Dakar Nightlife

from my journal, December 26th, 2010:

Well, today got interesting. YaYa explained that Assane N'Diaye regularly plays at the club across the street from Mamoune's house.

And it gets cooler...it just so happens that Lamine N'Diaye (YaYa's nephew) is brothers with Assane N'Daiye! As YaYa explained, "same mom, same dad."

Upon further conversation and questioning, I was later able to understand that Lamine's dad and Assane's dad are brothers.

Which means they're cousins. Not brothers. I'm now wondering what else has been lost in translation between us. Our divorce continues to make more and more sense with every day...

Anyway...

Lamine regularly goes to Assane's shows to help out, and can bring a guest for free. After expressing my adoration for Assane N'Diaye to Lamine (through much exaggerated gesturing, as Lamine does not speak English), he got the hint and invited me! At about 10:00, I asked if I should be getting ready for the show. Instead, it is suggested that I take a nap, as we still have several hours before it gets started. In Senegal, the show doesn't start until 2:00 am! Holy caffeine drinks, batman!

At about 2:00 am, I get dressed and Lamine and I head over to the club. We get into the club and sit down on a red velvet sofa when his phone rings. He tells/gestures me to follow him, and we walk out of the club to some nearby parked cars. We approach a black SUV, and the automatic window lowers. I'm pretty sure I know who I'm looking at, but just to be sure, Lamine gestures to the car and says, "Assane."

Holy freakin' cow.

Assane looks at me from the driver's seat and says, "Na nga def." (Hello, how are you?)
Me: Waaw! Na nga def! (Yes! Hello, how are you?)
Assane: What is your name?
Me: Tiffany!
Assane: My name is Assane.
Me: Oh my god! I know that!

Yes, I really am punctuating every response with an auditory exclamation mark. And a big huge stupid grin. I try out some Wolof, and I think that I tell him that I am very happy. And I think he told me that he is very happy, too. Quietly, I ask Lamine if I can ask Assane to have my picture taken with him. It sounds like this: "Photo?" Lamine nods, and I ask Assane if I can have my picture taken with him. It sounds like this: "Photo?"

Assane gets out of his car and puts his arm around me, and Lamine takes this picture with my cell phone:

I call it "Tubab Steals the Flash."

I'm broken-hearted. Who will ever believe that that dark shadowy figure is a famous rock star?

Lamine takes off and grabs the professional photographer who has been circulating inside the club. He poses us for this picture. Yes, Assane's arm is around me.

And this picture, including Lamine. Note the family resemblance. In this photo, I am wearing my "OMG, I'm having my picture taken with Assane N'Diaye!" face. A little too much, you think?

I thank Assane profusely and Lamine and I head back inside. Lamine brought me an orange Fanta to drink. I poured it into the glass with ice and drank it down. By now, it was 2:30 am and I was totally jacked on adrenaline! Sitting there with Lamine, not speaking, became awkward. I pulled out my phone and looked for a game that I could use to keep us entertained. Thank you, Android, and your "Paper Toss" app for giving us something to focus on!

Finally, the show got started, and Lamine took me up on a platform right off the left of the stage. We were standing right next to the band, and I was so happy that I didn't even mind that I was the only white person in the whole club, looking quite out of place. The music was fantastic, and Lamine kept modeling some dance moves for me to try. Having let go of any kind of worries about what a dork I must look like, I totally had at it, trying to copy him as best as I could. The band definitely found me amusing, as evidenced by their smiles. The tama drummer kept looking at me, and was demonstrating what I was supposed to be doing with my pelvis as I danced. At least, that's what I think he was demonstrating...could have been that he was sending me an entirely different message...

During the performance, people would approach Assane and put money into his hand. Lamine gave me some money, and I handed it to Assane as he sang.

After the show, (which, by the way, ended at 4:40 am) Lamine grabbed Assane's half-full water bottle at his microphone stand. Lamine offered me some, and I gladly drank from it. Even if I had not been as miserably parched as I was after that night, I still would have jumped at the chance to share a water bottle with Assane N'Diaye! Because OMG! It's Assane N'Diaye!

On our way home, Lamine's friend told me I was a very good dancer. I know he was lying, but it was nice of him to say so. I told Lamine that that was one of the best nights I had ever had. And even though he doesn't understand English, I think chances are good that he probably knew what I was saying.

Today I Bought a Towel

When you're packing for a trip to Senegal, there's an elevated level of stress in not forgetting anything. The old "Well, whatever I forget to pack, I can just buy a new one in _______," doesn't apply when traveling to Senegal.

