No Go Chicago!

Waiting is not my virtue. I'd rather drive the long way around than sit at a stoplight in commuter traffic. I want to move forward. Just sitting is torturous.

So it was in this picture as we inched our way down the O'Hare Airport tarmac waiting and waiting and waiting to take off.

But back up a bit: First, we'd missed our connection to Seattle the day before. Half the world missed their connections, or so it seemed since the Chicago airport was busier than a wasp's nest during breeding season. Lines were the norm. Lines for the bathroom. Lines for the "red phones" where we were instructed to "rebook" our flight. Lines at the agent booths. Lines at the hotel kiosk. Lines for the taxi. Lines, lines, lines, and even more lines.

Then a night in a downtown Chicago hotel that cost my mother almost as much as my plane ticket to Michigan. And a visit to the gift shop for a toothbrush, a t-shirt, some snacks, and a pair of new underwear. Then breakfast the next morning, where a simple 2 eggs over easy, a side of toast, fresh fruit, and bacon tallied up to $18...for one person. Then another outrageously priced taxi ride back to the airport where it was eerily quiet and the lines were not nearly as long or as abundant.

But don't let that fool ya...the line was waiting for us on the tarmac. 30 planes waiting, waiting, waiting to fly out and the line of storm clouds circled around us like a noose. And the lines they repeated over and over: "We're sorry for the delay..." "We're doing everything we can to ensure a safe flight..." "We so appreciate your patience..." "Well, we tried to get you out of here on time, but it looks like we'll be here for another 30 minutes..."

But it was 2 1/2 hours out on that overheated runway. Thus, the grimmace of impatience.

We missed our connection in Salt Lake, but our luck turned as Delta airlines rebooked us automatically onto the next flight out.

26 hours overdue we landed in Seattle, our luggage having arrived a day before us.

I'm home now and have more stories to tell. I learned a lot about myself on this trip even though I wasn't planning on such introspection. But those will have to wait until I unpack, do the laundry, play with the growing puppy, eat some "real" food, and rest my weary waiting bones.

What's A Girl To Do?

The first dilemma I face with my family reunion trip to Michigan is figuring out what to pack. I have always struggled with packing. I either over pack or under pack and when I arrive at my destination -- be it another state, another country, a campground, or a hotel -- I am without the clothes that make me feel safe, make me feel comfortable, make me feel like myself.

Tomorrow I fly, with my 80 year old mother, to see her older sister in Sutton's Bay, Michigan. Along the way we will meet up with my older sister, my only sister and make our way to Traverse City, just south of Sutton's Bay. It's not traveling with my mother that worries me or meeting and socializing with relatives I've never met. It's not even spending four nights with my difficult sister in a hotel room or the overeating on the food that will be abundant and fattening and white (it is the midwest).

I worry instead about my selection of clothes -- will I be too hot in long pants or too cool in shorts? Does my shirt match the occasion? Do I look too muscular in a tank top? Will that redneck notice my "boyish" clothing? Will my pants fit after days of eating potato salad and white bread? Will I sweat too much in my linen shirt?

Ann, born and bred in the midwest, claims that no one there has any fashion sense. Dressing up, she says, means a clean pair of jeans and a polo shirt without a stain on the front. A few summer's ago, when we drove to Michigan to visit a friend, Ann screamed with delight when, somewhere in Minnesota I think, she saw a man at a rest stop dressed in a bright orange t-shirt, dramatically patterned baggy shorts, sandals and black socks pulled up to his knees. "We're in the midwest now, honey," she informed me and then, for the rest of our journey, men in similar dress kept popping up.

Now, when I share with her my fears of my fashion dilemma, she laughs and says, "Just pack some orange shirts and black socks. You'll be just fine."

Still, our bed is covered with all the clothes I wish to bring. There's no way they'd fit into the luggage, so I must winnow out the choice items from the must haves. Ann says she'll help me after work, but I'm not sure I trust her fashion sensibility. She left this morning dressed in beige shorts and a red shirt and when I saw the dark ankle socks, I made her change into her Keen sandals, sans socks.

The dilemma feels very complex because the items on the bed are the clothes I love the most because they are comfortable, uncomplicated, and the things I like to wear when I am on summer vacation (which officially started today). I want to take everything I've laid out, but I know it won't fit in the bag so I must decide which items will meet the following criteria: comfortable, weather flexible, and family appropriate.

Right now I'm wearing my "Got Privilege?" t-shirt, which I've thought about taking as a statement of my liberal politics, but the shirt is black and I know dark colors attract mosquitoes. Of course, almost all the clothes I have are dark in color. I live in the northwest -- few people wear white in June and I look ill in peach and yellow -- so my wardrobe consists of maroons and darker blues.

