How To Make A Paintbrush Stand

 

Picture it: you are painting a pretty flower, but then you need to switch brushes quickly. 

QUICKLY! It is watercolor and you have to act fast!

So, you put the paintbrush you were using 'twixt your teeth, and grab another brush to add fine details before everything dries.

But wait! There needs to be one more swab of blue with the big brush that...where did I put that brush? *Searches table top. Finds blue trail leading to the edge and... .*

There it is, on the floor with dog hair, dust, and blue watery paint. It must have rolled off.

And while you were searching for it, you didn't notice, but you kind of painted your shoulder, with that other brush still clamped in your mouth.

What can be done to prevent such a terrible scenario?

Make a paintbrush stand! 

With... IDK,  stale playdough? 

Or a hotdog bun. Or maybe a banana.

Honestly IDC. Just prop ém up on something so you can keep painting the pretty flower.

Happy Painting!

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.

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What.

Did I not explain it well enough? I mean, I could tell you how I made that particular paintbrush stand you see it the photo, but it involved so much more than just getting some air-dry clay, forming it to look like a cute row of houses, adding charming colorful details, sealing it, and propping brushes upon it.

Here's how I made that paintbrush stand, for anyone still reading.

1. Start with leisure time and mental peace enough to be watching watercolor tutorials in the first place.*

*This first step is essential, because it is how you randomly see one in which somebody rests their unused brushes on a cute tiny row of clay houses. Start by assuming that you need a little rest and that your interests deserve to be cultivated. Go from there.

2. Find the air-dry clay and clay-shaping tools in your craft supplies. Use these items to create a basic little rectangular prism with carved out rooftops, doors, and window frames.*

*This one is nearly impossible if you are a transient and adventurous, yet driven, type. 

Because: 

A variety of organized craft supplies? Stored where, in my suitcase? 

And why are we wasting time on this? Just so we can lose even more time to painting later? 

Isn´t there a thesis to work on, or a document to submit, or a notary to track down, or a bus to catch to the grocery store? 

3. Etch and paint to make it cute enough to photograph and blog about.

*Hardest part yet. You have to want to make yourself smile. 

Do you? 

If you just attempted a big family leap abroad, which resulted in all kinds of unintended outcomes, this one might take some time.

Everyone had to readjust to a whole new life that 

a) looks nothing like the one they grew up in 

and 

b) looks nothing like the one you thought you were making for them.

Even if it all ended well, that might bring some guilt. Some self-doubt. Some hesitation to let anything matter too much again.

If you hate yourself, even a little, work through that before attempting the last step. 

Otherwise, the little clay houses will be ugly. You may as well use a hotdog bun, in fact.

You have to love that person who will paint pretty flowers. 

You have to want her to rest, enjoy creative pursuits, and smile when she sets down her paintbrush.

Legendary

It was a messy and loud, but incredibly beautiful, time of my life. Seduced by the frustrating and charming mix of mud, straw, and lego bricks, how could I not lean in, asking for puppies? 

Kids everywhere, chickens all out there, and kittens: not yet. That was the Christmas there were puppies. Eight of them. In a box our living room, in our kitchen, in the laundry room, on our laps and in our arms. Then, out into the world, to live with new families.

Except Zelda. She stayed with us, and joined the pack. Even when she was bigger and stronger, she deferred to the older dogs, especially the decrepit chihuahua, Laszlo. He put her in her place when she was a pup, growling and nipping when she went for his food bowl. She never forgot that he was in charge, even when she towered over him and could have easily trampled him into the mud.

She relished playing in snow and the ocean in Oregon. It was in Oregon that she also discovered her keen talent for freeing, chasing, and snapping the necks of our backyard flock of chickens. Our appreciation for her skills was never sufficient, but that didn't stop her from trying again and again.

She endured international travel twice, and spent a whole year in Colombia. In Texas, she delighted in prancing and rolling around her big grassy backyard.

She also adores this lady, who dotes on her like nobody ever has. Naty's love and attention has been Zelda's best home, making her last year the sweetest of all of them.

