facing my greatest fears. motherhood. redefined.

i am back on the writing train.  enjoy-all my thanks always.


Fear. I fear many a thing. Like tight places or being in a crowd and not being able to move or being trapped.  A no exit of my own making, my own reality, no longer a play I read in honors English over a decade ago. I used to fear tanker trucks and would avoid them at the fear I might blow up at gas stations.  On the road.  But never did I. Blow up. I still get warm when I cross a bridge.  The no exit and the no return part makes my heart pitter patter and deep breathing my only refuge. Classic- my abnormal psych professor said of someone who had been abandoned.   Somehow comfort missing from the equation in this knowledge.  I fear loss. And being left. And being alone.  And not finding the right person.  To call my home. 

I used to fear I'd become like my mother- not in the typical fashion into a nag or choreograph into her. More like I might one day be crazy like her. Certifiable.  One day be an addict like her. But crazy isn't always inherited and addiction can live and breathe in your body and not ever be yours. I feared I wouldn't break the cycle. The cycle of loss.  The cycle of abandonment   The cycle of  my mother losing her mother tragically at 13 and me losing my mother starting at 8 and more permanently at 18.  My greatest fear is I would be a mother and I would leave.  

One of my goals written across this fearful and hopeful heart was to break this cycle and be a mother. But I haven't been a mother.  Not yet.  I haven't found that love of my life to make babies with.  But this isn't about birthing babies or the tanker trucks or bridges of my life I  have crossed.  It is about much more.  I am surprised.  Surprising myself is I don't have to birth a child to love a child part of me just the same. The gift of helping to raise children is more than the greatness of it.  It is the realization that my greatest fear that I'd be a mother a mother who would leave won't happen- won't happen to me. It is a choice.  And I choose in a way -I always have. In the raising of my brother and my choice of profession and my work of always being around the children.  

Time lines thrown away.  Clocks forgotten.  I may not have that luxury of the regular textbook mothering-but as I look around I can't help but be certain I will be called mom one day.  A mom who stays-a mother who doesn't play out the perfect fantasy of undoing of her own childhood to better her own.   Mothering isn't what I thought it would be. A child looking at you to feel safe and loved and seen and to truly bask in the beauty of childhood.  I am already doing that.  My fears.  My fears aren't permanent.  I can mother and mother in a way-in a way that works for me. And stop being scared that I will leave. Leave.  

one line a day in 2011

i have been writing but not posting much. my apologies. sometimes i am not ready to share. i started writing one line or more like a few lines a day during the summer. so the last six months i have captured a snapshot of my life. i thought as the first post of the year- i would share the highlights. happy new year! i look forward to another year of writing and capturing the beauty and complexities along the way. all my thanks always!

July 19- Me: Why do pigeons mate for life? 10 year old: Because there is no pigeon divorce. Good point.

July 22- I love when you put on a pair of shorts (blue corduroy op vintage variety) and find sand in the pocket. It is a reminder you have been somewhere.

July 30- I answered the door in short shorts and braless to jehovah witness who were looking for spanish speakers. They got me instead. I said lo siento, neciesto practicar and they gave me their brochere in espanol.

August 4- I am swimming in a sea of people making reservations for dinner. Outside. In the sun. Writing. Not knowing what I will eat. For dinner.

August 11- Note to self drinking too much beer on a stomach of tuna and chips and kimchi might produce tears on a bar stool and gas the next day.

August 30- Have you ever barfed in Disneyland?, asks the 10 year old upon me seeing her. Strange hello.

September 1- First date canceled. Why can't I catch I break in the love department? Best excuse ever- broken arm. He might be my kind of man- accident prone.

September 12- 8 yr old: I only did my homework so I could spend more time with you.

September 13- Overheard at school- ways to recycle, reuse condoms! 8th grader turns around in shock to see my face as I say, I wouldn't recommend it.

September 15th- Today I saw an awkward group of middle schoolers in a circle- they were staring at girls underwear on the ground. Its underwear they exclaimed. Weird I usually keep mine at home I say. Faces uncertain respond.

September 18th- Perfect morning in the sunset. We rode our bikes to the beach. She escaped death after I said something nice to her. Me on a fixie for the first time. I rode home in a bikini top in the usually foggiest neighborhood in this city.

