An Ode

If I could compose a lyrical poem to William, if I had the gift, it would speak of a man who always tried to do what was good and right.  Who, when he loved, loved fully.  And made the woman he loved feel like she could dance on water.  Before he left on his fateful trip we fell in love.  I know right when it happened.  It was during that first phone call.  We didn't say the words then, it was too soon to do so, but we both felt it, knew the feelings to be true.  The next morning I spoke of emanating happiness, a heart so swelled it could burst, of wanting to shout things off of mountaintops.  Before all of those things had seemed so cliché, I finally understood.  In all my 34 years I hadn't understood until then what they meant.

Tough Times

Things have been very difficult as of late, making it hard to focus on the lovely little things in life.  I need a breather, but there's no time to spare.  My mind isn't straight, my emotions are only skin deep, and I am treading water surrounded by sharks.  Solace, where is my solace?  Is there peace to be had?  I'm overwhelmed and the target of negative energy when I only strive to do good.  I must remember what William said, "I don't run from the bad. I've seen more bad than most, firsthand, and learned to push through, because I let love guide me. That will never change."  I must let love guide me.

Marriage

Now, don't get it twisted, I am not looking to get married for the sake of stability, I haven't been.  But with William, marriage just made sense.  I *do* want that, marriage, kids, and everything that goes with; I'm not opposed to it.  I'm not looking to settle is all.  My thought has always been to find someone who makes me euphoric, and the rest will fall into place.  With Will, I firmly believe that I had found that, and he felt likewise.

In the Neighborhood

...I miss him... so fucking much.  I babysat tonight, and the family I sit for live near what would have been his apartment building.  Last time I watched Poppy I walked to his luxury skyscraper afterwards.  My feet steered me there, I only followed.  I felt like a pauper staring up at it.  I also felt so consumed with loss all-of-a-sudden, and he was still alive then (but in a coma).

Before the surgery and subsequent medically induced coma, I had told him about the darling first grader Poppy, and her obsession with science. She has these amazing stuffed "animals."  They're actually stuffed organs.  One of which is a stuffed uterus,

"I want a photo of my girlfriend holding a stuffed uterus.  Because doesn't every boyfriend want that???  You know our kids will have those toys," William texted me once.
"Oh, they better.  I want to have a kid obsessed with bugs, dinosaurs, and the like."
"We will steer them in the right direction."
"No princesses if I can help it."
"Just my wife."
";-P"
"Well, she's the queen, OBVIOUSLY."
"Not queen-like, in the least."
"Not king-like, from what I've seen, either."
"Nope, just Whitney-esque."
"The best sort."

And then there are her stuffed germs, Will joked about "not catching them."  ...This has made babysitting for the family somewhat somber now...

...I think if it was possible to pray enough that you could will someone back to life, it would've happened already... but I remain hopeful.

*sigh*

A Bad Boy

Oscar used to go to our school.  He lives a few houses down and I see him when walking to and from work sometimes.
"Hi Oscar, how are you?"
"Hi teacher, I'm okay."
I don't think he remembers my name, but that's okay, because what really matters is that I remember his.

You see, Oscar has been described to me as a "bad boy."  Last year I brought him up during a lunch break once,
"I saw Oscar the other day after school.  He's at a C.P.S. school now, right?"
"Thank goodness!" were the type of exclamations heard around the staff lounge after my innocuous question.
"You know he's in a gang now.  I always knew that boy was bad.  He was a jerk even when he was little," Mrs. Huerta ranted.

Shocked by what I was listening to, I shut my mouth.  Truth be told, I was seething on the inside.  How dare these teachers who work at a Christian school write-off a student, any student?!  He obviously needed guidance if he fell in with a gang, and we let him down.

Later, Mrs. Young,  the former principal, filled in more of the gaps on Oscar's life,
"That poor boy."
"How so?" I wondered.
"He was always filthy when he was little.  He never had a clean uniform and obviously wasn't bathed regularly.  That mother of his too... she was a piece of work.  We called her into the office a handful of times to talk about it, and she always acted surprised.  She'd agree with whatever we said.  Her answers to questions were always such that it seemed like she was simply saying what she thought we wanted to hear," Mrs. Young said with true sympathy in her voice.

