hiding until he could sneak them in), had a kind-hearted moment and left a rosary atop the dashboard.  We knew something was odd about the cross being out of the glove box and in plain sight.  Then there was that hazy minute when you look around and try to remember what used to be there.  Your mind imagines the stranger whose hands, body, and breath filled this car, which sits in your driveway, only hours before.  Pilfering what I thought were just a few odds and ends...then I saw Daniel's face.  His hand reached under my seat.  The sound of an empty plastic bag.  His face sunk.  His brow knitted.

What did they think as they placed the rosary on the dash?  I try to imagine that they need the gifts far more than we did.  But there's that little burn...that irritation.

Yesterday's post was a downer.  Today the blue skies cracked open with a brisk wind and a rain-cleansed view of snow-covered mountains.  It was a spectacular day.  I relished the scenery as I drove to the chiropractor for my second crickety-crack.  A day filled with sunlight, chilly breezes, feet scuffling on fallen leaves, and a visit to a Christmas store to be smothered in crystal reindeer, plump and scrawny Santas, and carols bellowing from garland-strewn speakers.  Vicadin coursed through my veins.  A back brace gave me the posture of a ballerina.  My second day home from work.

Two students sent me emails.  Asking where I was and saying I was missed.  I was touched.

My mind creates the reality at a school in which many teachers are very happy.  With the same students, the same bathrooms, and the same classrooms void of light.  I can bathe my thoughts, my nerves, my opinions in a murky stew of darkness or I can choose to focus on the good moments even more.

Two students sent me emails.  That is kind.  I'll return to work on Thursday to a job that I am fortunate to have.  And every evening, I'll grin as I hold two kittens on my lap and Daniel's hand in mine.

"So, I'm offering this simple phrase.  To kids from 1 to 92.  Although it's been said many times, many ways.  Merry Christmas to you!"  You just can't beat Bing Crosby singing "White Christmas" in December.

Tomorrow we'll get our tree, hang some mistletoe, and drink White Russians near a fire. 'Tis the season.

My nerve

It's been a while.  I'm home today on a rainy Monday.  Kittens race back and forth across the floors.  Daniel types emails to his work informing them he's not coming in.

I have a pinched nerve in my back.  Yet another physical manifestation of my mood.  The bad one that I've felt most days for several months.  I'm not sure why but it's tied to my lack of satisfaction with my job, the tiresome grind of inspiring 170 students with well-thought lessons to be told variants of "this sucks" and "f---- you."  When you spend 50+ hours working and 10+ hours commuting to a job that offers little rewards, it wears on you. Or at least it's wearing on me.  After 10 years of serving inner-city teenagers, I no longer feel that I belong in this career.

I try all of the "positive thinking" mantras and yoga and focus and appreciation for my life outside of work...but it still comes down to 8 hours a day in a classroom with no windows, with cockroaches in the bathroom, with poor janitorial services, and without friends.

And perhaps some of it is the "what if" syndrome.  We had thought we'd be in Michigan this year.  Frolicking in the first snow drifts in Ann Arbor.  Spinning in our backyard with our tongues out, hands covered in woolen mittens, a dog yapping at the flakes nearby.  I quit a job I enjoyed at a school that held some of my closest girlfriends.  Daily lunches that revived my spirit, soothed my soul, made me laugh.

Now I eat alone...in a room with no windows.  Roaches scurry at my feet in the bathroom.  Conversations only offered by 14 year olds.  And I'm hated.  Well, truly disliked by most.  Out of their seven 9th grade teachers, I'm the one that gives homework...daily.  They complain.  They mumble rude comments.  At large assemblies they cheer wildly for my colleagues who give them secret handshakes and shout "We love you!" in the microphone.  Colleagues who tell me which couples are dating...while I can merely offer their reading/writing level.  I'm not a teacher who cares to know their dating life.  See their tears falling about pimply-faced boys. 

It's not that I don't care - I care about their minds.  The fact that most are far behind their peers in affluent neighborhoods.  They'll all compete for the same college spots.  They must remain focused.  I love them by giving them challenging work.  By starting our 3rd essay and our 3rd unit with another novel this week (Tim O'Brien's Things The Carried).

