...Then comes the baby in the baby carriage.

June is wedding season. As evidenced from the date of this, it's taken me well into July to recover from it.

But this isn't going to be a wedding post. All of those stories I've tucked away until a later date, when everyone's memory is a little less clear. Let's be real, everyone's all about a shout out until somebody gets an ego hurt. 

Even when you choose an alias. Sorry to disappoint, DeMarcus. You secretly fantasize about being a 6'8'' black man who plays professional basketball player, don't you?

After the fun and excitement of setting up...

"I just wanted to bend it!" (broken flower in hand)

"Well, ya did. Permanently."

The camaraderie and encouraging banter...

"I can't work in this negative environment! Art can't flow right now."

"...or ever."

The beauty of the ceremony and the fun of the reception with free-flowing food and drink...all over the front of my dress...

"Don't worry, you can just walk behind me for the rest of the night. Or pretend that you're lactating. ...Or walk behind me for the rest of the night.

After all this, the reality hits. This couple has been joined in holy matrimony for the purpose of bringing children into the world. 

Now, kids do not intimidate me. When I offered to help my BFF babysit her toddler while she had her second baby, I twas pretty confident in my abilities. I used to be very competent at taking care of children. People paid me a lot of money. I was like the Dwayne Wade of nannies.

After a day with JD, I felt more like Michael Jordan after he came out of retirement. The second time.

I have a new found respect for all mothers. 

After a 5am wake up call, I closed my eyes mid-morning for two minutes on the couch. He came to me with a pack of matches in his hand. Half an hour before, I couldn't find matches when I was actively looking for them. I should have sent him out to find the ant poison too.

Then I left him to play in the toy room while I made lunch.

"JD? JD?"

A much too silent silence. 

There are different types of silences. There’s the silence of the wilderness, the silence of no electricity, the silence of morning and evening. If you were blind you could probably tell where you were just from the type of silence you experience. Well, when you are watching a child you learn to detect a new type of silence, an ominous silence, the silence of all of your makeup being pulled out of the bathroom cabinet and spread across the wall by your burgeoning Picasso.

I walked to the back bedroom to find JD with an open package of nails methodically punching them into the back of a desk chair. 

Ok, kid, come with Emmy to the kitchen while she makes lunch.

I pulled some canned goods out of the cabinet to amuse him. I remembered playing with them when I was a kid, building towers and organizing them into families (That big can of crushed tomatoes made the perfect Italian mama for a brood of tiny tomato pastes...) I guess I was just a little more imaginative than JD. Or my imagination tended more to the domestic and nurturing and less to the violent. 

His first reaction was to pick up a can and hurl it at the wall. That's when I realized that to a one year old, everything is a potential projectile missile.

So we switched to tupperware.

http://static.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/1324277050721_2956637.png

When I first mentioned to my family that I was going to help Mr. & Mrs. BFF, I said that I was going to be making meals. “Are you sure?” was the skeptical response.

Well I was pretty sure. But then I tried. I think I hit a new culinary low, in fact.

Grilled cheese is hard, y'all.

How on earth do you make the pan hot enough to melt the cheese without burning the bread? 

Since then, I have been told that patience is the key, but I have trouble accepting this. Grilled cheese is the bread and butter of 6 year olds. Ain’t nobody got time to spend 45 minutes making a sandwich for a 6 year old. By that time they’re ready for another meal! 

The smoking carbon mess was unceremoniously buried at the bottom of the trash.

Did I say grilled cheese, JD? I meant peanut butter. We shall never speak of this again.

Or so I thought.

A few nights later, washing the dishes with Mr. BFF: “So I was taking out the trash yesterday and there was the weirdest thing…”

I braced myself. There was definitely a layer of burned popcorn on the top of that trash but really, nothing to write home about. We’ve all burned popcorn before.

He continued, “There was a hole in the bottom of the bag.”

Rats? Mice? Palmetto bugs? (Palmetto bugs, to digress, are basically roaches with a Southern pedigree). 

“Then I noticed a piece of burnt toast sticking to the bottom of the can. Then I noticed it was stuck because there was a layer of cheese on it.”

Busted. Next time, wait until the failure cools before disposal. 

