Addicted to addictions

Sometime in the late 70's: My sister and I climb into the back of
the station wagon, the reversed back see propped up so we can
entertain the people waiting behind us. Today was our day to get gas
based on our license plate number - the odd or even day, as it was.
I can't remember details. I barely remember this. But I do. The
gas crisis. Didn't mean much to me as a young tot. Well, maybe an
old tot. The world was rosy to me. My biggest complaint was waiting
in that line keeping my sister and I from getting on our bikes and
playing Charlie's Angels with Jennifer down the street. Even if I
did always have to be Sabrina, the smart and unglamorous one.

Maybe all the others of my generation just got to stay home alone,
because all grown up, they were more than ready to shell out load of
cash for SUVs and the gas needed to run them. They even seem willing
to risk damage squeezing into compact spots meant for cars that would
help to prevent a new gas crisis. I wonder what we will remember of
today's oil crisis and prices 20 years from now. Will we remember
the soaring prices and the lives lost because we failed to heed
history the first time?

Hope is on the way. A new documentary is out to help us figure out
how to kick our addiction to oil.

Addiction: Physically or mentally dependent on something; cannot
stop without adverse effects.

Is this really descriptive of our relation to oil? Yes, maybe we are
mentally dependent in that we think we need it. But what are the
adverse effects if we stop? What adverse effects are there in giving
up our gas guzzling cars? The wound to our egos? The deflation of
our inflated sense of importance, of our godlike stature, of our
power, of our immortality? I don't think that counts.

We need to admit that our dependence on oil is not an addiction, but
is the result of, as a nation, choosing ignorance and apathy. Elie
Wiesel said that indifference is the greatest danger to world
peace. Now, I don't know if he drives a hybrid or an Explorer, but
indifference and the disbelief in our efficacy keeps us from taking
responsibility for how our choices have far reaching effects on the
world.

As a result, we are called to watch Al Gore's powerpoint feature film
and to, as a nation, fess up to our 'addiction.' We are led to sites
where for somewhere between $19.99 and $200 (depending on just how
indifferent and apathetic you have been able to afford to be) you may
offset your 'carbon contribution.' I know I should pay this and 'do
my part.' Yet, I can't help resenting that I am supposed to give up
a bit of my modest teacher's salary as car company executives and oil
moguls live it up in mansions and are not asked to sacrifice
anything. Why, I wonder, are Hummers even allowed to be manufactured
and sold? Why should I have to drive around a parking lot five
times because my compact car will not fit between the fat SUVs parked
in my compact spots? Yet, I am supposed to pay $100 to make my
existence carbon-free?

Call this an addiction allows us to avoid responsibility for our own
selfish, tunnel-visioned, materialistic vanity. It also neglects
the simple solution -- just stop using so much oil -- turn in the gas
guzzlers, carpool, walk, take the subway/bus, ride your bike, support
legislation to force car manufacturers to use the technology that is
available to make only cars that are gas efficient, better yet
support biodiesel and alternative fuels -- the alternatives are there.

Notes from school

1. Schools should work to reduce unnecessary distractions from the
classroom. Such as not numbering books with 69 or 420. It is like
a trigger, once set in motion, is hard to settle down.

2. Note to anyone who is a parent. Do not show up, unannounced,
expecting a conference about your child's failing grade in my class
two weeks before graduation, with one week of teaching days left.
Especially do not do this when you have received three progress
reports with an F, when your child has been absent for 21 of 75
school days, and when this same student has 13 missing assignments.
The only answer to your inane question for me to give him some work
to pass the class is a big, fat, unwavering NO. I don't care that
you put him on a daily (a paper that is signed by each teacher and
must be turned into the dean's office each day) for the past two
weeks and he has 'improved' simply because he has show up for an
entire week.

3. Note to student: then, on that same afternoon, do not post
plagiarized assignments. Seriously. As if I am not going to notice
how your vocabulary has increased about five levels and your
sentences are suddenly error free since the one paper you did turn
in. Go explain that one to mom. And think how today I gave you
kudos for responding, "You don't have to be sorry, Miss" when I
apologized to your mother! Ha! Now I know what you really meant.

4. Don't ever mention any personal plans you have in class unless you
want to hear all sort of wild imaginings about your life (though, I
must say, they often sound more exciting than what I actually have
planned). So, going out with an out-of-town friend on Thursday turns
into a date with the teacher across the hall, or better yet, one with
my "Sancho" which, I learned, means the "second boyfriend." After
a few minutes, I led them in some yoga breathing to get them to
settle down. Now, if only they could put all that energy and
imagination into their writing and reading. Now my girls want to
come in at nutrition to do my hair. I am scared and may try to get
out of it without hurting their feelings.

5. Does my assistant principal poking his head in and waving,
literally, count as an observation, something they have to do a
certain number of hours per week according to their job descriptions?

My version of baby pictures

Closing out my third year of teaching I am feeling a bit nostalgic
about what has become my all-time-favorite class (though don't tell
them, as though they don't know)-- the best group of seniors at the
school.