I forgot to pack a towel.

I had $300 cash that I wanted to have exchanged to CFA. Unfortunately, we were unable to do it at the airport when we landed, so later that day, we got in the car to return to the airport.

The traffic was impossibly backed up on the road.


Now, in the United States, that would pose a problem. Not in Senegal. A Senegalese driver does not let gridlock stop him from achieving his destination. I soon saw cars pulling off onto the sidewalk area. No, it was not a paved sidewalk with pedestrians, but it certainly was not road, either. As I was expressing outrage that these drivers were driving in the dirt alongside of the highway, Mamoune pulled our car into the moving traffic in the dust!

After some discussion between YaYa and Mamoune in Wolof, YaYa explained to me that they had decided to give up on trying to get to the airport altogether, as the "invented" road was now backed up, as well.

He said there was someplace in the market where I could exchange my dollars for CFA.

Now me, I thought that meant they knew of a specific destination...a bank, or something. As we started weaving through the market, stopping several times to ask for directions (Senegalese men are very much unlike American men in this regard) I realized that our destination was somewhat undetermined. We stopped at one shop and YaYa and Mamoune visited with the owner. YaYa asked if I wanted to go in and sit down and have tea and visit. I reminded YaYa that it was our daughter's first day in a foreign country, and we had left her alone with Mamoune's Wolof- and French-speaking family, and that I'm sure she'd appreciate us getting back to her as soon as possible.

By now, at least 2 other acquaintances have joined us, and I can understand YaYa explaining that we want to exchange my dollars for CFA. A man dressed in a dark blue boubou arrives and speaks with YaYa. He pulls out a calculator, and the two of them have a 5 minute discussion on the street. Finally, YaYa asks me for my $300 and he and the man go inside the shop. Dollars and CFA are exchanged. I'm realizing how entirely helpless I feel. Not only have I handed all my money to my ex-husband, but I have no idea how much CFA I should be getting. (Note: photo shows about $13 worth of CFA).

Weaving back through the market, we pass a man on the corner with a stack of towels for sale. I remind YaYa that I need to buy a towel before tomorrow's shower. By now, we have at least 4 acquaintances who are "helping" us navigate the market. One of them has an idea of a much better person to buy from, so we continue to weave through the market. I am constantly approached by men and women holding up jewelery, artwork, etc. for me to consider. I would tell each of them no, but they were very, very persistent. One woman in particular followed me three blocks, holding beautiful beaded necklaces on each arm, choosing one necklace at a time to hold up for me to see. At one point, I realize that she's not holding up a necklace, but a beaded thong! My eyes widen, and I can't help the smile that shows up as a result of my surprise. She sees my reaction, and shows me the matching beaded bra. I will admit it was a little bit harder to continue to say "no" after seeing those items...

Finally, we got to the shop we were being taken to. Once again, I'm struck with how helpless I feel here, as conversation begins with the seller and the 6 (yes, SIX! Mamoune, YaYa, and the other 4) men who are all discussing the quality of the towel and the price. I can't understand a word of it, but it's loud and aggressive. I just want a towel that I can use to dry myself off with after a shower. I indicate to YaYa that I like one towel in particular, and after more discussion, it is finally purchased for 5,000 CFA. Here's what a $10 towel looks like in Senegal:

YaYa was also trying to buy sheets and pillowcases for Binta's and my bed, so there's also been conversation about the quality of sheets and the price for a set. Finally, YaYa leaves without the sheets, but that doesn't stop one of the men from chasing after us, all the way back to our car, still trying to get us to buy the sheets! YaYa nearly closes the car door on the man's head!

The sheets were purchased later...we sent Diarra to the market to buy them for us after we returned to Mamoune's house. We've noticed that it helps the negotiating process if there isn't a white American (tubab) involved.

Anyway, I got my towel. And we saved the other things on my shopping list for another day, 'cause this trip pretty much wiped me out.

Senegal: Our Arrival

Sunday, December 25th, 2010

We land in Dakar, Senegal, at 5:30 am Senegal time. It's something like 9:30 pm to my body, and I haven't been able to sleep much, either during the 6 hour flight to New York, nor the 8 hour flight to Dakar. But I'm wide awake.

The air feels different here. It's thick. It's hot. It smells different. Our first indication that we are very, very far from home.

Life in Senegal is filled with challenges. Beginning with "How to claim your luggage." When we arrive, bags are already circulating on the baggage carousel. There are men at the door when you walk in, offering to "help" you locate your bags, for a fee, of course...I'm not sure how much YaYa paid the guy who helped us, but I'm sure it was more than he deserved. He about ran over both me and Binta with the cart on two different occasions.

