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.)

Just To Doing It

 Most balls don't go, BOING! BOING! BOING!, do they? 

But these do.

Especially when there's a six-year old astride one, driving it like a bucking bronco across a shiny gymnasium floor. Oh yeah, and there are twenty other six-year olds doing the exact same thing.

O! The boinging! The giggling! The squealing! The shouting! 

This is why most elementary students love P.E. When else would things get this zany? 

Their laughter bounced brightly off of every surface of the room. Their shiny squeaky energy reached us, even though we were sitting far away, just watching.

On the clock, I was okay with it. My new job, as a 1:1 assistant for a young student with special needs, brought with it a fast friendship. I enjoyed every minute of work at a school, but I was a grown-up after all. We are okay with sitting and watching kids wear themselves out. 

Also, Anni's safety was all that mattered. Other kids could get band-aids and ice packs if they suffered a playground or P.E. mishap. I could not abide any bumps or bruises on my watch, so, I happily followed the directions to take her to P.E.. "She can watch the kids play." So that's what we did.

We also watched kids practice writing letters in shaving cream. We watched them paw through the contents of a substance table We watched them giggle together under a rainbow-colored parachute. We watched them bounce-race on red rubber hoppers. 

And that's not all we did. We smelled the crisp, clean foam. We heard the rattle of beans and glass pebbles in plastic scooping cups. We noticed the undulating silk that all of her friends suddenly disappeared under. We sensed the completely contagious glee of bouncing boingers. Vicarious fun is still fun, right? 

Caught up in the action, Anni started to bounce on my lap, her only sound the squeak of her rubber chewy as she chomped excitedly. That squeaking stopped for a second as she held the chewy aloft, pondered the merry little ball-riders for a moment, then stated emphatically, 

" I want TO DOING it." 

By then, MPS had taken her speech away, except for a few surprises. In the month I had known Anni, I had only heard her say "picklepicklepickle," which, I'm totally down with pickles, so that was cool... Nevertheless,  I did most of the talking when we hung out.

 Degenerative diseases make for constant changes and adjustments, but we had just met. Non-verbal Anni was all I knew before that moment. That moment she changed everything, which is just what she does.

Short-term impact: 

We went to get a red ball for her as I proclaimed loftily, "THEN YOU SHALL TO DOING IT!"

The ball stayed mostly stable, wedged between my feet, while she bounced up and down. I clenched it like crazy and clutched her underarms, terrified that she might miss or fall or just cry because the whole thing was a terrible idea. Instead, she giggled and went boing for the rest of P.E.

Afterward, I was as red as a hopper, damp with sweat, and exuberant with triumph. 

Long-term impact:

That feeling stayed. Those words stayed too. They came to mind every time she and I watched kids do something fun. Those words also made me a little mad at myself for being so cautious in the beginning. Of course she wanted to be a part of the fun! What kid doesn't want what all the other kids have?

Anni didn't have to say anything to me to convince me that she was fun and sweet, I could tell right away. 

But, she did have to tell me to stop making her watch kids live the life she wanted to live. She did have to tell me to take chances, to be creative, to ask for things, to invent solutions, to work with colleagues, to expect special treatment for a special kid, to ask for it without apology. 

Away from her, her words still ring in my head like a million giggles bouncing around a gym. Since then, there have been similar moments, sitting and watching, waiting and wanting to doing it. Her affirmation that spectating is insufficient, left its mark. Some of the chances I have taken are based on that lesson she taught me. With one sentence, one day, she changed everything. 

That's just what she does.   

Clase Clase

In case you youngens  ever read an old dusty blog, this post is dedicated to my students, in this, my first year as a licensed, certified, bona fide teacher. Your teacher.

What a year, amirite? We started on screens, peering at each other daily through webcams, spamming the chat, taking turns telling our stories. You decorated a classroom you had not yet visited by sending me art in the mail.

 Eventually you came to the building in half-sized groups, half of the time, to walk through foggy hallways in hazmat gear and stay in little taped off spaces on the floor.

I'd make an E.T. reference here, but would you even get it? 

I guess I didn't care if you got the O Brother, Where Art Thou reference, so here.

Now, we are all in the classroom together, in our latest learning model, in this strangest of school years, trying to"finish strong."

I know you all and I will hear that advice a lot in the weeks to come, queridos estudiantes. 

I think those who cheer on a strong finish mean well. I think they are trying to say all is not lost, never stop learning, carpe diem, growth mindset, go team. And I agree with all o' that.

Here's another one for extra credit. 