And fantasize about the things I could do without a carbon thumb...namely, this list of mouth watering grilled cheeses...

Not Just Another Father's Day Post (Mostly Because It's No Longer Father's Day)

This generation is obsessed with lists. Everyday there is a new buzz feed list/article trending on Facebook, like, "20 things you'll recognize if you grew up in the 90s."

And I scroll through the list and I click through each picture and I think,

Yup, recognize that. Oh yeah, recognize that too.

And at the end of it all I feel an overwhelming and completely unjustified sense of accomplishment.

Did I really need affirmation that I grew up in the 90s? It's like taking a test to see if you actually like your favorite kind of food.

But regardless of how silly they may be, lists are trending, and I'm hip, so...

Here is my list, my father's list really, in honor of him on father's day (or in my punctual spirit, three days afterward). It's pretty much the ultimate life hack list, but back before we felt the need to hack life and were content to just live it.

1. Learn to drive stick. Besides the fact that you will be really cool, you should always have a way to leave a situation. Jason Bourne also learned this from my father.

"Sure you can get a Wrangler. If you learn to drive stick. No daughter of mine is going to drive an automatic Jeep."

My experience with Wranglers at the time of this conversation was limited to the pink Barbie PowerWheels, but even at 6 I knew I wanted one (as long as they came in other colors). It was news to me that you needed any knowledge beyond pushing an on/off switch, but whatever the mysterious terms "manual transmission" signified, I was going to learn how to use it.

Fast forward to sophomore year in college. Taking a left across 3 lanes of traffic in my first lesson was not the way I anticipated learning. I turned on my right blinker.

"What are you doing? We're going left."

I calmly explained, "I don't feel comfortable taking a left. I'm afraid of stalling and getting hit. We can try in the next lesson."

My friend leaned over and switched the blinker. "If we take a right, I will be late for class. And if we get hit, it will be on the driver's side." Well I'm glad you have your priorities straight.

I stalled.

But I survived to tell the tale. And when every once in awhile I rest my hand on the gear shift and pretend I'm cool enough to drive a manual, I remember. "Oh wait. I AM that cool."

2. Read. You will always have something interesting to say. Reading broadens your perspectives, improves your attention span and makes you an interesting conversationalist.

Reading also improves your vocabulary. Make sure, however, that you double check how to pronounce these new words before you try to use them. Take the advice of someone who never paid attention in Phonics and then thought it was a good idea to use words she had read but never heard spoken. A Philly accent can only cover so many of those mistakes.

Only last week my statement about surviving summer camp with "aplomb" (which I pronounced "a-plume") met first a blank reaction, and then...

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was confused. Are we talking about feathers?"

3. Learn how to tell a good story.

My father is a master story teller. Every inflection is perfectly rehearsed, every punch line delivered with excellent timing. Every part can be timed to the second, even the point when he turns to you and says, "Stop me if I've told this one."

But of course you never would, because they are that good.

4. When you can, drive there.

And if there are any presidential birthplaces on the way, stop (Eastern seaboard? Seen 'em all).

5. Always fill your tank up all the way and change your oil (regularly).

You will save a lot of time and money. If you want to go places in life, take care of your vehicle. Don't play that game where you put in 10 gallons here, 5 gallons there. Ain't nobody got time for that (Also, if you're waiting to get to that station priced at $3.50 a gallon instead of $3.59, recall that you are saving $.09 a gallon, factor out the gas you spend to get to the cheaper station, slap yourself in the face, and fill up your tank).

6. Country music is cool.

I may not have realized it at the time, but in retrospect I appreciated the character building of having my father blast Hal Ketchum with the windows down in Center City Philadelphia.

I apologize for hiding in the seat well, Dad. I was so young and ignorant.

7. If you spend money on a night out, you can afford to tip well.

Also, don't order salad and fill up on bread while you drink water and stare hungrily at your date. Trust me, she'd rather go to Taco Bell than watch your cheeks slowly hollow as she drinks and dines on your dime.

8. Get dessert.

Enough said.

