Terrible Mother

The Alternative High School

Westside is an “alternative high school,” which can mean many things in the American education system. I’ve seen alternative schools in other cities where the curriculum is predominantly arts-based, or where the pedagogy is to stress group-learning. But here, alternative means “warehouse for students.”  The curriculum is packet-based, and stresses making up credits since so many of the students have lost credits at their previous high schools.

Basically, students get packets in each of their classes and fill them out, which allows them to work fast to make up lost credits, and allows them to work at their own pace. It also means an entire class of English students, say, can be at different levels of English instruction and still only need one teacher.

When packet-based education was explained to me, I knew it wouldn’t be great for Ivan. I also knew that he was missing a semester’s-worth of credits for four classes as the result of the debacle the year before. I had asked about the other high school in the area, but it was large and had some of the same problems his previous school had. Ivan’s behavioral medicine practitioner and his advocate said it was perfect for him. His therapist thought it would be great, too. A few acquaintances said they liked the program. When we toured the school, the principal was so nice that I felt like Ivan should be there.

Even now I don’t know that I was wrong. Living in this narrow valley, I’m not sure what else there was for him. But I know now that all of these people were wrong, and that it is not a great place for Ivan, and not a great place for anyone.

To start with, we should talk about the packets as a pedagogy. Of course, they are terrible. Students get packets that often have readings and then questions about the readings. Some packets walk them through writing a simply 5-paragraph essay. But in none of them is critical thinking required. This is unsurprising since these are packets, but I was still somewhat surprised by this. I designed online education curriculum as a freelancer for a few years, and so I know how hard it is to design a curriculum that encourages and even requires critical thinking when so much of the relationship between student and teacher is changed to a relationship between student and text, or student and curriculum. For me, it meant I had to ask challenging questions, script multi-media—and then ask the curriculum design team to make that media for me—and find engaging videos and photos that would help in that endeavor. Even then I knew that if there wasn’t a teacher who was invested on the other end of this—if there wasn’t someone who was using that curriculum well—it wouldn’t matter. It was out of my hands.

I suppose, then, this is one way to say that I thought—I hoped—the teachers were use the packet curriculum as best they could to engage other students, Ivan included. I hoped that the recognition that credit attainment without learning was terrible for any student, but especially students who were, for many reasons, behind academically.

I had hoped too much in most cases.

Some of Ivan’s teachers really tried their best to do more. Or they included projects in their classes. Or they talked to Ivan about complicated math problems. Ivan was the only student in pre-calculus in the entire school, though, so that meant he was given access to an online program, and he could check-in with his teacher if he needed help. The teacher had other students in that class who were struggling with attaining enough math credits to graduate high school, so he could not give Ivan the attention he wanted, and frankly deserved.

It was like this—or worse—in all of his classes.

In his history class, the packets are so bad as to be ridiculous. One of his last ones—for Washington state history—included such poorly photocopied material that some of it was unreadable (several lines at the top and bottom having not made it onto the page). All of it was hard to read because of the poor quality of the copies, and because whomever did the copying could not be bothered to line anything up—thus every single page of reading is rotated haphazardly at different angles. The readings are so bad as to be comical—a news article from the Reagan era, copies of pages from what appears to be a government handbook, copies of pages from what might be a textbook—all of it mashed together with no clear sense of order or unity. To make sense of it is nearly impossible for anyone, even a college professor. The idea that someone could learn anything from this mess is laughable.

In essence, Ivan will have lost, by June, almost two academic years of learning. Two years where he wanted nothing more than to be engaged with his studies. Two years where we tried every way we could to make that happen. And still, here we are. He took pre-calculus at the college last term and is taking pre-calculus II this term. He loves taking math here and does well at it. But in all other ways, he’s lost all this time. He will have the credits, though. I guess that’s what they think is important.

*tm

Recap, Review, Revive

In 2014, I was offered a full-time, tenure-track job in Wenatchee at the college there. It was the single career-goal I had been working towards for years. When I got the call, I hung up the phone and cried with relief. My current school had low enrollment; my job was very likely to be cut. We moved to Wenatchee in August of 2014, and haven’t looked back.

For Ivan, that has been the hardest, and all because of his schools and how they look at disability—a problem that is huge in the Wenatchee Valley.

This, too, is the single biggest reason I'm reviving my blog.

