I Love Ethel

The following is a detailed report of an organism in a constant state of metamorphosis. Also there are beetles. 

Egg: 

I used to be a teacher in Colombia. It was a decades-long dream come true. It also became impossible to hold on to that dream, as a family, for very long. Conditions were no longer favorable. The most advantageous thing to do was let go and move on, to an unknown experience. It was time to completely reimagine life and family, without its previous pursuits of marriage and career. Grateful for mi Natalia, the two youngest kids and I moved to Texas. 

Larva:

Ms. Coworker entered my classroom, which is technically not my classroom. 

I'm a sub in my local ISD, occupying the room as a replacement for another teacher on maternity leave. For only a few months, I am to teach third grade math and science to about 30 students. It isn't forever, just until I can get to the next full time teaching job. By fall, hopefully.

Having very recently arrived to this school district and school, I completely rely on Ms. Coworker to tell me what to teach, when to teach it, and when to assess it. 

She hands me a stack of materials with an explanation, I try to make sure kids get it before they are tested on it. Simple. Straight-forward. Life is complicated enough right now, you know? 

However, on that day she tested the limits of my blind loyalty and obedience. 

She said,

We have to do beetles. Ew, I know! They're in the lab. 

Um...what? I was being paid 100 dollars a day, without healthcare. Having raised my kids in a backyard zoo once upon a time, I'm good on odd little critters. Thanks, but no thanks. 

And oh yeah, by the way. Nobody ever said anything about "doing" "beetles" when they interviewed me. 

We talked about gathering student data to form meaningful small groups and review foundational skills. We talked about genuine, restorative conversations, to deal with behavior challenges. 

We never discussed keeping creepy classroom pets. 

I feel like there should have been a stipend. 

Pupa:

Having prepared their habitats and plunked them in their cages, I started to look for information on mealworms and darkling beetles.

 Mealworms are to beetles what caterpillars are to butterflies. 

During science lessons, I taught the standard presentation on their basic care and information. Reading from a big-screen slideshow, my class and I discovered that they wouldn't need much, just for me to keep a couple of small pieces of fruit in the cage.  It's not their food either. They eat the branmeal included with bark mulch and potting soil they came in.  The little bits of orange, apple, and potato provide needed humidity and hydration. 

But, I read aloud to two groups of eight and nine year-olds, we needed to watch out for mold. 

THE NUMBER ONE KILLER OF YOUR DARKLING BEETLES COULD BE MOLD ON THE FRUIT, the PowerPoint presentation warned us. 

There was a quiet moment after I read this statement, during which the kids and I looked at each other with growing resolution. No matter how we felt about the bugs, we would not let that fruit get moldy. No matter what. 

Charged with the responsibility of keeping our bugs alive, it wasn't important if we liked them anymore. I was starting to love them. 

What a perfect reason to go to the local library, except I didn't yet have a library card. Okay, now two reasons to go to the library. By the end of my first week of beetle-keeping, I had a library card, a stack of books about beetles to share with my students, and a few Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings CDs to listen to in my new old car. She sang to me about lessons she learned the hard way, as I cruised through the humid Houston springtime, to and from my for-now classroom.

Maybe this wasn't going to be so hard after all. 

For the following weeks, my students and I were on it: changing out the fruit and keeping up with the daily beetle antics. Even kids who rarely pay attention to my instruction knew everything going on in the beetle cage. "Ms. Laszlo, you took the fruit out before it was moldy, but I think some of the branmeal got moldy from the fruit. We need to take it out too!" 

Big news rocked the group when several of the mealworms disappeared into quiet little cocoons. It's really really happening! The life cycle we studied is dutifully trodding its circular little path. What would happen next? 

Adult:

Yesterday morning I entered the classroom, turned on the lights, and went to check the beetles. One caught my eye right away.

Pale yellow and red, rather than black, this beetle was active and seemed as happy as any other. Still,  I was worried. Taking out my phone, I looked up WHY IS MY DARKLING BEETLE RED? and found out it´s fine. No fungus or disease was related to the beetle's color. It's a normal variation. Maybe it was a new adult? Brighter than the others, having just emerged without yet attaining its mature coloring? The students and I speculated and hypothesized, feeling like full-on research scientists by now. 