9. Remember birthdays and anniversaries.

With the advent of social media, it's become pretty easy to remember important dates in people's lives, but a Happy Birthday doesn't have the same effect when it has been reduced to a red notification flag on a Facebook wall. And if your post wasn't the most recent, it doesn't even say your name. Just something like, "Suzy Soandso and 3 other people posted on your wall."

Is that really where you want to be lumped? In those 3 other people, with Suzy getting all the credit?

In the barren years before iCalendar and Facebook, my father used to give each of us a wall calendar for Christmas. And in Bro's Sports Illustrated calendar, B's Impressionists, M's Norman Rockwell, and my Defining Events of US Military History, he would write all of our relatives' birthdays and anniversaries. And a few others that were practically family. Like Ronald Reagan and Babe Ruth.

10. Call your mother.

She put up with you for a long time. And she loves you (Even if it's because she has to. My mother's exact words, if I recall rightly, were, "I love you right now because I have to. But I don't like you very much.")

Plus a girl can tell how a man will treat her down the line from the way he treats his mother. So gentlemen, it wouldn't hurt to have a pretty girl or two overhear that weekly conversation.


The 10 items comprise some of the best advice I've gotten from my father, and yet he never came out and told me I had to follow any of it. The best advice you can get from someone is the advice that they follow themselves. My dad's got it pretty locked up, if you ask me.

Happy Campers

Well it's been two years, but I finally moved past the bros, hipsters, good ole boys, and hip hop stars to experience the real south, the south everyone warned me about, the south that Jeff Foxworthy prepared me for. This past week I hung with the toothless crowd.

And those 22, 3-5 somethings were the toughest southerners this Yankee has encountered yet.

Have you ever tried to imitate every motion that a toddler makes over the course of their day? You'd be dead by 9:30 in the morning. And yet I was the one falling asleep during nap time (on that note, can we bring back that institution?).

I decided pretty early on that the only way to keep order with my tiny summer campers was to establish a military state. I instructed them to call me "Sarge," which, in respectful southern fashion, they changed to "Miss Sarge." Except for the Korean students, who called me "Teacher Sarge." (I'm considering that title for my college professorial career).

http://37.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzgn5hTWGm1qi67s6o1_500.jpg

It was pretty difficult to keep up my stern military persona though, especially when one approached me with tears in his eyes (well, I assume, but his face was completely swallowed up by his wailing open mouth so there would be no way of knowing for certain) to tell me he had hit his elbow.

"Don't do that," I told him. "It hurts."

Apparently my Irish father's tough love methods do not work universally, because this only produced more wails.

"Are you going to be okay? Do I need to call in the Marines? What about the National Guard?"

"I j-j-just..." he paused mid-wail, sniffled, gulped, continued, "I just need a hug!"

Melt.

On Wednesday, we took a field trip to the library. The women who let us in the door glared at me like I had just run through her quiet sanctum with a ghetto blaster.

"That is a lot of children." She said it like I wasn't aware I had a small army of toddlers following me.

"I hope you weren't planning on bringing them to the show."

Now, those kids may have softened me up a bit over the week, but the Philly bristled right up at this.

"Well, actually yes. I was planning on bringing them to the free show at the free library." And what are you doing working here, lady? Did you just wake up one morning, think 'I hate kids and noise and disturbance' and then decide, 'I should be a children's librarian!'"

"Well, we have a strict policy to not accept groups of 6 or more."

I looked back at my crew and the 4 chaperones accompanying them.

"I have an adult for every four kids."

"I'm sorry, it's the policy." Don't you mess with me, lady. My people threw snowballs at Santa Claus. I will not spare a mere librarian.

"In that case, we can stagger our entrance to make sure we are letting all of the other children get a chance."

She glared and then conceded. "I will make an exception this time. But don't count on doing it in the future. And don't," she stared down my 5 year old line leader, "line up until 10:20."

I looked at the clock, noted that it was 10:17, and decided to let that battle go.

It was playground time that saved my sanity. A fenced-in area with 100% visibility, filled with play structures that will occupy a three year old attention span for at least 15 minutes? Mecca. I began to look forward to it more than the kids. They saw it as 15 minutes of play time, I saw it as my sole chance to sit down during the day.