I do not own an orange t-shirt.

The complexity of this dilemma is that, once I cull out the bulkier items, will the clothes that remain make me feel good or will I feel deeply uncomfortable because every woman will be in a dress and I'll be in shorts? Or will I be squirming in pants that feel too tight or a shirt that clings to my back in the Michigan humidity? Will I wish I'd brought that shirt instead of this shirt or that bra instead of this one?

And I'm not even talking about shoes, yet! How many pairs of shoes can I fit in my bag and still have room for my clothes? And still know I've got the appropriate shoes for the appropriate situation? Not only do I not own any white pants (along with no orange shirts), I don't own white shoes or high heels.

I am pratical in every way. My clothes reflect that, but this trip isn't about practical. It's about visiting my aunt in her flowery polyester. It's about seeing my cousins in their white shorts and striped knit tops. It's about sharing a meal with distant relatives who wear diamond earrings and expensive shoes.

What's a girl to do?

I was sharing my dilemma with a woman from work. She's very young and she wears the oddest assortment of Thirft Store clothing (she came to work one day in a Wonder Woman costume complete with shiny gold breast plates). She dates a transgender man (currently in transition of female to male) who looks gorgeous in tight black jeans and a tight black t-shirt. She said I shouldn't worry. If I really wanted to know uncomfortable I should travel with her (dressed as she is with "boyfriend" in tow) and see the looks she gets when visiting family in Israel or Florida.

"Try something different," her boyfriend advised.

"Like what?" I query.

"I don't know. Wear a uni-tard and go-go boots. That will truly feel uncomfortable. Then wear your real clothes and you'll feel comfortable again."

Not a bad idea. I've often thought I should just fall into the stereotype so many have of "lesbians" and wear men's clothes in a very manly fashion. No need to worry about shoes, then.

"Wear an orange t-shirt," my co-worked advised. "When in Rome..." she reminded me.

But an orange t-shirt means I must go shopping and frankly, if I'm going to go shopping I refuse to waste my money on dark socks and orange shirts.

Maybe I should just buy another suitcase.

What IS a girl to do?

The Seven Year Itch

I remember, a long time ago, someone telling me that when you are in a relationship, it's common to get what's called a seven year itch -- the desire for a change or the feeling that somewhere else lies greener grass. My partnership with Ann is by no means in jeopardy, but my relationship with my role as a teacher is once again creating a burning sensation under my skin.

Perhaps it's the loss of my teaching partner who, in her early thirties, has decided that she needs to stretch her occupational wings and give something other than teaching a try. Perhaps it's the end of the year exhaustion that I'm currently feeling on this last day of school. Perhaps it's the sun, which has decided to break through the recent rain, that calls me from a distance. Or perhaps there really is a cycle of seven years and a need to scratch at something different.

I've talked a million times about my work, about how teaching is meaningful, yes, but damn exhausting. My head feels so full today I know it will take me at least two weeks to push out all the details I meticulously hold all year long and make room for other thoughts or better yet, no thoughts at all. And a million times I've talked about finding some other work, about resting my "apples" in some other job that is less mentally and even physically demanding. But the restlessness of quitting teaching grows all the more mighty on the nose of seven years. It's no wonder that today, while I was signing the last yearbook and packing up the last supplies that I realized 21 years have gone by. For 21 years I've been taking attendance, negotiating with students (and their families), grading papers, smoothing out dilemmas, attending faculty meetings (the bane of any teacher's existence), and all the other microcosmic details required of every teacher and 21 IS divisible by 7.

But this turn of seven somehow feels different. Or maybe it isn't really at all. Maybe I'm always here, always at this crossroads of reflection and consideration. Do I leave and really make the leap into something other than teaching or do I stay and wait for another seven years to roll around and the flame under my skin to burn even hotter?

I Only Have Lice For You, Dear

We traveled in a caravan of seven cars containing 16 students, 8 parents, and 4 teachers. Packed into the nooks and crannies of each vehicle were backpacks, sleeping bags, props for a play, and enough candy and cookies to feed a herd of elephants. We were heading back to the North Cascades Institute for a reflective time in the mountains. As the school year ends, we thought a trip back to the place where we kicked off the year was a wonderful way to come full circle, to think back on all we'd done together inside and outside the classroom, but also a way to send this group of students off in a positive direction.

But...

...the best laid plans of lice and men...

