Thanks, Ryan Adams

“Hell, I still love you, New York.” – Ryan Adams

“Do you love New York?”

“Do you love New York more than Texas?”

“Are you ever coming back?”

First thing is first. New York and I have a strange, and perhaps lasting relationship. Unlike most lasting relationships I’ve had with people, my connection to NY wasn’t instantaneous. New York was always a place I liked visiting, but I think it bears mentioning that I love Texas. I was never the type of person who hated where they were from; in fact, I love where I am from and let me tell you why:

New York takes away your specialness.

Slow your roll, people. Let me make my point before I get hate messages about how wrong I am. My students always tell me that I can’t tell everyone that they are special, because if everyone is special, then no one is. In the City that Never Sleeps, everyone is special, and therefore no one is. It’s simple supply and demand. You have a higher degree? So do all your friends, and your waitress. Oh, you can play an instrument? My friend so-and-so can play three. You think it’s impressive that you can speak four languages? So can your cab driver.

My point is this: in this particular Petri dish, the competition is fierce. And I cannot figure out for the life of me how people manage to grow huge egos in this city. I trip eight times a day on the street which keeps me sufficiently humble. I have gotten lost above ground more times than I can count. I have gone the wrong way on the subway only to end up in Queens. Yes, these are the things that keep you human.

But the more important other side of this coin is that everyone is special. Everyone is interesting, funny, clever, intelligent, progressive, determined, seeking, tenacious, poetic, artistic, and hungry. The thing to remember is that if you made it this far, someone and some other place helped you get there.

You are special because of where you come from.

Someone put you in piano lessons. Someone bought you a drum set. Someone told you that you were clever enough to make it in comedy, let you buy fashion magazines so that you could one day make it to Parsons, gave you an A on a paper so that you could have the confidence to try your hand at being a writer, or put Legos under the tree so that you could build mini versions of the buildings you would one day derive from pure imagination.

Do I love New York more than Texas? It’s not a qualifying question. It’s not even a legitimate question. You may find yourself divided. But the thing I am figuring out is that you don’t have to be. I love both places because one raised me and one raised me up.

I don’t know if I’ll ever move back to Texas. I try not to speak in absolutes, because I am only absolutely sure that I am a horrible fortune teller. I live in a pretty small corner of the universe (contrary to most New Yorkers’ belief) and most of the day to day stuff that I worry about doesn’t matter that much. Most of the stuff that does always has. And whether you’re an hour ahead or an hour behind, that’s probably true for you, as well.

Teacher-y Things

Every former colleague always ask me, “What are the kids like where you teach?”

Well, they are:

Messy

Self-absorbed

Goofy

Hormonal

Stressed

Care takers

Thoughtful

Thoughtless

Hot

Cold

Steady

Temperamental

Self-conscious

Loving

Hard on each other

Hard on their teachers

Hard on the world

Hard because of the world

Oblivious to the rest of the world

Seeking the end of the world on December 21^st so that they don’t have to take my final.

Just kidding about that last one… (sort of). They’re kids. They are no different than any kid I have ever taught, babysat, been a summer camp counselor to, sat on a front porch and listened talk about their prom, heartbreak, or graduation with, or bandaged up on a playground.

I am not a parent, so I hope I don’t oversimplify this particular statement, but school shootings (and shit, I hate that it’s even a term we can pluralize) paralyze me. I never get used to tragedy, and I guess that’s a good thing, but I cannot divorce myself from doing what most parents do, which is think: That could have been my kid. Except I think about my students.

I have this pattern that I can’t seem to break. The first six weeks of school, I am the least favorite teacher on the block. A notoriously hard grader, a champion of the phrase “do it again and don’t hand it to me until you’re proud of it,” a big fan of apologies to someone’s face and looking them in the eye, and a proponent of manners (i.e., do not suck your teeth, roll your eyes, talk under your breath, walk away angry), I don’t always rock kids world at the beginning. But boy do I give it a good rattle.

Then the 7^th Week hits. Suddenly it’s starting to make sense. I don’t hit hard with the “I told you so,” (although I think it) but kids start writing well, they start reading harder articles, they learn my mannerisms… I learn their names. It’s a win-win situation. 

