Your Nesting Ground Mistress is guilty of neglecting her blog; she has been a terrible mistress. But her reasons for doing so are legitimate. You may judge:
1) I finished a story. Let me repeat: I FINISHED A STORY. Since this occurs about as often as leap year, I'm pretty much dancing in my seat, here. I'm not sure what accounted for this sudden and mad desire to reach the end of the thing, but I am not one to argue with literary urges of any kind.
2) My brothers and teenage nephews were here! Very strange to have the delicate balance of my household tipped into The Land of Testosterone. Even stranger to see giant pairs of shoes hovering near the closet. Now they're gone, and I'm melancholy. My youngest nephew, Malakai, is a fan of my green beans (that sounds nonsensical, but not when you stop to consider that I toss them with fried garlic and sprinkle them with Maggi). I made some last night, and I was sad he wasn't here to eat them all up.
3) I was busy making like a steamroller—a STEAM. FREAKING. ROLLER, people!—and was successful in snagging my adored mother an appointment at Stanford Medical Center's esteemed Neurology Clinic. I'm happy to report that our first visit was like something out of a dream, and she is now a patient of a fine, fine, super-fine neurologist who specializes in the diagnosis, treatment, and clinical research of multiple sclerosis.
* strikes the Rocky Balboa at the top of the steps pose *
4) Softball. Someone save me, already. The girls have moved up an age bracket, and the games are NINETY MINUTES long. They practice 2x a week, also for ninety minutes each time. I know there are families who are used to this type of thing. Families where the kids have to swim every day or get to the gym every day or whatnot, but we are not one of those very impressive families. And so this is not so fun. Adding to the bad news: the fact that I almost single-handedly burned down the snack shack last year has not saved me from the odious task of having to work there for 2 shifts this season.
There are other tiny reasons, reasons which when bundled together add up to a whole bunch of time, but when taken individually sound quite ridiculous. Having to teach a lesson in Chinese landscape painting—of which I know nothing, mind you—to forty third graders, for example. Or sorting through wardrobe choices for next month's trip. Oh, but here's a good one:
5) Little baby writers! Most of my school volunteer time is spent tutoring struggling readers or writers, but beginning this Thursday I have the sweet pleasure of running a little workshop for...glorious! glorious!...a group of six strong writers. I've been finding some fun stuff in the 826 Quarterly's Don't Forget to Write, as well as at the Teachers & Writers Collaborative website. Fun, fun!
Monday, March 09, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Will the Shame NEVER DIE?
A few years ago I wrote a post about how a friend and I set up a Filipino table for International Day at my kids' school. We thought we were fairly bombastic until. Until. Until the Tongan families arrived sporting traditional dress and carrying a ROAST PIG THE SIZE OF MY HOUSE. Do you remember how I cursed the gods that day? Do you also remember how the event happened to coincide with an Achiote Press reading and that Oscar had no sympathy for my plight, but rather laughed at my comeuppance?
Fast forward to 2009. This was to be my Year Of Redemption. This was to be the year I could hold my head up high and pass by the Tongans while tossing out a casual, "Hey, nice table you got there."
But it is not meant to be.
Why? Because apparently there are a bunch of upstart Filipino parents in the Kindergarten class who are building a bahay kubo (it sounds like I'm joking, doesn't it? I assure you I am not) and who do not require the help—in any way, shape, or form—of your Nesting Ground Mistress.
Sure. Fine. That's fine. I'll just go ahead and create a table representing the Land of Nesting Ground. I will serve chunks of bitter melon, clusters of sour grapes, and glasses of fine whine. My national flag will bear the words, "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." I'll see you there!
Fast forward to 2009. This was to be my Year Of Redemption. This was to be the year I could hold my head up high and pass by the Tongans while tossing out a casual, "Hey, nice table you got there."
But it is not meant to be.
Why? Because apparently there are a bunch of upstart Filipino parents in the Kindergarten class who are building a bahay kubo (it sounds like I'm joking, doesn't it? I assure you I am not) and who do not require the help—in any way, shape, or form—of your Nesting Ground Mistress.
Sure. Fine. That's fine. I'll just go ahead and create a table representing the Land of Nesting Ground. I will serve chunks of bitter melon, clusters of sour grapes, and glasses of fine whine. My national flag will bear the words, "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." I'll see you there!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Spam Folder Sex Poem
My Spam folder held six messages this morning. When I took a peek prior to emptying it, the subject lines revealed the following poem:
Have sex longer
better sex
please her like never before
be amazing in bed
be a god in bed
please her like never before
I thought the repeating middle and end lines of "please her like never before" were especially effective, as were the "be a..." that begin lines 4 and 5. I was going to wait a little longer to see if any more messages appeared, but it looks like this will be it for the day. Has this phenomenon ever occurred in YOUR mailbox? If so, you are required to share. Go! Go check your Spam!
Have sex longer
better sex
please her like never before
be amazing in bed
be a god in bed
please her like never before
I thought the repeating middle and end lines of "please her like never before" were especially effective, as were the "be a..." that begin lines 4 and 5. I was going to wait a little longer to see if any more messages appeared, but it looks like this will be it for the day. Has this phenomenon ever occurred in YOUR mailbox? If so, you are required to share. Go! Go check your Spam!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Suddenly I See-ee
Though I knew it was in excess of ten years, I wasn't sure exactly how long I'd been wearing the same pair of contact lenses. Last week I visited the eye doctor for the first time in six years, and he told me: twelve years.