We knew two students had been treated for lice before we left. We decided to go anyway, reassured that all the parents had inspected their children for the pesky pests. By the evening of the first night, the lice dam broke and we stood over seated girls checking each and every strand for eggs and bugs. By the afternoon of the second day, the trip was not about reflection, but inspection. The trip was not about saying goodbye, but about saying oh my!

And then we were asked to leave by the fine folks of NCI. We understood. We'd talked about leaving ourselves, but their request sealed the deal. The girls were disappointed. We were disappointed, too, but when 10 of the 16 girls ended up with lice and one of our faculty (not me!) we knew it was the best move on our part.

So we packed up those 7 cars again -- all the luggage, all the props, all the sleeping bags and pillows now stuffed in garbage sacks in hopes that the bugs would not migrate on our 4 hour drive home.

Today and tomorrow we have the day off. We're hoping parents will now take this infestation more seriously and inspect and pick and treat their kids more thoroughly and obsessively so we can rid ourselves of the lice.

It was an interesting trip, to say the least. Usually we don't take parents on overnights. I, in fact, hate taking the parents with us. The kids change. They lose their strength around their mothers or their fathers. They do not know how to persevere with a parent close by. They grow grumpy and sullen and manipulative. While it's interesting to watch the interactions, it becomes even more evident where the student obtained their particular habits.

For instance, when the infestation made itself evident, one mother flipped out, whirling herself into a panic. Her daughter assumed the role of the parent and the parent let her! This is a student who has struggled staying focused. She always asks a question we've just answered because she does not tune in and listen. Now I know why...she is focused on other things ... like a mother who is germ-obsessed and a father who is irrationally angry. She checks out at school because it's safer...it's how she's learned to be in the world. It all makes complete sense now after watching her attend to her mother's hysteria.

Another parent removed himself from all the activity. The mothers and teachers (all female) inspected heads, answered questions, massaged in treatment, cleaned sheets, and bagged up pillows. And then, moments before we left for home he asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?" His daughter checked out as well, sitting in a corner, her head wrapped in a towel reading a book for hours and hours. She was one of the worst cases -- the eggs and lice thick in her long strands of brown hair. "We treated her," said the father. "I don't understand why they're still there?"

"Did you pick them out the next day and the next?" a mother asked.

"No, why would I do that?"

All the mothers rolled their eyes. "You have to be vigilant," responded the mother. "You have to nit-pick for at least a week to really get rid of them all."

The father just stared at the mother in disbelief.

It's funny. He's an extremely well-educated man, but he lives in his head (just like his daughter) and while he may be familiar with tort-reform (he's an attorney), he has no understanding of anything earthly -- and I mean this in every sense of the word. He literally floats through life above it all, exerting his privilege (intellectual and financial) without any awareness of his impact on other people.

Meanwhile, we had mothers who dove in the moment the girls started scratching. One mother in particular spent hours upon hours meticulously working her way through each child's head. The first night, she stayed up until midnight, delousing the victims. We would have been lost without her.

In a way, I'm glad to be home. 48 hours with 11-year olds is exhausting. 48 hours with 11-year olds, their parents, and a thousand louse (lice?) deserves a day or two off.

The year is almost over. After years of experience I know the days will go unbearably slow. There are many demands outside the classroom as well -- budget requests, scheduling decisions, cleaning, etc. -- that only add to the stress of the final days. I'm trying not to focus on the number of days and hours left, but it's hard. For the next 6 days it will be me, 16 girls, and random louse (lice?) moving ahead...one step at a time.

Swimming

Measuring my days by what's good has worked a helluva lot better than measuring them by what's awful. My students have been infected with lice. This isn't awful, though it's certainly not good as we're heading for a three-day camping retreat in the North Cascades. I keep receiving emails from parents informing me of their infestations.

And then I scratch my head.

And try NOT to scratch my itchy eyes. My allergies are better. The medication appears to be working. Though I still itch a bit, my eyes are no longer weepy and that is what seemed to be the trigger for all the inflammation and swelling.

Of course, now I'm equipped with an Epi-pen, an emergency dose of steroids, and a Costco-sized supply of Benadryl. This is important as I am heading into the mountains with 16 students and with god knows how many bugs in their heads.

But on the measuring good side, Rubin went to the lake yesterday. It's been hot here. Not unbearably, but 80 degrees in Seattle is stiffling when we're accustomed to 60 degrees and cloudy.
The boy will do anything for food. This was his fourth or fifth attempt. At first, he'd wade in, grab the food, and then back his way to the safety of the shore, but once he figured out he wasn't going to get swallowed up and that he actually floated, he was swimming in no time.

And then he looked like a drowned rat with a big fuzzy head.

It's good to have a dog in our lives again. Gives me needed perspective.