For the kids and me, Zelda is a thread that connects us to a place we no longer call home, and she is fading away.

Her fifteenth birthday passed in December. On that day, as usual, she acted like a 15 month old. A few months later, we now feel we would be lucky to have 15 more days with her. 

It isn't messy and loud anymore, but life is still incredibly beautiful. Seduced by the painful and charming mix of memories, regrets, and gratitude, how could I not lean in and take her whole ear in my hand, whispering "You're such a good good dog."

A Tale of Two Aloe Vera Plants: II

We were just a diverse bunch of recent arrivals to Houston, talking about our daily activities and interests; when the aloe vera plant came up. 

You like growing plants? What is sábila? Ooooh, aloe vera. I really want one of those. Well, I have one. Kind of....

I was talking plants with a new student, but not a young one. She is a local mother, and recent transplant from Cuba. 

In order to make ends meet, I spent my summer teaching ESL at the Bilingual Education Institute to adult refugees and asylum-seekers in the U.S.A. During a class conversation activity, I asked students to choose a photo on their phone, and talk about it.

Seeing the pictures of her patio plant collection, I felt an instant bond. I too make a new place feel more mine by growing, caring for, and photographing a Little Eden. My obvious interest in the aloe vera prompted her to offer me a "baby" from it, should one spring up. I lit up at her friendly offer. It felt nice to be settling in to my new home, chatting flora with a fellow philo.

A few days later, she brought me this. 

Now, I know they say things run big in Texas, 

but this ain't no baby.

Weighing nearly 20 pounds, with teeth that really bite, it felt as likely to injure a person as heal them. I checked multiple times, did she really want me to have it? Such an immense treasure, all for me?

Although, I struggled to carry it, and did cut myself transplanting it, its formidable form is exactly what filled me with joy. When one of its sharp spikes carved a little red line on my finger, I was completely in love, thinking "You got me! Better be careful with you..."

The plant´s massive and unexpected abundance matched what I experienced as a teacher for BEI. With only 7 weeks to cultivate little classroom communities, I did not anticipate yielding such a bountiful harvest of friendship.

My students brought their absolute best to class each night, often after grueling workdays and/or family duties. Every weeknight, our classroom was home to chatter, laughter, jokes, sympathy, and gratitude. Students shared stories of horror from their homelands, and real triumphs here, in spite of arduous struggles.

After the last lessons and good-bye parties were done, we stayed in touch on WhatsApp. 

Messages, photos, and gifs flooded the de facto emotional support group chat. Students (and their teacher) recalled feeling a needed sense of home with each other, after so many changes to the lives we had known before. When I shared a photo of my new classroom, they cheered for my little step toward adaptation.

Changing countries, jobs, and homes multiple times over the last two years has left me longing to feel settled. I am happy, safe, and in love, but the roots need time to make their way through yet another new substrate.

Over the years, you can see my efforts to raise people, food, animals, money, ability, and mobilize into a career abroad. What may miss the eye is that it came with an ever-stronger sense of solitude. 

What I thought was the vision of "our" future, was mine alone, it turns out. A devotee of hyper-independence, it took a while for me to realize how much isolation it yields. One accomplishment after another still did not create a sense of connection.

Now, the learning curve for our new home has been Texas-style big and hefty. Driving the Houston highways is no joke, and the weather often feels like Mother Nature never really liked you and wants you to know it every minute of every day. 

But, a beautiful opportunity presents itself here. Like a river delta, all kinds of us have washed ashore, and make rich possibilities for a new life. In just eight months, hearts from Africa, Asia, the Middle East, the Caribbean, Europe, and Latin America have surrounded me wherever I live, work, or shop. Our common humanity becomes our only ground, so we all get to growing.

To make with the plant metaphors just one more time. I mean two more times:

With any new transplant, patience is key. Provide for its needs, care for it well, let it be,

and wait for the flourishing.