Not that it was uninterrupted Me time. Or even uninterrupted sitting time. On that note, children should not be allowed on swings unless they are self-sustaining swingers. I mean, seriously, kid? This is my sitting time. You say you just want one under-doggy but we all know where that leads. It's the gateway to endless pushing.

"Miss Sarge, do you have a kid?"

"No." But if I did he would know how to pump by the age of two: max.

"That's too bad. If you had a kid, he would be like you but he wouldn't be in charge and he and I would be best friends." Hopefully he could teach you how to use a swing.

On the walk back from the playground, Charlie held my hand and pointed to the cars as we passed.

"That's a KIA. That's a BMW. That's a Volvo."

I pointed to a Mustang. "What's that one?"

He looked at me and I sensed a distinct loss of respect.

"That's a Horse." Duh, Miss Sarge.

By day three I was moving in a zombie state, drinking straight espresso and praying for an incident free day.

"Teacher Sarge. What are you drinking?"

"Coffee."

"Why?"

"To give me energy."

He giggled. "That no work, Teacher." Well, yes, I've been realizing that myself. Do you have a better alternative?

"Batteries make energy." Ah, of course. I just need some batteries.

An honest brochure of the camp would have included the following, "Every morning will include 15 minutes of playground time. Please provide a healthy, peanut-free snack for your child to eat during this time. The remainder of the morning will be spent using the potty and washing hands."

One child stood for a full minute with hands extended under the faucet before turning to me and explaining, "There's no water coming out, Miss Sarge."

"That's because you have to turn it on, Caleb." Apparently the hands-free activists hadn't gotten to that bathroom yet.

Add to brochure: "Campers will learn essential survival strategies such as the use of non-sensor plumbing equipment."

At the end of the week I was presented with a token of love from the smallest of my campers. He proudly handed me a red and black caterpillar, asked if he could give me an eskimo kiss, and then trotted away, only to trot back and announce solemnly, "He will poop on you."

The gift was hastily dispatched to its former habitat.

In unrelated news, I made really good food over Memorial Day weekend. So good, in fact, that pictures even made the social media rounds (so maybe there was a little strong arming involved...but what else are best friends for unless to broadcast your victories and pretend like it was voluntary?)

I almost considered writing an entire blog post just to celebrate, but then I forgot the milk in the laundry room for a day or so when I was using my blender in there, and the shame humbled me.

But eat these enchiladas. I have no idea what I did to make them turn out so I will stick to merely listing ingredients. For the rest, you're on your own.

Oh Captain, My Captain. Or Something Like That.

It's been a while, blogosphere.

I've been busy mopping up the tears of my devastated students as I say my farewells.

Okay, so maybe it was just one student. And she said  it was because her contacts were bothering her. But I know the real story.

My goodbye wasn't exactly up to biopic standards, but I'm sure the screenwriters can rework it (Mr. Spielberg, I'm thinking something in this vein...)

In fact, one class' send off was more in the style of my worst nightmare. I walked into a darkened classroom, and without warning heads came popping up from behind desks, a paper hat was shoved onto my head, and I was swept into a congo line, dancing down the hallways of the school to the strains of "Feliz Navidad" playing simultaneously from 6 laptops. (Apparently if I have taught them anything over the past two years, it has not been the difference between Latin America Latin and Julius Caesar Latin. I can't really blame them though - I don't think congo-ing to Panis Angelicus would have produced the same effect).

Another class presented me with a canvas bearing the legend, "Vale, Ms. M!" with their names written at the bottom, surrounded by flames. This, as one explained, was to represent my scorching sarcasm and lack of sympathy...in a good way, he assured me.

Replace "mopping up tears" with "sweeping up the ashes of their self-esteem." And let's go ahead and cut that scene from the biopic.

There were some genuinely emotional moments:

"Miss M, I am sorry that you're leaving. But maybe now you'll have time to get a boyfriend." They haven't seen my new glasses, or else they'd realize that there are bigger obstacles to overcome than time management.

"Emotional" can be understood in a variety of ways, however. Here are some excerpts garnered from my yearbook...

"Remember to let your date be chivalrous and open the door for you when you get out of the car." At least somebody was paying attention to unit 9 in Vocab Workshop. 