But their hatred, disdain, apathy hurts.  I spend all day with teenagers who dislike my presence.  I spend hours on a freeway replaying incidents of disdain.

And at the end of the day, although I have Daniel's incredible support and amazing patience to yet another story, I still feel that I've failed them somehow. 

I need to leave this profession.  Find a new way to contribute my talents and thoughts to a world, to a clientele, to a topic that is more positive.

So, that's why I haven't written.  Not much is sparkling.  Not much shines.  Not much to say.  I just want out.

Opera costume dreams

I had these grand ideas for today.  The LA opera is selling loads of costumes: elegant royal satin and lace, palry peasants, mostly sized 12-16 for ladies, fancy hats, complete outfits - for garage sale prices.  I envisioned Daniel and I driving downtown, looking for parking using "The Secret," and then diving into costume bins spanning hundreds of epic fashion eras.  Not because I've ever been a huge fan of Halloween or opera...but because these particular costumes and the chance to buy a complete era-outfit just sounded like so much fun.

Instead, I'm on the couch, nuzzled beneath a grey furry blanket, the warmth of the laptop on my legs, a cozy hat and green hood covering my head, a tummy rumbling, a throat aching, and occasional moans (just to make sure everyone knows I'm sick).  An email just came in from my principal that "one of us" has swine flu and that all the surfaces in our classrooms will be disinfected this weekend.  The mystery person will be back on Monday or Tuesday.  Do I have the swine flu?  One of my students called and asked for homework for the week...due to flu.  Now a teacher has it.  Is this the cause of my own aches and pains?

I'll wait it out.  See tomorrow.  My doctor doesn't have the H1N1 shot in yet.  They're still waiting.

Our kittens, Max & Sophie, need their first shots.  We'll tackle that this week.

How do you avoid your weekends not becoming an "errand-ridden" span of time?  It seems that the list just grows all week long, expanding to occupy the majority of at least one day of the weekend.  But I've barely seen Daniel all week.  Just two hours of "after-work-tired-just-commuted" time and then we do the dishes and go to bed.  Saturday and Sunday are to be our haven.  Our respite from work and time to have fun.  How can we avoid the doldrums of errands, grocery shopping, house cleaning, and kitten care?  Maybe we're spacing it out wrong.  Maybe we just became far too spoiled with our initial three years of him in graduate school and gorging on unlimited time with eachother.  Now we live like most "9-5 'ers" in the concrete LA jungle.  A dense maze of freeways that leave us on the cell phone with one another at 5pm...across a distance that's short but time that takes forever...both inching towards our home with NPR on in the background, the cell phone on speaker, and bottles of water on the passenger seats.

This is our adjustment.  How to make the reality of a few tired hours each weeknight and a weekend that always passes too quickly feel like enough.  To squeeze out of these moments the same quality of discussion and connection and enjoyment that we used to find in the abundance of time we had before.  I love being married and I just wish there was more time to be together.

But as I read posts about Miss V or posts about Miss M, I realize that the trajectory of marriage typically finds only less time for one another as you add in the cuddles and sniffles of little ones.  I am completely baffled as to what you do once the jobs, commutes, pets, and babies have nestled into your time schedule.  If I think I see little of Daniel now, what will happen when the sweet cherubs arrive.  With their cocoa eyes, long lashes, and sweet toes?

I guess it all just somehow works out.  You adjust to the new reality of the hours you have.  I need to be more grateful for the minutes that I'm able to lie in his lap and feel his fingers running through my hair.  Sure, it used to be a half an hour...but these minutes are just as precious.  I am just as lucky.  I should be just as grateful.

A toast to Grandma

The leaves rustle on the bush outside the window.  The bamboo chimes clap in the wind.  Max and Sophie do their absolute best to unnerve my focus.  Razor sharp kitten claws clamor up the couch, perch atop the pillow with my laptop, poke their noses into my coffee cup, nuzzle into the folds of my fuzzy pink robe. 

They are driving me crazy..."us" crazy, actually.  Tiny paws scraping underneath the bedroom door in the morning, stampeding feet thundering through the house, shredded drapes and curtains, tiny scratches on our "nice" set of cinnamon sheets, tattered laundry baskets, bite marks on papers.  We hope that this is just a phase.  We hope that age and being spayed/neutered will mellow our furry terrors.