Here in Brooklyn, we’ve got some tough nuts to crack. At this time of year some of my students get pretty depressed because they aren’t looking forward to Christmas Break. School is their safe space; it’s really their whole world (and not-so-surprisingly these aren’t the best students) because it’s where they have limited pressure. I work with some pretty tough teachers. These peeps are no joke. They bring it. You have to. Kids will catch you slipping, and game over. We bust our tails to make school a tender place… and they never want to leave. Well, they do want to leave class, but if they could stay there and just hang out, they would… all night.

*knock knock (4:05 pm) walking out the door

Kid: Ms. Son, which train do you take?

Me: I take the G. I walk down Jay Street to get there.

Kid: That’s mad far, Ms. Son; we’ll show you a faster way.

And just like that, I collected seven misfits that walk me to the train every day after school. It’s a good mix of kids. I ask about the highs and lows of their day, how physics is going (always a hit), or weekend plans. We play “We’re selling hot dogs for lunch”, a game that my friends Robert and Tom came up with to pass time, where you impersonate someone using only the phrase “We’re selling hot dogs for lunch” to guess the impression.

When I lived in Texas, I had good relationships with kids. I feel like I was exactly where I needed to be for as long as I was needed. I’m a big believer in moving on when the time is right. Sometimes I think about leaving education, but then I think about the 7^th Week. Some people work several years, or even a whole career, and they never hit that turn where you go from being adversary to advocate.

I asked my students the other day before I introduced a new and very difficult concept, “I know this writing is tough, but I need to know something. Do you trust me? Do you trust that I have your best interest at heart? Do you believe that I come here every day to make you a better person? Do you believe that I will never ask you do challenge yourself if it won’t make you better?” Essentially proving that this (teaching) only works if they trust me. Let’s just be real about that.

Schools are supposed to be safe (well-built, sturdy, durable) buildings, but the classroom is a cultivated safe space. We work really hard to create a space where kids can escape a bad home life, a place where kids can connect with at least one adult on campus, and a place where they can be honest.

Working in a time and space where school shootings exist, and subsequently working in a school doesn’t scare me (well, no more than living in a city that was attacked eleven years ago). What scares me is that people might stop equating schools as a safe place, and that message does permanent damage. I can’t do anything about the guns. Or the crazies. Or people that get super political, from either side. I’m not really on a side (and I don’t say that because I am a big person. I say that because I honestly don’t have any answers).

What I do have are your kids for eight hours a day. When they’re with me, I try to keep the bad stuff out and shine light on the good stuff. Safety is a pretty relative term. I would hope that if you are a parent, you can think of at least one teacher with whom you’ve left your child that you consider a champion and an advocate. I don’t mean against bullets, because I cannot protect against bullets. What I can do is listen to your kid when they have questions about the world they are about to participate in full time and try to soften the edges.

I’m pretty satisfied with that.

Is That Bacon I Hear?

 We live across the street from a bikers’ club. I must confess that when I first moved to Brooklyn, I thought my parents had hired the cast of my life to illustrate their very insistent point that New Yorkers really play into type. For one thing, my apartment looks like the set of a sitcom, and of course there are the vigilantes that live across the street, which would make for a great use of guest star appearances, if you ask me.

The bikers that I have met have all been perfectly delightful to me during each of our interactions. They have opened doors, asked me how my job is, and shown me the inside of the club house… which means I’m practically on my way to becoming someone’s old lady.

I recently came to embrace and loathe this title after watching (skimming) through Sons of Anarchy lately, which then turned my fondness for the bikers to fear. I mean, how do I really know that they aren’t running drugs, smuggling guns, and smoking their enemies (SoA lingo)? But this fear is unfounded because these bikers are legendary in this neighborhood. I could tell you the urban legends that follow their fumes, but I’ll just say that I would rather live across the street from these guys than the 5-0s (That means cops for all of you inexperienced folk, but I actually learned that from The Fast and the Furious Five, a film that I was forced to watch, but that’s not the point. I lost my train of thought).