September 25- Today I went on a date long time coming and wasn't nervous. 7 hours later. We say goodbye. With anticipation. We kiss in my doorway with the door open. Then closed. Then locked. Slammed against the wall- my leg reaching up. We devour each other while standing up.

Sept 27- I walk on clement street at a livable pace while eating a pork bun as the sun beats on me. Fog now foreign. I gave a pork bun to a homeless dude. I see it later. It lays splattered in the middle of the cross walk.

October 1- A surprise to see someone outside and together no hesitation of what has already started. To drinks then shots then me cutting line to go to the bathroom in the men's. High Five. Steal kisses in front of his friends. After hours. To I just stepped in barf. Don't worry everyone did. To kiss me on this street corner to home. No one sleeps. We just explore the maps of each other.

October 23- A sunset as my friend and sand as my bed is a nice way to say hello and goodbye to a weekend.

October 26- Learning how to tango from a 10 year old and a singing telegram from an eight year old entitled you are the best babysitter is a place I call home.

October 27- Sometimes you have to seize the day and drive across town just to see someone for a few moments. Sick or not. Note to self- if you make out with a dude with a fever- you will most likely get sick.

November 9- If you care enough to help the environment to buy a prius, care enough for humanity to stop at the stop sign when in the middle of a crosswalk near a school. I'll take a kind gas guzzler any day.

November 23- By 8 am I smell of pumpkin pie because of a pie mishap. By 9am finish grocery shopping. By 9:30 am realize i did not wear underwear with my yoga pants. Explains the smiles I got. Sometimes you are too busy for your chonies.

November 28- The game of getting it all done. Living in the library. Again. Spotted a woman missing part of her shirt and wearing a purple bra.

December 1- Death planned by my brother includes a family vacation to disneyland- no kids- no alcohol- no thanks.

December 8- There is nothing better than still be invited to a 11 year old party. And being called Kate the Awesome.

December 10- The worst time to get diarrhea is while in a squat during yoga.

December 15- What happens when you put 2 divorced people and their significant others together- you make the nanny- me- sit between the two dudes- the dad and the boyfriend. That sounds like a great plan.

December 17- I love when I run into students and they are still in college and doing well and I get free fries to boot.

December 19- The best way to end a night shift. Solved.

December 22- I go to a corner store to get re-enforcements for a road trip home. Man in a BMW comes inside to sell a tablet. A hot one. Merry Christmas!

December 27- Quality time with my dad entails him flying model airplanes on the high school football field in the boonies. He usually crashes but he didn't this time. What if I shrink you to fit inside? He asks. I would be sick. I'd go slow he responds.

the saddest taqueria

The saddest taqueria I ever placed my feet upon, the saddest taqueria I had placed an order in, the saddest taqueria I ever paused into to wait for my order, the saddest taqueria of course had its pair of the saddest bathroom is located on the corner of sutter and polk. A strange place for a taqueria. A strange place to find myself trying to order mexican food for I am a frequent flier of the taquerias in the mission. But when push comes to shove and you have been day drinking a taqueria and any taqueria will do.

As I push my hand on the door in. There is feuding- music the beat of latino and the tv telemundo. My face is washed in a cool breeze. I scan the menu and workers and patrons in unison. Everyone looks as if the color has been taken out of their eyes. The spark lifted not recently but years ago. In a robotic fashion people move around as the skin loses their color. Dimming and fading away. At first I thought I might turn around and run away. And find solace in the subway across the street but with courage of beers and hunger my reminder. I stick it out. I order. The woman’s eyes seem to open up for a moment. She must be the cheerleader in this place. I order something I deem safe. I order it hot as always. The man the creator of the food at her side. States we are out of hot salsa. Out of hot salsa. The saddest taqueria I have ever been in ran out of hot salsa. And when this white woman thinks that is unacceptable this taqueria is really in trouble.

I walk over to see what is left given the point of where the salsa that is left lives. I pick it up. It looks like green water. And has no taste. It spills like a green watery mess next to the plastic container. The saddest taqueria mourns the loss of salsa. I mourn it as well. I scan back and froth. Until I find the safety of a tapatio bottle. I find a plastic container and transfer it – it splashes out. No one will deny me heat. Not in this mourning taqueria. I find a seat. It is the glimmer of hope in the darkness. It is the variety of the chair and table connection of my childhood from fast food and diners. I flash back to my old days of sitting in. And playing. And I start swinging back and forth. Warming my mood up. In the darkness of this taqueria. I glance around.