Last year was the worst year we’ve had in terms of school for Ivan. At Eastmont Junior High, several of his teachers just refused to follow his accommodations, and worse, he was bullied by students and a teacher. The students did things like attack him in the serpentine hallway between the locker room and the gym, or taunt him repeatedly in biology class, or grab him in band and try to get him to react. The teacher—who taught band—was much worse, asking Ivan in front of the class why he needed accommodations, then refusing to give him the accommodations, or judging Ivan’s disability and demanding to hear about it, and then finally screaming obscenities at Ivan, telling him he “Always starts shit” and lunging toward him in a threatening manner until the other adult in the room—the counselor—made him leave. But, of course, not before Ivan started sobbing and told him to get out.

That was life at Eastmont Junior High. It was so bad that getting Ivan out of bed was a daily chore. It was so bad that I jumped when I got a text message or phone call during the day, worried that something else had happened. As it turned out, Ivan only lasted until mid-February, and then the band teacher screamed at him, and I knew—I understood, finally—how truly unsafe the school was.

No adult told me what happened with the band teacher. No one said anything for over 24 hours, there was no report, there was nothing, until I said something.

Ivan spent the remainder of the academic year at home, doing online school. The online school was not truly adequate for a number of reasons. One was that the courses were generally harder, and Ivan struggled to get all the work done. Two was that the school district refused to give him credit for the month or so he had already completed of the semester, and given this, plus the time it took to get him set up online, he lost 6 weeks of the semester.

Ivan also has a processing disorder and executive function issues—something the district knew about—but getting accommodations within the online system was no easy feat, and the teacher in charge was somewhat of a joke: more of an administrator who sent letters and emails to students, but with no expertise in anything she was responsible for “teaching” online. Getting her to understand accommodations, and specifically what it meant to have a processing disorder and executive function issues, was frustrating and time-consuming. She said repeatedly, too, that she didn’t understand Ivan’s math work at all (Honors Algebra 2), and shrugged when we asked what he could do for help. Ivan finished three courses that semester, but lost credit then in 4 classes, putting him behind. He was an honors-student before coming here, and even during the worst of the bullying when he was at the physical school. He ended ninth grade behind in credits. No one at the school or the school district cared, even as I filed an OCR complaint and demanded some kind of restitution.

I had heard from a few people that Westside High School, Wenatchee’s “alternative” school would work for Ivan. No bullying, I heard. He can work at his own pace, I heard. Ivan had just re-qualified for an IEP—something I pushed before the teacher bullying got out of hand so that I could get teachers to take his accommodations and the student bullying more seriously. But to get Ivan into Westside, I had to decline any services under the IEP since the other school district refused to take an outside special education student. It was the only way I could see to get him back into the classroom with people.

And getting him back into the classroom was clearly necessary. Ivan was struggling with the online school in terms of trying to complete all the work, but worse he was also deeply lonely and starting to show signs of depression. He wanted to be around people, he wanted the chance to make friends here and to connect with others. He missed hearing the voice of a teacher explaining a concept, and he missed working on projects. Ivan had, since he was little, enjoyed school even though he had to work harder at it. In Eugene, he had done well in middle school, earning admission to the International High School program before we moved. The schools here were not as advanced academically, but he wanted to be in one anyway, wanted to try, wanted to be working in a classroom. School had become something he was good at, learning had become something he was good at, and he took pride in it, particularly in math and science, which he excelled in.

So I applied for him to attend Westside, hoping at least to get him back into the classroom. I knew it was an alternative school, but I strongly believe that all students can learn and I know from my experience as an educator that a lot of students get labeled as failures for reasons out of their control. I knew, too, that students generally did packet work, meaning packets that they filled out, and there wasn’t that much actual instruction going on. But, I thought, Ivan will be okay here. He will get the work done, and even make up those credits he lost in ninth grade. Maybe, I thought, he will recover from what had happened. He often talked about still feeling afraid of his band teacher, which, over time, morphed to anger.

I hoped that Westside would restore Ivan to his old self, the one who looked forward to school, who had friends, and who was happy. It was, perhaps, too much to hope for.

 

*tm

Bad Religion

Thing Three: Today, we went to the library to look at books with a partner, and my partner was Jon.

Terrible Mother: Okay.

Thing Three: And Jon found a book called "History of the Earth."

Terrible Mother: Sounds not terrible.

Thing Three: Well, except it was a book about Christianity.

Terrible Mother: Ohhh...

Thing Three: And Jon didn't know anything about it at all! So he kept saying things like, "Why are these two people wearing Hawaiian grass skirts?" and "Why is that snake in a tree?"

