Tuesdays

The first time my father lost his mind, it was a Tuesday.

I stood in line at the concession stand of a junior high football game, staring blankly at the smiling booster club moms and dads, while on the phone, my own father spit curses and lies about my mother and, later, about me.

The first time I did not recognize my father's voice, it was a Tuesday. 

The first time I ever had a panic attack, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever considered my own death, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever prayed for my own father's death, it was a Tuesday.

I have a real and palpable anger about Tuesdays.

***

Looking back, almost a decade later, I know now that wasn't really my father on the phone. It was a plague of chronic disease, financial despair, and unregulated medication.

It was a man whose brain was betraying him, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy; a wrecking ball of delusions and conspiracy and rage.

It was a mind, once full of joy and song lyrics and the names of every person he ever met, now tormented by even the simplest of tasks.

It was a distortion; a funhouse mirror reflection of the man I had cherished my entire life.

It was a jailer of logic and a thief of memories.

It was a havoc I would not wish on my own worst enemy.

***

There were many other horrors that would happen in the years between that phone call and my father's death. Some happened on Tuesdays, I'm sure, but when there are so many sadnesses and fears, the calendar fills up quickly, and other days have to suffice. 

But when my father died, he died on a Tuesday, just as I had prayed those hundreds of Tuesdays before.

I think about that prayer often. I've spent a great deal of time and money, on therapists and vacations and cheap bottles of wine, trying to come to grips with that prayer. How a daughter can pray such a thing for her hero. How I could pray for an end to the madness however God might see fit. Maybe He would take him to spare all of us; maybe He would take me, at least, to spare me. Either way, I prayed.

My guilt is that I prayed that prayer out of anger and selfishness. My shame is that it wasn't the only time I prayed it. I war with that shame often still.

Over time, my anger and frustration transferred from my dad to his disease, Parkinson's and its terrible little sidekick, Dementia. And although I eventually forgave my father the grievances he had caused, I still found myself praying often for the end. An end to this cruelty. An end to the indignities he endured. An end to his confusion and tears and pain. 

So, in the exquisite and beautiful circles of life, his life ended on a Tuesday, but my pain did not.

I have a real distrust of Tuesdays.

***

There have been several deaths this half year that have affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it's just the feeling of loss in general. Perhaps it's the ways they are connected back to my father -- the music he loved, or the storytelling he so encouraged, or the afflictions that tormented both him and my family. I was told that I would often see my father's death in the deaths of others, especially in those whose endings feel so familiar.

Last night, I read that Pat Summitt, one of my idols in education and sports and being a badass woman, was dying. This news hit me profoundly, and I found myself praying, yet again, for a quick end. 

There is something to be said for all of our old stories about knights and warriors and the dignity of a clean death. That's something especially foreign to those suffering from dementia -- a clean, quick death. It's a nice idea -- romantic, even -- but death, no matter how swift, is never clean, and I felt all of my old guilt rising again as I prayed. 

I thought of her and my father, two people who never met but still shared a space in my life. Two people who share the bad luck of a bad disease. Two people known for kindness and teasing and hard work and their bright blue eyes. Farm kids who came from nothing. One grew into a legend, having everything and more; one was everything and more -- a legend --  to me.

***

What I pray for, I've come to learn, is not just a prayer for him but a prayer for me. An end to my own confusion and tears and pain. I think it must be what so many people experience when they watch a loved one slip away, heartbreakingly slowly, over time.

It's hard to reconcile the selfless act of letting go with the selfish want of being free, and pain is a parasite feasting off such conflict.

A few weeks ago, I read a passage from a book, A Monster Calls, a children's book that (like so many books for children) is really meant to teach us all. It stuck with me and comforted me, and I've gone back to its earmarked page many times. So in addition to my prayer, I read it over and over, first in a whisper, feeling silly and useless, alone in my bed; then out loud and steady in hopes that somehow God would bring it to others.

The article had said that her family had stopped accepting visitors and that she might only have days left to live. But I knew, without question, what day my heartache loves best. 

So it was that I woke up this morning, a Tuesday, to say goodbye yet again.

I have a real loneliness and an ache for healing on Tuesdays.

The In-Betweens

There are moments when I think my students are too old for their age -- that they know too much about drugs and sex and the hatred of this world. Those are the moments I feel hopeless and empty. The moments when I wonder where I misplaced my idealism.

And then, I put on a Disney movie after an ass-whip day of standardized testing. And my most challenging students pull their desks close and stare wide-eyed at the screen, mesmerized by the colors and music and story. They boo the villains and take up for the victims. They talk to no one but themselves about what they'd do if they were that character. Sometimes they cry or get very quiet during the sad parts. Sometimes they sing and dance through the happy moments. And a few have even shadow-boxed the fight scenes right alongside the hero.

But my favorite moments of all time are when they smile at all the parts meant for kids but laugh at all of the jokes meant for grown-ups. That's when I remember that I am blessed with these babies at The In-Betweens. We exist at the intersection of Being a Kid and Growing Up, where some days you just want to be big and tall while on others you still want to curl up and be small. Where innocence isn't entirely eclipsed by cynicism.