To the patrons. A couple latino sit side by side talk and watch tv. They seem to have not be overtaken by this cult. And next to them. A group of white people co-ed. The girl with a flower in her hair. Her face talks in solemn tones. Her friend, a male starts doing exercises in his sweater. And I wonder do I look like them. Across from me a white man with tacos and tapatio tries to make eye contact with me. But I decline in participating in the duel with the short wearer and nike holder and tapatio eater. Next to me a couple of guys talking. I can't remember their faces now.

The walls are moving in old signs fading into the wall wrinkling into what was. I am bored with the chair swinging now. And try and find the bathroom. Past the sadness of the kitchen I make a sign of the cross to be sure as I lift myself up the stairs. Into the partner of the saddest bathroom. One where you look like it might be your last time going. My heart races as I fear rape and death and try to pee. Hard to multitask fear of death and the stream of pee. Someone tries to come in. This is it. I am going to die in the saddest taqueria I have field tripped in. No. Im in here. Its not stranger danger just the woman with a flower in her hair. I walk down the stairs heart still beating and walk. Walk to pick up my failed attempt and of a quesadilla and get out of here.

The saddest taqueria I ever went to reminded me why I only eat in the mission. Full of heat and vibrance and salsas and green sauce that burns my tongue and music playing from guitars and life. I will leave the sad taquerias to live in neighborhoods where taquerias go to die. I eat at taquerias where they live. And I breathe in the life. So thankful to have seen the saddest taqueria to remember. How lucky I am.

this time when i wore the black dress of second chances

This time when I wore the black dress. The black dress breezy and light and full of potential. It had risen from the bottom of my closet to the surface of the water to find a hanger. I see it there. Bobbing up and down on top of the water. No longer sinking. But now floating. And I pick it up. And push my head through the opening. Buttoning the buttons up that live along the ruffles. Me newly showered fresh after the yoga of sweating and pulling and pushing and breathing. My cheeks still flush- irish glow. With relaxation. And release. And busting my ass. I can't find the right shoes. Oh well. Out the door. The skirt waves in the wind and choreographed to the sway of potential again.

To school. I drive. Through the maze of the lines of the urban river. Quickly. For I have a small window to get to financial aid office. For they screwed up my loans. Again. In driving. I decide. To leave it up. To the world of friday traffic if I get there. My hand gently loosens the grip on the wheel. I park. 5 minutes and counting. And run in the dress up the flight of stairs. Please. To get there with a minute to spare. Buttons coming undone in the running. I beg. To the man closing the door. Please. And he lets me in.

Scene change of the black and white break to drinks later. For I had worn the dress again. I had to give it another try. Believing. Because I hadn't in a long time. And I wanted to replace the scene that happened last time with something else in the film reel of memories that plays in my head. I fast forward and rewind and pause. I wanted the dress of heaviness to be light again. I wanted to feel the buoyancy of potential. Of given it another chance.

And as I sit. Sit with friends. At the bar. I feel someone moving me. In my bar stool. Twirling me around. My dress waves in a circle. And there stands someone I don't know. Somehow in this bar. Of helping someone get drinks. Things stopped for a moment. To talk about life. And what we do. But not in the typical CV way. Not in a booty call fashion. But in a way that you desire to talk more. About the realness of it. All. I am intrigued. Can I buy you a drink? I wish but my parents are coming early. How about a raincheck? And then the formalities of information exchange follow.

The best part it was so easy. No trying. Just happening. The dress wraps me as I float on top of the water and look up. At the sky above. I am floating. The best part was the dress of potential of second chances was light again. And so was I.

pushing through the middle school doors- without the footsteps of the past beating in my head

I think it is hard to live in the present without the footsteps of the past beating in your head. That is the best way to explain pushing through the doors of middle school again. My own experience of being a middle schooler long ago walks along side of me. I didn't like middle school.