But for now I oscillate between adoration and irritation.  In the same minute that I rub this sweet face I can also reach for the water bottle to spritz it with water. 

Are little humans going to be similar?  Daniel and I discuss often how having babies will differ from these little ones.  There will be millions of differences...but building up our patience for irritation, being on the same page of discipline, and agreeing how much money to spend on "quality" vs. "affordability" on food, toys, and grooming supplies are giving us insight into the future.

If we were to raise babies the same way, we would invest in mostly organic foods with ingredients that we can pronounce, fill their sippy cups with tap water, buy environmentally safe diapers and then regret it and they'd have to bathe themselves.

Yesterday we relished the crisp mountain air of Crestline at my grandma's cabin.  Sitting outside on her porch with pine trees stretching into the blue sky, we sipped bloody marys and discussed covering old couches, helping "Poor Eddie," and the splendid fortune of Daniel's new job.  I am often in awe of my grandmother.  Her smiling face and silken skin.  Her dapper outfits, eloquent necklaces, and Birkenstock shoes.  Her deeds and maps of the family farm, her uncanny ability to recall every minute detail of a situation from decades ago, and her absolute joy in simply enjoying the present.  Certainly she has bones that ache and assundry ailments that come with being an octogenarian...but her eyes, her voice, her heart choose to pool with love, comfort, and happiness.  I've never wanted to age like anyone else.

But her radiant positivity didn't "just happen."  She didn't stumble upon this mental outlook on a fluke.  Whether born or bread to eshew such joy, it still takes her steady hands and committed spirit to witness this world with the same struggles, obstacles, losses and defeats that we all experience and manage to consistently pull out the golden thread to knit.

So, a toast to my Grandma Lola.  May I one day be so fortunate as to raise a bloody mary with my own grandchildren and have them think, "Now, that's how I want to be when I'm old."

 

*For those with three minutes to spend with a pictorial of my last few weeks, there's this montage:

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Here Comes the Sun

As you read the post, play this in the background.  And here's a cheesy timer picture from an hour ago with the kittens, Max & Sophie.

My next unit for my 9th grade students is This Boy's Life.  A memoir by Tobias Wolff that follows a young man through his adolescence in the late 50's and early 60's.  I am obsessed with this unit.  My first five weeks have been comparable to the recent scene with my nephew at the dentist's office.  My students are the reluctant child with fears and unclarity being dragged towards literature (x-ray machines and chairs with large lights and instruments of torture).  I am the dentist...looming large overhead, shining light into their weak literacy and prodding into their writing deficits.  Their lack of rigor, homework, and mental challenge in past English classes is as obvious as the softening enamel of a cavity.  Fillings are needed.  Painful but necessary.

My lollipop is their improved reading and writing skills. Most don't want it.

I am struggling with my job lately.  My 170 students are typical 14 year olds...complete with attitudes, reluctance to work, preference for texting and myspace and facebook.  Every day my mind churns and swirls with potential hooks and lessons and ways to bring them hungry to the feast of words and language that satiate my belly.

So this next unit is my focus...my pet project.  Hours pouring over the memoir, the key quotes, the "fun" projects that will connect my students to this era of Americana when fathers knew best and everyone had happy days loving Lucy.  All of these shows will splash during class to entice.  My mother is making cd's of 50's and 60's music to play at the beginning and end of each lesson.  Movies such as, The Wanderers, American Graffiti, La Bamba, and This Boy's Life will add to the historical context of the experience.

Can I find my rhythm again as a teacher?  Can I serve these students with integrity and still salvage my personal life balance?  Is it possible to leave work and the 170 personalities of my scholars in the classroom each night and weekend...without the need for a daily rant and then subsequent hours of tweaking lessons for the next day?  Losing the mere three hours each night with Daniel (who just finished his 2nd week at work) to the computer, textbook, and grammar websites.

Daniel must be tired of hearing me talk about education.  I would normally turn to my colleagues.  Voicing my concerns with fellow teachers at lunch and saving more pleasant topics for home.  But I'm at a new school.  Eating every day alone.  Adjusting my presentations after each period to maximize their efficacy.  Lorraine did help dry my tears the other day with some great advice but it has been five years since I taught this grade level.  I fear I am not doing it well.