When I met Oscar it was as his Title 1 teacher.  He was rude, he got in my face, and he said unkind things to me.  But I had seen worse.  It didn't phase me, never has, and I certainly don't take it personally.  The harder a kid is, the softer they are inside.  This I've learned.  It took a while to form a tenuous bond, and then it was summer.  The next year he didn't come back.

I only see him once and a while outside of his house, sometimes with gang bangers.  I worry about him.  He is a sweet kid if you can see through the bullshit.  I'm afraid for him.  His new "family" may seem more supportive than his actual one, but far more dangerous I'm sure.

Paper Basketball

Every day when I have 6th grade math I go through the same Victor-related ritual, the paper basketball.

Victor is new to our school, and comes off very tough.  He certainly knows how to bully and act like a thug, but see, I know that's not the real him.  He's creative, he likes all things artistic.  He's good at it too, art.  Hiding it with swagger is a defense mechanism.  When he was in drama club with me, I got to know Victor better.  That kid certainly is a bit of a drama king too, he craves attention, often blurting things out across the room just to get it.  Plus, he likes the looks I throw when he does it.  A former theater buff myself I know how to play to my audience.

One of his attention grabbing tactics is his paper basketballs.  In the middle of group work time Victor used to make an excuse to visit the bathroom, now it's a long, drawn-out trip to the garbage can.  After ripping a piece of paper out of his notebook, he will use grandiose gestures to smash it into a ball.  Then there is a show of pushing his chair back and sauntering to the garbage can.  When he is about four feet away, he stops.  He makes like he is about to launch the paper basketball for a three-point shot.  I raise my eyebrows and clear my throat.  He glances back at me, takes a step closer, and waits.  Standing there, glancing at me, supposedly poised to bank his "basketball," I make another utterance.  At this point he steps in closer, yet again, and history repeats itself.  When he gets right next to the trash can I say, "A lay-up Victor, a lay-up, not a three pointer."  Giving in, he shrugs and throws away the paper basketball nonchalantly.  Every day, every day there is some version of this scenario.

When he told me he wanted to be an actor, I responded, "Yeah?  Well, I know you'd be good at it.  You certainly know how to make a scene."

I Miss Him

William was living in New York City and I in Chicago when we met online.  He was set to move here mid-November.  The distance made it difficult, of course, but in a way I had never experienced before.  I missed him, truly I did.

Here was a man I'd never met before, and I... I ached for him.  This was an actual, physical pain, the likes of which I hadn't experienced before.  He felt the same.  His descriptions did it far better justice than mine.  I must admit that I now fear he was only noticing his lung pain.  But I think distinguishing between the two would have been easy since the one is purely emotional.

It's worse now, this longing.  The anguish over William's loss hits me sometimes with no warning, washes over me like a wave, and I melt into tears.  ...I miss him.

The Vanishing Trash Can

This happened a while ago, back in October, but it still gets me.  It's become a bit of an ongoing joke in the classroom now.

Cecilia isn't allowed to take out my trash anymore.

"Where's your garbage Ms. G.?" asked Wascar while taking out the trash at the end of the day.
"I don't know, ask Cecilia.  She took my trash out the other day and lost the whole garbage can."
Cecilia's ears perk up at her name, "Ask me what?"
"What happened to Ms. G.'s trash can?"
Cecilia shrugs, "I dunno."
"What do you mean?" asks Wascar as he probes further.  "How do you lose a trash can?!"
"I don't know Wascar!"
"How do you lose an ENTIRE garbage can?" Wascar repeats to himself as he shakes his head.
Cecilia lifts up her arms and gives an exaggerated shrug.

"Exactly Wascar," I say.  "Exactly!"

My Teaching Assistant Wascar

To my students the other week during quiet reading time,

"You can sit anywhere in the room, as long as you are reading a book quietly."

Wascar came over and sat on the floor next to my chair.  Directly next to my chair.

"Uhmmm... really Wascar?"
"Really Ms. G."
"Okay..."

I go back to working.

Work, work, work... exasperated sigh from Wascar... work, work, work... exasperated sigh from Wascar...