There is no good reason for this. I think the issue was...me. Just last week the spousal unit—in regards to some random half-zip fleece thing I'd worn to the gym—said, "I gotta say, Vernie. No one holds on to a sweatshirt like you." And I guess that's true. Despite excessive spending in some areas like books, shoes (occasionally), self-preservation (this would include haircuts and, I don't know, private pilates sessions?), babysitting ($20/hr. = ouch!), restaurants (occasionally) and more books, I am by nature someone who doesn't think she needs more than one random half-zip fleece thing. Call me crazy.
Nor did I need new contact lenses if the ones I had were perfectly fine. This didn't stop the Eye Guy from reaming me out for thirty minutes, though. See (ha! get it?!) here, Eye Guy, I wanted to say, if I felt like listening to someone berate me for my human failings, I'd go to church, thank you. But I didn't. I agreed that I was an awful, ridiculous person and that there is no one in the world except me who would do such a brainless, lame, potentially dangerous thing. Then he checked out my eyes and I almost laughed out loud when he announced that by some miracle of the Eye Gods, I had no cornea damage.
Then I waltzed out of there with a new pair of disposable lenses and 20/20 vision. This is good. But it is also not-so-good because there are all sorts of things I was fortunate not to notice before. In other words, I've been vacuuming. A lot.
There is no good reason for this. I think the issue was...me. Just last week the spousal unit—in regards to some random half-zip fleece thing I'd worn to the gym—said, "I gotta say, Vernie. No one holds on to a sweatshirt like you." And I guess that's true. Despite excessive spending in some areas like books, shoes (occasionally), self-preservation (this would include haircuts and, I don't know, private pilates sessions?), babysitting ($20/hr. = ouch!), restaurants (occasionally) and more books, I am by nature someone who doesn't think she needs more than one random half-zip fleece thing. Call me crazy.
Nor did I need new contact lenses if the ones I had were perfectly fine. This didn't stop the Eye Guy from reaming me out for thirty minutes, though. See (ha! get it?!) here, Eye Guy, I wanted to say, if I felt like listening to someone berate me for my human failings, I'd go to church, thank you. But I didn't. I agreed that I was an awful, ridiculous person and that there is no one in the world except me who would do such a brainless, lame, potentially dangerous thing. Then he checked out my eyes and I almost laughed out loud when he announced that by some miracle of the Eye Gods, I had no cornea damage.
Then I waltzed out of there with a new pair of disposable lenses and 20/20 vision. This is good. But it is also not-so-good because there are all sorts of things I was fortunate not to notice before. In other words, I've been vacuuming. A lot.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Daly City Semi-Love Song
I have Daly City on the brain.
REASON NUMBER 1. Every third grader has been assigned a city within San Mateo County and is required to turn in a written report, deliver an oral presentation, and develop some sort of visual enhancements. Vida was jumping out of her Converse when she was given Daly City. There are few things more amusing than a 9-year-old pumping her fist and saying, "Yes! Yes!" Risa, on the other hand, stood perplexed when assigned the venture capitalist capital of the world: Woodside. "Where is this place?" she said, staring at her paper.
REASON NUMBER 2. It so happened that my dad had a craving for Sinugba the other day, thus giving Vida the opportunity for field research. The restaurant turned out to be closed, so ignoring all other input, I made a beeline for Westlake Shopping Center (making quick stops first at my high school and then our old house), home of Daly City's one branch of Nation's. As we drove down endless Southgate Ave., Dad gave Vida a little impromptu suburban architecture talk and pointed out that every third or fourth house was exactly the same. Meanwhile, I was shocked to realize that a lovely view of San Francisco Bay was spread across my sightline. Was that always there? I asked myself. Of course, you idiot, I answered. You just weren't looking.
REASON NUMBER 3. During this same time, I was (and still am) reading Sunny's Pinoy Capital: The Filipino Nation in Daly City. A third of the way through I had to e-mail him to scream about how frighteningly spot-on he is with his observations about the cultural landscape of Serramonte Mall, the breach of understanding between newly arrived Filipinos and the more established, and the fact that there is nowhere (such as parks) that encourages community gathering. The closest thing to a park has always been the Serramonte food court and, for a little while, Westlake Bowl. When I was eight or nine, I used to walk to the library, but I stopped going after I'd been flashed too many times by some perv in a grey trenchcoat. Oh Sunny, wailed your Nesting Ground Mistress in her e-mail, I was so psychologically boxed in by the omnipresent fog and the orderly lines of houses! Is it any wonder I never noticed the Bay?
*pause for dramatic effect*
Thank God Sunny didn't take the easy opportunity to make fun of me (at least not TO me). I also want to note that his take on the story behind first Filipino Mayor Mike Guingona's rise to the pinnacle of Daly City politics is a must-read.