Suddenly, the carousel stops running, and we have yet to find even one of our suitcases. There didn't seem to be much concern from people who worked in the airport. Passengers started walking over, around, and on the carousel, to claim their bags. After about ten minutes of waiting, the other carousel, loaded with baggage from a previous flight, started running. Amazingly, we locate all six of our bags.

Once we get outside, we found Mamoune, YaYa's brother. How great it was to see him again, after 9 years! He got a big "Mamoune!!!" and hug from me. He looks exactly the same.

He brought our car over to us, and it was clear to me what our next challenge would be. There was no way our 6 suitcases, 5 carry-ons, and 4 passengers would fit into that small car. Apparently, I was the only one who saw that the challenge was impossible. The Wolof speakers thought there was a way it could work, and proceeded to try to Jenga the suitcases into the car in one creative formation after the next.

Two suitcases in! Only 3 suitcases, one large duffel bag, 5 carry-ons, and 4 passengers to go!

Three suitcases! Even loading up the backseat still left us with one suitcase that couldn't fit. Not to mention the 2 passengers and 5 carry-ons...Finally, the men admitted defeat and a cab was called. Note to self: must find out how to say "I told you so," in Wolof.

We got to Mamoune's house, and I was bombarded by 4 beautiful, lovely young women, all shouting my name and hugging and kissing me. Nine years ago, Coumba was 15, Mben was 13, Diarra was 10, and Fatou was 3. Fallou was merely a baby, about 6 months old.

From left to right, you can see Fatou, Mben, Fallou, Coumba, and Diarra. I'm the one in the center. ;)

After several hours of sitting around, looking at my photos from our last visit (many of which they either laughed hysterically at, or sighed wistfully at), Mben and Coumba headed to the market to buy ingredients for lunch. I never miss an opportunity to go to the market, so Binta and I invited ourselves!

Oh, Senegalese market...how I am both fascinated and repulsed by you! I love all of the colors, the noises, and (some of) the smells! I am horrified by the sights of raw meat, lying out on tables, with flies buzzing and crawling all over the pieces. The tables that have fish smell so offensive that I have to perfect a method of breathing through my mouth whenever we pass.

I wish more than anything that I could understand the exchanges between Mben and the sellers. They seem (to me) almost hostile as they negotiate a fair price for fish. At one point, we walk away from one seller, only to be called back to continue to discuss, and finally purchase, some chunks of fish. They're put directly into a plastic bag, and we continue through the market, stopping about 5 more times, to buy onions, spices, red pepper, other vegetables, and even to buy more fish! I find it strange that we buy fish from a total of 3 different sellers. Why not just get all the fish at once?

The sellers are amazing. This lady, selling fish, works so quickly with her knife as she runs it across the fish's body, causing scales to fly all over the place. She then sticks the knife inside the fish and guts it so quickly that I'm nervous for her...but it's clear that she knows what she's doing.

Lunch is Thiebu Jen. "Rice with fish." A perfect first meal for a non-seafood person like me. Binta dives right in...quite literally...by sitting at the "kids' floor" with Fallou, Fatou, and Diarra, and using her right hand to shape the rice into little balls to pop into her mouth. Quite a shock, given that this is the kid who refuses to eat anything but hot dogs and mac & cheese in America.

I ate with the adults, and using a spoon, I kept to just the rice. And a few carrots. It took the edge off my hunger, at least. Here, it's "eat or go hungry 'till dinner." I'll eat.

During our stay in Dakar, we have a room in a "hotel." And it is a room, by definition. Four walls, and a door that locks. As far as furniture goes, it has a bed, which is a wooden frame with a thick piece of foam that acts as a mattress. Binta and I shared the bed. There's an electric fan, too, which works most of the time, and some of that time, we can get it to work without a horrible screeching sound. It's all about priorities.

Mad props go out to YaYa, for sleeping on this (shown folded up) foam mattress on the floor. I doubt that the actual comfort level was much different from our "bed," but just the fact that our sleeping place is elevated from the floor (and any creepy crawlies) makes it more desirable.

You may have noticed the date of our arrival. Today was Christmas Day. But you would never have guessed that, by looking at any random piece of our day. As a matter of fact, at one point, I remarked to YaYa that this was a very strange Christmas, and as I heard him relay my comment to Mamoune, I heard Mamoune express surprise, as he said something that included the word "Christian." It was something like what you'd expect to hear in the United States, if someone said that today was the first day of Ramadan. "Oh yeah, Ramadan...that's a Muslim holiday. Is that today?"