When I went it in the early 90s with big bangs and pegged jeans it was junior high. Although I went to school in the safety of the suburbs it was the scariest place I have ever been. And this urbanite has lived in 4 cities. Flashes of girls hitting other heads into lockers, crowds surrounding fights and no one stopping, the cool ones partaking in sex and drugs and I barely had a period and held a hand of the opposite sex. I got asked out through friends of friends and held notes with such words, and found dancing partners as I slow danced in the beginning of puberty.

I was not a leper. But I was scared. I went to a school where violence and following the mob mentality the norm and at 80 lbs and under 5 feet tall when I had started ( a growth spurt pending)- I had little choices. Other than to be nice to everyone and hope that one of the prettier popular girls wouldn't want to beat me up. I found solace in school (getting into accelerated classes) and running track- if you were good it give you protection plus lots of teammates as a buffer. It got better. Towards the end. And then high school allowed me to breathe. And most of my own work has centered around high school. And I have loved it. I dreaded being in a middle school. Because of my own experience with it. The young girl who became too scared to speak up, too scared to be herself, long ago was reincarnated back to living. I didn't want to go back to the old days of fear of others. Fear of myself.

But as soon as I sat in the office- watching the movement and pace of the counseling office- in this middle school-I felt more comfortable-at ease. My first day jitters drifting away with the young girl who was. Was before. As I saw the faces of the students and how this counseling office existed in the world of the school. I felt the hallway underneath my feet, the middle school students wanting to talk and actually seemed to want to talk longer than I anticipated. The deep thinking of a 6^th grader is surprising and simple in unison. I walked around talking to 6^th graders during lunch and no one gave me the look of despair due to an adult talking to them.

Two girls with the same exact hair style with barrettes choreographed perfectly reminds me of what was. Still is. In middle school. A boy laughs at someone for getting hurt. Her friend. Stops without skipping a beat sticking up for her. I feel a smile growing inside of me. The young girl of before roots her on. And there was a hope. That grew. Excitement and anticipation grew inside of me while dread had lived. I was excited to be in middle school as an adult. It could be different. And it might be different for the students I would see walking down the halls.

unexpected things happen. every single day.

hello all- written this late spring from the prompt of the last thing I expected. I wrote about three things that happened unexpectedly. enjoy! and as always thanks all my thanks! ps thanks giants for that win!

The last thing I expected was to be caught in the rain. Again. The sun makes appearance and viola we forget the impeding weather reports-we forget what the last few weeks have brought us-we forget. So as I walk. Walk briskly for my break outside the rectangular walls of education-of learning of pushing and pulling into become ourselves. There it is-the drizzle and me-no umbrella, no jacket, and no one of my favorite purchases-adult rain boots. I walked still. To get the coffee pay for it. I had last week and a salad. For today. I walked naked there. No protection.

The last thing I expected was to open up my computer and see what I saw in it. As I did my morning routine of checking my students grades. I started talking to myself and almost fell of my chair- in happiness. For two of my students, two of my students some teachers had forgotten, had written off, not because of any negative attribute other than fatigue and overwork and under love, had done it. They had gone from failing to not. They had gone from bad grades to good. And in opening it and excitement for their progress-I didn't expect this great news-although there was work and plans and parents. But the bigger part believed they could make a change. And taste success as they smile meekly. It does taste good. And when I told one of the students favorite teachers the news. So that is the good news he said, what is the bad. I told him, there is none. Unexpected to him. The expectation high finally found. I walked in the smile of all three of us as I walked away.

The last thing I expected was to hurt a child with a underwear box. See there in the recycling laid two boxes of men's xist underwear packaging. A budding 10 year old was embarrassed by this. Why would my dad put that in there? To recycle. Yes, but can we turn it over. I don't want to see the front. The front donning a man with perfectly formed abs and arms and showing him sitting in the boxer briefs all in black and white. I would rather see the back. The butt I say. What is wrong with the front? You know. Her eyes look up in a knowingly growing into a woman way. Are his abs not strong enough? Shake head to the right. And left. Do you not like his arms? Shake again.

And then there is choice to run after her with the box. Just to make a little fun. Just to do it. But in the running and fun I by accident bumped her face with the box of the underwear model. And the unexpected words of since you hurt me with the underwear box-do you mind picking me up and swinging around? Unexpected. The unexpected happens. Every single day.

in the middle of it: my own reality tv show of two lovers reunited

i am back! i finished a year of grad school and my relationship with the library made it impossible to post and write. but i broke up with the library but sadly we might get back together sooner than i would like. here is piece about me being able to see lovers reunite and i just couldn't move and had to listen and write. enjoy! all my thanks, always!