REASON NUMBER 4. While all this was happening my eldest brother, who has lived on the North Shore of Oahu for twenty years and whose online presence has been hitherto slim, made his splashy debut on Facebook. This simple act contributed significantly to the Daly City pile-on because it inspired a flurry of Fairlawn Ct. remembrances from our cousins. Most of these memories revolved around skateboards, a truly horrible game called "Butts Up," and a guy named Fish who once held my little life in his hands as we careened down a large hill on his skateboard with no thought given to cross-traffic or other pertinent dangers.
REASON NUMBER 5. Add to this two questions, one posed by Barbara Jane and one by a white neighbor who grew up in San Bruno, and you have all the ingredients necessary for a lengthy trip down memory lane. Guess who asked which question:
1) "You're D.C., right?"
2) "What is your relationship to your city?"
If you didn't guess correctly, you're funny.
I left Daly City for good when I was seventeen years old, and I have had many homes since then: San Francisco, Vancouver (Canada), Washington, D.C., Virginia, Santa Barbara, and now San Mateo. But none have the visceral pull of the long empty streets of my foggy, Filipino-filled hometown. I'd post a picture for you, but would you believe it? I don't have one.
REASON NUMBER 1. Every third grader has been assigned a city within San Mateo County and is required to turn in a written report, deliver an oral presentation, and develop some sort of visual enhancements. Vida was jumping out of her Converse when she was given Daly City. There are few things more amusing than a 9-year-old pumping her fist and saying, "Yes! Yes!" Risa, on the other hand, stood perplexed when assigned the venture capitalist capital of the world: Woodside. "Where is this place?" she said, staring at her paper.
REASON NUMBER 2. It so happened that my dad had a craving for Sinugba the other day, thus giving Vida the opportunity for field research. The restaurant turned out to be closed, so ignoring all other input, I made a beeline for Westlake Shopping Center (making quick stops first at my high school and then our old house), home of Daly City's one branch of Nation's. As we drove down endless Southgate Ave., Dad gave Vida a little impromptu suburban architecture talk and pointed out that every third or fourth house was exactly the same. Meanwhile, I was shocked to realize that a lovely view of San Francisco Bay was spread across my sightline. Was that always there? I asked myself. Of course, you idiot, I answered. You just weren't looking.
REASON NUMBER 3. During this same time, I was (and still am) reading Sunny's Pinoy Capital: The Filipino Nation in Daly City. A third of the way through I had to e-mail him to scream about how frighteningly spot-on he is with his observations about the cultural landscape of Serramonte Mall, the breach of understanding between newly arrived Filipinos and the more established, and the fact that there is nowhere (such as parks) that encourages community gathering. The closest thing to a park has always been the Serramonte food court and, for a little while, Westlake Bowl. When I was eight or nine, I used to walk to the library, but I stopped going after I'd been flashed too many times by some perv in a grey trenchcoat. Oh Sunny, wailed your Nesting Ground Mistress in her e-mail, I was so psychologically boxed in by the omnipresent fog and the orderly lines of houses! Is it any wonder I never noticed the Bay?
*pause for dramatic effect*
Thank God Sunny didn't take the easy opportunity to make fun of me (at least not TO me). I also want to note that his take on the story behind first Filipino Mayor Mike Guingona's rise to the pinnacle of Daly City politics is a must-read.
REASON NUMBER 4. While all this was happening my eldest brother, who has lived on the North Shore of Oahu for twenty years and whose online presence has been hitherto slim, made his splashy debut on Facebook. This simple act contributed significantly to the Daly City pile-on because it inspired a flurry of Fairlawn Ct. remembrances from our cousins. Most of these memories revolved around skateboards, a truly horrible game called "Butts Up," and a guy named Fish who once held my little life in his hands as we careened down a large hill on his skateboard with no thought given to cross-traffic or other pertinent dangers.
REASON NUMBER 5. Add to this two questions, one posed by Barbara Jane and one by a white neighbor who grew up in San Bruno, and you have all the ingredients necessary for a lengthy trip down memory lane. Guess who asked which question:
1) "You're D.C., right?"
2) "What is your relationship to your city?"
If you didn't guess correctly, you're funny.
