Barry Manilow and Junior High

I'm subbing. To be exact, I'm subbing for 7th and 8th graders and after just the first hour of adolescent angst, attempts at coolness and nonchalance, the experience is wearing on me. I feel the time-travel tug pulling me back to my own middle school days, three years of my life that I would never want to revisit. But here I am, revisiting. True, today I'm subbing in a pinch to help the school. But by my own choosing, after ten some years of being a head teacher, I’m now a part-timer teaching writing to the 6th, 7th and 8th grades. That translates to an hour and a half a week with each group, in which time I need to engage them enough so that they listen, hopefully learn, and of course, write. I needed a new challenge; I got one.

Thirteen years ago, when deciding whether to take the leap away from business and go to graduate school for education, I went to a college open house. Advisors talked to us in small groups about, among other things, teaching adolescents. One advisor said, and here I quote for I've never forgotten these words, "You either teach middle school because you had a wonderful experience, or because you had a horrible experience and want to make it better for everyone else." I ended up by narrow circumstance focusing on upper elementary rather than pre-adolescence. Until now. And now that I'm here, I realize that I could not have handled this age group until I reached 40 and was confident enough in who I am.

Allow me a quick recap of my own junior high experience. In middle school, I showed up at the dance wearing a dress with flowers only to realize everyone else was in jeans. In middle school, I asked a boy to Sadie Hawkins and after too many days of deliberation, he said no. In middle school, I made the fashion forward choice to wear grey leather pumps to school one day. That morning, I tripped on the steps, broke off one heel, and spent the rest of the day hobbling around, one shoe intact, the other not. In middle school, my favorite outfit included brown corduroys and, the piece de resistance, a caramel colored, faux sheepskin vest. Toss in a mean girl who targeted me as her prey, as well as braces that included the night mouth guard. (This looked especially lovely on my 8th grade sleep away ski trip.) You get the idea. It wasn't until my junior year of high school that I was finally able to climb out of that pit of misery, and it took more years still until I was finally at peace with Me.

And here we cue Barry Manilow crooning, "I made it through the rain, and found myself protected/ by the others who/ got rained on too/ and made it throooogggggh." (Yes, I listened to Barry Manilow. And Barbara Streisand. And Liza Minelli.)

But here's the thing. During that long rainy season, I had a friend who belted out Barry's tunes with me, and another with whom I choreographed water ballet routines. My mother had a pot of tea waiting for me when I got home from school each day. And it was with H. that I played Barbie after I was “too old” to do so, and explored the nearby fields, looking for adventures and creating imaginary worlds.

If I can make it through middle school, I can certainly make it through a year of teaching it. And if even one student is excited about a story I share or a poem they write, or if one student knows that I see them, whether they are gleefully bouncing through the puddles or feeling a bit splattered by it all, then I think I'll be okay. Because as teachers, no matter the hours we log, we get to hold really big umbrellas for those needing respite from the drizzle, or the braces, or the sheepskin vests.

Septembers

September always brings out the nostalgia in me. As soon as the sun starts to set in that decidedly not-August way, I begin seeking opportunities for solitude. It is at this time of year that I especially enjoy spending time with my thoughts. I do so all year long, but the nature of my thoughts goes in cycles.
In December, I gear up for the New Year. I set goals, resolving to fix those parts about me and my life that, once again, didn’t fit quite right the previous twelve months.
In July, around my birthday, I invariably tally up my life’s successes versus my – well, maybe not failures, but let’s call them disappointments. I focus on the benefits of being older and wiser.
But when September rolls around, my thoughts free-fall back in time to my teenage years.
I think of the crushes I had on those boys who didn’t call, and the ones who did. I think of the hopefulness of the school year just beginning, and the promise it still held. I think of the adventures I had with my friends, how naïve we were to get into those messes and how lucky we were to survive them. I think of the focus and determination I had then, how the endless possibilities drove me to be prepared for whatever may come my way. I had absolutely no vision of what adulthood looked like, but I was pretty sure it involved me driving a car and owning a purse. Even so, I was unswayed by all that I did not know.
And I love that about the me I used to be. Looking back at the younger me, I feel protective towards her, how the Me Then didn’t know that things were going to get a lot harder. I want to hug her for braving it all, for lurching forward into the future thinking she would figure it out, by golly! That’s the spirit!, I think.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons I like to spend time thinking about those years, to remind myself of my own spirit. I don’t have as much of it now. I fear it won’t come back.
Yesterday I listened to a woman sing a song about looking back at her younger self and thinking of the what-might-have-beens. Shine on me, sweet seventeen, she sang. I knew exactly what she meant.
As I neared my apartment the other night, I saw the lights were on. I came out of my reverie happy to be living in the present. I don’t have to worry about the guy I like not calling me. He’s making me dinner and waiting for me to come home.

The Commute: Maui Style (City Life vs Island Life)

I missed New York today, and I miss H. She said today had the first chill of autumn; she even donned a trench coat to mosey over to a local wine bar for a glass of red. This is when living in the middle of the Pacific poses a challenge. I am just far enough away to not be able to jet back for a weekend, or more specifically, a lazy, Sunday lunch with H., followed by a stroll along lower Fifth, or maybe through Central Park to see whatever is on exhibit at the Met.

But as much as I miss New York, I'm constantly amused by the differences between my two loves, that urban isle and this tropical one. The New Yorker in me truly loves the grit of the city, the taxi drivers swearing profusely, the jockeying for position on a crowded subway car, and - ahem, H. - casually reading over the shoulder of the person in front of me. And make no mistake, I'm a fast walker capable of making solid speed down a city sidewalk with minimal eye contact. A block a minute, no two ways about it. Oddly, however, City Me has little effect on Maui Me.