"Ms. G. do I HAVE to read?"
(Wascar's one of my higher students in all subject matters.)
"Wascar, it's silent sustained reading time."
"Can't I help you with something?"
"Uhm... okay, I guess.  Here, the 8th graders took a diagnostic test to see if they are ready for algebra, all of the problems they got incorrect are on the top of each test, see?  If you could make a tally for each incorrect answer, that'd be super helpful."
"Alright!"

Work, work, work... blissful tallying... work, work, work... blissful tallying...

"Ms. G. I should be your teaching assistant, like your all-time teaching assistant."
"Wascar that wouldn't be quite fair, would it?  You know plenty of other kids like to help me out too."
"Yeah, but they can't because I'M your teaching assistant."
"Wascar," I say in a calm and pointed way as I shoot him one of my infamous "Ms. G. faces."
"Ms. G.," he grins back at me.
"Wascar"
"Ms. G."
"Wascar?"
"Ms. G.?"
"You can help me out today, but let's rotate the task, give other people a chance to earn initials."
Wascar sighs, "Okay, Ms. G."

(My classroom behavior management system revolves around 'initials.'  Every time a student does something nice, like a chore around the classroom such as putting the homework up on the whiteboard, sweeping, taking out the trash, etc. they can get initials.  Any teacher, in the entire school can "catch them doing good" and give them initials.  Only two other teachers in the building chime in with this system despite my pleas, which has somewhat undermined it.  My fellow middle school teachers just refuse to do it point blank, which really is a shame.

Despite the stubbornness, it's been a really big hit with the kids and they have become more helpful and more selfless through this positive reinforcement.  Once a student's behavior card has 13 initials s/he earns a prize from my grab bag.  Prizes are all relatively inexpensive, most were a dollar from Dollar Tree or Target, but they still get super excited about it.)

Emily's Birthday

"Ms. G. they got my birthday wrong on the birthday board downstairs."
"Oh, what day did they put?
"It says my birthday is on the 7th, but it's on the 9th.  You had the wrong day on YOUR calendar, the 2nd, and now this!"
"Hey, in my defense, I MEANT to put it on the 9th, but accidentally put it in the box above that on my calendar."

Later, as we walk past the birthday bulletin board on our way to lunch,

"Uhm... Emily, is this what you mean, where it says '7th' here?"
"Yeah!  That's the wrong day!"
"Honey, it says '7th' because you're in the 7th grade."
"Oh," cue Emily blushing horribly, "oh, I feel so silly now."
"PPssshawww... I do stuff like that all the time, ALL the time.  No big deal."

Life Change

My principal said that if I went to William's funeral she would use that as grounds for my dismissal.  I didn't know what to say.  I was sad, mad, stressed, overwhelmed with so many feelings my mouth didn't want to cooperate.  Afraid of saying something regrettable, I held my tongue and simply shrugged.  When words came I asked who I could file a complaint with, "You can submit a complaint to the president of our school, she's my boss."

My first thought, "That's it, I'm done."  I need a new job that will make me happier right now.  I need to focus on happiness at the moment.  I am going to go back to being a nanny.

Then today, I called a woman named Elenore who apparently works for a nanny agency.  I thought it was a family that had placed the ad.  No, instead it was fast-talking Elenore.  With the couple words I could get in edge-wise I told her my story, why I want to leave my job and why being a nanny is the better fit for me, for now at least.  She seemed to think that I needed some time off before committing to a new position, "Sounds like you need a break, somewhere warm.  Like you should go to Miami for a few weeks or something."
"Uhm, yeah, that'd be nice, but I can't afford something like that. I..."
"Travel around Europe for a little while."
"... Again, my finances are such, that I can't..."

"I don't want to line-up anything for you yet if you're going to take some time off."

"...Elenore, I can't afford that!"

She agreed to stay on the lookout for potential nanny jobs that would suit me, but she wanted to wait.  At least that's something... I guess.

He's Just Not Supposed to Be Dead

That's all there is to it.  This is the wrong outcome.  I know, I know there is a parallel universe where we are together and happy.  It has to be true somewhere.  It has to be.