Terrible Mother: So what did you do?

Thing Three: I explained the whole story to him. Adam, Eve, the whole snake in a tree, and the apple thing.

Terrible Mother: You...you knew all that?

Thing Three: Yeah. It was on an episode of Futurama.


[later, while re-telling this story at the dinner table]


Thing One: Yeah, and wasn't it like Adam and Eve were naked because they didn't feel shame or something?

Terrible Mother: Yeah. And they didn't feel sexual desire either, since there was no need to procreate.

Thing Two: WHAT? THEY DIDN'T HAVE SEX?

Terrible Mother: No...

Thing Three [rolling her eyes]: Yeah, that happened. Good one, Bible. No sex with a bunch of naked people.

*tm

Notes Regarding Thing Two

Tonight, around the dinner table:

Thing Two: I'm worried about global warming.

Me: I am too, buddy.

Thing Two: So I've decided to give up designing computers for a living.

Me: Because they cause too much pollution?

Thing 2: No. So I can concentrate on becoming emperor of the world and then make people save the environment.

Me: Ummm....

Thing Two: First, it would probably be helpful if I were immortal.

***
Thing Two: I'm just really tired of people in my school using the word "ghetto." Like, seriously, we're all white people who live in a white town in a white state. We shouldn't be saying that.

***
Thing One: Why does Ivan say "I love you" all the God dammed time?

Me: What do you mean?

Thing One: Like whenever he gets out of the car or gets off the phone. He even says it when you run to the store for ice cream!

Me: Because I told him once that people liked to hear that they were loved, and it was important to say that to each other.

Thing One: Okay, but then why does he say it all the time?

Me: He doesn't know when to say it. So he says it a lot just to make sure.

Thing One: Well...now I feel like an asshole.

Me: You know, you could fix that by saying you love me.

*tm

Potential Disaster Management

A few months ago, I wrote about how I was planning on applying to Iowa's MFA in creative non-fiction.  I don't need another MFA, but what I could use is some writing time and, if I am able to land one of their better fellowships, then that would buy me a few more years writing.  Of course, I'd have to take courses again, and workshop, but, I reasoned, I'd have more time than I currently do with my part-time-in-name-only teaching job.

Part of the other reason I thought about doing this was because the inherent insecurity in being an adjunct.  I knew, for example, that the enrollment where I teach is falling as the economy gets better.  I haven't been there that long compared to many of my colleagues, and so I'd be the first let go.  I'm also low on the list for getting classes, so the end of each term is always filled with worry and anxiety, as I hope that I can land a second class (I need 2 classes to make it through financially, and most terms I need to maintain my health insurance). 

As a result of this insecurity, a good portion of my life is spent in what I've termed "Potential Disaster Management."  I calculate what we'd need to give up to make it on one class or what we'd need to do, God forbid, I got no classes.  I look for freelance writing gigs.  I consider setting up a tutoring service.  I network with acquaintances.  And in spring of this year, I applied for a second instructor position in another department at the college.  I was hired.  Buoyed by this, I thought that perhaps I'd be able to make it through every term, every year.  However, there are no classes for me in the second department next term.  I've managed to get two classes in my first department, so I'll be fine.  But it's hard to escape the feeling that I am just skirting disaster and that, given enough time, it will hit me.

That disaster may come via that falling enrollment:  I know that adjuncts have been, for the past few years, allowed to teach more classes than our contract allows because there had been such a surge in numbers when the economy collapsed.  Once the union and administration ends that, I'll be stuck at 5 classes a year (with one extra in the summer if I'm very lucky).  That's $20,000/year, maybe $24,000. 

That's why the idea of Iowa, or something else, somewhere else, seems more secure.  At least back under the auspices of a university, I will have some stability.  A fellowship is only, at the most, $17,500, but it comes close to the $20,000 mark.  And I'd qualify again for food stamps year round, other assistance.  I'm also applying for fellowships at a few other universities, though each of them is difficult to land--the equivalent of a writer's winning lottery ticket.

And then I think about our lives here, how settled we are.  We've been in this small city for the past 8 1/2 years.  I have a close circle of friends I love.  I'm comfortable here, established even.  That's the rub, really.  I've worked hard to scratch out a life here.  I'm about to get seniority at the community college which means that my job will be more protected, and I'll have a bit easier of a time getting classes.  It's not nearly as secure as tenure but, for an adjunct, it's pretty good.  Am I willing to turn my back on that to move to a tiny, frozen town in the Midwest?  Am I willing to uproot the kids, all of whom are excelling and happy, for something like "writing time" and a shot at "stability"? 