In the middle of it. I am the middle of a conversation of reunited lovers after twenty years. I find myself by the happenstance, the providence, the fate of life. I am not either said lover. Just a bystander who can't move from this seat. Stuck here. Because what will happen next seems like it might be too good to actually move. Scene begins as: man walks in start of beard sprouting, motorcycle helmet in hand, he glances at me and gives me a half soft smile. He finds a seat behind me. A moment or two pass. And then she walks in. In the business causal attire of work. Full of movement and talking. He raises up to meet her. Embracing her around her shoulders. I just never thought I'd see you again. In person. He confesses. In quickness she responds guess you have been giving that a lot of thought. And I'm in. In the middle of this. Because what will happen next is what movies are made of. Not the kind you can rent old school at the video store or netflix or hulu. No the real life of reuniting. I must watch. And see.

And so it begins. The man waits as she orders. She refuses his offer to buy her coffee. She talks at a rapid pace to all those around her, a co-worker, the barista, and even me when I get up for a moment. He sits waiting patiently. To sit across from her again. And then she returns to the seat. They are behind me so all I can hear is their words now. No facial expression or movements. The NPR radio show of love affairs lost. And found.

She begins. And talks and gives the synopsis of her life the last years. Fast and furious and the gentlemen rarely speaks. He tries to give her a morsel of him. But she refuses. The bio of places she has lived. The CV of jobs she has acquired. The snapshot of starting her witty yoga site and her current job. He takes the pause as an opening, when I was shooting those kids. My own eyes crinkle. Oh he is a photographer. And then it gets interesting when the job interview pauses and real life begins.

It begins in a story where she realizes her sister set him up with someone after they broke up. I can't believe she did that. I am still going to talk to her about it. Years past not mattering. Are you single? The nod happens but I can't see behind me just in the pause in the back and forth. Next to the discussion of marriage and kids. Have you done it? Will you do it? Conversations of years had before. And had again. She never married and never wanting kids. Until now maybe. I would shit my pants every time I thought a serious boyfriend would want to get married. I would freak out around the holidays. I am not a commitphobe, but scared. Him marrying a woman due to the realities of immigration. I did get married. But it wasn't a real marriage. We treated it as dating plus legality. And more words in between until he said we treated it as a real marriage. Everything was great expect the one part that always worked with everyone else. The sex. I thought she would come around. I thought she would open up.

And as I listen and write down on my napkin my only piece of paper a great on the fly notebook. I can't help but think what happens next. Next for them. In this talking. In this reuniting. In this thing called love. But although I am in the middle of it, I got to get up and go. To do what I have to do. In the middle of their thing, I needed to move on to mine. And in watching them. I find faith and remember my own lost loves. Reuniting doesn't mean happily ever after but it fixes the space broken in disconnection. I walk away and feel lucky to have seen. Someone else's reality. In remembering my own.

the man in the trench coat with sunglasses branishing a blue bucket and a pint glass

hello all, this is written from the prompt poison when i saw a man walk into a coffee shop that caught my eye. enjoy! and all my thanks as always.

Poison. It was hard to know what was the man's poison as he entered the cafe door first opening the hard wooden framed glass and then the thin screen to step into the room. It was hard to know what the man's poison had been or would be. There he stood as my eyes shoot him a look up and down-the look of junior high in adulthood moves across my face. I am judging him. I am laughing at him. In my head. There stands a man in a full black trench coat that reaches to the end of his calves and sunglasses that never moved from the position on his face-on his nose resting there. In one hand he has an oversized blue bucket and in the other a pint glass. What was this man's poison? What had willed him to dress in all black and bring in his accessories of a bucket and a pint glass? Was he coming in from a long night gone terribly wrong or right? Was he mourning the loss of something? Was he there to fix something? Was he on his way to fight crime branishing a bucket and a pint glass?

This man is why I love this city. You never know what you will see. Weird here is just plan normal and weird anywhere else would never turn a head here. I stare at this man and watch him interact with the barista as if he is wearing the uniform of his sunday best or workout clothes. He acts normal. For this is normal for him.