I left Daly City for good when I was seventeen years old, and I have had many homes since then: San Francisco, Vancouver (Canada), Washington, D.C., Virginia, Santa Barbara, and now San Mateo. But none have the visceral pull of the long empty streets of my foggy, Filipino-filled hometown. I'd post a picture for you, but would you believe it? I don't have one.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
The Post in Which I Whine
I'm sick and do not want to go anywhere. But I am going here:
1) the shower
2) jiffy lube
3) sport mart
4) michael's
5) trader joe's
It's such a short list, but it overwhelms. The only place I should be going is:
1) bed
2) school to pick up kids
3) bed
Due to the combination of climbing hills (tues), pilates (wed), and illness, the following body parts hurt:
1) head
2) nose
3) throat
4) thighs
5) ass
6) anterior tibs
7) eyes
8) triceps
The sounds I currently hear are:
1) screaming birds
2) twittering birds
3) fridge buzz
4) fingers typing
5) pounding in head
6) sniffling
Place I am going tomorrow is:
1) the snow
Current temperature at destination is:
1) 20 degrees
The reasons I am writing in lists are:
1) inability to think in complete sentences at the moment
2) laziness
3) vague amusement factor
Things I will not do today:
1) cook
2) dance
3) jump
4) smile (apparently)
1) the shower
2) jiffy lube
3) sport mart
4) michael's
5) trader joe's
It's such a short list, but it overwhelms. The only place I should be going is:
1) bed
2) school to pick up kids
3) bed
Due to the combination of climbing hills (tues), pilates (wed), and illness, the following body parts hurt:
1) head
2) nose
3) throat
4) thighs
5) ass
6) anterior tibs
7) eyes
8) triceps
The sounds I currently hear are:
1) screaming birds
2) twittering birds
3) fridge buzz
4) fingers typing
5) pounding in head
6) sniffling
Place I am going tomorrow is:
1) the snow
Current temperature at destination is:
1) 20 degrees
The reasons I am writing in lists are:
1) inability to think in complete sentences at the moment
2) laziness
3) vague amusement factor
Things I will not do today:
1) cook
2) dance
3) jump
4) smile (apparently)
Friday, January 30, 2009
One-Story Writer, Plus A Side of Lemongrass Fries
I forgot to tell you about my lovely day. It happened two weeks ago, but never mind: it was still lovely, and it happened to coincide with some balmy weather. I was to have lunch with my cousin, whose work is situated on a Richmond District avenue that, in turn, is tucked conveniently between las avenidas Clement y Geary.
Clement St., as you know, means only one thing to me: Green Apple Books. Because lunch was scheduled for noon, I arrived promptly on the bookstore doorstep at 10:00 am. I have already rhapsodized several times about the store itself, so I will just tell you that I found many new books to consume, yes, but I also found a magnficent used copy of a super fat—like 900 pages FAT!—story collection published 20 years ago in the UK, edited by Alberto Manguel (whose A History of Reading I enjoyed so much), and titled White Fire: Further Fantastic Literature.
I read the first story, "The Child Who Believed," which was written by Grace Amundson, first published in 1950, and (no surprise) wonderful. Broadly speaking, it's about parents, children, and the power of imagination. Specifically, it's about an old and unglamorous magician who dies in the arms of a morose little girl, but not before he succeeds in transferring to her the ability to perform the "bubble trick." It turns out the little girl is the "first woman in the royal line of custodians." Oh, and the trick? It involves reproducing live miniature enactments of history inside...bubbles. BUBBLES!
But not only that. When I went back to read Manguel's introduction to the story, he says that it's the only work he's been able to find by the "mysterious" Amundson. Sure enough, I googled her name, and the only mention I found of it was in reference to this anthology.
Maybe it's the only story she ever wrote. Maybe she wrote and wrote and wrote, but no one ever wanted to publish another word. Maybe she died and her coffin is lined with rejection letters. Or maybe there's an undiscovered box filled with manuscripts. There was a fire, a flood, a trip to the town dump. But it's sort of okay. Because if all Grace Admundson left behind was this one story, then she's way ahead of most of us.
Now, about lunch: we ate at Pho Tudo, where we shared a plate of lemongrass french fries served with some sort of aioli-ish thing made with Sriracha. Do I even have to tell you? You need to go there. Then I had garlic noodles with four plump, buttery, grilled prawns lolling about on top. Go there.
Clement St., as you know, means only one thing to me: Green Apple Books. Because lunch was scheduled for noon, I arrived promptly on the bookstore doorstep at 10:00 am. I have already rhapsodized several times about the store itself, so I will just tell you that I found many new books to consume, yes, but I also found a magnficent used copy of a super fat—like 900 pages FAT!—story collection published 20 years ago in the UK, edited by Alberto Manguel (whose A History of Reading I enjoyed so much), and titled White Fire: Further Fantastic Literature.
I read the first story, "The Child Who Believed," which was written by Grace Amundson, first published in 1950, and (no surprise) wonderful. Broadly speaking, it's about parents, children, and the power of imagination. Specifically, it's about an old and unglamorous magician who dies in the arms of a morose little girl, but not before he succeeds in transferring to her the ability to perform the "bubble trick." It turns out the little girl is the "first woman in the royal line of custodians." Oh, and the trick? It involves reproducing live miniature enactments of history inside...bubbles. BUBBLES!
But not only that. When I went back to read Manguel's introduction to the story, he says that it's the only work he's been able to find by the "mysterious" Amundson. Sure enough, I googled her name, and the only mention I found of it was in reference to this anthology.
Maybe it's the only story she ever wrote. Maybe she wrote and wrote and wrote, but no one ever wanted to publish another word. Maybe she died and her coffin is lined with rejection letters. Or maybe there's an undiscovered box filled with manuscripts. There was a fire, a flood, a trip to the town dump. But it's sort of okay. Because if all Grace Admundson left behind was this one story, then she's way ahead of most of us.
Now, about lunch: we ate at Pho Tudo, where we shared a plate of lemongrass french fries served with some sort of aioli-ish thing made with Sriracha. Do I even have to tell you? You need to go there. Then I had garlic noodles with four plump, buttery, grilled prawns lolling about on top. Go there.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Post In Which I List Foreseeable Difficulties
I know that visiting the Philippines isn't a big deal in general, but it will be the first time for my kids and spousal unit, and I haven't been in about ten years. So in the SPECIFIC, it's a very big deal. To me. To us. Foreseeable difficulties:
1) We are traveling in April, by all accounts the hottest, most miserable, most horrific month of the year. Yay!