I guess I just don't see the point in urging ourselves to finish strong, when I know how strong we've been this whole time.  

Damas y caballeros, we met under raining ash and a glowing red sky, as the literal world around us was on literal fire, okay? We been strong. 

It seems like only yesterday that I strode out to your family cars, in line at the school's socially-distant orientation. 

The cloth mask I wore for the global pandemic served double duty, blocking some of the particulate matter flying around. The hot, smoky wind stung my eyes and my mind rehearsed the words I was about to shout, in either language, over a hundred running car engines, through a face covering, at you and your relations. I handed over a school laptop, some paperwork, attempted to explain virtual school, and clung to what I knew for sure as I gave this speech:

"No matter what, these kids are growing and becoming smarter every day. They will not stop doing that, even if they are not at school. There will be challenges, but we will communicate and we will get through this together. We can have a great year!"

I believed every word, but even then, I had no idea how true it was. In spite of everything changing constantly, confusing all of us in new and bewildering ways; in spite of uncomfortable solutions and hugs deferred, we have all learned so much, and everyone of us has been nothing but strong. 

Sometimes we were swimming around in a cloud of confusion, but maybe that's when we were strongest of all. 

As the year winds down, I'll nod politely when encouraged to "finish strong." Because I know what whoever tells me that doesn't know.

We are just getting started. 

2020 Did Shine Sometimes

You know how when a blogger shares something delicious or cool they made, they start off by making you read all of the thoughts, emotions, and memories associated with the featured information? Looking for basic food prep advice? Here! Read paragraphs about a grandma you never want to meet, just to find out how to brine a bird.

Well, I'm not going to do that today. 

Here's an old bulletin board that I beautified with a piece of fabric and a whooole lot of matte Modge-Podge. 

That's it. Tired punctured cork surface made pretty and functional with cotton and glue.  I got the idea off the internet, wondered if it'd work, tried it, and it did! The end. See ya later!

Ooh, but one thing I can't help you out with: that adorable calendar. Sure, you could buy your own. I could have bought my own. But that calendar is a gift from a dear friend, celebrating hopes and dreams, realized and unrealized. You can't just put something like this in a virtual shopping cart and click "buy now." 

But, I'm guessing if you still read blogs, you know that great friendships take time. You probably also feel like time seems in shorter supply with every passing day. As I have written before, we experience time in a relative manner. If it seems like each year passes more quickly than the year before it, well, it kind of does, as far as your brain is concerned. 

That phenomenon plus my case of late onset ambition (teachering and studenting) have made the last two years feel jam-packed; even though global pandemic resulted in the closure of most things. Usual compartments enforced by a school and work schedules once defined my time. With that structure in place, I was able to accomplish a large variety of things everyday. 

After the Utter Collapse of Everything, the names of days and hours mattered less, the walls between everything faded. All of the works in progress melted into a big urgent messy pool. Suddenly, I couldn't ever rest, because resting resulted in a gnawing feeling that something important was not being done. I went almost nowhere this year, but have been running nonstop. 

Something changed that, sometimes. Every time. 

Or, I should say, someone. 

She changes everything, that's just what she does.

She's my friend, and I've written about her before. I used to spend nearly everyday with her. 

I also used to think the disease she has would be the reason we'd hang out less. Instead, our daily shenannigans were halted by a disease I hope neither of us gets. Our last school year was cut short, and this school year felt so weird without her little hands in mine. Her tugs and pulls toward interesting people and things. Her musical magic. Her insistence on right now mattering more than anything else. 

You couldn't argue with that, and you never wanted to.

Though our Anntics were less frequent, her family and I stayed determined, and regular hangouts happened anyway. 

2020's obligations enveloped one another and crowded my mind, but my time with her felt spacious and still, even when we were raising a ruckus.

All the swirling worries stay at bay for the length of a book and a song. Guilt not only doesn't gnaw, it is nowhere to be found. 

During those startlingly peaceful moments, I know without a doubt, 

This is what I should be doing now.  

This morning, I felt all excited. 2020 has been extraordinarily difficult and is coming to an end, sure. And yeah, the Modge-Podge I smeared all over my bulletin board dried and it looked great. Works well, yada yada yada.

But what had me really looking forward to today was my new calendar. I snipped the cellophane packaging, slid it out onto my bed, flipped it open to January and marked my first appointment before pinning it up. 

2021 is off to a great start already.

(all of the beautiful photos of Anni and me are the work of Xiomara Gard, of Imago Dei Photography)