"Latin was really fun with you as a teacher... And people said I couldn't make middle schoolers appreciate a dead language. Ha.

"...I liked the tangents the best."

"Thanks for all the tangents #excellentteaching."

"Thank you for your fun tangents."

Hmm. Maybe I celebrated a little prematurely. 
So what you're saying is, Latin was really fun when you weren't learning Latin.  

"I could imagine a much more miserable year without you." I think this is a positive thing...not exactly a tagline for my inspirational teacher movie, though.

"I learned a lot such as commas and vocabulary words. Thanks for putting up with my shenanigans and quirk behavior." Tell me again how much you learned about vocabulary?

"I am really thirsty, I need some wooter." Yeah, like I never heard that one before. 

Luckily for this child, they had already exempted their exam. Smart move.

"I will miss you next year. Make judicious decisions at your new school." I don't think that word means what you think it means.

"I plan to continue to take Latin and I will always remember where my Latin journey began. I feel honored to have been a part of your favorite group of students that you will ever teach." Well here was one student who managed to preserve his self esteem.

"I would like to thank you for keeping the burning of students to a minimum this year." For the record, I only ever casually mentioned burning at the stake during class and it was in a completely different context. 

"Have a great time in D.C. (Washington)." In case I was confused.

"You taught me many new and sufficient things this year."  I'm happy to hear that 7th grade grammar was tried and found adequate.
You are also very stylish and have a great summer. To her credit, she packed a lot of things into a small space.

"I loved your class so much because Jane and I were always talking about how we wanted your clothes." At the end of the day, who really cares about the difference between a gerund and a participle anyway?

"Carpe Noctem. Drink more flaming beverages."
On second thought, the biopic might have to be shelved entirely...

Shut Up and Dance (Further Adventures in the Southern Single Scene)

Swinging Mondays; or Why I Avoid Conversation While Dancing

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                                                                           _______

"So what do you do, Emily?"

"I'm a language teacher."

"Cool. I'm really into languages too. I speak binary."

Yeah you do. And you also haven't been out of your basement in three years judging by the color of your skin and the subtle perfume of Cheetos hanging about you.

"That's...fascinating. So you can talk to robots, huh? Like R2D2? Haha. I'm hilarious.

"I guess I should explain. Binary isn't actually a spoken language. Although R2's beeps and whistles might be an attempt to put binary code into auditory form. Also, R2D2 is not a robot. He's am astromech droid."

I have made a terrible mistake...

                                                                       _________

"My name is E."

E...than? E...an? E...lijah? Did I hear him correctly?

"Oh...and what is that short for?"

"It isn't short for anything. That's my name."

Okay, buddy. You're not gonna put anything over on me. That's not a name. It's a letter.

He rocked back and forth, snapping his fingers. I matched myself to his rhythm and then waited for him to initiate the dance (don't lead, Emily, don't lead).

I waited. And waited. Snap, rock, snap, rock.

He flashed me a flirty smile and then lifted an eyebrow suggestively. "So, come here often? What brings you out here?" Snap, rock, snap, rock.

I looked around at the bare room - no bar, no food, someone with a laptop and an iTunes full of Benny Goodman in the corner. Also lots of people who seemed to think woolen tights were a good decision for a Georgia summer night in a crowded dance hall with no air conditioning (to be fair, they did look good with thick rimmed glasses and obscure band tee shirts).

"I like to dance."

"Yeah, me too. Love it." Snap, rock, snap, rock.

Do you, E? Do you really?

 Snap, rock, snap, rock. I couldn't handle it anymore. "How about a spin?" and I led myself into it.

"Oh, you're one of those Type A personalities, huh?"

"Well I am from the North. I guess we tend to be a little more forward."

"Yeah, I was in Chicago once."

?? 

I felt like we had just been having a conversation about the stormy weather and he dropped the information that he had taken a shower that morning.

                                                                       ________


My next partner was a very stocky guy, to put it charitably.

"My name is Drew. What's your name again?"

Again? Have we met before?

"Emily."

"Oh yeah, that's right."

It is? Are you sure? Who are you?

"So, are you a big dancer, Drew?"