And where sometimes you still get a movie and orange slices at the end of a long day of work.

I Am a Teacher

Every year about this time, my students create an "I Am" poem. It's a skeleton poem with a defined structure, so everyone's looks basically the same in the beginning. In the end, however, each student typically finds a way to take control of something that seems so basic, and they make it sing only their song somehow. I keep several each year to remember special kids, unique voices, and efforts I did not expect. It's one of my favorite activities.

Also, it keeps them from asking me one million questions and whining about no end-of-year parties for at least 25 or 30 minutes. I'm not saying this is the main reason I do it, but it sure doesn't hurt.

Today happens to mark the first day of Teacher Appreciation Week. Therefore, I have chosen to create a bookend "I Am" poem to celebrate. If you know a teacher somewhere, give them a hug this week. They probably need it.

Or buy them a drink at Happy Hour. They probably need that even more.

August

I am a teacher who'll never stop trying.
I wonder what the day shall bring.
I hear the wheels beginning to turn.
I see wonder in their eyes.
I want them all to know their true worth. 
I am a teacher who'll never stop trying. 

I pretend that nothing will go wrong.
I feel their energy streaming down the hall.
I touch their imaginations, their hearts, their spirits. 
I worry I'm just not enough.
I cry when I cannot help them.
I am a teacher who'll never stop trying. 

I understand that they'll soon be gone. 
I say I will always remember, and 
I dream that I actually will.
I try to be enough for everyone.
I hope they know that I care.
I am a teacher who'll never stop trying.


May

I am a teacher, and it's finally May.
I wonder if my deodorant is working,
I hear their chaos and flash.
I see stacks of ungraded papers.
I want to throw them all in the trash.
I am a teacher, and it's finally May.

I pretend to listen to announcements, but
I feel it's a waste of my time.
I touch my last nerve for its toughness, and 
I worry it's the end of the line.
I cried when the copy machine jammed, for 
I haven't got much of a plan.
I am a teacher, and it's finally May.

I understand that they all will be gone soon.
I say I won't miss them a bit.
I dream of bashing alarm clocks, 
Smashing them all straight to shit.
I try to remember all of the good things 
That each student has brought my way.
I hope they know that I really do love them, but
I am a teacher, and it's finally May.


For all my teacher friends, if I had any money whatsoever, the first round would totally be on me.
Thanks for running this race with me.

A Middle-Aged Monday

Last week, someone alerted me that the documentary, Pearl Jam Twenty, would be on VH1 Classic. As it was beginning at 9:30 PM, on a Wednesday night, I thought that I'd be better off recording it and watching it later.

Just barely a week past my 40th birthday, and already I couldn't think of anything that could make me feel older than taping a documentary about my favorite rock band because it was airing before the nightly news. Off of VH-frigging-1 CLASSIC

But I did it. And then I promptly forgot about it. Because that's what old folks do.

Maybe I didn't really forget though. Maybe my brain was just saving it up for a moment that I really needed it. For a moment where I needed to forget that I was 40 and this was Monday and that my knees are achy and that work totally sucked.

Maybe I needed to stand on my couch and jump up and down and sing at the top of my lungs to all the songs that spoke to me when I was young and anxious and too afraid of the world to be properly mad at it.

So I did. 

Not bad for a middle-aged Monday, I guess.

"Corduroy"

"Porch"

Some people remember "Black" as the best ballad on their debut. But I always loved this one. It cuts open my heart and stitches it back together every time.

One of my favorite PJ songs (and a shout-out to documentary maker and creator of Citizen Dick, Cameron Crowe)

You were always the radio song I turned up...

And the trailer for Pearl Jam Twenty. It's beautiful.

Puzzle Pieces

I have a young man in my class this year who might just be the hardest-working man in the 7th grade. He is, for lack of better words, just an incredible kid. He pays attention in class, behaves at all times, and respects his classmates. He is generous to a fault, helpful, and kind. He is not especially popular amongst other kids, but rarely do I see any of them turn him away. He knows and addresses each teacher -- whether you have him or not -- by name. He is the purest of spirits and the biggest of hearts.

And I'm worried.

See, this kid struggles academically. He works hard to focus in class, and he constantly worries about his grades. When he gets a poor grade, he immediately comes to tutoring to fix it. He will sit and work for hours at a time. He reviews his notes. He studies my anchor charts. He can spit out words like "appositive phrase" and "subordinating conjunction" and "dependent clause" with the best of them. He can define them. Mostly, he can recognize them. And he can sometimes create with them, but only in isolation.

See, this kid's brain doesn't work like others. It's like a jigsaw puzzle. He has the pieces. He knows what to do with them. He's constantly checking the picture on the box. But as he works, it's like someone dumped all the pieces from the other puzzles on the shelf into his box. And his brain isn't built to sort all of those pieces. It just isn't. So instead, he picks up a piece, he looks at it, and he knows two things:

A) It's a puzzle piece.

and

2) It's in the same box as the others.