A Tale of Two Aloe Vera Plants: I

Homeschooling blogs and plant metaphors are companion perennials. All the aligned themes of growth and change and loss and flourish and resilience, I can't write much that isn't eventually overrun by their compatibility. It runs intertwined and wild, littering my words with heart-shaped leaves and white trumpet flowers, like bindweed in my former backyard in Oregon. 

Former. Like a lot of things. So many changes taking place render everything unrecognizable.

These days, I dedicate a little time to plants, and even less time to homeschooling, yet it is impossible to sit at this moment in my life and not need the plants to teach me something. Or just to tell me something.

A Tale of Two Aloe Vera Plants:

1. 

He stopped, due to an afterthought. One of my most challenging, so of course favorite, students threw his backpack to my feet. "Mislazlo I brought you this Happy Teachers Day even though you're a sub you're a good teacher!" he proclaimed, proudly producing a small plant in an adorable turquoise rainboot planter. 

I gasped, at first in appreciation, then concern. The plant, an aloe vera, was just what I had been wishing to add to my growing garden,* but it was severely battered by its ride in the neurodivergent nine year-old's backpack. I thanked and side-hugged the giver warmly,  placed the plant on my desk, and made a silent vow to try my best to bring it back to life, while being at peace with its eventual passing.

Dedicated but detached. 

*get it? growing? like I said before, bindweed.

Could I care for a plant known to cure and heal us? My life is currently a wild mix of learning curves, so I have had serious self-doubts. New neural pathways must develop in the aftermath of a big change. Transplanting to Texas is of course a major adjustment, albeit a lovely one. Here, and now, it is time to focus on what we know. 

Comfort comes from the familiar use of tendrils I had already outstretched into the soil and air. From our first December days here, I self-soothed by plunking green onion and romaine stumps into soil, just to make their green cells continue dividing. It reassured me that maybe sometimes I could still make good things happen on purpose.

That raggedy aloe vera had to make it!

I mean, whatever it's cool. Maybe it won't, and that's is okay too, but....

I might have derived a little too much restoration of faith in my life, just from seeing a few green spears poke up through the soil like that. The whole plant could be beautiful, as it mirrors the resilience and determination necessary for life's bumpy backpack ride. 

The End.

Lesson learned, right? Just hang in there, baby. Eventually you too can come back, looking grotesque but still here darnit. Dare to dream. 

You know I thought about blogging about it back when it happened. 

But, honestly I was kind of depressed by my interpretation of this particular metaphor. I just never really felt like writing about it.

Until....

to be continued

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

Pretenders

Hablas muy bien el español.

¿Yo?

¡Sí!

A, pues...gracias, muchas gracias. Es una meta más grande, gracias.*

*Always said with my fingers touching, just above my heart, to denote humility.

I noticed that I do this when someone compliments my Spanish. I thank them, cite it as an important life goal, and resist the urge to put myself down by substituting with a physical gesture.

Ever feel like a phony? 

Like you have nowhere near what is needed for the moment, but there you are anyway?

Ever see yourself performing so crudely, through a thick accent and butchered syntax, that you cannot believe that anyone could ever possibly believe in you? Okay, maybe that last example got a little specific to me, but whew. Striving for stuff is hard enough in one's native language. Doing it in a learned language is like the imposter icing on the fake-it-'til-you-make-it cake. It.

Sorry. Where was I?

Oh yeah, in Colombia.

In love with the adventure of building a new home and life in this beautiful place full of kind hearts.  Invigorated by challenges and achievements encountered daily at my new job. In a state of utter confusion, at times. In over my head, as usual. 

But more at ease about feeling out of my depths, maybe because of something I know, in Spanish. I know that right now, we are pretenders, and that's okay. Because pretender, in Spanish, can mean to aim. 

And doesn't that make a lot of sense? 

To aim at something is to head toward it, perhaps with all the confidence of having already accomplished it. But how else does one arrive? How else is the target hit, unless it is aimed at? Where do we go if we don't pretend we're going there first?

Our family observes the New Year's tradition of running around the neighborhood at midnight with luggage, to bring good fortune to the year's travels; superstitious fun or endurance test, depending on the weather. 