2) Interminable flight time, made more so by our 3 junior-size traveling companions.
3) I have very few relatives still living in Manila, and if I remember correctly, I have never met the ones who remain. The exception is my dad's cousin, Uncle P., who has kindly made sure that he will be back from his trip to Japan in time to squire us about a little.
4) The 2-hour Carlos Celdran walking tour. We're doing this for sure, but will my children wither? Like literally WITHER?
5) The possibility that it will be too hot to walk on the sand when we get to Boracay. I'm kidding. No, I'm not kidding.
6) Boracay itself. Is it too much the tourist trap? Should I have chosen Palawan instead? I just didn't want to venture too far out of the kids' comfort zone this first time around.
With these and other thoughts floating around in my head, I will now proceed to Firestone because if my powers of observation are as astute as I believe...I have a flat tire. Frickin' frackin' frickledy doo.
1) We are traveling in April, by all accounts the hottest, most miserable, most horrific month of the year. Yay!
2) Interminable flight time, made more so by our 3 junior-size traveling companions.
3) I have very few relatives still living in Manila, and if I remember correctly, I have never met the ones who remain. The exception is my dad's cousin, Uncle P., who has kindly made sure that he will be back from his trip to Japan in time to squire us about a little.
4) The 2-hour Carlos Celdran walking tour. We're doing this for sure, but will my children wither? Like literally WITHER?
5) The possibility that it will be too hot to walk on the sand when we get to Boracay. I'm kidding. No, I'm not kidding.
6) Boracay itself. Is it too much the tourist trap? Should I have chosen Palawan instead? I just didn't want to venture too far out of the kids' comfort zone this first time around.
With these and other thoughts floating around in my head, I will now proceed to Firestone because if my powers of observation are as astute as I believe...I have a flat tire. Frickin' frackin' frickledy doo.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sweetest Hangover
I am bleary-eyed and cotton-headed from watching too much television, but it doesn't detract from my—warning: made-up word ahead—happies. Almost every moment —but especially that final 30 minutes comprised of the President's speech, Elizabeth Alexander's poem, and Reverend Lowery's benediction—seemed to deliver exactly the words we needed to hear. Even Justice Roberts' fumbling of the oath was somehow "right" for what I'm sure was a nerve-wracking 30 seconds for the guy. The only disappointment was Rick Warren's over-the-top emoting and bizarre pronunciation of Sasha and Malia's names. I think Obama knew what he was doing by 1) including him and 2) making sure he was all but forgotten by the time Reverend Lowery finished HIS flawless benediction.
And now...I think I'll go to a ball. It's called the Suburban Denim & Ballerina Flats Ball, and I'm the hostess and solitary guest. I planned it this way so that I can dance like a loon and no one will ever know. Speaking of loons: here are our girls, flashing their homespun backstage passes to the HOPE '09 show:
Happy Inauguration Day!
And now...I think I'll go to a ball. It's called the Suburban Denim & Ballerina Flats Ball, and I'm the hostess and solitary guest. I planned it this way so that I can dance like a loon and no one will ever know. Speaking of loons: here are our girls, flashing their homespun backstage passes to the HOPE '09 show:
Happy Inauguration Day!
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Follow-Up Punching Post
Because you asked so nicely, and because each of you were willing to tear Vida's walloper limb from limb, I will now go into more detail about The Punching Incident. So, let's see:
As I mentioned previously, I rounded a corner and saw Vida crying. Her friends quickly filled me in on what happened. "Where is he?" I said. They told me he'd walked into his classroom and that was, indeed, where I found him. He was sitting with his teacher—a woman I've never spoken to before—who was giving him some after-school tutoring.
This is when I was at my worst, really. When I'm exceptionally angry with someone who isn't a member of my immediate family, I speak slowly because it helps to disguise the fact that my voice is shaky. I apologized for interrupting and then I said, "C, did you just punch my daughter?" Blank stare, angelic face. He's a gorgeous kid, actually. I took a step towards him and tilted my head. "Did you just punch my daughter?"
"No. No. I was in here and she's out there." I looked at him with a you-lying-little-punk-I-am-so-going-to-kick-your-ass expression on my face. He then went through several more lies: he didn't do anything, he didn't THINK he'd done anything, he didn't MEAN to do anything, he wasn't TRYING to do anything, he was just running by and bumped her, etc. etc. It was clear that his teacher wasn't buying any of it, but she was also completely useless, as she didn't see it happen and we don't know each other. I'm sure that from her point of view I was just a weird, aggressive, vaguely menacing parent. She said something about telling C's mother, at which point I apologized again for the interruption and left in search of our principal.
My girls were waiting outside. "Let's go guys," I said.
"Where are we going?"
"I want to talk to the principal."
"Oh, no, Mom! No!" said Vida. "This is soooooooo embarrassing."
"I don't care if you're embarrassed, Vi."