"One of the biggest ones here, wouldn't you agree?"

Ehhhh, what? How am I supposed to respond to that? "Yeah, you are really fat!" or "I appreciate your sense of humor about your obesity"? How about, "I see what you did there...self-deprecating fat joke with witty play on words"? Or, if we're being frank, "Well that was funny for one of us, but now I'm horribly uncomfortable."

Actual response? "Oh, em...uh...no! What I mean is, you just seem like really know your way around the dance floor. Derp.

                                                                             _______


Scott was a very good dancer. Too bad we didn't focus on dancing.

"I'm a graphic designer for the Weather Channel."

"Well...that's really cool." Oh come on, Emily. Is that the best you can do? Don't be intimidated by the cardigan.

"So do you get to make those important decisions like whether a thundercloud is slate or cobalt?"

Silence. Polite half smile. Then,

"How often do people mistake you for one of your students?"

Okay, obviously not impressed by my humorous conversation skills. And I teach 12 year olds, you hippie, so thanks for that. I also own the shirt that you're wearing and it definitely came from the Women's section at JCrew so don't get smart with me.

                                                                             _______

Peter was a lawyer.

"You teach Latin? How fantastic. So you're brilliant as well as gorgeous."

And you are old enough to be my father. I really prefer to dance in silence. Also, you need to spend a little more time worrying about what your feet are doing, sir. That routine really only worked for Jimmy Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life. 

"My mother was a Latin teacher."

"Oh, no way."

"Ablative absolutely."

A little piece of me just died.

"So what does a Latin teacher do for fun on the weekends? Are you free on Friday night?"

Ablative absolutely not.

Drive South

I was driving down the interstate, brainstorming my next blog post, when suddenly inspiration hit my windshield like...well, a beer can.

In a few minutes, my leisurely drive had turned into a game of dodge the Budweiser, as aluminum projectiles came flying at my windshield from the bed of the pickup in front of me. Road tripping, southern style.

Pickups can tell you a lot about what part of the south you're in...the color of the dirt on the tires, the number of NRA friendly bumper stickers, the species of dead animal in the bed...Mostly though, they are a very expensive advertising platform for the favorite SEC team. If a truck isn't proclaiming the college loyalties of the driver in foot long letters, you're definitely not in Alabama (if it's not American made, you might not even be in the South).

Somewhere around the intersection of Hank Williams Parkway and Alan Jackson Boulevard (and no, not everything is named after country music stars...only the things that haven't been named for Bobby Jones already), the billboards start.

A popular formula is mixing guns and religion, like "God Created Man. Sam Colt Made Him Equal." or "Cain Killed Abel With A Rock. It's a Heart Problem, Not A Gun Problem." (follow the scripture verse for biblical confirmation)

Or guns and politics: "Vote. Win A Rifle." (Somehow I think that did more to draw in voters than the "I am a Georgia Voter" sticker that attempted to look like a peach, but really just came off looking like a baby's buttocks).

Heck, even guns and romance. What man won't buy his honey a diamond at D. Geller and Son when he can get a free hunting rifle out of it?

http://www.fieldandstream.com/files/photo/62609/riflesign.jpg

Some, of course don't have anything to do with guns:  

"See Bud and Jean to Get your Bee Traps So They Don't Eat Up Your Rockin' Chairs." (Bud and Jean sound pretty vicious. Better buy their bee traps if you don't want them eating your porch furniture).

From the side of the road in letters 5 feet high comes the question, "Heaven or Hell: Where Are You Going?" At this point, my GPS has usually deserted me for greener pastures with cell phone reception, and I'm asking the same question, except hoping the answer is Birmingham.

Not to take it lightly, because as another sign reminds me, "Hell is Real." After driving through the panhandle in the middle of August, I don't see how anybody could doubt it.

"Got Salvation?" If you don't, there's a toll free number you can call to get it. Or just stop at any local gas station and pick up the bestseller of your favorite televangelist.

You can get salvation, fried chicken, tobacco, and a bottle opener that plays Dixie all in this one convenient place. One station somewhere in Alabama even has a complimentary washer and dryer for its customers...Southern hospitality at its finest.