Twelve months ago, as we layered and packed, preparing to pretend again, we knew we were aiming to live in Colombia by the end of the year.  With so many more questions than answers, we dragged our suitcases down the street and took the obligatory selfie. All the while I wondered about what the next New Year's Eve would be like. 

That date was so far out of view, we could only head toward it, like arrows finding a target in a world of possible landings. It was an auspicious start and the trajectory has stayed true to our aim: to be together in Colombia, beginning a family chapter as immigrants. As outsiders. As newcomers. 

As pretenders.

New Backyard

Scrolling and staring, I did not expect to see a picture of my living room, all of a sudden. Our piano, with its lamp and globe, and seashells strewn across the top: just as I left it nearly 5 months ago. 

Free piano to a good home. 

I was transported to a moment, 13 years earlier, when my baby sat on my lap, pounding the keyboard with her chubby hands. The window nearby was open to enjoy some evening air, and to share her musical stylings with the neighbors.

Let me explain. The two younger kids and I have sojourned to a new continent, to see what life might hold for us in Colombia. The dad of the house, stayed with the house, to manage its transfer to a new family. He and the dog of the house are now plotting their journey to Colombia, where we hope to celebrate Christmas together in a new home.

Let me explain. This all started about a year ago. My last visit to Manizales, Colombia made us determined. We wanted to live there, I mean here. I mean, in another part of Colombia, but still.

Let me explain. Wait. There's way too much to say in one post. 

How do I sum up the entirety of growing a family in a home and feeling the myriad changes as we all bust out of that home and disperse to our respective fortunes? How to convey the feelings of nostalgia and excitement that seem to get along so well with each other in my head? How to describe the experience of taking two kids, born in the that house, so far from it we may never see it again? Seems impossible.

It might have to be enough that all of it just happened. There, in our home for 20 years, we grew vegetables, fruit, eggs, bakers, gardeners, artists, scientists, and musicians. Some of those things are still yielding bright beautiful blooms that continue to surprise us. Even though the titular backyard of this blog made most of it possible, it was never about that particular patch of ground. The same songs are being played on a different piano.

Memories are lovely, but looking forward is living. 

Which was the educational experience we've been after all along. 

Hard to Swallow

(TW: this post contains a story about choking. It was hard for me to write, and it might be hard for some to read. It's also a little gross.)

What's worse than biting into an apple and seeing a worm?"* I asked him, during snack time at my new place of employment: a bilingual school in Colombia. My student looked up at me with wide curious eyes and asked the requisite joke follow-up, "What?"

Seeing as how I was actually eating an apple at that moment, and considered it rude that I was talking to him while chewing some of it, I decided to swallow quickly before telling him the punchline. 

A second later I realized I should have chewed a little longer, but figured it was too late. I would feel that mouthful going all the way down. Not fun, but I'd survived such discomfort before; and as long as I delivered the punchline, the suffering would be my secret.

Except...

It didn't go down. It stopped. I gave a little cough to clear my airway, and realized, I could not breathe at all. I could feel the piece of apple lodged firmly in my throat, blocking my ability to breathe.

I made a "just a second" gesture and walked away from my students, seeking desperately to be away from people while I dealt with the consequences of my foolishness. Dropping to my knees behind a sign, I spat all of the apple bits out of my mouth, and tried to gag or cough up the large piece obstructing my windpipe.

Nothing. 

I started to turn purple.

A co-worker saw me and patted my back roughly, asking if I was okay. I lifted an arm and flapped it feebly.

The edges of my field of vision dimmed.

He ran for help. I was fading when I heard the school nurse shouting instructions behind me.  Her arms wrapped around my torso and her fist dug suddenly under my ribs. 

The Heimlich didn't do the trick. 

I felt her gloved fingers jam into my mouth, probing back as far as they could to activate my gag reflex. That worked. Sort of. The deadly little apple bit moved a millimeter, allowing a tiny precious stream of air to flow around it. I came back, able to breathe a little. She managed to find a ripe banana and convinced me to try swallowing a small piece of it. I did, and the apple was pushed down the right tube, on its way to my stomach, with the heroic banana chunk.