But "Here Comes the Sun" is playing.  Negativity is a habit.  Too much focus on the daily "thisclasssucks,f_ckthis, thisisboring,Ihatethisclass" instead of the interested eyes and bright smiles of a few faces that sit in my classroom.  Hands that extend towards mine with eagerness and respect.  Laughter that spills when my geeky grammar jokes fly.

I am turning over a new leaf.   The old leaf is still just on the other side.  Semi-transparent and sharing the same veins...but I'm turning.  This is the only life I believe I'll live.  Before me lies a day that shall never repeat.  A chance to show more kindness, patience, and appreciation for what I have, what I've known, and where I'll be.

Today, I shall write letters to a few friends.  Ever since my sister-in-law, Kathy, sent me an article about how the time on the internet can affect the quality of relationships, I've been trying to reach out more in a personal fashion to those I love.  A facebook post cannot ever equate to a voice on the phone.  An email can never replace a letter sitting in your mailbox.  A snapfish photo album will never thrill the way glossy prints feel in your hands.

I'm going to preheat the oven.  A salmon-feta strada is soaking in the fridge (thanks for the recipe, Claire).  Daniel (currently taking notes at his first sailing course) will come home in a few hours to the aroma of eggs, cheese, veggies, and salmon baking in a casserole dish (thanks, Janette).  Fresh basil and parsley atop.  A glass of chilled wine.  A smiling wife.

Can you beat that?  Eggs, cheese, wine, and wife.

Day Brightened

Okay, so there was a roach today (a baby one).

And it was hot (but I had my mother-in-law's fan).

But then I came home.  And on my Facebook wall was this post from the incredible Lorraine.  She secretly knew just what my soul needed.

" Zora, I just have to tell you about a former student of yours, Annalisa, who mentioned you during her presentation. Students were asked to introduce themselves by giving the class a little bit of insight as to who they are. She brought a ring... her cousin had given, which she had purchased in Germany. She said the ring meant a lot to her because it symbolized a teacher who had given her a lot of advice. The ring had amber stones and she said "si recuerdan a la Srta. Zora, ella era una maestra que siempre me daba buenos consejos, y este anillo me recuerda de ella". I hope this brightens your day, amiga :)"

Oh, Amiga, brightened it did.

And now a deep breath.  A wish that my mother gets a puppy.  A kiss for the soft velvet bellies of our kittens.  And a nose twitching towards the dinner that Daniel is cooking.

hot and bothered

I'm hot and bothered.  Not in the typical sense.  I am going to just flow for a few minutes...then let this machine rest for the weekend.  This machine that I tickle with tortuous lessons and agendas for my 170 students.  The 4th week of school just ended.

I hear every day, "This is so boring." (yeah, that's what I was hoping you'd say when I took hours planning this lesson)

I hear, "Why can't we do anything fun?" (ummm....I thought this story was "fun"...but we actually have to read it first)

I hear, "When is class over, is it almost over?" (let me look at my watch, too, because I'm wondering the same thing)

Don't get me wrong.  It is my 10th year teaching.  I still hold a deep affection for teaching at-risk teenagers.  For potentially being a part of those blissful moments when their voices become clearer with word choice and imagination and depth of thought.  When the brilliance they possess inks the page for the entire world to see.

But I'm also tired.  I'm tired of going to a restroom with cockroaches scurrying to the floor drain, where teenage girls have thrown all of their soiled "personal items" into the corners (bypassing the brown paper bags), old paint sliding off the metal doors, "Hey, Bitch!" and "Fuck you!" screamed outside at the sink, as I calmly exhale inside the stall (many times with my own toilet paper from my pocket).

I'm hot because the air conditioner hasn't worked since the first day of school.  I drip sweat upon their papers as I lean over.  My temper is a bit short...their attention span is even shorter.  At times the thermometer reads 96.  I got an email today about the a/c that read "Next week will be even more hot and miserable.  The technician has done everything he can think of."

I read this email to Daniel.  Mr. "First Week" at the "big company."  I asked him how many times female employees would use a bathroom soiled with products on the floor.

"It simply wouldn't happen."

How many days would the "big company" have a broken a/c and ask their employees to bring in their own fans if they're uncomfortable (which I have done).

"They would fix it the same day."