I can't help but wonder about him so much that when he leaves my inquisitive mind that can't be held still goes to the barista, a man with an unkept beginning of a beard, a v neck shirt with a small hole on the top, and a longish torso and wide shoulders of masculinity. What's with the dude and the bucket and the pint glass? He smiles and his eyes lighten as he throat reverberates in laughter. Oh he comes in that outfit everyday- and he always has that pint glass. That pint glass he stole from us. I try to get it back every time. But even when I take it away from him. He leaves with it. Not sure how. When I'm not looking. It is weird I don't take a plate from a restaurant and bring it back when I return. And the bucket- I offer. He extends- he is always working on something and sometimes its a bucket or something else. He comes in everyday. Everyday in that trench coat and glasses caressing the pint glass.

And that is where asking makes sense. I have no idea what this guy is made of- I have no idea his poison. But what I do know is he brought me and barista and others the free entertainment of uniqueness. And that I like to drink. Daily. With or without a pint glass in hand.

dreaming big by living in others dreams

thanks for stopping by. i just finished one of my best b-day weeks yet- check out this cake! all my thanks always!

Giving up. Giving up to me has always been a foreign concept. Something I knew existed in some other realm but nothing I had a close relaitonship with. Nothing I had spent much time with. Nothing I had smelt under my beautiful imperfect slightly crooked nose. Nothing I had tasted before inside the pencil line fine lines of lips I have. It was what other people did. For I didn't take no for answer. That had its failure too, the not giving up.

Watching someone give up before your eyes happens regularly for me. It happens mostly with the kids. I see her eyes frustration with her inability to get her multiplication tables as I hold the card in front of her. I don't know it, she says with words and with her eyes and the crinkles around and growing on her face. See she is good at most things. Reading chapter books in the beginning of reading and the weekly pursue of the week. Linguistically she excels but this math thing-it takes work. And she gives up as you lay the cards out to play them. But you the caretaker won't let her give up. She can't. For these printed cards with numerals and lines and xs will not be her only challenge but for right now feels like the biggest she ever will have. We can't be good at everything- I know- but she is still learning. We have to practice. It takes time. And it so easy to give up upon that bump in that road making us have to twist and turn in ways we aren't comfortable.

With him math comes easier but many things do not and it is hard to feel accomplished in the glow of the older sister. He is the detective of the house able to find anything lost. He will find it. He is brave in his choice to stand in front of his classmates and talk about being made fun of. And he dreams of playing on the giants. The major league team. He looks at me with all believing eyes and says, you know all the pros started in little league. And they did. He is right. But his only relationship with a ball, a baseball has been being scared of it. I don't want him to give up. So we practice. First with a tennis ball and without a glove, building his confidence until he has the hard ball descending towards him. The hard baseball comes and he winces, again. Let's try grounders, I say. He travels back and forth. His throw improving and then he throws to an invisible person next to me. And then the hard ball with the catching and the misses, we are in the abyss of misses, until he catches and the excitement in a yelp from me and a glow from him. I don't want him to give up either. For it will be hard. But seeing his little success makes him less scared to go. Go on that field again.

Part of giving up, part of feeling like you should be giving up is something I didn't think I knew- I knew personally. Maybe it was the fear of asking for help. Maybe it was the fear of failure. But now I ask for help. And I do take no for an answer. Sometimes. As I help others not give up- I realize the gift of it- is believing in someone- that they can- even if you believe in ways outside yourself and outside of them. I dream bigger then I should and maybe I want them to too. Dream of flying and major leagues and having 4 professions and a day of just sugar.

I guess the never giving up allows the dreaming to happen. And me not giving up has always meant a yes eventually will happen. I do give up now when I have to. When I know I can't be in two places at once or need to throw money at a problem. But the never giving up stays with me along my side and I use it when I need to. When I need to get somewhere far, where I see someone who needs someone to believe- they can get there too. I am not done dreaming and being inside someone else's dreams allows me to keep dreaming too.

when chasing dreams, it is hard to stay in the back of this boat

What I finally decided to say was ask if he still wanted the dream we had all been working towards. I finally decided to ask him what he wanted. Right now. You see this happens sometimes. We get excited over a student who is dreaming big especially one who had not had the opportunity before who dreams had not been allowed for him in this way. Not by choice. By the accident of being born in a neighborhood with different pressures. No he could dream. But only so big. His dreams could not expand into others or be bigger than himself. And there he went along in life. Making choices. And when he finally got to me. It turned out this student who never thought the words college would cross across his lips, a student who never thought he could say it without someone laughing. He after multiple high schools and a path I allowed to stay in the past. He could still go to college.