This was on the second day of school. 

Afterward, the nurse tended to me, gave me water, advice, and asked how I felt. 

How did I feel? My throat was raw, my ribs were bruised; but what hurt worse was my pride. 

I told her I was okay, but mortified. She looked horrified. "WHY?" she asked, incredulously. "All that matters is that you are safe and alive!" I agreed and felt silly for focusing on how embarrassed I was. "All that matters is that your kids' mom is okay!" Yes, yes, I knew that too. 

As the day went on, my kind and friendly colleagues, some of whom had witnessed my near demise, and some who had heard about it, checked on me frequently. Concerned faces, sympathy, relief that I was okay: I knew I was surrounded by genuine care, and all of it made me feel worse and worse. I tried to avoid people for the next few hours.

Afternoon arrived and the nurse found me, asking how I felt. I gave her a quick thumbs up, but she looked worried and started to tell me how to care for myself at home afterward. She said I should call or message her if I needed anything.

If I needed anything. 

Another lump blocked my throat, but this one was of my own making. Tears filled my eyes and I spent a second trying to figure out why.

Why, when I should have been grateful for caring coworkers, and a good end to a bad event, why was I burning with shame?

Once again, the nurse got right to the problem. "I know you have a hard time asking for help..." she started. 

My thoughts: What? You don't know me, lady! If I need help, I can ask for it all by myself, (provided I can breathe and speak.) Besides, it's not an issue because I do my best never to need help. 

I'm very independent.

Turns out, she wasn't talking about just me, but me and mine. My culture. We (and Germans) have a reputation, among people here, of suffering under the delusion that we can get through life on our own. Many of the Colombian folks I have spoken with have tales of foreigners coming here and nearly perishing from the common cold, or traveling with garbage bags, all because they were so reticent to solicit or accept help.

She asked, "What do you all think? That people who accept help are weak?"

I thought for a minute. 

In that minute, I flashed back to one of many childhood memories that is drenched in searing Oklahoma sunshine. My mom and I were on the side of a busy road, under construction; walking to school, where I had just started 3rd grade. She had decided that was the day I would walk the rest of the way to school by myself. Big chunks of upturned red earth all around, cars whizzing by, I panicked as she told me I'd be going it alone. I must have protested because I vividly remember squinting up at her as she told me firmly, "Rebekah. It is important for you to be independent." So I was. I walked along the road alone, picking my way around the construction zone without issue. I felt stupid for wishing she'd stayed with me and kept in mind that I didn't need others as much as I might think at first. 

Over the years, I had been grateful for that lesson, and tried to live accordingly. Working hard, enjoying some privilege, and playing it safe made collaborating with others purely a choice; rarely a desperate need. Making something from nothing, defying odds, standing on my own feet, with bootstraps for pulling myself up? I guess? My point is, it wasn't just my mom. These qualities are admired where I come from. She was preparing me for the life she knew I should be able to live.

Something dislodged in me as I answered the nurse, "When people need help, I want to help them. But, if I need help, all I can do is think of the mistakes I made that put me in that vulnerable situation, and blame myself for needing anyone." 

Her eyes reflected a level of compassion, mixed with revulsion at viewing oneself so harshly. She told me that I was going to have to get used to people being very involved and helpful with everyone around them here. I knew that, it's one of the reasons I wanted to live in Colombia in the first place. What I didn't know was how hard it would be for me not to hate myself for ever truly needing it. 

So, is everything figured out, fixed, all better? Not exactly, but I'll be here for at least a year. Maybe, during that time, deep programming within me will move a millimeter and let me breathe, even when I don't think I deserve to. 

*joke answer: Biting into an apple and seeing half a worm.

crackeroni

 George:

We made some mac & cheese!

Mae: They were gonna be BALLS.

ORIGINALly. They were gonna be in

BALL

FORM

George:

This was made using a recipe passed

down from our great great grandmother,

who unfortunately died yesterday. She

made them for me when I was 7, and I

REALLY LOVED them! They were my

new favorite food. She taught me how to

make them, and then I made them for a

picnic, and everybody at the picnic

loved them too! I even went to the

cooking convention with them, and won.