I wish the decisions came easier.  I know I can make lists of pros and cons, can calculate costs of living and moving, research schools.   I have already done some of these things.  Yet it all seems murkier, harder to decide.  Do I accept what I have here and consciously set out to believe that it's enough?  Is it enough?  Or do I strike out for the east, hoping that those few years will help me finish and revise my memoir and start a second book?  Will that, after all is said and done, be enough to make it somewhere else? 

I've already made up my mind to apply.  There's a deadline and I know I'll still feel the same pull in January or February.  Maybe, I think, it won't matter.  Maybe I won't get in or if I do, the fellowship or funding will be so small as to not matter.  I admit, part of me is relieved to consider that scenario.  Another Potential Disaster I'd manage to avoid. 

*tm

Asunder

A few weeks ago, I drove the kids to Portland, like I do every other Friday night so they can spend the weekend with their dad, John. Ivan was registered to play at a Friday night chess club for a few hours, and so we drove to the church in suburban Portland where it's held. John typically gets off around 7:00, so we had to wait a little while for him to show up. I got Ivan signed in, grabbed a table in the room for friends and family, and waited.

I always wait in situations like these even though I could leave the kids. Chloe's 14 now, Ivan nearly 13, and it's a church in suburban Portland, for chissakes. But I like hanging out with them, like making sure they get handed off to their dad easily. I like to account for all the backpacks and things they take, too. And this time, I needed to talk to John about Ivan.

That Tuesday, I had gone to Ivan's Open House. Ivan's in 7th grade now. Seventh grade, and, for the first time in his entire scholastic career, he's not in Special Education. The team and I decided he didn't need it in April; in September, Ivan was moved two years ahead in math to 9th grade Algebra.

It had come at just the right time, too.  Over the summer, John told Chloe that the twins his new wife was about to have weren't, technically, "his." They had been conceived using a sperm donor since he and his wife "didn't want to have an another autistic kid."

He wasn't devastated; he didn't cry.  Instead he asked a lot of questions: "Why wouldn't anyone want an autistic kid?" "Were they sure the babies wouldn't have autism?" "Why do they think that about me?"  Then, finally, "But haven't I gotten a lot better?"  I have spent so much time telling Ivan that he's amazing and that he's worked so hard, and I've also said how lucky we are that he got so much better, and I think having to confront the idea that to his dad that still wasn't enough was difficult. 

Soon after, Ivan started talking about math and trying to place in a higher class.  And his interest in chess livened, too.  "I'm gifted in math--the state said so," he'd proclaim.  "This means there is proof that I'm smart.  I will go to college and have a good job."

I spent that last month of summer consoling him in the smallest, thinnest ways.  I didn't want to bring up what his dad had said, but I understood the way his mind was working through the problem that had presented itself.

And, truthfully, focusing on Ivan made it easier to ignore that John had said.  It wasn't that I thought it was a bad idea--the sperm donor, I mean.  I did.  John didn't handle it well the first time, and his wife is described by the kids as "self-centered."  But to tell any of your children that this was the (presumably) difficult choice you made is unconscionable.  Even if Ivan had never gotten wind of it, to burden Chloe with it was irresponsible at best.  That there was any chance of Ivan finding out makes it even worse. 

That's why Ivan skipping ahead two years in math was no small thing, and it came at just the right moment.  Ivan beamed when he found out, promised to study hardand do all his homework.

Still, when I approached Ivan's math teacher at the end of Open House, it was with the queasy stomach mix of anticipation and anxiety because I knew how much it meant to him.

"I just wanted to check in," I said, "about Ivan."

His teacher, Jens, looked a little surprised and said, "Oh! Ivan."

My stomach did a quick flip-flop. This, I already knew, meant things weren't going well

As it turned out, things weren't actually terrible yet. The problem was that so much of the class centered around small groups working together to solve complex problems. Each group member had a specific role and set of tasks, but Ivan wasn't participating in his group. "He's one of the few I haven't been able to crack yet," Jens said. "He just doesn't talk at all. He shuts down."

That night, I asked Ivan what was happening in math.

Ivan looked down. "There's a kid in my group from Edison,*" he said. "In second grade he called me a retard a lot. Then when he saw me in math, he looked all shocked and said, 'You used to be stupid. So what happened?'"