Eventually we found the principal, and she sat Vida on her knee and talked quietly with her for about 20 minutes while Vida alternately cried and nodded yes or no. I really couldn't have asked for more. That night, though, the principal sent me an e-mail saying that unfortunately C had a different story than Vida, so she couldn't suspend him. I almost bit my tongue off. Instead of typing a missive in which I pointed out that Vida has no history of lying or junior-style assault, and the kid in question DOES, I wrote some bullshit about how I'm sure she had both Vida's and C's best interests in mind, and that that was as it should be blah de blah de freaking blah.
Then I stewed. In the end, C's consequence turned out to be having to spend one day's 20-minute recess and 1-hour lunch in the school office.
On Friday, in an unprompted bid for forgiveness, C apologized to Vida after school. Then he walked about twenty yards over to me and said, "I'm sorry."
I said, "What are you sorry for?"
"For hurting Vida's feelings."
"Oh really. And what else?"
"For hitting Vida."
At this point I should have called the principal over to witness the confession, but I didn't. Instead, I just stared at him for a few seconds. And I didn't see some horrible, lying, punching, future criminal. I just saw a kid who, despite a colorful history of making shitty decisions, is no better or worse than my kids. I said, "Don't do it again. Don't do it to ANYBODY."
"Okay."
"Okay. Thanks for coming over here, C. I appreciate that."
And then he ran off and Vida beat him in three straight games of tetherball.
I was telling this story to my cousin-in-law yesterday, and he couldn't get past what he felt was my too-tame reaction. He works with at-risk kids in the San Francisco public schools, and as we talked, I started to think maybe he was right. But then I realized: he doesn't have his own kids yet. The longer I'm a parent, the less black/white there seems to be in the world; it's mostly gray. C is a kid with some problems, but he isn't someone whose heart is all twisted up in his chest (yet). So I guess in the end, I treated him with...I don't know...compassionate disapproval? Basically, I did what I hope his mother would have done if our roles had been reversed.
And now I'm all confused again. But I'm thinking this post was rather well-suited to the MLK holiday.
Speaking of the MLK holiday, we tried to follow our President-elect's directions today by performing a little trash picking-up "service" at the girls' school. It was just the four of us, but we did our best, even clawing around under the lunch tables to grab errant ketchup packets, nasty alcohol cans (teenagers tend to party on the campus over the weekend; their drink of choice is something called "Joose"), straw wrappers, and whatnot.
Is there any point in trying to remain cool about tomorrow's inauguration? No there is not! I dance my way everywhere, I say "sure!" to random milkshake requests, I burst into happy tears at the smallest provocation. Giddy. That's what I am.
As I mentioned previously, I rounded a corner and saw Vida crying. Her friends quickly filled me in on what happened. "Where is he?" I said. They told me he'd walked into his classroom and that was, indeed, where I found him. He was sitting with his teacher—a woman I've never spoken to before—who was giving him some after-school tutoring.
This is when I was at my worst, really. When I'm exceptionally angry with someone who isn't a member of my immediate family, I speak slowly because it helps to disguise the fact that my voice is shaky. I apologized for interrupting and then I said, "C, did you just punch my daughter?" Blank stare, angelic face. He's a gorgeous kid, actually. I took a step towards him and tilted my head. "Did you just punch my daughter?"
"No. No. I was in here and she's out there." I looked at him with a you-lying-little-punk-I-am-so-going-to-kick-your-ass expression on my face. He then went through several more lies: he didn't do anything, he didn't THINK he'd done anything, he didn't MEAN to do anything, he wasn't TRYING to do anything, he was just running by and bumped her, etc. etc. It was clear that his teacher wasn't buying any of it, but she was also completely useless, as she didn't see it happen and we don't know each other. I'm sure that from her point of view I was just a weird, aggressive, vaguely menacing parent. She said something about telling C's mother, at which point I apologized again for the interruption and left in search of our principal.
My girls were waiting outside. "Let's go guys," I said.
"Where are we going?"
"I want to talk to the principal."
"Oh, no, Mom! No!" said Vida. "This is soooooooo embarrassing."
"I don't care if you're embarrassed, Vi."
Eventually we found the principal, and she sat Vida on her knee and talked quietly with her for about 20 minutes while Vida alternately cried and nodded yes or no. I really couldn't have asked for more. That night, though, the principal sent me an e-mail saying that unfortunately C had a different story than Vida, so she couldn't suspend him. I almost bit my tongue off. Instead of typing a missive in which I pointed out that Vida has no history of lying or junior-style assault, and the kid in question DOES, I wrote some bullshit about how I'm sure she had both Vida's and C's best interests in mind, and that that was as it should be blah de blah de freaking blah.
Then I stewed. In the end, C's consequence turned out to be having to spend one day's 20-minute recess and 1-hour lunch in the school office.
On Friday, in an unprompted bid for forgiveness, C apologized to Vida after school. Then he walked about twenty yards over to me and said, "I'm sorry."
I said, "What are you sorry for?"
"For hurting Vida's feelings."
"Oh really. And what else?"
"For hitting Vida."
At this point I should have called the principal over to witness the confession, but I didn't. Instead, I just stared at him for a few seconds. And I didn't see some horrible, lying, punching, future criminal. I just saw a kid who, despite a colorful history of making shitty decisions, is no better or worse than my kids. I said, "Don't do it again. Don't do it to ANYBODY."