Later Ms. Coworker returned.

Good news! We don't need the beetles anymore. And they are invasive in this area, so releasing them isn't an option. We have to dispose of them. Put them in the freezer for 48 hours. They'll die, then you can throw them away.

Okay, but.

Okay.

"So, put them in the science lab freezer?" I asked, sort of mentally planning some kind of E.T. escape instead. 

No, we can't use that freezer. Can you do it at your house? I don't think my mom will let me put beetles in our freezer. She replied.

I brightened. "Oh sure! I mean, I am the mom at my house, so I say yes. Yes! to (not) putting beetles in my freezer. Bring me your beetle cage and I will take it home and (not) freeze it. You are welcome.*

*Begins to visualize a large backyard terrarium for two classroom sets of beetles at home. 

At home. Here.

Lucy is already getting darker. 

Did I mention I named some of them after the cast of I Love Lucy?  I never know which one is which, except Lucy. For now, I mean. She hasn't stayed the same since I first saw her, so she will likely keep changing. I expect her to grow into a darker color and be indistinguishable, blending in with all the others. Not looking so new anymore.

I will call her Ethel by mistake. 

Turn, Turn, Turn

 Merry AND bright? Geez, that seems like a lot to expect this year. Two easy happy things?  At the same time?

This year my festive mood is less Christmasy and more Solsticey. 

Joyful and sad. Brave and afraid. Motivated and weary: The cyclical celestial tilting and turning we experience over these days brings stark contrasts to my mind.  

And why? Because while things always change, things also really don't. 

When your surrounding conditions change quickly and radically, that which remains as it was before is like an anchor in the storm of switch-ups. 

Speaking of which, we did a little gardening yesterday. 

During this first week in our new home, putting down literal roots had occurred to me once or twice. The Texas gulf coast is mostly warm and humid, even in December, and I have been studying how and where the day's sunlight falls in our backyard. 

Maybe some herbs in containers? Useful and low maintenance. 

Something we use a lot? Cilantro. 

I put "cilantro" on my shopping list, thinking I'd probably have to find some seeds. When everything is new and unfamiliar, planning for plants brings me comfort and joy.

 Transplant something already growing, or sow some seeds? 

Why not do both?

Walking into the grocery store the other day, I stopped by the large racks of little potted herbs. It looked like there were hundreds of healthy cilantro starts, until closer inspection revealed the most prevalent plant to be Italian Parsley. 

I like parsley a lot, but it will not serve as a substitute for cilantro. I kept checking the little labels spiked into each plant´s soil. 

Finally, after patient searching, one small sickly cilantro was found. Knowing cilantro to be fairly hardy, I suspected it might make a rebound with the right treatment. It could start over in a large pot I had found and claimed in the backyard. 

I brought the plant to our and its new home, feeling pretty merry and bright about the prospect of playing in the dirt soon.

Mae stepped outside to help me, asking "So, the usual protocol? You know, hole, take, put?" 

"Pretty much," I replied, and asked to take photos.

Hole

Take

Put

As we take our lives and put them here, hoping to grow roots that might connect us to a new place, as we weather changes to just about every aspect of our lives; I appreciate more than ever what doesn't change at all. 

Mae's skills are no accident. Yes, growth and change are inevitable, but the core lessons learned and experiences gained are our foundation: a "usual protocol" to follow when we find ourselves in yet another new backyard.

This is who we always were, so of course, this is who we still are. And this is who we will stay. 

Capítulo Colombiano

How do you see your life? Does it look like an epic novel, with concise chapters: clear beginnings and endings with proper story arcs in between? Is there some Great Will at work, placing morsels of consequences, good and bad, after each decision you make? Are you tumbling down a hill with the wheels wobbling off?

Big changes are afoot, for me and mine. We stand at an intersection of what was and what will be. 

This moment looks nothing like I thought it would, one year ago. Instead of preparing to celebrate a second Christmas in our new home, we are selling the decorations and going somewhere else. Some of us have already left. 