Oh, yes. The bikers. I wouldn’t want to cross them, but baked goods and friendly conversation usually soften them. One of them gave me his phone number “in case anybody messes wichoo.” (*Wichoo = me)

Most Fridays they can be found lined up outside across the street with blaring engines. My roommate said that they were especially loud the other night because all of their bikes were lined up… except she was looking for the slang terminology for “bike”, so I helped her out and explained that they call them “hogs”… so you can hear the hogs from almost a tenth of a mile away.

Last week the party was even larger. The size could have been a result from Halloween festivities or someone recently making parole, or both.

I guess what this boils down to is that I do not like not being invited to things, and quite frankly, I cannot believe that no one has so much has offered me a jacket, or at the very least, a patch. I mean, I have worn my leather jacket several times to show my fashion versatility. I remember all of their “names” (Goose and Bubba are taken, so I cannot have those names if and when I am ever initiated). I have several ideas that I would like to discuss for chapter mixers and a possible nomination for Social Chair (fingers crossed!).

Junior League is my second choice, but I’m going to hold out for this other club. They are close by, the chapter dues can’t be terribly high, and I can wear black to every event. I urge you to consider this option, especially if you’ve already gone the sorority route.

Amnesia...I think.

I think I have amnesia.

Pardon me; what I mean is that I am in a (technically) self-induced amnesia-like state due to a combination of over the counter cold medicines in the last 48 hours which have inhibited my ability to remember any food I have consumed, conversations I have had with humans, and television that I have watched.

I cannot remember exactly what I took while I was in the depths of my illness, but I can tell you that if there is a way to create a roofy-like substance from OtC cold medicines, I found it…but subsequently lost it because… I have amnesia.

Wednesday 21:00

I have tried reclaiming my steps from the time I started feeling ill (because I watch a lot of movies over the spread of disease [including zombie viral takeovers] ) and I think it all began on Wednesday when I could literally feel fever taking over my body during class…but by the time I got home, I had walked past my roommate at least six times before I noticed he was standing in front of me, and I just knew I was sick.

The thing about getting sick is that you usually try and talk yourself out of it. “I’m fine. If I drink orange juice, take some meds, and go to sleep early, I’ll be fine.” Wrong. That’s not how sick works.

Friday 14:30

I think I might have beaten this thing. I don’t really feel that bad, right? A few meds, some tea and water, and I’m right as rain.

You could say that people meander through the six stages of grief over a common cold, starting with denial and progressing to the bargaining stage. I myself stay in the bargaining stage longer than the average human… but regardless, you usually end up at acceptance once you are bed-ridden. Somewhere between Friday afternoon and Saturday morning, I managed to accept that I was in fact sick. I take cold medicine at school and suddenly I know what Jesse Spano felt like on caffeine pills…but although I am technically there in body, my mind is in a fog. I snap out of it when I realize there is a kid in front of me in the hallway who snaps at me (with his fingers, not a remark) like a cop doing a sobriety test. I just have to make it to the end of the day.

Saturday 04:00

I am sick. My eyes are glued together. I can feel every molecule in my body screaming at me to stay still, but I cannot, because I have a fever that is burning my body through the sheets. I sit up, but immediately feel like I have vertigo. Shirts hurt. Coughing hurts. Walking seems impossible… but crawling? I can get down (literally) with crawling. I start to crawl to my door and regain composure. I need water. The kitchen is only ten feet away. I have water. I make it back to my bed.

Note to self: Someone moved the kitchen and it is no longer ten feet away. I make a mental note to kill that person when I feel better. I pass out.

Saturday 10:00-Sunday 10:00

I am awake. My roommate gives me cold medicine.

Somewhere throughout this twenty four hour period I end up letting the cable guy inside to fix my cable, watch the entire season of “Newsroom” on HBO on demand, write delirious posts to people on Facebook, and make (what I can deduce from wrappers) about 14 cups of tea. I take more cold medicine.

If you and I communicated during this time period and I am still in your phone, bless you. Just bless you.

