Student Quote of the Day

Well... one of them anyways. There are so many.

Context: It is our private "graduation" for the seniors in our Environmental Education core group in our school. They've been together with the program for two years... which means at least six camping trips plus a mess of day hikes and helllllllla science lessons in there, among other things.

Quote: Before I met you, the biggest hike I'd ever taken was walking around the mall.

Nice. I would even say it is nicer than the student who appreciated me today in class by comparing me to an electrical socket. Well, maybe it is a toss up?

Freecycle: Sometimes Fun, Sometimes Scary, Always an Adventure

It started with his offer of headlamps. I raise my interested hand, he gives me a phone number, we talk, and he says he'll look around and then also uncovers all these sleeping pads and other stuff that could be useful to people who camp with hella kiddies.

I get his address. I get the car. I double park in his neighbor's driveway, just like his instructions suggest. Ring bell and wait. Meanwhile I am staring at the doors to two flats. One door open, the other one closed.

When no one comes, I holler helloooooooooo to the open door. Two women inside continue to sit, smoking, on their couch. One looks irritatedly at me and then turns away. They are apparently not the friendliest of neighbors, these flats.

I ring the bell twice more. Three minutes later, the door finally opens and this guy appears, carrying a slightly odd vibe. He gets a little agitated that I interacted with the downstairs women, and "Come in, come in"s me.

Now I gotta say, when I Freecycle, I bring stuff downstairs or throw it over the balcony, depending.

Not this fella. He tells me to follow him up, as the materials are in the back room. I walk in the entrance and he closes and triple bolts the doors behind me.

I am not pleased.

He ushers me to go in front of him up the stairs, and I reply, You go ahead, sir. But I want to make sure they don't come to tow the car, so I will just unlock this door again and leave it open for a moment.

To which he replies, I have a cat.

So I just unlock the door and leave it closed and follow him up. He talks wayyyyyyy too much - like nervous people talk. About how he is getting evicted and has to move, and where will he go? Babble babble babble. I keep my 6 million janitor-esque set of keys like brass knuckles in my hand. Notice the details in every room. Where is the kitchen. Do I see knives or open windows. What about the girls who are just below who have seen me. How loud my boots will be if I stamp hard on the ground. It is just so great to be trained to notice details like a girl in the United States. Awesome. So by this time, he gets to the room.

I stand in the hallway.

He: You can come in, ya know.

My Half Lie: No thanks. My friend is waiting for me to finish this because she lives two blocks from here and is supposed to meet me.

He is offering me all manner of helpful camping stuff, explaining shorty-story style the history of each item, but whatever he holds out, he holds out like food to a feral cat - just far enough to make them come forward. I am a just feral enough kitty, however, that I just put my hand out while staying in the hallway.

I always set an alarm on my phone for Freecycle and so my phone starts blowing up.

The other half of my lie: She is walking towards this address to meet me at the car. That must be her wondering where I am. I gotta call her back or go down - I am late. Thanks for the stuff.

And I bolt down the stairs to the outside world.

He follows me down, and when we get outside I turn to say:
I thank you for the things to help us out. That is cool. However, in the future, never bolt your door and ask a strange woman to come up to a back room. It is socially awkward and a bit scary, sir.

He looks embarrassed, but again, I never did see or get any signs of a cat.

Socially awkward? Opportunist? Answer unknown. Freecycle. Like all potential interactions between women and men in this country, it also has the potential to be called Fearcycle. Bummer.

Students Have Your Cell Number?

Now, here's something you too can look forward to!

It is a Sunday. A ridiculously hot, beautiful Sunday in May. And I am not talking 'San Francisco' hot; I am talking so hot that you can go to the 'San Francisco beaches without a down jacket' kind of hot. And it is Sunday. Did I mention that? A blissfully hot, quiet, student-free Sunday in May. At the beach. With a book. Without students. 48 hours without students. And so I am blissfully enjoying reading a book on the beach awaiting the arrival of J-D and doggie when I receive the following text message. From a student. A senior. Whom we will call N:

Yo loser want to hit up the beach tomorrow since like, its whatchamacallit [Senior Cut] day and im guessing you're not going to school?

My Inner Voice: Hmmm. Interesting.

My Text Voice: Yo dingbat you sent this to your teacher yo. Good to know, so you gonna be in my class tomorrow for sure to practice for thurs, eh?

As my text is sending, N texts me again:

Ummm ... Hey s----! Can u just totally ignore that text cause that was supposed to go to sam not sa--- ... Yah ... My bad. Forget that

Me: Busted.

Lol Im totally going to be there to practice for thurs. I have no idea what you mean by busted ..

Me: Liar:) see you mon

I'll see YOU tomorrow :P

And then I return to sun and chapter six of my book. Because it is a Sunday. A blissfully hot, quiet, hopefully-back-to-student-free Sunday in May.

Let this be a warning to all texting teachers and their students.

We All Have Our Types

Some people are leg people.
Some are guitar player people.
Some appreciate kick ass cooks.
Some like crooked teeth.
Some swoon over accents or ease in multiple languages.
Some fawn over individualistic anarchist bike messengers who all dress the same.
Some magnetize with beer pong almost-champions who never give up.

It is good to know your type. And far be it from me to yuck another's yum.

Especially because me? I am coming to realize my type, at least when it comes to the Y chromosome:

Turns out, I'm a sucker for stuck men. More specifically, I melt for men with tools who are having a hard time moving forward. And even more specifically than that, men whose inability to get real has translated into throwing themselves into "home "improvement." Which I think makes me a 'men who bury their grief in mountains of unmoving lumber and sawdust covered in time-dust' person.

Show me a man who has suffered traumatizing familial and/or social loss and who has, in his inability to communicate about and/or deal with his grief, taken to dreaming up countless home-change projects and started to tear apart his house rather than ripping out his own guts, all to keep his mind occupied and his hands busy and his muscles too tired to think. Show me a man who can even get through the stage of wrenching apart his house's innards and maybe even buying the lumber and nails and unearthed the power circular saws from the basement only to get stuck, in the same way he is stuck in his grief, and thus leaves his unfinished business as is all over his house perhaps forever. Because, for a long time, that has been my people.

I say that since, as I write this, I realize that might be the old me. Because as I see this pattern, I find I am moving forward myself.

So now: Show me a man who faces change by rebuilding his home one slab and tile and dust mask donning at a time. With turtle-like velocity. But he's doing it. Because that is my people.

Unless he is a she. In which case, show me a woman with her condo in order, a file-don't-pile system in place and utilized, a woman who is barreling through the universe. And she's my girl.

It's good to know your type.