Today was the complete opposite of a typical American Christmas. Right down to the 85 degree weather.

Willie

Number of days I've "known" him: 125
Number of days we've been "official": 58
Number of days we've spent together, in person: 4

For several years now, I have been a part of a private, invitation-only online single parent support group. The nice thing about this group is that I know each member very well, and am assured my posts remain private. The bad thing is that we rarely get any new input, from someone with a fresh perspective. Our conversations sometimes get a little stale as a result.

So this summer, when one member mentioned a friend of his was going through a divorce and could really use some support, we enthusiastically said, "Yay! Bring him in!"

And so, new online friendships were started with Willie, as we each offered him support and understanding. It wasn't long before he completely blended in, becoming "one of the gang" by passing harmless flirts back to the girls as quickly as we flirted with him.

Until one day, when he sent me a private message, telling me that he really was feeling attracted to me. I assured him that that's normal, to feel attracted to someone of the opposite sex after a divorce. But that that's probably all it was, and besides, we live 2,177 miles apart. (yes, I had mapquested us)

But then we started noticing things that we have in common...our affinity for proper grammar, our love of (and experience visiting) Africa, Tarantino movies...etc. As a matter of fact, as new similarities were discovered (on a daily basis), one of us would say, "Of course you love ______. We are the same person!"

After he had a particularly challenging day in August, I gave Willie my phone number and told him he was welcome to text or even call when he needed to talk. It's a fortunate coincidence (or not a coincidence, if you're paying attention - we are the same person, after all) that we're both covered by Verizon. Because that's when a lot of texting and calling started.

By now, we were spending quite a bit of time "together," either Facebook chatting, texting, or talking on the phone. We were developing a closeness that surprised us both. We shared deeply painful and personal stories with each other. The flirtation continued, and we regularly reminded ourselves that the mutual attraction that we shared was a "geographical bummer." Knowing that a real relationship could never be carried out, due to our distance, we convinced ourselves that our internet relationship was a healthy form of "practice" that would serve us better with our interactions with dates in "real life."

There were a couple of times that one of us got concerned about our emotional investments. In theory, it would be easy to just "shut it down" when one of us moved on, and our internet relationship needed to end. We were aware that in reality, it could prove to be much more difficult. We took a few "breaks," in which the conversations would be restricted to acceptable "friend" topics. After a couple of days off, we would end up right back where we were.

All through this, I continued my efforts on eharmony, and asked Willie for advice when dealing with a guy I had gone on a date with, and with other guys I was communicating with. Willie encouraged me to give them a chance, and I did try. But my interactions with them were flat and unimpressive next to Willie. What I really wanted was for eharmony to match me up with a guy just like Willie, except who lives in the same area code.

Sometime in September, Willie went out with a girl, and I was stunned with my reaction. I felt green with envy, and realized that I was in too deep. I attempted to shut off my feelings, understanding that Willie was moving on, and I was about to be left behind. Instead, it prompted a deep, heart-felt conversation in which we both examined our reactions and Willie confessed that after his date, he had thought, "Well, she was nice, but she's no Tiffany."

So we were back where we started again.

Until finally, one morning, we got "busted." A colleague asked me, "Are you having some sort of cyber flirtation with a guy on your Facebook?" In the conversation that followed that evening, Willie said, "I just keep wondering if there were some way we could make this work if I moved out there." I responded, "I wonder if there were some way I could move out there."

The metaphorical padlock that kept us from discussing a "real" relationship had been unlocked. And suddenly, our honest feelings about each other came rushing out. We both admitted to the love that we share, and agreed that there had to be a way to close the distance so that we could be together...that a "click" like this is rare, and 2,177 miles simply could not be a reason to ignore it.

And how would we do that? Well that is a conversation for a different post...

In Case You've Ever Wondered if We're Biologically Related

Went to the school library with my class on Tuesday. I found this book:



I checked it out. I was pretty sure Binta and I could have some fun with it.
Binta's class had also gone to the library that same day. After school, as Binta plunked her backpack down on the table, this is what fell out of it:



I'm pretty sure the "mother/daughter check out the same book at the library" test presents absolutely irrefutable proof that we're related.

Finally, the Finale

The last episode of LOST aired last night. If you have not yet seen it, I urge you to not read any further. Don't spoil the ending for yourself.