"Okay."
"Okay. Thanks for coming over here, C. I appreciate that."
And then he ran off and Vida beat him in three straight games of tetherball.
I was telling this story to my cousin-in-law yesterday, and he couldn't get past what he felt was my too-tame reaction. He works with at-risk kids in the San Francisco public schools, and as we talked, I started to think maybe he was right. But then I realized: he doesn't have his own kids yet. The longer I'm a parent, the less black/white there seems to be in the world; it's mostly gray. C is a kid with some problems, but he isn't someone whose heart is all twisted up in his chest (yet). So I guess in the end, I treated him with...I don't know...compassionate disapproval? Basically, I did what I hope his mother would have done if our roles had been reversed.
And now I'm all confused again. But I'm thinking this post was rather well-suited to the MLK holiday.
Speaking of the MLK holiday, we tried to follow our President-elect's directions today by performing a little trash picking-up "service" at the girls' school. It was just the four of us, but we did our best, even clawing around under the lunch tables to grab errant ketchup packets, nasty alcohol cans (teenagers tend to party on the campus over the weekend; their drink of choice is something called "Joose"), straw wrappers, and whatnot.
Is there any point in trying to remain cool about tomorrow's inauguration? No there is not! I dance my way everywhere, I say "sure!" to random milkshake requests, I burst into happy tears at the smallest provocation. Giddy. That's what I am.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Post In Which I Describe How I Briefly Turned 14-Years-Old Again
Yesterday, Vida was punched twice—TWICE! PUNCHED!—by a fourth grade boy after school. Eyewitness accounts confirm that the boy's actions were unprovoked and that, in fact, the two of them hadn't exchanged a word or even a look. He just walked up to her and punched her once, which elicited a shocked, silent response from Vida. "Do you want me to do it harder?" he said. He then hit her harder and ran off.
I realize that this could have been his way of saying, "I like you and do not have the words to express myself," but frankly I don't care. When I rounded the corner and saw my kid crying and heard the myriad other girl voices explaining what had happened, my reaction was such that there could have been no doubt in anyone's mind that I attended public school in Daly City.
In other words, my lovelies, your Nesting Ground Mistress LOST HER MIND. I was so utterly unencumbered by common sense that I might as well have been wearing the circa 1980 Daly City-sanctioned female uniform of creased baggy pants, black jellies, and my boyfriend's Member's Only jacket. I might as well have had elaborately feathered my hair, rimmed my eyes with the lighter-softened tip of a Maybelline eyeliner, and sprayed myself with Jovan Musk. I might as well have been standing at the 28C bus stop surrounded by a bunch of girls who wanted to kick my ass.
But I digress!
All is well now, and as I descended from the wuthering heights of my insanity, I realized two things:
1) I kind of wish this had happened to Risa instead because she would have just gone all Matrix on the kid and that would have been the end of it.
And also:
2) No one is ever going to punch Vida again.
I realize that this could have been his way of saying, "I like you and do not have the words to express myself," but frankly I don't care. When I rounded the corner and saw my kid crying and heard the myriad other girl voices explaining what had happened, my reaction was such that there could have been no doubt in anyone's mind that I attended public school in Daly City.
In other words, my lovelies, your Nesting Ground Mistress LOST HER MIND. I was so utterly unencumbered by common sense that I might as well have been wearing the circa 1980 Daly City-sanctioned female uniform of creased baggy pants, black jellies, and my boyfriend's Member's Only jacket. I might as well have had elaborately feathered my hair, rimmed my eyes with the lighter-softened tip of a Maybelline eyeliner, and sprayed myself with Jovan Musk. I might as well have been standing at the 28C bus stop surrounded by a bunch of girls who wanted to kick my ass.
But I digress!
All is well now, and as I descended from the wuthering heights of my insanity, I realized two things:
1) I kind of wish this had happened to Risa instead because she would have just gone all Matrix on the kid and that would have been the end of it.
And also:
2) No one is ever going to punch Vida again.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Pinoy Capital: The Filipino Nation in Daly City
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Is It Unusual?
A random question from the increasingly random Vida:
My answer was, "I...really don't know."
"Is it unusual for a Filipino child to enjoy canned corn?"
My answer was, "I...really don't know."
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
52 More Minutes
I had a disquieting morning, and the rest of the day unfurled accordingly. It's Wednesday, which is the day I've set aside for reading creative nonfiction (oh, be quiet; I told you I was organizing my reading), and I chose at random the essay "Mirrorings," by the late Lucy Grealy. I don't know why the anthology I was reading from didn't mention that this was the essay she later expanded into her now-famous Autobiography of a Face, but it didn't.
Well, hell. I don't think I've ever read something that required me to take a break every few pages due to excessive emotional reaction. I experienced an acute feeling of claustrophobia, as if it were impossible to escape from the writer's imperfect face. A feeling, of course, which mirrors Grealy's own. The book is still open on my bed, where I left it with three pages to go.