What about cockroaches?  What would "big company" do about employees needing to crush cockroaches each day with their shoes (as girls scream and writhe in their seats)?

"I think that's a health code violation."

So, I'm hot and bothered.  I don't care which side of the political line you stand on.  It is wrong.  At my high school, this would not have happened.

Like all teachers, I went to college, I pursued a career of purpose and dedication.  I work hard.  I come early and stay late.  I grade on weekends, I wipe my desks with anti-bacterial baby wipes, I burn aromathereupetic oil (mint for stimulation, or lavender for calming) and my students and I should not experience these above obstacles.  And if I read one more article in the Los Angeles Times singing the praises of my organization, it's "noble mission," its "college-bound" students, and not mentioning any of the above...I think I'll loose it.

Okay, well, a cold Red Stripe is sweating on the table.  Michael Jackson is playing in the background...and I'll join my husband now on the porch.  With two kitten faces behind the window.  I miss the days when Daniel and I were unemployed and drinking cocktails at 2 in the afternoon.  I remember those days with such fondness now.

I suppose I should get "hot and bothered" about something....or rather, someone.  It is a better use of my energy.

Pitter patter

First, let me say that I love NPR.  These voices are the friends I've come to know on my long commute, and my weekend mornings as I stretch into the sunrise.  My "school-year 4:30 wake-up call" has now crept into my weekends.  No longer are my first blurry-eyed visions and yawns in company with Daniel; instead, these two furry faces greet me.

Max (left) and Sophie (right), have brought incredible joy to us in their first week.  It is such fun to hear their paws pitter patter across the hardwood floor.  To see their fuzzy faces waiting behind the window as you sit outside.  To feel their purring bellies and velveteen throats as they curl up on your lap.

Motor Max is the "Momma's Boy" and Sophie is "on the side of the business."  She wants to always be near you, in your business...just not on you or on your terms.  But it's this little shy girl who, when we allowed them to sleep with us last night, took up the offer and curled at our feet for the night.

Is it really the marriage, I wonder, that has created this strong urge to get an official dining table (thanks, Alexandra & Gilles), purchase matching placemats and napkins, start receiving Food and Wine magazine and studying their recipes with zeal, adopt two pets, and start grinding my own coffee beans?  It's a domestic transformation.  That young girl who used to toss any edible in saran wrap now searches with consternation for the perfectly sized tupperware.  Tubs without lids are no longer welcome.

We have become a family of four.  I want to be good to these pets.  Just because the years will age their faces, rough their fur, slow their hops, I want to still show them kindness and attention.  Pets sometimes slip into the shadows after children arrive.  Losing more and more glances and strokes until they diminish into a nuisance.

I whispered into both of their silken ears that I would take good care of them.  Even though one day (in the next few years) we hope that the pitter patter will not only be feline paws but baby feet.

***Yesterday, I listened to this radio story from a father who lost two sons on 9-11.  Tears streamed down my face and I felt such sadness and gratitude.  Sad that so many, near and far, have lost their lives in the intricate web of the attacks and aftermath.  Grateful that my life, my friends, and my family have not suffered directly in the tragic and heroic dust. 

I remember that morning eight years ago.  It was my first week of teaching in Compton.  A new Miles Davis cd, "Sketches of Spain," filled my classroom as I stood at the board.  It was the day to launch "Othello."  A colleague came by and asked if I'd heard "the news."  I turned from cd to radio and as I continued to flit about my room, another plane went down. 

What about "Othello"?

Irrelevant. I thought.

What would my students need? I wondered.

Would they even come to school?

A few did.  We spoke of the incident in every period.  They asked if the Compton Court would be a target.  They asked if the World Trade Center in Long Beach would be a target.  They asked why.  Of this, I knew nothing. 

All of us a little on edge, shocked, scared, and uncertain.  By the afternoon, I knew that we were "talked out."  So, I spoke, just for a few minutes, of a stage long ago, where all the actors were men, the scribe wrote in iambic-pentameter, and the heroes were flawed.  Of this, I knew a little.

That night I walked on the sidewalk and saw candles flickering in windows.  The only nation-wide solidarity that I'd ever seen.  And eight years later, our swords are unfortunately still bright.

"Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them."
Othello, 1. 2