tamasha

kiss me now that i'm older

I'm standing on the downtown train with the speckled black and white flooring under my black and white Chuck Taylors, leaning against the silver conductor's door near the emergency exit of the train, through which people are not supposed to walk. Already a young black boy in an eight ball jacket and matching sneakers, and an old white man with dreadlocks and a flute have rattled open the door. I want to go out the way they've come in, riding in between the cars in the stale underground air, but I won't dare.

There's a male-female couple in the seats in front of me. The male half offers me the seat next to him, but there's a window behind it, which means I won't be able to lean my head back and close my eyes and pretend to sleep so the panhandlers will ignore me. Instead I choose to remain standing, partly for this, partly because I want to listen to their conversation and lip reading works better from the front. They're having one of those heated conversations one has on a successful first date, in which you basically both agree that the same thing annoys you equally.

It might be about men who spread their legs wide open on the train and take up three seats, or people who stop at the top of the subway stairs to figure out which way they're going, or people who close their umbrella next you, raining droplets of moisture onto your jacket. But basically, you both have to agree. If you don't, if one person thinks, "Hmm, actually I never noticed that," then it's never going to work.

As we approach the express stop, the guy gets up and hangs on to the metallic pole above their heads. As the train slows, he leans down and kisses the girl quickly. I can't tell if it's on the cheek or the mouth, but it's a dry kiss, if you know what I mean.

He and his graph paper shirt slip out of the sliding doors, which shudder to an almost-close and then shimmy back to open. Through my headphones I hear that we are being held, momentarily, by the train dispatcher, and I take the opportunity to take the graph paper man's seat. Across the gum-stained platform an express train arrives.

The woman, in her denim jacket and Herve bag (What is this? 2003?) jumps up out of her seat. I watch as she approaches Graph Paper man. As the train slows to a halt, he puts his hand on her elbow and kisses her on the mouth. A wet one, this time.

It's clear, or at least it is in my mind, that it's the first time they've really kissed. The express train stops and the post-happy hour commuters pile on. This couple continues what they'd rather do. And instead of being jealous, of remembering with that deep-seated pain my first subway platform kiss, the most important kiss of my life, I just watch. I watch and watch and for the first moment in a long time I'm able to be truly happy for someone else.

I vow to not feel sorry for myself, even when I get off the train and run up the not-steep-enough stairs, past the lingering office workers with dragonfly cigarettes, past the larger than life windows of the local fast food joint where I swear I see the love of my life in a suit devouring a milkshake and bathed in the glow of the neon lights, past the sweet, rotting hyacinths and gerber daisies, past the crackhead shaking her head on her way out of the Duane Reade, past the lit candle in the shrine next to my apartment and the yellow beer and yellow dog pee running in little wine-legs down the sidewalk.

Past all of this.

Past. All. Of. This.

of wheelbarrows, and chickens

A poem and a response, to celebrate National Poetry Month, which yes, I know is over tomorrow:

The Red Wheelbarrow
-William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

An Apology
-F.J. Bergmann

Forgive me
for backing over
and smashing
your red wheelbarrow.

It was raining
and the rear wiper
does not work on
my new plum-colored SUV.

I am also sorry
about the white
chickens.

but how you talkin'? pshh, whateva!

I had an email exchange, "conversation" in Googlese, with an i-friend recently. In her emails, she used beautiful words, words with more than two syllables, words with whom I am familiar but never use. The two words in question, the ones that really got me, were putative and mellifluous. These words are like my college roommate, Dr. FakeBlonde. She's a resident in a hospital, in another city, so I never see her. She's always in the back of my mind though, and when I do see her, I feel safe and happy and good. That's how these words feel to me.

I like words. I love words. I can be wooed by words. Not by how they are used to describe me, or seduce me, but just by how they're used in everyday language. I once found myself attracted to someone almost magically, someone I'd never really met, because he used the word pilosity. I had to look it up! I love to play with words and mold them and throw them at each other. And yet. And yet. I don't use them like I used to. It's my fault, entirely, but I sort of want to blame it on work.

See, I was writing something today that is to be read by my students. I had trouble finding the right word for something, because the right word was something that they don't know, and I didn't want to spend time (time, it's always the time!) doing a vocabulary lesson in the middle of something else. So... I dumbed it down.