Although it's hard for me to explain exactly what happened. And I've been a devoted fan for 6 years. I've watched and re-watched every episode, participated in an online discussion group (nerdy, yes, I've been told), and spent hours theorizing and considering the events on the show.

Yet when a friend asks me this morning, "Well? Did they get off the island?" my answer is, "Um. Yes? Sort of?"

This is no easy story to sum up.

The show started out as an exciting adventure/mystery for me. I was hooked right from the start. As a matter of fact, I wrote about my first impression long ago. Such great characters and terrific plot twists. Amazingly original and clever storytelling. I kept watching because I needed to find out why, why, WHY! Up until last night, I was still demanding an explanation for all of the mystery. Why was Walt special? Why did the black smoke have to kill Mr. Eko? Why did the psychic tell Claire she had to raise Aaron? What was Jacob's brother's name for crying out loud?

Yes, there was mythology in this show that I didn't understand. Science fiction elements that went way over my head. And religious overtones that cannot be denied.

I'm not into mythology or science fiction. And I don't believe in god. Yet I still watched the show, year after year, to find out what was going to happen to these characters. How could they possibly provide an ending to this show?

I would have been insulted with a "they lived happily ever after" ending. I would have been devastated if they had all died on the island. I wondered to myself how LOST could possibly give me an ending that I would accept, much less enjoy. Yet I sit here deeply satisfied with last night's finale. I'm ok with the questions that didn't get answered.

I'm ok, because LOST ended it with a sort of "they died happily ever after" ending. Yes, they're dead, but they're together, moving on collectively. Towards heaven? Something else altogether? The viewer gets to decide. Genius.

LOST has always reminded me of my brother, even though he never saw an episode. The pilot aired 6 months after he died. I believe he would have liked the show. I think about how it could have been something that we shared together.

Oceanic flight 815 crashed in 2004. Derek died in 2004. The characters on LOST have been struggling with the mistakes of their past for 6 years, building up to The End, at which point the all got to gather together again. Their reunions were beautiful and nostalgic. I cried at seeing Charlie and Claire reunite. I cried when John stood up out of the wheelchair and walked into the church. I cried when Jack realized he had died.

What if my brother has been "waiting" for the past 6 years, too? I imagine him having a chance to make peace with his past. I imagine him learning to appreciate the contributions he made to us.

I imagine him getting to see all of the important people from his life again. Who would be there with Derek, as he "moved on?" Brad? Our grandparents? Me?

I still don't believe in god. Or heaven. Or hell. Just the same, I find it very satisfying to imagine Derek happy, and finally "moving on" into what could come next. I like that thought very much.

You Give Me Fever

It started Saturday night. Binta complained about feeling too cold, so I suggested she warm up in a hot bath. I decided to check her temperature, and sure enough, she had a fever of 101.

Throughout the night, it continued to climb up and down, most likely due to the Tylenol I gave her. She didn't complain about anything else. Just feeling either too hot or too cold.

So the next morning, when it seemed that her temperature had settled back down, we thought the bug had run its course. Unfortunately, it seems the bug had heard about the birthday party Binta was going to, and wanted to tag along. Uninvited. And it didn't bring a gift for the birthday girl, either. At least, I hope it didn't. I guess we'll find out soon enough.

All through the night, we monitored her temperature, as it continued to surprise us with new and amazing 3-digit numbers. Binta's varying attitude was also fascinating to watch. From being in tears, thrashing around in the bed crying that she's too hot, to singing radio call number jingles that match the numbers on the thermometer.

As my school secretary reminded me, "You can't keep a good pirate down."

Clairvoyance

Binta: "I love you, too."

Me: (confused) "I didn't say I love you."

Binta: "I know. I can read your mind."

Surprise!

After many failed attempts, I finally was able to successfully log in to my own blog!
It's been a while, eh?

Boiling Blood

For some people, their blood boils when they're really, really mad.
For others, their blood boils when they're really, really hot.

For me, my blood boils when I'm really, really mad because my daughter has turned on the gas fireplace in 90 degree weather.

She was cold, she explains. She had just run through the sprinkler outside. In the 90 degree weather. So she came inside and turned on the fire.

It was my nose that alerted me. I had naturally assumed (as I think anyone would) that the excessive heat I was experiencing at the other end of the house was a result of the 90 degree weather. Not once did I guess that the heat was caused by the flames of hell burning in my family room. Not until I recognized the familiar smell the gas stove puts off as it is burning hot and strong.

It is 10:30 pm. It is a sticky 79 degrees outside my house. It is a miserable, sweltering 84 degrees inside my house.