Afterwards, I headed to my desk to check the news and saw yet another photograph of a dead Palestinian child. I don't have the heart to post it here or even to link to it, but what is there, really, to say? It's a picture of a child who died violently and who looked like she died violently. Even learning that Hamas is known to stage photos didn't take the edge off. Staging or no, the child is dead. Many children are dead. I don't know enough to state an opinion either way, but at this point isn't everyone at fault?
I guess the next ten hours could have been ones that resulted in what other people describe as a series of hug-your-kids-tight epiphanies, but I was just pissed out of my mind all day. Impatient with the girls, with myself, with older women turning left on El Camino. I sneered at the crumbs on the table, the dolls in the wrong place, the soup that wasn't hot enough, the clatter that button-fly jeans produce while spinning in the dryer.
It's 11:08 p.m. now, and the good news is that I refuse to carry this with me into tomorrow. The next 52 minutes, though, are going to feel like a long, long time.
Well, hell. I don't think I've ever read something that required me to take a break every few pages due to excessive emotional reaction. I experienced an acute feeling of claustrophobia, as if it were impossible to escape from the writer's imperfect face. A feeling, of course, which mirrors Grealy's own. The book is still open on my bed, where I left it with three pages to go.
Afterwards, I headed to my desk to check the news and saw yet another photograph of a dead Palestinian child. I don't have the heart to post it here or even to link to it, but what is there, really, to say? It's a picture of a child who died violently and who looked like she died violently. Even learning that Hamas is known to stage photos didn't take the edge off. Staging or no, the child is dead. Many children are dead. I don't know enough to state an opinion either way, but at this point isn't everyone at fault?
I guess the next ten hours could have been ones that resulted in what other people describe as a series of hug-your-kids-tight epiphanies, but I was just pissed out of my mind all day. Impatient with the girls, with myself, with older women turning left on El Camino. I sneered at the crumbs on the table, the dolls in the wrong place, the soup that wasn't hot enough, the clatter that button-fly jeans produce while spinning in the dryer.
It's 11:08 p.m. now, and the good news is that I refuse to carry this with me into tomorrow. The next 52 minutes, though, are going to feel like a long, long time.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
The Post In Which I Gush Over Eleanor Farjeon Again
No Man's Week is winding down, even as I type. Yesterday we spent the afternoon at the library, then came home to a fire in the fireplace, a semi-quiet game night, and—yay!—takeout. It's not a complete hunkering down, of course. Little bits of real life impinge in the form of bills, lesson plans, laundry, thank you notes, to-do lists, and the endless loop of bad news on CNN.
I'm starting to think about the weeks to come when I'll have larger blocks of time to write. I have three pieces that are thisclosetobeingdone, and I don't have to look any further than my blogroll for inspiration. There is Jean, for example, who resolves to submit (or make that send) more work this year, Marianne who already has stories about to appear in print, and the ever-prolific Grace, who doesn't allow anything—including tragically hemmed pants or hospitalization—to break her writing stride. I'm also trying to organize my reading a little more. At the moment, I'm all over the place.
Circling back to our library trip...I found a circa 1950 copy of Eleanor Farjoen's novel, The Glass Slipper, and I cannot wait to read it. I discovered Farjoen—an English children's book writer—last year when I picked up her collection of stories, The Little Bookroom. I thought I bought it for the girls, but have since come to the realization that I didn't. At the end of every story I have the same visceral reaction: a tiny, sharp intake of breath. If you want to read a quick one, I posted it here.
Anyway, in looking more into Farjoen's life, I found that director/animator Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Castle in the Sky, etc.) cites her as an influence. I like the way they both resist(ed) placing characters and situations into convenient good/bad categories (I know I'm supposed to say "dichotomies." Alas, I cannot...). Instead, they present life as it is: complicated. It makes me happy when authors respect the intelligence of children (or, um, adults) in this way. It's something I try to do in my own writing, but I'm often lazy and miss the mark.
Note to self: stop missing mark.
I'm starting to think about the weeks to come when I'll have larger blocks of time to write. I have three pieces that are thisclosetobeingdone, and I don't have to look any further than my blogroll for inspiration. There is Jean, for example, who resolves to submit (or make that send) more work this year, Marianne who already has stories about to appear in print, and the ever-prolific Grace, who doesn't allow anything—including tragically hemmed pants or hospitalization—to break her writing stride. I'm also trying to organize my reading a little more. At the moment, I'm all over the place.
Circling back to our library trip...I found a circa 1950 copy of Eleanor Farjoen's novel, The Glass Slipper, and I cannot wait to read it. I discovered Farjoen—an English children's book writer—last year when I picked up her collection of stories, The Little Bookroom. I thought I bought it for the girls, but have since come to the realization that I didn't. At the end of every story I have the same visceral reaction: a tiny, sharp intake of breath. If you want to read a quick one, I posted it here.
Anyway, in looking more into Farjoen's life, I found that director/animator Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, Castle in the Sky, etc.) cites her as an influence. I like the way they both resist(ed) placing characters and situations into convenient good/bad categories (I know I'm supposed to say "dichotomies." Alas, I cannot...). Instead, they present life as it is: complicated. It makes me happy when authors respect the intelligence of children (or, um, adults) in this way. It's something I try to do in my own writing, but I'm often lazy and miss the mark.
Note to self: stop missing mark.
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