So once we found out and he said the words. We jumped in the boat and all started paddling fiercely. For we could not let this new dream die. The death of it. Would kill us too. The obstacles so great, so big, that he needed the extra assistance through the rough waters around this school, around this home. The waves kept on trying to capsize us. But every time we braved it. And peaceful waters would return. His father would drive over the bridge just to bring some money for his college application. He would decide to go to a safer location for the SAT-these are realities you might understand, I might not understand.

But you see somewhere along the line I realized I was in the front of the boat with a colleague and I wasn't sure where the student was. If he was on board at all. Had we lost him on the this last ride against the current? I looked back and saw his face. His eyes distant. His face solemn. The excitement of the dream was dwindling. I realized I had to ask him what he wanted. I realized I had to tell him we wouldn't be disappointed. I realized we could support him in his next step and that didn't have to be a four year college. And once I realized-I had to tell him. The dream didn't die it just changed. And his face relieved in thank you and I didn't want to disappoint you.

We are still on that ship. We just needed to change our positions of the rowing. We still have to go against the current for the temptations are great. The greatest gift of all was the dream. That he could dream and we could believe in him. But in not asking him. We forgot him. But once we remembered it wasn't our dream and our life but his. We did what we could to keep that ship destination bound. Knowing it can stay afloat with our help but he needed to be manning the ship.

The dream didn't die. It just changed. For a dream outside of the street quickness is the dream of most of my students- it looks different and feels different and it is hard work for them and for us. But really what I had to say was I made a mistake when I decided to get in the front of that boat and not move. That is what I said. That is what he heard. And together we still paddle. In unison.

please change the reel

written from the quick write shadows. have a great weekend! and all my thanks!

Shadows. The shadows grow from the ground, the pavement, the grass into full formed features growing into a person. I look and see. Quickly. Take my diagnosis in and keep walking. Walking. Away. Down. The street. Home. But sometimes its hard to shake the shadows of my neighbors , of my friends. The shadows of people and the what they might do. What they are doing. Makes me want to turn off the film reel in my head. It makes me want to stop seeing. Because once I see. I can't help but think. Think about that shadow of that person. The darkness. The sadness. In what could be.

The other day. I had a day at school. A day full of running up stairs and meeting of kids and learning things I would rather not and keep going up down the stairs across the hall and the listening and supporter of dreaming and planning and shaking of hands and hellos along the way. Hi Ms. B. So as I leave my day. I need some quiet. Some solitude. A pause from the reality that is. And sometimes I get. At a cafe. With a trashy mag and sun beats on my face. Or walking. Walking to the next thing. The world somehow looks different and so am I. In pausing. I see tv slowly around me as I walk into it more real than reality tv or a sitcom crafted. And I don't long to speak to anyone. Which is for me the rarity of all rarities.

As I picked up K from school. From guitar. Excitement to see his face still dosed in exhaustion of giving to others. We walk down the street. Home. To get the car. And I glance ahead and to the left to take in the scene. What me and K with his new glasses and guitar upon his back might be walking into. I see a group of man on the corner. Typical for my hood. And as I glance to my left. I see a shadow. A shadow of a man. A glimpse of a family. The woman seems upset and is lifting her child up the stairs who still resides in a stroller. She is speaking to her husband or boyfriend. Some reassurance. I look to this shadow of a man. And he has a knife open. Open in his right hand. He is upset. I look once and twice. And his shadow is growing. Growing on his porch with his family. In front of his house. My face might not have stayed street. I tried not to look shocked that on a Tuesday afternoon most people hang with their fam with a knife open. All I know is get out of here fast. For K is attached to my arm.