When Michael Jackson Dies

I'm strangely affected by the sad news today...

As a child growing up in the 80's, Michael Jackson had a huge impact on my generation. To start with, his music was just awesome. And he was so cute. Seriously. Remember the picture of Michael in the fold-out section of the "Thriller" album wearing the white suit holding the little tiger cub? I had at least one Michael Jackson picture on my bedroom wall.

But his videos. That's where he got me.

I remember the puffy white jacket with the dragon on the back from "Beat It." When the guys decided they'd be better off dancing than stabbing each other. I remember the light-up sidewalk of "Billie Jean." The still shots of him dancing, flipping his collar up. But the best video of all, by far, was "Thriller." To make essentially a short movie using one song...that was groundbreaking! I remember the zombie coming up the manhole, the amazingly choreographed dance of the dead, and the creepy contacts at the end.

When I was a kid, we didn't have instant-access u-tube. So when MTV advertised days in advance when "Thriller" was going to be aired, or better yet, when "The Making of Thriller" was going to be aired, I was right there, watching hungrily.

For some strange coincidental reason, Binta and I had been talking about Michael Jackson earlier this week. I was telling her how much I liked him when I was a little girl, and how he had such unique trademarks...the white glove...the sparkly jackets...the aviator sunglasses...and of course, the moonwalk.

Nowhere was this displayed better than his 1983 performance at the 25th Anniversary of Motown.

Binta watched the following video with wide eyes, absorbing all of his jerky-yet-somehow-amazingly-fluid dance moves. Towards the end, she asked if he had moonwalked yet.

"Oh. You'll know when he moonwalks."
"But does he really walk backwards?" (she acts it out on the desk with her fingertips)
"Just keep watching. You will know when he moonwalks."

And then he does it. And I feel like I'm 9 again, watching his gravity-defying performance. He is a singer. A dancer. The King of Pop. A magician. I quickly look over at Binta, as her jaw drops and her eyes widen even more at what he has just done.

Thank you for the magical moments in my childhood, Michael. You will be missed.

Slideshow Hello

I learned how to create a slideshow today! This is one designed by Binta!

Graduation Announcement

It came in the mailbox this week. A rare find...a personally addressed letter/card to me.
I opened it to find a graduation announcement and this picture:













Immediately, my mind flashed back to 1997. I had just graduated from college, and gotten hired to be a first grade teacher. I wasn't hired in August, like most teachers. I was hired on November 1. The class had started out the first two months with a different teacher. She had struggled with finding a way to handle some of the kids' behaviors, and finally, fed up, at the end of October, walked out on those kids, never to return.

As any first year teacher will tell you, that first year is a magical year. You try 1,000% harder than anyone else in that building, because there is so much to learn, and you feel charged with such an amazing responsibility. You don't want to let anyone down. I had 25 kids, their families, and a school district who believed I could do the job.

The only one who doubted me, I think, was me.

In your first year teaching, you discover many, many things that you are not taught in college that you need to know in order to be a successful teacher. For example, that was the year I learned how to get a bee out of the classroom. I learned which brand of scissors worked best, and I learned how to keep the desks in place.

I made very little money as a first year teacher, and much of what I did make was spent on materials for the classroom. Which turned out to be fine, because I had no social life whatsoever. I spent weekends at school, sometimes as late as 10:00 PM. In my free time, I watched videos and read books, all of which related to the work I was doing in my classroom.

I even scheduled surgery for December 26th, so that I wouldn't miss any school that year.

I stared at the picture of the grown woman. In my mind, I still see her as a little girl, along with these 24 other kids:Looking at this picture, I have so many memories flood back to me. All the while, tears flood down my face.

I remember creating a behavior plan for the little girl who had a stealing problem.
I remember the boy who was licking his desk on the first day I arrived.
I remember making a mom cry when I referred her daughter for reading assistance.
I remember the girl who had attachment issues, and cried frequently in class.

That was the year that one boy lost his father to suicide.
That was also the year another boy lost his father to manslaughter. I remember attending the funeral for this man. I remember the look on the boy's face when he recognized me. It lit up like I had come to his birthday party, and I heard him say, "That's my teacher!"

These 25 kids went through so much that year. Having a teacher abandon them was traumatic. The other things that occurred out of our control added to our collective trauma.

It was my first year, and I had no idea what I was doing.

And yet, when I think about that year...how hard I worked, and what those kids experienced, I can't help but hold it in my memory as my absolute favorite year ever. It was a magical year. All along, that year, I thought it was about me teaching those 25 kids.