Ivan started crying.  Then it all came pouring out: how everyone else in his group was a year ahead of him, how he'd spend minutes thinking of what to say, how he'd not be able to find an entry point. 

At one point, Ivan wailed, "And I know if I don't figure out how to do this, I'll never have a job!"

"Ivan, what are you talking about?"

"That's what studies say. That the biggest reason people get fired is that they don't get along with others." Ivan shook his head, then buried his head in a pillow and cried harder. "I know it's my autism."

"It's okay that it's your autism," I said.  "It's okay."  I could not bring myself to say what I worried he was thinking: that this was why his dad didn't want another kid like him.  That even Ivan with all of his wonderful traits, his quirky laugh, his ability to memorize, the way he tries to learn what to say and when so that he can fit in (every day he asks me, on cue, how my day was), that this was not enough for John.  There are many ways to reject a child, but perhaps the worst is to literally choose not to have another child like him, and to make that choice known. 

Instead of talking to Ivan about John, I set about righting the situation.  I figured out who he'd work better with, I emailed the teacher, and then I checked in with him every day until, one day, he smiled when I asked, and talked about the way his group had solved a particularly difficult equation. 

And despite everything, I wanted to tell John about the math class.  All week, I felt it, this nagging at the edge of my consciousness:  call him.  I do not call him unless a kid has been injured.  I sometimes send email.  This was not an email kind of story though, and as John's weekend came up, I felt the urge to tell him get stronger.  It felt like a compulsion, and it sickened me a little. 

So I waited in the church, listening to the whispers of parents and siblings in the hallway, and the thin click of chess clocks in the room next door.  I imagined how I'd leave without saying anything, how I'd let this thing by my own victory.  Wouldn't it make it my own if I don't tell him, I thought.  Keep this for yourself, Heather.

I kept to this plan until John and I were headed to the parking lot where he'd get the kids' backpacks.  It started with, "Something's going on in Ivan's math class..." As we walked, I talked, hands gesturing.  John looked at me once or twice, but stayed 3 feet ahead of me at all times.  Look at me, I thought.  Come back here and look at me.  Listen to what I'm saying.

We passed the backpacks from one car to the other, and I was still talking with almost nothing from John.  He closed the car right when I said, "So, it's been hard for Ivan, But I think..."

It was at this moment that John turned away. He turned completely around, and for a second I thought that perhaps he hadn't heard me, so I stopped.

I started to repeat myself, saying, "But I think that Ivan will be okay..." before John started walking back to the church. I watched him disappear through a set of glass doors and down a hallway decorated with Jesus posters. 

"Come back here," I muttered.

I could not explain it, but I wanted him to finish hearing the story.  I don't even like him, but I was filled with a sudden, inarticulate rage.  I would go into the church, down that hallway carpeted in that cheap gray-blue church carpet, and finish my fucking story.

I didn't do it.  A church in suburban Portland is a bad place to invoke a principled rage.  I thought I probably couldn't pull it off.

The drive home was long and punctuated with headlights along the Willamette Valley, and I thought about John.  A memory hit me, unbidden.  We were sitting in a taupe and mushroom gray school office, waiting for another round of tests.  Ivan was 2, just a few months post-diagnosis.  For reasons I cannot remember--fatigue, worry, grief--I had started to cry.  John put his arm around me and said, "You just have to remember that this will be the hardest thing you ever do." He repeated it over and over, the way you might tell a child that the shot won't hurt, or the medicine won't taste bad, or how you repeat the small, simple benediction of "I know, I know" when there is nothing else to offer.

In the car, I thought of that moment, and his precise wording, the way he said "you and not "we."  First, I thought, he said that because he knew I'd end up doing all the work--all the driving to appointments, the scheduling, the yelling at administrators and counselors to give him what he needed. In that scenario, John turned away at the church because he knew I was telling a story about me, and not Ivan. And isn't that partially true? Maybe what I wanted was praise, some sort of acknowledgement that I am the person who does these things for Ivan, who makes sure that his life runs as smoothly as possible.

Then I thought that perhaps, even then, he knew that he was already gone.  That I'd discover that he wasn't capable or competent in the ways I needed him to be. In that scenario, when John turned away, he was turning from a story where he was no longer an actor, and so no longer needed.  It was a story I was telling only for my benefit. 