Mae: Grandmother!!!!@##@#@!#!#@132 

aka allrecipes.com.

 I miss her.

 she also made relly god cinnamon rolls thta were syuepr crunchy and good

. They were the best and we had them for christmas eveerry year 

and they had really good sauxe 

. we learned how to make them along with the macorini and they were so good 

and easy to make. you need butter and flour and sugar and cinnamon and wwwwow!

 i got off topic

WE NEEDED AN

AIRFRYEr

BUT it didnt have a rack for the bottom.

George:

Ummm… yeah. We couldn’t make mac &

cheese balls in the air fryer since it

didn’t have a basket. So, we just put it in

the toaster oven and ate it normally. We

had to go to that grocery store in the

mall, but couldn’t find all the

ingredients.

Mae:

The universe asked if we wanted macncheese balls and we said yes and then it said NO. there was NO PARSELY AT THE DUMB STORE. the parseley was for a different recipe. ANYWASY we ajust made cheese sause(sauce) with saltine crackers as flour instead of flour which is really cool and smart and i didnt even TELL the DIFFERENCE between NORMAL SHCEESE SAUSCWE and SALTINE CHWES SAUDWE. AND WE DIDN'T EVEN NEED IT actually it was pretty good anywas BUT WE DIDNT NEED IT FORT HE BALLS.

George:

Uhhh… yeah. What she said. All that

work for nothing. Well, actually, it wasn’t

nothing, because after all that, we still

ended up with some tasty macaroni and

cheese.

Mae:

GGGGRRRRR IM SO

ANGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ALL

THAT WORK FOR..

NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

George:

OK, we’re done. Blog post over.

Mae:

I dont like jenga

Our Last Morning

 TW: This post is about the passing of a young friend who lived with a terminal condition. 

I saw you alive, for the last time, fourteen weeks ago. 

It was one of those late Sunday morning visits, when I bored you by talking to your mom too much. With no other kids around, and few duties to perform, we caught up and allowed our conversation the ease we enjoy now, as good friends.

That day, something was bothering you, and you let us know. Grimaces and pained whimpers from time to time compelled us to rearrange you and tend to you, while chatting. From your little mesh chair, to a blanket spread on your living room floor, we changed your location and position when you expressed your discontent. You accepted our attention and intention and waited before complaining again. 

The mom-versation waned, and the ukulele I usually carried with me came out of its case. I lay on the floor, next to you, strumming a tune to warm up and get your attention. Your mom took advantage of a moment to work, and she stepped away. Eventually, I settled into a song you have enjoyed for years: What Do We Do With A Sleepy Pirate? (my own, kid-friendly version of the Drunken Sailor song) 

As I leaned into the "HEAVE HO and UP she rises!" you turned to me, eyes lighting up with recognition. You smiled that smile, as if to say "There we go! Keep that up." So I did, and you kept smiling. 

Once upon a time, the lyrics I invented for that song used to describe all of the things I knew you did in the morning before coming to school.

What do we do with a sleepy pirate, early in the morning?

Get her out of bed and feed her some oatmeal...

Brush her hair and make a cute ponytail...

Get her dressed and put her shoes on...

Drive her to school where Laszlo is waiting...

No thanks to MPS and COVID, your morning to-do list had changed significantly over the years. A G-tube is how you got your breakfast anymore. You spent most of most days at home, so while clothes and grooming were still a part of your day, the bother of a ponytail or shoes were no longer needed. No more drive to school, by bus or your mom's car. You had to wait for Laszlo to come to you, and when she finally did, she just sat in your living room talking to your mom most of the time. 

Knowing so little about your mornings, I floundered slightly, determined to keep singing to your smile: Come down the hall and sit in your chair? Listen to your brother talk about Super Mario? 

EARLY IN THE MORNING! 

The gusto with which I hit that last line made you smile, which kept me singing. You kept smiling and I kept singing.

Two weeks later, you died. 