Though still riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes (many typical
for ELL students), I am really proud of the class blog we've pulled
together over the final few weeks. While not always on target, the
writing is thoughtful and honest (mostly).

Check it out and leave comments (no references to Lychee, just Ms.
Cheby, please). I think they would enjoy experiencing dialogue with
others about their work and thoughts.

http://www.cheby6.blogspot.com

My top pics for student profiles (the grading requirements were to
make me laugh or cry):
Jose Z.
Cynthia G.
Brenda
Elishah
Cassparks
Melissa G
Yesenia_C
Malcolm A
Leon S.K. (what good taste he has in teachers!!)

This is probably the closest to the proud mother forcing baby
pictures on her friends you will ever see me.

My version of baby pictures

Closing out my third year of teaching I am feeling a bit nostalgic
about what has become my all-time-favorite class (though don't tell
them, as though they don't know)-- the best group of seniors at the
school.

Though still riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes (many typical
for ELL students), I am really proud of the class blog we've pulled
together over the final few weeks. While not always on target, the
writing is thoughtful and honest (mostly).

Check it out and leave comments (no references to Lychee, just Ms.
, please). I think they would enjoy experiencing dialogue with
others about their work and thoughts.

http://www.cheby6.blogspot.com

My top pics for student profiles (the grading requirements were to
make me laugh or cry):
Jose Z.
Cynthia G.
Brenda
Elishah
Cassparks
Melissa G
Yesenia_C
Malcolm A
Leon S.K. (what good taste he has in teachers!!)

This is probably the closest to the proud mother forcing baby
pictures on her friends you will ever see me.

Lychee's fetish revealed . . .

What better way to lift one's soul out of a state of lethargy and
weariness than with the driving, ethereal pickings and crooning of
Jose Gonzalez. LIve for free at Amoeba music. I must say, the
sound was exceptionally. He is one of the most unassuming yet
dynamic performers I have ever seen. He plays as if alone in his
bedroom, yet the dynamics and artistry of his playing lets me know he
is acutely aware that we are listening. In between, his comments
were brief, belying that English is probably his second language
(though the incongruence between his home of Sweden and his name,
make me think maybe even third, who knows and not really relevant).
Quiet and sincere seem to describe this man, except when he opens up
his mouth to sing and play his guitar.

And, the man has amazingly sexy hands. Yes, hands. I love a good
set of hands. Watching his hands as he played Heartbeat made my
heart beat in a bit of a flutter (hey, if I am revealing my fetish I
can only do so with the use of cheesy metaphors). I cannot tell you
exactly what makes a hand truly sexy, but Mr. Gonzalez's are
definitely up with my top 5, I would say. Not that I have a list.
Really, but, he'd be there. Enough that I felt a bit speechless when
Grooveva and I had him sign our CD's. Close up, his humility and
shyness mirrored my own lack of composure in such situations. That
coupled with my general feeling of awkwardness as I ask someone who
is essential a stranger to sign something he/she created simply
because I am there. I don't really get the whole autographing thing,
I must say. I've tried it a few times, but it really doesn't make me
like a book/CD more or less than before. I certainly don't feel
suddenly bonded with the artist. I mean, there are so many people
who are so much more important in my life, but I don't ask them to
sign random items for me. Ok, I think I had Grooveva sign her poster
so when she becomes uber-famous and forgets about me I have evidence
to prove I once knew her enough to have her sign the poster pre-long
line signing days.

Digressing terribly . . .

Comforting the comforter: a conversation between my left brain to my right brain

Much of the pain we suffer is self-inflicted. If not all of it.

Guilt and fear, prime examples.

My mother is going to die. I always knew this, so why is that fact
that a medical professional has now given us a time limit suddenly
hurled into a hole of fear and guilt and despair?

"Are you flying down there and leaving work?"

"No."

Guilt overwhelms me. Aren't I supposed to be in a state of panic and
action as well as sadness? Aren't I supposed to do something other
than sob and caress my loneliness and fear?

One year. Tomorrow? or three hundred and sixty days from now?

"We've had years of great memories. You'll be here for my birthday
and make me my torte. If you come for too long we'll just get on
each other's nerves."

The guilt and fear of losing this amazing woman who does not fear
reality and does not harbor illusions about finding perfection in her
final days suffocates me and spills over, stinging my eyes.

I long to take back all my irritated quips and unloving words that
sprinkle my lifetime.

Why did I not stay a bit longer last time? Why did I allow my need
for separation from the person I cannot imagine being permanently
separated from to act in such a childish way so many times? Around
her, must I always play the role of the youngest child, the baby of
the family? Now, I must grow up.

Maybe, if I go there now, and stay, until the end . . . it still
would not be exactly right. We are who we are, as my mother seems to
know.

"The best thing you could do is live your life and call and tell me
about it, not sit here and watch me for who knows how long."

The peace, the clarity of mind, a clarity I have not heard from her
in years, shakes my core. I know, before the call with the doctor,
that my next visit might be the last.