For a few days, I was stuck between these two possibilities.  Then I remembered that John was the person who called our families after Ivan was diagnosed because I refused to--I couldn't.  I know that I cried harder than he did, and that when I described the months after Ivan's diagnosis, I said it was like the world had been knocked off its axis. 

It was a moment of generosity to say "you" and not "we."  It meant that he knew it was harder for me than it was for him, that it always would be.  What a difficult thing to acknowledge--that we were already, just a few months in, on separate trajectories. I think sometimes of that old biblical verse repeated in weddings:  "What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."  As though marriage, divorce are such simple matters.  One time, I called John late at night because there was no one else who could remember the old Ivan, the one who spun in circles and licked the tv screen.  Into the static, I said, "Tell me again how bad Ivan used to be." 

There was a long pause and then he said, "What happened?" 

Asunder.  We have not been put asunder, even though it would be so much simpler if we were.  If we were, then I could easily dismiss him over the comment about the sperm donor, or a hundred other things.  But I know that when John turned away from me at the church, he was just turning from the old wounds that bind us together.    

 

*tm

 

Neighborly Conduct

I think we can now say, with certainty, that I have the "Worst Neighbors Ever," even though previous reports of their misdeeds would not qualify them as "worst." The neighbors directly next to us are often loud, but that's nothing in the realm of Worst Neighbors Ever. Apartments 4 and 5 take extra parking spaces, and once the guy in 4 actually parked so that he took up three entire spaces.  That's an impressive level of Bad Neighbor-ness.  Apartments 1, 3, 4 and 5 routinely play beer pong and exchange homo-erotic exclamations and affirmations ("Dude, if I was gay, I'd totally date you...dude. No, seriously!"). And then there was the night the girl from Apartment 5 sat under my daughter's window and talked to her cat about oral sex* and her boyfriend.

But that, my friends, is bush league compared the recent misdeeds of Apartment 1. It all started about 6 weeks ago.  One afternoon, I took Effie out to pee on our "side yard." This side yard is where a seventh apartment would be if there were one (and I thank every possible deity that there isn't because then I'd have two shared walls and can you imagine the bitching I would undertake with that scenario?). But instead of a seventh apartment there is a little, bare ground yard that runs up to the house behind us. In March, the late snowstorm knocked several trees down, and those still haven't been cleaned up by the landlords**, so Effie and I had to navigate those as well.

Six weeks ago, she was sniffing around, when the hair on the back of her neck stood up. I looked for another animal, but then noticed what looked like fur on the ground. Clumps of fur. At first, I thought it was some dead animal, and so I pulled Effie back so she wouldn't do something typically Effie, like roll in dead animal carcass. I toed a clump of it carefully, thinking a dead mouse or rat or squirrel was surely close by. But the fur didn't look much like fur the more I moved it around with my shoe. It looked like hair.  

This is because it was hair. Human hair.  Four or five big clumps to be exact, spread around as if on purpose.  It had clearly been cut, because each clump was more of a lock of hair than anything else. I took Effie back inside, but I was just baffled. Why would there be human hair in our side yard? Under what circumstances would human hair be found in that side yard?  Was I an unwilling witness to witchcraft and/or a new episode of CSI?  

After a week, I forgot about it. The hair drifted off, or was carried away by animals, and I just thought it was a freak occurrence.

That is, until this past Sunday afternoon. I again was taking Effie out, but this time I took her to the front yard. I was standing near one of the parked cars when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed leaves fluttering to the ground.  There was also a thin buzzing noise that I couldn't quite place. And then I realized something was wrong--the leaves were dark brown, and were not so much fluttering to the ground as they were falling in clumps. I looked again.  

Yep--human hair again.  This time it was coming over the fence of apartment 1.  Through the cracks in the fence, I could see one of the occupants of said apartment.  He was bent at the waist, head down, and he had a hair clipper in his hand.  He was shaving off whole sections of his overgrown, dark brown locks and throwing it over the fence.  

"What the fucking fuck!" I yelled. The kid jumped, and then I heard something drop.  I realized that he had dropped the hair clipper.  

Because I am an asshole, I repeated myself, only a bit calmer this time:  "I said, what the fucking fuck!" 

Through the fence cracks, the kid and I made eye contact and in that split second, he turned and ran into the apartment.  He slammed the door.  

"What kind of animal is so lazy they can't throw away their own HAIR?"  At this point, I was yelling at no one, since the kid had shut the sliding glass door.  This, sadly, did not stop me.  