Come to find out it was really about 25 kids teaching me how to be a teacher.

Congratulations, class of 2009. I love you.

Just Call Me Juror #22

In the mailbox...a jury summons. My first one ever.

Today I arrived at 8:45 for my first day of Jury Duty. Sat in Courtroom #3 with 48 other registered voters on Kent Municipal Court's "list." Filled out the paperwork. Explained that I'm scheduled to be out of town for the Washington Education Association's Rep Assembly from Wednesday to Sunday. The clerk told me that unless I had a health reason, I was committed to this.

I said that the thought of having jury duty for a whole week and missing out on RA made me want to vomit. Is that enough of a health concern?

(Ok, so I just thought that in my head.)

I waited. On a hard bench.

They told us we would probably hear something by 10:30.

By 11:00, the unlikely prophecy came true. The clerk drew eighteen numbers. The clerk called #22. Stood up as I was asked to. Followed the clerk into Courtroom #1.

Waited. On a different hard bench.

A new clerk arrived. Told us to go sit on the other side of the courtroom. We shuffled over silently. The judge came in and our numbers were drawn once again and we sat in a new order.

I was #8 called.

The attorneys asked us questions. Out of the six-person jury, two jurors were asked to leave. Guess who got seat #5?

That's right! Juror #22!

They told us we could go have lunch. But to be back by 1:45 so we could get started.

I used my lunch hour driving around like a madwoman, dropping off materials that would be needed for tonight's class in the event that this trial went beyond 5:00.

Arrived back to Courtroom #2 (moved yet again) to find the jurors waiting in the jury room.

Waited. In chairs that squeaked.

For 35 minutes.

Finally we were called out. Sat in the jury box. The judge thanked us. Said the parties had settled the case during the break and we wouldn't be needed.

And to call again tomorrow by 9:00.

Happy Birthday

We were born 4 years apart, yet our birthdays fell 2 days apart in January.

Derek always loved the 6th and the 7th because he could claim he was only 3 years younger than me. On the 8th, just like a good big sister, I'd rub it in that I was again, 4 years superior.

My mom used to have a "double birthday" party for us on the 7th. Finally, I realized I was getting gypped, and insisted on my own party. As adults, we returned to the double birthday party. For the first 4 years after his death, I could not bring myself to "celebrate" either his birthday, nor my own.

But today, I am celebrating Derek's birthday. Today, my little brother would be 31. Happy Birthday, Derek...

My Last Bus Ride

I've long been a fan of public transportation, whether it's for the convenience of having someone else deal with the stressful driving, or for the sake of "going green" and saving limited resources, or for the cost effectiveness of saving money. I get teased about it, but I actually like to take the bus.

Today, I made the choice to take the city bus into Seattle so that Binta and I could enjoy the downtown area during the holiday. All of the above reasons applied, including the bonus fact that Binta and I see it as a "treat." Yes, it takes longer than driving myself, but that time is private time that we get together, to talk, snuggle, and play word games with no interruptions or distractions from the TV.

During our return trip home tonight, I became aware of a very disturbed individual sitting next to us. He looked at me and was mumbling something, something that sounded like the words "sorry" and "blood." I asked him if he was ok. He was clearly either high or drunk or both.

My immediate desire was to get far away from him. Unfortunately, I was traveling on a bus that was packed to capacity (or perhaps over capacity). So many buses had been having trouble due to the poor road conditions, that all the buses that were running were severely overcrowded. To complicate that, we were traveling on the freeway, with no stops in the near future.

I made eye contact with a guy I had spoken with back at the bus stop and leaned forward to tell him I was feeling uncomfortable. He understood and nodded; then shrugged when I indicated that I was considering moving towards the front of the bus. It looked impossible.

Here's where the reader will likely be thinking, "I wouldn't have cared if the bus was packed and it was traveling down the freeway. I would have done anything to get away from that guy."

I guess my only explanation is this. Sometimes making an action can be as scary as not making an action. In tonight's case, that's what I was experiencing. I was terrified sitting near this individual. I was equally terrified, to the point of being frozen in my seat, of what might happen if I were to try to move up to the front of the bus.

My deepest thanks go to Ryan, the guy I mentioned before. He engaged me in conversation that gave me something to do while I sat in fear. He continually kept his eyes on our neighbor, and flashed me reassuring looks while we talked. Binta, completely unaware of what was going on, was thrilled to find a new friend in Ryan, someone she could talk with.

Every time the guy reached into a pocket of his coat, I felt my breathing quicken. What would he pull out? I felt waves of heat pulsing from my head to my chest, and I quite literally felt like I was going to vomit.