I am sad to leave Colombia. I am glad to create a loving home in Texas with mi Natalia, my kid, her cat, and our dogs. 

It's just, the mix of emotions has me wanting to define things; call our venture abroad something, so I can acknowledge lessons learned and put it behind me. Turn the page, so to speak.

I guess I'm going with the book metaphor. Okay.

So, if the last year and a half was a chapter in a novel, I'd think "That was unexpected!" I'd think the characters are tender, imperfect, and earnest (so also perfect.)  I'd wonder what will happen next. 

I'd want to read more.

Outer IV: Intro

 This is Natalia.

How do I explain this?

Better said: How did I already explain this?

Because I have explained this, to the people who are impacted.

I have said, "I love her, and she loves me."

Sounds simple, but I know better.

There are questions, and maybe concerns. I address those with the people most impacted.

For everyone else, it might have to suffice for me to say, This is Natalia.

I love her and she loves me.

Outer III:

TW: This post talks about hatred and violence against queer folks.

 Words, man. Right? What do they even mean? 

(She wrote on her blog, full of words.)

Like in my last post, when I tell the story of finally saying out loud that the job description of "woman" has never felt comfortable to me. I wear that moniker like I have always worn so many other aspects of female-ness, obligingly, but without wanting them, and eventually shedding them.

It was probably for the best.

I always hoped that it would be good enough to act in accordance with my nature, and let the results speak for themselves. Why should I have to tell people who I am? Won't they know me by what I do?

Want another story? 

In high school, I knew two guys who were friends. Let's call them Bobby and Steve. 

Bobby was shy. A big sweet mop-topped boy, who always had a smile. Steve was sharp. Lean, shaved head, outspoken, who also always had a smile. 

One day Steve came to school in a skirt. 

In Oklahoma. In the early nineties. 

It was a long rayon skirt that dusted the top of his Dr. Marten boots, paired with a t-shirt that read, I'M NOT GAY BUT MY BOYFRIEND IS. By midday, the look was complete, with bright fuschia lipstick. 

In Oklahoma. In the early nineties. 

Later that day, there was a pep assembly. We all filed in and took our place on the bleachers, so that we could do the orchestrated shouting and clapping. Sessions of collectively losing it and yelling WOOOOO! were punctuated by sitting and staring at cheerleaders and coaches, who convinced us, through coordinated dance moves and inspirational speeches, that we really were #1. 

As the hollerfest started to wind down and people left the gym, I got a clear view of all the golden boys: our team, which would destroy the other team and confirm our faith in the greatness of ourselves. They were seated together, and very focused on Bobby and Steve, who were on the bleachers next to the them.

Smack dab in the middle of Bobby's forehead, was a big fuschia kiss mark.

The athletes were riled, ready to take on any challenge, destroy any competition. But it wasn't the analogous set of high school athletes two towns over that had them so mad. 

The spittle rained from their lips as they fired obscenities and slurs at Bobby and Steve. You already know the words, right? I don't have to tell you. 

They were a small mob, faces contorted by rage, barely able to stay in their seats as they hissed the most hateful threats and insults they could summon up, for a boy who proudly kissed another boy.

In response, Steve stood up, waving two middle fingers in the air at them, looking delighted. Bobby, besmooched, sat beside him, smiling nervously.

According to the values instilled during my upbringing, gay was about the worst word that you could be. I learned it, believed it, and professed it. But I could feel that assumption undoing itself, as I watched the best of the best, acting so much worse.

Also, I had no idea. Nobody did. That in that smiley pair of boy friends, only one of them was gay, and it wasn't Steve. 

Dedicated to the memory of Nex Benedict, a non-binary student who was brutally attacked in the bathroom of that very high school.

In Oklahoma.  This year.

Outer: II

In my last post, I talked about making a decision. Say things or don't say things.

In another post, written two years ago, I describe how saying things went. 

Asked to tell the truth or lie, about being queer, I told the truth. It was the first step toward aligning what others knew about me, with what I understood about myself.  It was liberating and empowering, but it was just the beginning. I mean, what did I understand about myself? 

How about another story?