I don't really consider it dumbing it down. But again, what's the right word? Abridging? Shudder. Anyway, I have to be in the zone of proximal development if I want them to learn, not way above it. But their zone and my zone are not the same thing. And I am not really working it out in my zone right now. Maybe that's ok? Everyone said I'd feel really dumb when I'd been out of college for a couple of years, but I went almost directly to graduate school. Is this what's happening?

Tangent: the way teachers work is that even when we're at the bar on Friday nights, we talk about the beauty of disequilibrium.
-----------------------------------------------------------
It's report card season again. I actually don't mind the writing of them, but the intensity of thinking about my students at this time of the year is brutal. All I want to do is roll around in the grass on the riverbank.

I'm thinking of going on strike. Not a strike like with signs and picketing, but a sort of silent protest: withholding my report cards. And not just because it's Spring.

My administrators - both my direct supervisor and our Head of School - are supposed to be doing this thing. This thing they're supposed to be doing is going to directly affect me and my teaching practice next year. And no, it's not about money. But they're not doing it. And if it doesn't get done now, I'm going to be fucked. And so are some other people. But not as much as me.

So, I'm withholding these report cards. Mostly because of this thing-that-is-not-getting-done, but also a little bit because I have writer's block. Sigh.

what's a girl like you doin' in this rough city?

I found this Privilege Meme on Miss Profe's blog ages ago and meant to do it. I actually would love to do this, or a version of this, with my colleagues. However, when we suggested something of the sort last year, when we were talking about the C-word, we were promptly shut down. Our version was going to be very Utopian; it involved standing in a circle while doing the activity ("step in if this applies to you" - I'm sure you've all done something like that in the past), and then sharing your feelings afterwards. But the (mostly white) teachers were aghast at the thought of it, and bordered on hysterical when we said we had wanted to try it with our students. So we continue to talk of things abstractly, treading lightly for fear of upsetting one of our colleagues, avoiding issues and not making any progress, not even having a real conversation.

But anyway. Here's my version. I'm putting the phrases that apply to me in bold and blue.

Father went to college

Father finished college

Mother went to college

Mother finished college

Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor

Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers

Had more than 50 books in your childhood home

Had more than 500 books in your childhood home

Were read children’s books by a parent

Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18

Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18

The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed positively (This should be half bold. For most of my childhood there wasn't anyone in the media who looked like me in terms of "ethnicity.")

Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18

Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs

Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs

Went to a private high school

Went to summer camp

Had a private tutor before you turned 18

Family vacations involved staying at hotels 

Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18

Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them

There was original art in your house when you were a child

Had a phone in your room before you turned 18.

You and your family lived in a single family house

Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home

You had your own room as a child

Participated in an SAT/ACT prep course

Had your own TV in your room in High School.

Owned a mutual fund or IRA in High School or College

Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16

Went on a cruise with your family (Not really our ishtyle.) 

Went on more than one cruise with your family

Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up

You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family

she hides it whenever we meet

If you're in a book club, can you tell me why you're in a book club? I don't mean "are you able to tell me" but "will you please tell me."

I've been in two book clubs. The first was one I started with a friend of mine from graduate school. We both read the same types of books, or even the same books, and had shared some here and there over the course of our time in school. We liked to joke that we were encouraging each other's procrastination. So after we graduated, we decided it would be fun to start a book club. We invited a couple of our mutual friends, and then she invited some of her friends and I invited some of mine.

It lasted for about a year. Several people got engaged, got married, moved to the West Coast, and didn't have time for things like this. And I was fine with that, mostly because I discovered that while this woman and I were friends, and we had mutual friends, I didn't like any of the people that were just her friends.

So when one of my colleagues suggested we start a book club for teachers, I was all for it. I was mostly all for it because I was pleased to be included in the exclusive 7th floor teacher-clique (that's for another post). But here's the thing. While I like drinking wine and talking about books... there are too many things I don't like. Things like: other people's ignorant world views, reading a book that someone else has chosen for an arbitrary reason (we read a male author last time, we read a book about Africa two months ago, that one's going to be too heavy to take on the subway). If my book choices are going to be made at random, I at least want them to be made at random by ME. When I'm reading someone else's choice, it means the books on my list are on hold.

That's the other thing. I don't need a book club for reading encouragement. I'd do it anyway; I always have. So maybe what I need is a less democratic club. I need to be dictator of my own book club. I want to choose what we read, what we talk about. Except... that sounds like school. Never mind.