After the first stop, Ryan, Binta and I were able to shuffle ourselves forward a few spots on the bus. When we were about 15 minutes away from our stop, a guy behind me suggested that I lift my packages up from the floor, because the creepy guy had urinated on the floor. Sure enough, his pants were unzipped.

I got us off the bus a few stops earlier than I would have liked. Upon leaving the bus, a lady informed the driver that a guy had pissed on the floor in the back of the bus. His response? "Yeah, I know. I've reported it."

I walked into the front door of my house and fastened all of the locks. I realized that my temperature had gone from burning hot adrenaline on the bus, to frigid cold, including shaking. Every single muscle that I can identify (and some that I can't) is tense and fatigued. I took a bubble bath and drank a glass of wine in an attempt to calm myself down.

And now my daughter is in bed and I find that I cannot stop crying.

Since when did the choice to utilize public transportation result in forfeiting one's personal safety?

What about the people who use public transportation not out of choice, but out of necessity? Do they not deserve the right to feel safe as they travel from work to home?

In so many ways, I feel that I am very lucky to be able to say that tonight, I took my last bus ride.

The Monkeys that Flew out of my Butt

Gentle reader, I do urge you to sit down before proceeding with this post.

Seriously.





Have you found a seat?

Today, at 3:00 PM, I met with Binta's teacher for our annual parent teacher conference. As with last year, I invited Binta's dad to attend. Last year, he had said that he would come, and Binta's teacher even arranged a special time to meet with us that worked with his schedule.

He didn't show.

I did receive a phone call from him, though. Approximately 2 hours before our conference time. He explained that he was in Idaho.

IDAHO.

He didn't think he'd make it to the conference.

Ya think?


So. Fast forward to this year. As with last year, I made sure he knew what time the conference would be held. I reminded him several times. I placed bets that he would not attend. My guess was that this year, I'd get a call from Wyoming.

Are you still sitting down?

Ok. Not only did he show up for the conference, but he was 10 minutes early. Not only did he hang out afterwards to spend time with Binta, but he stayed until 7:30 so that he could watch her entire Tae Kwon Do class.

Now I've seen absolutely everything.

Meet Rocko

Imagine my disappointment.
A quick google search reveals 502 other blogger moms going on about how cute it is that their kid calls the President Elect "Rocko Bama."

Please tell me I don't sound as annoying as they do.

But how many of them have an actual rock? Hmm? Now whose kid is special?

Immacculate Conception

Binta: What was the baby's name? Gene?

Me: Jesus.

Binta: What was the mom's name?

Me: Mary

Binta: So Mary was married to God?

Me: No. Mary was married to Joseph.

Binta: So who was married to God?

Me: No one was married to God.

Binta: Then Joseph was the dad?

Me: No, God was the dad.

Binta: I thought you said God didn't have a wife! I'm confused!


I'm probably not the best person to explain this, 'cause I'm confused, too...

A Song

Amy regularly chooses a song to highlight in her blog. Most recently, she chose this one.

I remember holding the weight of the reality that my brother was dead. One day earlier, I had been immobile on the couch, shivering under a blanket and getting up to pee every 10 minutes. The effects of being in shock, I'm told.

A day later, I was sitting at the kitchen table, as we began planning out his memorial service. We pondered questions about what to have written for the newspaper statement, where to direct any donations, and what the details of the service might include. Mom was on the phone with a friend of Derek's.

Mom asked the friend to suggest any songs that Derek liked, that we could use during the service. The voice at the other end responded with a suggestion, and Mom looked at me and repeated the person's suggestion. "Bittersweet Symphony?" She hadn't heard of it, and wanted to know if I thought it was a good choice.

In my head, I heard myself say, "Yes, that's the perfect song." However, my voice wasn't teaming well with my body, and all I was able to respond with was nodding weakly as tears began streaming down my face.

Mom told the friend that I agreed with her suggestion, based on my reaction.

And it truly was the perfect song. First of all, Derek loved the song. He played it so loudly, I'd have to ask him to turn it down. He even found a way to program his cell phone (this was back before you could download ringtones) to play the opening notes of the song.

And later that day, when I looked at the lyrics I had printed from the internet, I discovered again that it was the perfect song. No, Derek didn't have a heroin addiction as the lyrics indicate, but the "you're a slave to money till you die" line seemed to fit so appropriately in Derek's case.

It will always be a song I associate with my brother.

Thanks for your post, Amy. I played it loudly.