In 2014, I visited Colombia for the first time. It was a dream come true for this mom of four who hadn't left her backyard for over a decade. My own time, space, bathroom: it was unbelievably luxurious.  I worked, visited the gym, adventured, rested, and made new friends. Those four weeks felt like the culmination of a dream, with scattered seeds of new dreams sown.

Among my future dreams were many ideas, to return to Colombia, to live, work, inspire, and be inspired.

Not among my future dreams: getting my nails done.

So, when the hostess of my Airbnb called her favorite nail artist for a house visit, I was a mere spectator. Chatting in clunky Spanish, I  marveled at how deftly the artist adorned the hostess' fingertips with tiny sunsets of gradient color. Exquisite little palm tree silhouettes  stood in the foreground and gave the illusion of ten tiny tropical days´ end. I was completely enchanted and lavished the artist with my best attempt at Spanish compliments. 

Then she turned to me, looking expectant. 

The hostess informed me that she wanted to treat me to a manicure. It was my turn to be adorned! All I had to do was choose colors and themes, and enjoy the pampering and festooning that surely every girl longs for and could never refuse, right?

Not sure what to say, I heard a sprinkling of "no"s and "gracias"es escape my numb smiling face. 

The hostess sighed wearily, as though she were about explain a difficult  and obvious truth. 

She kindly said that I needed to do more, as a woman. My hair, my face, my clothes, were too plain. Being a woman, she said, was a job; one that I was not doing very well. The manicure was her way of helping me do better.

I stared at both of them, knowing that my androgynous presentation was intentional. The many reasons, I could barely articulate in English, so I had no hope of being understood in Spanish. When her lecture on my inadequacy as a female paused, I presented my stance in a way that I hoped would be both comprehensible, and close the subject for good. 

"I did not accept the job of being a woman. It was never offered to me, and I never accepted it."

Followed with a that's how it is sort of smile, I said no more. And neither did she.

THE END

But like I said before, it was just the beginning. Especially as I realized the dream of living, working, inspiring, and being inspired in Colombia. 

Having put into words that I did not accept automatic conformity to everyone's expectations of femininity has been helpful here, because it keeps coming up. Work dress codes and formal events in a country where the binary is so strong, have me showing up like

that's how it is.

Rather than feeling like a failure at a title I never asked for, I have long suspected I might be fabulous at being something else. 

to be continued

Outer: I

Before-school meetings, after-school meetings. Don't teachers do enough? Making it to their classrooms on time, possessing (at least slightly) more wherewithal than the pack of eight year olds with whom they spend nearly all day?

The answer: no. Not even teachers think that it is enough to teach. 

We have to meet about what we're going to teach. 

We have to meet about how we're going to teach it. 

We have to meet about if we're going to teach it. 

Collaboration, deliberation, and listening all fill the hour before kids come in and the hours after they leave, as we all try to find the same page and be on it. 

It was in such a meeting, that I made the decision to come out.

Third grade was learning about Alvin Ailey, sort of. 

He was a gifted dancer and choreographer, whose story stands on its own, and sheds light on social issues of his time. Sort of.  

It was decided, in that meeting, that for our purposes, Alvin would be an inspired black artist, but a very large aspect of his life would go unmentioned. It's not that we would lie. We just wouldn't say it out loud. Kids, probably wouldn't ask, so we wouldn't tell. 

As one teacher in the room put it, "We taught them about Jackson Pollock, and he was really not a nice guy. We don't have to present every detail about Alvin Ailey. We can say that his 'partner' was just his dance partner. I know as a parent, I wouldn't want my children's teachers exposing them to that." 

"That" was the famously known truth: Alvin Ailey was gay.

I sat there, not surprised. But, not comfortable. I wondered how much of that would have been said around me, if she knew more about me.

How could I explain a part of me only evident in my presentation? My life looked liked hers, with a husband and beloved children. 

That meeting was just the latest in a series of before and after-school shows where I had a front row seat to a colleague's disgust with an integral part of who I am. 

My silence was beginning to feel deceptive. Complicit.

Alvin Ailey could be edited, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I mentioned the as-of-yet unmentionable. 

In print and out loud: queer. 

Proud. 

to be continued