Or it might not. Maybe Christmas? Suddenly, paying extra to be
there on that day and do nothing with her seems to be an upmost
priority.

"I am so proud of you and your sister and I know I don't have to
worry about you."

My weakened and ill mother comforting and bolstering the strength of
my sister and I, young and healthy. Lost, to be left behind.
Unlike ever before, I understand how blessed I am to have a mother
who is wise and loving unlike many I know. Her faith is unwavering.
She is humble (too humble, too self-critical). She is not always
eloquent, but her character transcends such petty descriptions.

As I wallow in my fear of being an orphan (even at my age, the term
carries the weight of the fear I feel, the loss I anticipate), I
realize all the visits, the panic, the action, is not for her, but
for me, the one to be left behind. To comfort myself, to assuage my
own guilt and fear, to try to stop the inevitable. It is resentment
at being forced to face my own mortality, to really know what it will
mean to be alone.

My mother seems to possess the acceptance of the yogi I am practicing
to be. My model was there all along, I just couldn't always see
clearly.

I have not words to express my reverence. No language is sufficient.

Anyuka, namaste

Caffeine, alcohol, and babies

There is the stereotype that once a friend goes off and weds, she
leaves behind her single friends.

It is probably less the marriage than the constant trips that makes
my one friend, P, so unreachable.

Or, as I found out in our conversation today (the first in several
months), that maybe it is the baby race subterfuge.

She was telling of both her new job and her plans for applying to Med
School. The cell phone static made the details a bit unclear. I
finally asked where the baby producing fit, since this was a priority
in our last conversation.

She sighed, "Everyone we know is having babies, so maybe it'll rub
off."

I didn't realize it was contagious, though the similarities to
epidemics is obvious.

"Well, stay away from Alizarin, because she doesn't want any. As
for me, I guess I am glad to be across the country."

She then proceeded to tell me the extent her friends have gone to to
keep it all a secret until they are popping out, almost. For
instance, one couple announced their pregnancy and others were
shocked as she was just drinking wine last week at a dinner party.
Apparently, the husband replaced her wine with grape juice to keep up
the charade. I wonder why? Has child bearing really become so
competitive, so private. I mean, the act is private. We don't need
those details, but it is a natural thing, so what is the big
secret? Just more proof I apparently have no natural maternal
instincts.

Want more proof?

"Yes, well, we'll start trying at the end of the year. I will have
to give up all alcohol and caffeine."

"Caffeine. And alcohol! That is the final straw that would prohibit
me from ever bearing children. I mean, yes, there is the supposed
extra sex all for the good cause . . . but how is that going to help
me stay awake and give me an extra boost during nutrition before my
nightmare third and fourth period class come in?"

Seriously. Who needs such sacrifices when there are plenty of
children who need a home and would be happy to have mother is only
addicted to her morning coffee, right? Not that I am ready for that
either. Seeing a hundred plus teens a day is enough for me for now.

Viva la choices!

BTSA Bloggers Unite

In searching for a setting in gmail, I found a list of specialized google search engines, including blogsearch. Hm. About what do I want to see if people are blogging? BTSA, of course.

Here is my top pick for BTSA ranting eloquence:
lausd; hellausd

Here is the seach list:
http://blogsearch.google.com/blogsearch?hl=en&q=BTSA&btnG=Search+Blogs

The first on the list is also wonderfully exposes the use of Furry Logic (see post below) that is so valued in BTSA.

I think it is time to send my letter to some investigative reporters.

Double edged compliments

Sometimes even the best intentions are so far short of enough that
you even begin to doubt the intentions as being a self-delusion to
disguise a secret desire for masochism.

Or sometimes, the masochist finds you despite your best intentions.

Everytime I seem to have removed myself from my past, to have let go
of regrets and pain that I really never want to revisit while still
holding onto my memories, delicately keeping the balance as I tiptoe
across the beam, it finds me. Sometimes, perhaps, I grow overconfident,
attempting a little hop or twirl, feeling my joy and lightness while
holding the focus, the balance. At times, I even find grace.
Exactly at that moment, usually, is when the phone call comes through
or the email or the found note or picture creeps up. It happens so
regularly, with such rhythm, on that upbeat, stepping from the twirl
to a graceful leap, that you would think I would expect it. But
nope. Always catches me so off guard that rather than keeping focus
and just following through with the leap, I hesitate and entertain.
I engage. Why? The result has never changed. It always knocks me
off the beam. Humiliated and angry with myself, I must hop back up,
but now it is all show. The lightness has disappeared. The
gracefulness is gone. The twirl, an attempt to prove to others that
all is great, but I am not FEELING it inside.

I know that in time, the levity and focus and balance will return.
Perhaps sans those good memories, because eventually you have to get
rid of some burdens. But if that is what must be sacrificed to keep
myself on the beam, to leap to the other end until I can find solid
ground on my own terms, well, so be it. And once again, I vow, next
time WILL be different. Next time, I will not look away, will not
flinch. Next time . . .