Here in Maui, I barely last 15 minutes in "downtown" Kahului's rush hour traffic. I make it through two errands before hightailing back to my little town on the grassy slopes of a volcano. Here in Maui, I came home the other day to find a pineapple on my front stoop. And I wasn't afraid to eat it. I didn't even think to be skeptical. And here, no one honks other than the ubiquitous quick toot-toot "Hello!" to a friend one sees driving by. In fact, I so infrequently hear honking that not long ago, as I sat at a light with someone honking gently, albeit persistently, behind me, I just gazed blissfully out my window, all warm and fuzzy with the aloha spirit. Until my patient passenger nudged me and pointed to the traffic light that had apparently turned green a while back. It turns out they were honking at me, after all. Go figure.

There is a slight chill this evening in Makawao, this rodeo town positioned at 1600 ft, which makes me feel a touch closer to fall in Manhattan. I think I'll grab a sweater and meander into town for a margarita.

The Commute

City commuters know how it goes: we need something to read. On the days when I’m in between a book or my trusty New Yorker, I grab the free daily paper handed out at the station entrances. If there is any reason why I find myself without anything at all, I feel an initial moment of anxiety. How to occupy myself for the duration of my commute?? Even the best subway billboards only get me through a minute or two! When applicable, I will practice reading upside down as I stand over the lucky commuter who secured both the seat AND reading material. The degree of my disappointment when the material is not in English depends on how much time I can kill by trying to guess what the headline says. “Strajk dzieci we Wrześni” can be a jumping off point for all kinds of things to consider. (Does strajk mean strike? Could it be that easy? Who’s striking? I wonder how one might pronounce ‘dzieci?’) Before I know it, I’m almost at my destination. Ta! Da!

Last week, I found myself crammed into a subway train car on my way home from work. With one hand, I kept myself balanced while the other held my purse. The amount of people sharing the same, tight space rendered impossible my intention to lift my free arm up in order to read the magazine I was carrying. I was on the express train: I had several minutes to stand in this discomfort, with no chance of distracting myself from my present experience.

A woman with her back to me stood so close that her dark, curly hair came uncomfortably close to being in my mouth. I shifted my face to the left, and noticed over her shoulder that she was holding a print out of an email. Ooh! Something to read! I glanced at the text. My eyebrows shot up in surprise. The writer was in great appreciation of her, ahem, grooming habits and how it bettered their love life. A dirty email! On the #4 train! And then – I admit it was wrong – I kept reading.

After the parts that made me blush, he shifted to his total enamoration of her. He wrote of their children and his admiration of her mothering skills. He was so lucky to have her for his wife. He missed her tremendously.

This woman was completely oblivious to her surroundings, devouring this love letter.

For all the living on top of one another that we Manhattanites do, there is an unspoken way of giving each other our space. I have sat beside a couple breaking up at a restaurant where their table was mere inches from mine, and I did all I could not to listen. My neighbors have seen me doing my laundry in my pajamas, and they pretend not to notice that I’m not really dressed. We understand that personal space is not about the physical distance between us but the perceived distance we allow one another. And I had invaded this woman’s privacy because I couldn’t spend six minutes in my own thoughts.

But here I am a week later, still thinking about them, wondering when her husband is coming home, and hoping for their sakes it will be soon. Boy, that will be one hot reunion.

On Bubble Yum & Shamans (aka, Living this Life)

You see, I want a lot. Perhaps I want everything. -Rilke-

The fleas are gone. The geraniums have new blossoms. Two of my friends each had a beautiful, baby girl in the last week. And yesterday, I was fitted for reading glasses. These are all signs that time is moving right along. And, truth be told, I’m feeling a bit of pressure.

Last night, I stopped at the local general store to pick up a bottle of wine for dinner (and a big slice of red velvet cake just because). As she rang up the wine, the cashier looked at me and said, “You’re over 21, right?” to which I replied, “Times two.” Not exactly, but it sounded pithy and I was making a point. Then, I told her about the reading glasses. Across the cash register, we bonded over aging; this led to her reflection on the choices she has made. She told me that people often tut-tut about her being forty-something without ever having been married or having had kids. Actually, the term she used for married was “dodged that bullet” while literally swinging her head low to demonstrate the “dodging.” I bid her a kind farewell and left, wine and cake in hand, pondering my own choices.

A shaman once told me that I am currently living my last life. I have apparently had many previous lives, one being as a fantastic landscaper -funny that- but according to her, this life is it. (H. and I were walking down a New York street a couple of years ago when I shared this fact with her. She immediately burst into angry tears at the thought that I wasn't going to be in her future lives and had choice words to say about the shaman.) I don't know if it's true, but I can’t help but feel that I’m supposed to do something utterly fabulous before I leave this planet, and I don’t even know what it is.

To add more pressure, I also tend toward indecisiveness. This used to drive my mom batty when she offered to buy me Bubble Yum and I had to choose a flavor. Grape or cherry? Grape or cherry? GRAPE OR CHERRY?!?! The weight I feel when making decisions has carried over to my adult life. Deciding whether or not to stay in my marriage took a couple of years. Whether to stay in Manhattan or move to Maui? Three years. Now, it’s true that these life-impacting decisions deserved some thoughtful reflection. Still, overall, Me + Pressure = Agony. And now that I’ve become acutely aware of time rolling merrily along…Good grief!

Like Rilke, I really do want a lot. Perhaps, everything. But what does that look like? I want Big Laughter and Big Joy and Big Love. Sometimes, I realize, big joy comes in small packages, like standing at my kitchen counter eating cake. This I know. When I'm old and gray, wearing even stronger reading glasses, I want to sit back and think, "There. Look at what you lived."