When I got the news, our last visit was not my first thought; but it came to me eventually. Sort of an immutable truth, the finality of having looked into your blue eyes for the last time. 

I became acquainted with the disease that was killing you, the moment I met you. The heavy knowledge that I would likely outlive you was something I carried with me as I walked out to meet you at school each morning, as we walked around your classrooms, as I fed you in the school cafeteria, or while I drove you to the library after school. 

Over the nearly nine years I had known you, I wondered what my last living memory of you would be, and tried not to dwell on that question with every good-bye. Whether bidding you farewell before a weekend, or months of international travel, your frailty had to be held at arm's length. Otherwise, I might never have stopped squeezing you and kissing the top of your head. I might not have taken what you taught me into new life adventures.

As I think about those last moments with you, I am struck by how much it resembled most of our time together. Charged with your care and seeing to the quality of your life, I often felt inadequate for the task at hand. Nevertheless, guided by your acceptance of my efforts, Heave Ho!, I carried on. 

You helped me give up on being good enough, and just focus on being. Being loud, loving, in touch, and able to glide forward, so very imperfectly. Singing the song: loudly when I knew what to say, and softly when I didn't. 

But to keep singing. 

Late Parade

The first question was easy. 

My colleagues and I  were nearly done with our final training session. It was dark outside of my classroom, not only because it was December, but also because it was late. We were wrapping up many hours of professional development after a full day of being actual professionals, so I was grateful for easy questions.

"How many of you can call yourselves a 'person of color?' If you are among that group, type 'IN'! If not, type, 'OUT'!"

The speaker was eminent educator for those of us who work in bilingual education: Dr. José Medina. In case you neither Tik, nor Tok, he is a force for linguistic justice in public education. Besides very practical strategies for language teachers and learners, he emphasizes equity for all students who experience marginalization in the classroom. His fabulous and engaging personality reached across the Zoom connection that evening, making sure we were as involved as 10 or so people seated at their respective electronic devices could be. 

My most prominent hue being the blue veinery, criss-crossing my fairly fair skin, it was easy to type "OUT" in the chat comments. My colleagues and friends in that meeting mostly counted themselves as "IN," and we were on to the next question.

"Now! How many of you count yourselves among the LGBTQ+ community? Same thing! 'IN,' if so, 'OUT' if not!"

As I watched "OUT" after "OUT" pop up in the chat, I realized I was about to out myself, by typing "IN."

Which felt simultaneously obvious and irrelevant. I mean, look at me. 

Obvious.

But, also, look at us.

Life, with my husband, and twice the kids you see in this photo brings me more joy and love than I could wish for. I would not change anything about it. Asserting that another aspect of myself be known and announced has always felt irrelevant. Nobody asked, so who cares? Except, someone just asked.  

In answering that completely unexpected and ironically binary question, I not only knew that I'd be lying if I typed "OUT."  

I also knew I would also be hiding behind my family; playing coy with haircuts and bowties when other people risk their safety, jobs, homes, families, and lives for being truthful in moments just like that one. 

I would be betraying what I have always taught my own children about human diversity, about being brave enough to be truthful, and knowing that the people in your life desperately need the most honest version of you.

 "I" then a deep breath and, "N."   

Before I could think about it, I submitted my comment with a click on *Enter,* while trying to appear nonchalant in front of my webcam. 

Nobody cares. Obvious and irrelevant, right? 

Then, why were my hands shaking? 

The meeting ended soon afterward. I put on my coat, grabbed my bag and keys, and left my classroom. Motion-sensing lights in the dark hallway popped on, one by one, bathing my way in white light, as I walked to the exit. 

A growing stillness settled within me. 

My car waited in the nearly empty parking lot. I got in, started the engine, and selected a playlist for the drive home. The music started and the heater was warming up when I turned onto the highway and sped toward town. 

Breathing felt easy and my thoughts were simple. It's hard to explain. I felt like I finally owned all of myself. June could not be further away, but I felt, well,   

proud.

(Thanks to Golden Hour Images 2 for the beautiful photos.)