Therefore, it must fit. So he looks at all of the holes in the puzzle, and he attempts to place it in there. Then, realizing that this piece fits none of the spaces, he finds another piece. Maybe a bright orange piece, but the puzzle is clearly an evening sky. And he picks them up, piece after piece, trying them even when it is not logical.

But it is logical to him because they're in the same box. And if they're in the same box, they must go together.

Tomorrow, he has to solve a hell of a puzzle. He's tried 3 times before, but it's as if each time he attempts a solution, it gets worse. Every morning, he greets me. Then he begins the worrying, the fixating, the doubting. See, the worst part is that he knows he can't solve it. And he knows what it means to fail in the attempt. His fear of failure is paralyzing and frantic all at once. He knows that before he even takes the lid off the box, he'll find pieces that don't make sense. Except that they're all in the same box, and if they're in the same box, they SHOULD fit.

For the last two weeks, I have sat with him in tutorials as he prepares for tomorrow. He reads and then looks at the answer choices. We talk through possibilities, but we keep finding odd pieces that have no home. He struggles for the pieces, nervous and searching my face for clues that he might be right. I struggle to hold back my tears, heartbroken and searching for the way to make things alright.

To make the impossible feel possible.

To find the boiling sun in a midnight sky.

The Weight

There is a 20 pound cat on my chest.

I lay on the couch, and this is where she curls up. On my chest.

It is nonsensical. She is a cat. I am a human. I should force her to go elsewhere. This is what it is to be in charge, to be the master. But if you've ever owned a cat, you must realize that you are never the master.

It's hard to breathe. Every movement, every breath, feels heavier and heavier. But there is a comfort to the weight. I have grown accustomed that as soon as I am still, she will find me.

It's a fine line between being trapped and being grounded. But her presence is more the latter than the former, like putting a big rock on the end of your kite string to keep it from floating away into the unknown.

It is hot and uncomfortable. I shift and squirm to try to find some relief without being the asshole that throws this lovable fat cat across the room. The tv show has ended, but I cannot reach the remote. So I lay in silence, listening to her rumbling purr, deep and endless, thinking all the thoughts I won't give time or energy to all day.

And just as I'm about to give up, to cast her aside, to push her away -- she turns her sweet face to mine, stops her purr, and sighs the deepest, most human, sigh she can. And I bury my face in her fur and sob. I cry hard for a few moments, sniveling and ugly. I let go of all the things -- all the hateful, jealous, frightful things I've locked up, deep inside me.

She doesn't meow or whine or run away. She just lets me sob, soaking her fur with my fury and fear, until it is exhausted. Then, she clambers down into the floor, taking all of her weight and my own, leaving me lighter.

And I can breathe once more.

Eye on the Ball

If there were one defining phrase to describe my mother, it would be "eye on the ball".  I've watched her hit screaming liners and home runs. I've seen her hit drives so pure and sweet they could sweeten all the iced tea of the South. She played basketball during the 6-on-6 days, playing only defense for entire games, always with one eye on the basketball and one on her man. She preached to me, all my life, the dangers of losing sight of either.

Keep the game in front of you. Keep your eye on the ball. These were not just lessons for sport. For my mom, they were rules to life. My mom is a survivalist. Survivors do not look back at the bear chasing them down; they put as much distance as possible between it and them.

Forever, I thought my mom hoarded secrets like my dad hoarded tools or knick-knacks. She never spoke about her childhood or family or life before all of us. Even as we grew, she never seemed wistful or sentimental. Never looking at old photo albums or reliving moments when we were small. Those qualities were purely Dean. Instead, Wanda was looking forward, waiting for the next turn, the next game, the next crisis. She was the mover, I thought, while my dad was the shaker. 

As a child, I was eternally frustrated and confused by this particular quality of my mom. I was left constantly wondering and guessing about what she did not say and did not share. I felt I was always running behind, and my mother has never been one to look back. Privacy seemed to be her greatest weapon. She did not offer; I did not intrude. And this was our dance of life. 

Even as my dad got sick, she kept their problems at bay as long as she could. As he worsened, even in the final months, she tried to stay focused and look ahead. I think that only as she saw the future dwindling, she began to look back. Since Christmas, my mother has changed. She talks more: about politics and world events, about fear, about her past. Each visit, I learn new things. Some she gives freely. Others require questions. But there are no more secrets. 

Tonight, as we cooked dinner, she talked about her life before Dad. Before all of us. It was deep and wide, swimming with nostalgia and regret. I leaned on the kitchen sink, watching her as she stirred and spoke and then looking out the window when it felt too much. It was a beautiful and intimate reflection, and I suddenly was aware that it was less conversation and more confession. My mother doesn't have a storage shed full of knick-knacks and tools to give me. Instead she has left me this: herself. 

And I began to wonder if I had been locked out all those years or just too afraid to turn the doorknob?