So we walk hard around the corner. He didn't see the shadow. But I did. I exhale once we turn the corner. Open the car. K runs to the car. I get in. And sit there. I didn't want to see what I just saw. I never what to see it. The shadow of a person's potential haunts me. I close my eyes. Breath from the bottom of my legs. And turn the ignition. And keep going. Going home.

happy holidays- time travel back to slamming doors

i found myself on a by accident hiatus based on fatigue from school from fatigue of a cold then flu but i am back. i hope you all had an amazingly great holiday and will be having an epic new years. thanks as always for stopping by.


I found myself acting out. Acting out in the middle of the mountains. In the middle of my parents. In the middle of my family. In the middle of not my adolescence but the beginning stages of a supposed maturity of the 30s. But somehow when I come back here. Here. I find myself teenage again. In my antics. In my ability to respond. By yelling. Pounding my legs down the hall. And slamming the door again. Again. See this is the way I behaved before. It was the norm of me. But never do I anymore. Until there is something about the bringing to together of the family. That makes my younger self re-submerge into me. I drop a few pounds, my hair lightens to a blond and lengthens, my jeans expand to boot cut, flannel tied around my waist, womanhood not budding enough and there she is. I am time traveled back to my old school abilities to cope. In dramatic ways. I am well behaved mostly. In my life. But sometimes even I need to act out.

Somehow in the equation of my father- trying to be caring as always, trying to be the strong one although diminished by disease and age and injury plus my brother-who worships money and power and spews it upon us in his tirades, we wipe our faces but it still stinks and a momentarily sweet pause plus my stepmom-trying to balance the job of peace maker knotting her belly into two, she is the keeper of my father plus me-the one who talks, talks too much, and has learned the boundaries I must draw to survive equals into the mess that we only can know as our own.

Time. I am late. Late I am not with her and haven’t been in years. But through a misunderstanding of time. Reconfirmed by a father unable to now keep time. He lives in the abyss of the fox, of the morphine, of the cloud of poker and airplanes on his computer. Are you going to be ready? Her face distorts and words are not needed for her to inflame my wound of a 15 year self. No I am not. But I will be in a few minutes. Dad told me. Now dad sitting in my face, Kate you should get moving. Shit. I am usually the well behaved and hounding they are me. But my brother and dad make everyone wait all the time. But no time out for them. No lecture. Just me. Done. Pounding and slamming. And father coming. And I am saying leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. I am not myself or am I. I walk down the hall of my own childhood to be like the teenagers I work with. Heart starts pounding against my chest the adrenaline of years past pump into my system.

Now my brother is coming in for round 3. Kate what’s your problem. I am sick of you. Leave me alone. I repeat. I do one thing and now it’s the apocalypse. I am sick of being well behaved and somehow she is here as I stare at her in the mirror. The girl I left behind. T you do whatever the hell you want and never make an apology so leave me alone and get out of here and close the door on him. Him.

I guess it doesn’t matter how old we get, or how we work on ourselves to play well with others out in the real world because when you return, return to your roots of home. You are once again. Again as you were. At first very adult, but each adultness layers chips off and fails to the fall, I watch it drift as leaves of the tree. Just as the pimples reappear and my confidence begins to sink. And I am again slamming the door. Door. Running away from them. Running away from myself. Running away from the fact, we can’t grow up when others remind of us of the piece forgotten.

Happy holidays-you say upon your signs and cards and in words or smiles unspoken. Me I cross my fingers and make sure to have prescriptions and see if this year I can make it sober. Sober without the help of numbness. No one wants a drunk teenager. But a slightly sedated one. Maybe. But there is a part of us one before the weathering of life and the tempering occurs. Our younger self. She likes to make appearances. Sometimes. Never with your family. Just with mine. Here in the mountains. But always when I least expect it. But now I walk down the hall. Slowly. I remember. I remember to say sorry. And try again. Next year.

they forgot to put that in the manual

hello friends, have an amazingly great and beautiful thankful filled holiday. i am thankful for so much and since i started this project i have been thankful for your kind words and eyes upon this page. be well. check comments on this piece inspired by the prompt saving it at creative caffeine

As I drive my car on this frigid morning down this one-way street. Leaves fly like paper strips over my head. And then there are few stuck. Holding onto this windshield its tentacles not letting go of the glass. The brownish greenish colors grow and starts making that tick tick tick sound of movement upon the car. I ponder those. As the last one drifts away likes the other. There was no saving it.

I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it-the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.

And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understands my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest.

I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What to do in a crisis in a school-not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.