I am pretty sure I am over this thing now, but I wanted to leave you with a moral…

The moral of the story is: you will never remember the moral of the story to anything you discover, say, or watch when you are sick because you won’t even remember waking up that day. For all I know, I said and did some brilliant things 24 hours ago, but we’ll never know because I have amnesia.

* I’d like to thank the following companies/name brands for making this all possible: Advil Cold and Sinus, DayQuil, Mucinex, Vicks Vapor Rub, Advil PM, and Tylenol Cold/ Flu liquid syrup.

Some Thoughts on Writing

Some Thoughts on Writing…

I am not a writer.

When I was three I was a parrot. In fact, it is still a running joke in my family.

My grandparents were convinced that I was a prodigy because I could memorize  Golden Story Books and I knew when to turn the page; they thought I was reading. My dad would have to tell them, “No. My child is just a parrot.”

I am a good mimicker. I can easily adapt to other forms of writing (and apparently co-opt forms of writing) either consciously or unconsciously. As someone who critiques very, very amateur writing for a living I often have to emphasize the concept that “more is more”, because no one abuses language like a non-writer.

For my peers who aspire to be writers and have asked for my very small opinion on writing I usually have to use the phrase “Use your words like a scalpel, not a hammer”, because nobody abuses language like a writer.

For my own narrative I might as well adopt the phrase “I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV”.  I am not a writer, but I write.

I have a large but limited lexicon and most of the time it does not translate well to written form because I do not enjoy writing the way I speak to the world. I write the way that I speak to people, and there is a difference.

My personal library has shrunk to a depressing state since I moved to a new state (ba dum pum. I love puns, by the way). I have the privilege of shopping for new books and I spend my New York money on a New York past time: reading on the subway. I read more in a week than I did in six months when I was driving everywhere. It’s amazing how much you can read in 18 minutes and six subway stops. Here’s how much of a book nerd I have advanced to in record time:

I was studying in Washington Square Park the other day and a guy approaches me.

Guy: Hi there. I work for Time Out New York (hip magazine) and I am doing a piece on the best places to pick people up within the city. What do you think is the best place to pick people up?

Me: …

Guy: Take your time.

Me: Can I see some ID? (Not a joke; I actually made him show me his press pass and two forms of identification.)

Mental process: Now I have to actually think of a place where people pick up strangers…

AS IF I KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT PICKING UP STRANGERS. Do I look like some floosy? Who does this guy think I AM? I am wearing GAP jeans and I have a sweater on from the outlet mall.

Crap. I need a good answer. THIS GUY THINKS I AM CAPABLE OF PICKING UP STRANGERS!!!

[Note: I went from being threatened to insulted to flattered in a matter of seconds.]

Me: Well… I guess The Strand. Huge used bookstore off of Broadway….

You get the idea. I was actually able to save the answer to sounding halfway knowledgeable on where people pick up…other people in random locations in a city where the next best thing is right around the corner. They even called to fact check me, but I never confirmed my response. Sadly, my name will never be in print as “The Woman Who is Responsible for Romance in the Romance Section”. (Another pun, you say? Don’t mind if I do!)

Lately I have been reading so much Nora Ephron that I subconsciously stole a format of hers in my last blog. Just the format, not the writing. I read it MONTHS ago. I hadn’t looked at it since July and yet her writing totally entered my grey matter and transposed itself onto my MacBook.

I adore her writing and few things have made me sadder in recent readings and reviews than knowing I will never get to meet her. I also know that she was someone who tried on many hats and styles before she found her own, so perhaps she would forgive my ineptitude for finding my own yet.

If you haven’t read her work, you should start today. Nora Ephron makes me laugh until I cry and she has some pretty remarkable, simple but stylish, thoughtful and thought-provoking things to say about life and romance and this city and all of the little things that have brought you to wherever you are sitting as you read her books.

So read Nora Ephron and remember that her books can be found at The Strand where you might find the love of your life according to an anonymous source in Time Out Magazine (Online version [Did not get asked for the print version. Bollocks.]) But even if you don’t find romance in the romance section, you will enjoy her books just the same.

And each chapter can be read in exactly 18 minutes and six subway stops.