"How can anyone be successful in life if they can't be bothered to THROW AWAY THEIR OWN HAIR?!?!"  I was sputtering with rage.  How dare these goddamned kids!  How dare they throw parties and take all the parking spaces and throw fucknig hair clippings into the yard!  

It was at that moment that I had a sudden realization.  In casting them as the entitled and lazy undergrads, I had placed myself in the only other available role:  the angry old person with the cane, yelling at the young 'uns to get off her lawn.  

I looked at Effie, and I looked at the hair.  The angry old person would have scooped it up, and plopped it on the front porch of the offenders, probably with a passive aggressive note.  The busy single mother would leave it alone, shrug her shoulders and sigh, and let it go.  

I decided that, at least for this week, I'm not resigning myself to old age quite yet.  I have things to do, you know.  Kids to raise.  Meals to cook.  Papers to grade.  

Even though I maybe sorta drafted that note in my head.

*tm

*Okay, only once. But I think it's possible it will reoccur. Still, that poor, poor cat

**Apparently, the landlords have told the regular yard maintenance gentleman that he is to take a "barrel or two" away every week. There are two big felled trees, and he's doing it a barrel at a time. This is the longest yard maintenance job ever.

The Best Laid Plans

Last week, I said that something had to change. Specifically, I said, "I don’t want to do this anymore." I've said it before, but I meant it in the vague "someday-things-will-be-better" way. This time, I'm making actual plans to change things, and these plans vary greatly.

Plan I*: Find a job outside of academia as a writer. This would mean I'd likely work as a technical writer, or in marketing or communications.  To do this, though, I would have to leave Eugene. This area just doesn't have enough large corporations or companies that will hire a person to write. There are a few larger companies here, but they hire infrequently (and, truthfully, right now they hire not at all).

I want to stay in the Pacific Northwest if at all possible, particularly if I have to work a traditional job where I must arrive neatly dressed and ready to work at 8:00 am Monday through Friday. This means that Portland and Seattle are my best options for full time work, with Seattle being significantly better in prospects.

Plan II: Apply to the creative non-fiction MFA at the University of Iowa in Iowa City. Yes, that Iowa. It's most well-known for the Iowa Writers' Workshop, but even though the non-fiction program isn't directly affiliated with the IWW, it's the most prestigious non-fiction program in the country. If I can get in and get a decent fellowship, I could probably make this work.

Of course, this would involve leaving the Pacific Northwest for at least two, maybe three, years. It would also mean uprooting the kids from the Pacific Northwest and subjecting them to the Iowa winters. And by "subjecting them" I also mean "subjecting me."

Both plans have their pros and cons. Part of me just wants to turn away from academia altogether. I love being in the classroom, working with students, engaging them on topics I know they thought they'd hate. When I'm teaching, I feel whole in a way that happens only rarely otherwise, and only when I'm writing and, sometimes, when I'm with my kids. It's heartbreaking to think of giving that up. But the economic realities of my situation have done a lot to convince me that I need to seriously consider stepping away from academia for good. Corporate America could be my best escape.

But Iowa would give me a chance to read and study creative non-fiction in a way I haven’t been able to. I’d also be given a lot of time to write. I have a draft of my memoir, but it’s a long way from being done. Another MFA program would give me the space and time to finish it.

I ask myself, though, “Does anyone really do this? TWO MFAs?” It’s preposterous. And I’d really only want to do it if I didn’t have to add to my considerable debt. It’s already a risky prospect to get one MFA and fund it with student loans.

I’d be 42 by the time I finished another MFA program (maybe 41 if I hurried). I wonder about my financial security as I get older. I’ll have spent so many of my years raising kids and going to school—will I be able to work enough to build up savings? The answer is probably “no” regardless, but putting off entering the workforce and getting a good, full-time job would make it more so.

I know that, regardless of these points, I have to make some kind of plan. The enrollment at my college is slowly falling. Right now, the union has approved a short term “overload” plan that allows us to teach 7 classes in a 9-month academic year. We can always teach summer courses, too, if they are available. Seven classes is $28,000/year. But they will likely cut that back to the normal amount, which allows us to teach 5 courses in a year, or a 2-2-1 (to keep insurance for the entire year). That’s $20,000/year. Another college an hour away allows 5 classes a year, too, but I’d only make $12,500, and the gas and childcare would eat away at that meager salary.