My list is pages long, naturally, but this is what I suggested at our last meeting; none of them were chosen:
The Gathering - Anne Enright
What is the What - David Eggers
The Savage Detectives - Roberto Bolano

Any other suggestions?

let's ride on my titanic, baby

Something is not right.

Or something is off.

Or something is about to change.

Or go back to the way it was before.

I don't know what it is, though, yet.

if your heart is nowhere in it i don't want it for a minute

Wanna get the fuck outta my way?
Wanna get the fuck outta my way?
Wanna get the fuck outta my way?

It's frustrating how rash words muttered at the top of the entrance (um, for some of us it's an exit) to the subway can make the tears that have been hiding out in the back of my head well up into those little pools at the corner of my eyes. I hide them so carefully from the people who matter, the one who cause them but that I see every day. But then a stranger comes along...

Possible responses?

You already missed it.
Get the fuck out of my way.
No.

That's what I've been thinking for the past week or two. Wanna get the fuck outta my way? To everyone. Get. The Fuck. Out. Of my WAY. Get the fuck out of my way so I can get on the train. Get the fuck out of my way so I can make this copy. Get the fuck out of my way so I can pee. Get the fuck out of my way so I can finish all this work I have to do. Get the fuck out of my way so I can get my Allegra. Get the fuck out of my way so I can move on.

Today I had a good day, other than the fact that I didn't sit down once between the hours of 7 AM and... 4:45 PM. Yes, I even "ate lunch" (because it's ridiculous to think I could get a minute to myself to concentrate on my food) standing up. But fine, lots of people have jobs where they don't sit at all. I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. Get the fuck out of my way.

It was a rather successful day in terms of work. I had a "hot" day too. All kinds of catcalling all over the place, especially when I walked straight past my apartment to go to the liquor store first. Yes, it's been that kind of a couple of weeks. Even Halal-Cart Uncle has taken to telling me to, "Smile, beti."

It seems other people have been having my epiphanies for me. Random subway bitch. The Canadian. So, really, he needs to get the fuck out of my way too. I am not making another move, on Scrabulous or elsewhere, because he's right. I need someone who can give me more attention, AND I need someone who is not going to make me feel guilty for that.

Peace out, for now.

i never understood before

I brought work home today - lessons to plan, a book to read, etc. I generally don't bring work home unless it's report cards, but a colleague and I are switching subjects tomorrow for April Fool's Day. This means that I cannot make it up as I go along. Clearly we are desperate to make work exciting.

Anyway, really I'm posting to give an update on the Canadian. We "talked," by which I mean he IMed me. It went a little something like this (I have cut out the details that even I did not want to hear, but this is the general idea):

Canadian: Hey! You haven't played your Scrabble move.

Tamasha: Oh. Well, hmm. I guess that's 'cause I kind of think it's strange that you're playing Scrabble with me on the internet, but don't seem to want to hang out with me. Like, in person.

Canadian: You know I am really busy at work. [Insert paragraph here about all his work projects and how late he's had to stay at work and blah blah blah.]

Tamasha: OK. [At this point I didn't even want to have the conversation. And buddy, I am a teacher. I deal with children in the worst stage of their emotional development, so don't even think about complaining about your fucking job.]

Canadian: This is making me uncomfortable.

Tamasha: [Rolling my eyes.] OK, sorry.

Canadian: My last relationship... [insert paragraph here about how and why his last relationship failed and how he just wanted to get to know me].

Tamasha: [Thinking, dear god, I so do not want/need to know all of this nonsense.] I like to get to know people in person, and I expect them to follow through with basic things. But sure, get to know me. [OK, I know that was kind of bitchy, but seriously?!?]

Canadian: You know, I think you need someone who can give you a lot of attention.

Tamasha: I think you're right.

Canadian: And I can't do that.

Tamasha: You are so right.

Canadian: So play your next move.
*****************************************************************
I AM NOT KIDDING!!!

And by the way, no, I am not playing the next move.

how can a person like you bring me joy?

WHAT the FUCK? Yes, that's right.

I have not been updating about the Canadian because he's been so hot-and-cold that I don't even know what to say. I feel like things will change before I even finish typing up a post. We had a talk about how I understand that he's got work and needs his "me time" (yes, he actually said that in response to me asking him out after he told me he had a THREE DAY WEEKEND), but it's kind of confusing, and leaves me a little unsure. I played it so cool though, and said he should be in touch when he's ready (basically giving him an out). He immediately followed that with, no no, I want to see you, I like spending time with you blah blah blah (this was all last week), but I had plans on both nights he suggested (sorry I'm so popular). Anyway, we ended up settling on Thursday, but he wasn't sure how a work project was going to go, so he'd LET ME KNOW.

Those terms are in all caps because he's not the only person who's said that this week. People, if you say you're going to let someone know, it means you're actually going to do it. Otherwise, politely say no, make up an excuse, whatever. But don't say you're going to let someone know and then not let them know. UGH. This goes for friendly, platonic relationships too, not just girls who you think are cool and funny and pretty and smart and good kissers.

Point is, in case you couldn't figure it out, he didn't let me know. He actually said he would let me know on Monday, about Thursday, and it's now Sunday and I haven't heard from him. I talked about it with MF and her response was, "Fuck the Canadian. He's cool, but you can do so much better." Hilarious that she's changing her tune now. My friend J's response was, "All men are the same. They ask you out, they have a good time, and they ask you out again. And then they're like, wait, what? We have to do this every week?'"

Except... Except that after a WEEK of not hearing from him, and him not following through on his plans, he played his move on our Scrabulous game. SERIOUSLY?! Is this how guys ARE? Astrobarry told me it was not the end of it, but I didn't believe him. I should always believe Astrobarry.

So it's advice time now, peeps. What do I do? Play my next move without saying anything? Make a snarky comment in the chat box? Write WTF? on his Facebook wall? (Shudder) Email him? Ignore it? Text MF and J? (Obvs)

I know the best advice givers among you will ask what I want from this whole thing. I don't know. I like(d?) him. He's funny, and smart, and creative and a good kisser (this is sooo important) and in so many ways one of the nicest, most decent dudes I've met in a looong time, without being a pushover, or seeming indecisive. There was/is potential. My friend Times said, after I described the Canadian to him, that it would "be a shame" if things didn't work out. But now I'm wary.

Of course, what I do depends so much on what I think it means that he played his fucking Scrabble move instead of calling me. Is he gingerly reaching out? Or is he just dumb? Does he even have a clue that he's fucked up?

Sigh.

believe me sweetie, i got enough to feed the needy

By the time Earth Day rolls around, Whole Foods will no longer offer customers plastic bags. I like the idea, but find the whole I am not a plastic bag trend silly. First of all, those bags are not big enough to really replace grocery bags. Second of all, they're ugly (love the snarky knockoffs, though). Third of all, if you have one, it means that you either waited in line (Seriously?! SERIOUSLY?!) or paid an arm and a leg on ebay. I only wait in line if I know I'll be rewarded with a bloody mary.

The plastic bag situation was really on my mind before this Whole Foods change, though. I prefer local and/or cheaper markets to Whole Foods, anyway. I moved recently, and realized I had been saving a ridiculous number of plastic bags. In my new place we have a garbage chute that only takes small bags, so they've been useful, but I had so many I didn't know what to do with them. I felt guilty throwing them out (I guess according to the Progressive Bag Alliance they're recyclable but I don't know if PBA is to be trusted).

So, while trolling the interwebs, I found Baggu. And I bought Baggu. I love Baggu! Seriously, each bag (I got a 3 pack. I'm a little annoyed, 'cause I bought mine on Amazon, so they're all the same color, but on the Baggu website you can buy packs with different colors - and I LOVE the new gray striped ones) holds way more groceries than a regular plastic bag, without fear that the bag is going to break. Because they're RIP STOP! I love rip stop with a passion, enough even for that fragmented sentence.

It's ridiculous, but I really do feel good every time I use them. I use them at Whole Foods, I use them at Duane Reade. I use them to transfer books from my shelves to Utopia's shelves. I fucking LOVE these bags.

The problem is, I suck at using them. They come in a nifty little pouch, right? Well, it takes about 5 seconds to get them out of the pouch. But in those five seconds, the bagger has already started ringing up my purchase and bagging my food. Oh, right. First I have to find the Baggu in the bottom of my bottomless purse. Ew, did I just say purse? Then I look like an asshole with a cobalt-colored nylon bag flapping around, with frustrated hippies and hipsters rolling their eyes at the girl in the skinny jeans.

I already found the check out line intimidating because of the receipt between the bills and coins situation. Why can't they JUST put it on the bottom???

This makes me want to forgo the whole damn thing and just get FreshDirect. It's too bad their produce is unfresh.