These are the two options I’m considering now, as though I could easily weigh each on a set of scales to see which tipped more in our favor. It’s so hard for me to know. So, I make plans for both, and keep my fingers crossed, and hope at least one doesn’t go awry.

*tm

*I admit, using Roman numerals makes me feel like a grown up, and makes me feel like these plans could happen. Roman numerals are magic, yo.

The Language of Neighbors

I live in a tiny complex that is comprised of exactly one thin row of townhouses.  There are six townhouses, to be exact, and we are the last in the row.  Number 6.  This is good because it means we share only one wall with neighbors, while the other wall edges a quiet back yard and treed area. 

It's also good because almost all of our neighbors are of the undergraduate variety.  They can be loud and annoying, and certainly inconsiderate. 

This, then, is a brief collection of various phrases, acronyms, and sentences my kids have heard me utter as a result of living near these people. I tend to see these as falling into one of several categories.

 

First, some phrases I've used to describe their lack of responsibility:

"Irresponsible twat"

"Human crap holders"

"Waste of electricity" [in reference to their music, specifically]

Second, acronyms I use as an attempt to avoid cursing while still getting the sweet relief a good curse phrase provides [note: this does not work well]:

"FFS"

"WTF" 

"WTFBBQLOL"

Third, phrases I use to describe the various male-male interactions I must bear witness to:

"Bro-mance"

"Bro-mageddon"

"Bro-bro"

"Phallic symbol"

"Homoerotic overtones"

Fourth, sentences that allow me to express my full emotions about our neighbors:

"Fucking Christ on a Popsicle stick!"

"Do you know what my favorite numbers are? 9-1-1."

"I swear to God they have more incense than anyone. It's Eugene. That's saying something."

"If this clock vibrates off my wall one more time..."

"I pay for a parking space! I don't pay to be pissed when there is no parking!"

Finally, these last are sentences I have found myself saying to the kids as means of explaining previous comments:

"Yes, Chloe--beer pong is for business majors and undergraduates. Sometimes both."

"No, Ivan. Homoerotic doesn't refer to pornography. Well, in general, anyway. Or, at least when I refer to it."

"I could throw dog crap on their cars. I'm not saying it's a good idea. I'm just saying...well, do you think they'd know it was me?"

"I know I'm the only parent who lives here. Well, as far as they know. All those bros could TOTALLY be parents!"

"It's like living in a third world country here! A fucking LOUD third world country!"

"If I wanted to hear loud, drunken sex I would start dating again!"

"No, I swear that isn't really how my dates go."

"Well, when you love someone it isn't gross...."

*tm

The Longest Month

It’s September and the air is filled with autumn: drying leaves, rain, and a hint of smoke. I love the weather changes, even though they are subtle here in Oregon. I love the return to school with all those pencils and notebooks stacked so neatly in the stores.

But September is also the last month I go without a paycheck. As an adjunct instructor at the local community college, I make enough to scrape by during the school year. Because I’m very careful, and because I get child support from the Things’ dad, it’s enough for a car payment and insurance, food and gas, rent, clothes, and even internet and chess lessons and theater classes. It’s enough for decent birthday presents and pet food and orthodontia payments. It’s enough for me to get a haircut and color twice a year.

In short: this is what I manage on a salary of about $26,000, with child support of about $13,000.

But it’s never enough to make it through the entire summer without a paycheck. I hold off paying certain bills, buy cheaper food, forego doctors’ visits or other expenses. I lie in bed, thinking about how I might make extra money: could I sell something? Every summer, I try to sell my plasma, and every year I am turned away for low iron.

This summer, I took on two significant freelance writing jobs. One paid very well, and the other paid decently, but was a project I was passionate about. I’ve completed the first job and I’m diligently working on finishing the second.

Still, we’re on food stamps for the next few months. The combination of no paycheck since the beginning of July, and none coming until the end of October, means that even that freelance work hasn’t been enough. The food stamps are welcome—they mean we will get by. They mean that I was able to buy Ivan two pairs of jeans which he desperately needed. They mean that Giselle gets a new coat, and they kids all got school supplies. But all of it, all the ways I scrape and pull together this life, is never enough. Will it ever be enough?

In December, I will turn 39. The Things Three will be 14, 13, and 11. I confess, I don’t want to do this anymore. I am tired of working so hard for so little. I’m tired of struggling. And I’m tired of September, the longest month, when the façade I’ve so carefully crafted thins, and I can see how close I am to disaster. *tm