Of course, it isn't always guaranteed that you'll get gas at one of these stations.

On a recent trip, I put 4 gallons into my tank when the pump stopped.

The cashier sighed when I walked up to the register. "I expect it's done run out again. Third time this week."

With the exception of a rusty pickup by the pumps (which, judging from the weeds growing through the floorboards, was not responsible for the run on the gas supply) there was no car in sight. Either I had just missed an exodus of vehicles, or they only kept enough fuel to fill up their clientele of two cars and a John Deere per week and I was pushing the quota.

Still, what's gas? You can spare the time to stop every 20 miles to pump yourself another gallon or so (especially if the boiled peanut supply holds out). In the words of a highway patrolman, whom I happened to have a ...ahem... casual conversation with, "This here ain't Pennsylvania, ma'am. Down South, we take things a little slower."

Feeling the Brotherly Love

Below the Mason Dixon line is weighing a little heavy on me these days...particularly yesterday. What Philly girl could be happy in the ATL while the Fightin' Phils were tramping the turf at Citizens Bank?

So in the spirit of nostalgia, I'm going toss back a Yuengling (pronounced Yuengling) - actually, let's be real: it's a tall glass of water (pronounced water), because it's a school night - and recall a few stories from my inner city Philly teaching days.




*Spontaneous photos published with permission, and sarcastic commentary, of the photographer.

_____________

As we walked to lunch I tried to hustle along the laggards.

"Come on, Julian. All the ice cream will be gone," I threatened.

"Shhh...," he was bent down over a big fat bee on the sidewalk, "I'm doing science, Miss Em."

Smash! A wail rose from Julian as LaTasha wiped her shoe on the curb. "And now science is dead, foo'. I killed it."

Can't blame a girl for loving her some ice cream.

______________

One day, they had to come up with a skit to highlight the effects of poor life decisions. The subject was up to them. Considering the spectrum of evil and immorality that they had been exposed to in their short lives, I was prepared for anything.

The scene is a street corner. A gang of toughs approach a boy reading on the ground.

Tyriq: "Hey bro, if you want to be cool you should smoke." Offers cigarette.

Deondre: "Okay." Deondre takes a drag off the cigarette and starts coughing and shaking violently. His steps falter and he collapses on the ground.

Narrator: "Deondre was rushed to the hospital where he was nursed back to life by his gramma. He promised never to smoke again and got healthy."

...I didn't think it was necessary to explain to them that smoking didn't have quite such serious effects. The important thing was that they recognized there were bad consequences for poor decisions, and that it was possible to turn things around even after you had made a poor decision. But then came the epilogue.

Narrator: "A few days later, Deondre broke his promise and started smoking again. In a week, he was dead."

Okay. Maybe it should be addressed.

_____________

On the way to the Dean's office with Trey for the fourth time that week, I had a talk with him about his life decisions.

"If you don't do well in school, how are you going to go to college?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that, Miss Em. I only gotta make it to Junior year of high school."

"Why Junior year?"

"NBA draft."

"So what if that doesn't work out for you?"

He explained patiently, "I'll just wait for the NFL."

Oh. Natch.

_______________

The kids had moved on from life decisions to teamwork. They played a game where they had to link their arms and their legs, and walk about 30 feet together without breaking their chain. Tyrell had the idea to have every other person stand on the feet of their neighbors. Robert was sulking because his idea to have everyone simply jump the distance had been laughed down.

"Take off them shoes, Robert."

A storm of wrath erupted from Robert. "Why would I do that, you biscuit? I got on brand new socks, yo! You think these things grow on trees?!"

"Robert, is that the way you talk to Tyrell?"

He turned to me and a grin lit up his face. "Oh don't you worry about ole Ty, Miss Em. Ty is my biscuit. I'm just messin' wit 'em."

"So is a biscuit a good thing or a bad thing?"

The last of the sulk was wiped away as Robert burst into laughter. "Lady don't know what a biscuit is!? You eat it for breakfast."

Was I missing something? Somebody needed to teach this kid how to form a definition.

"All right, so calling somebody a biscuit means...I'm still confused."

He laughed again. "Paris, get yo'self over here and tell the lady what a biscuit is."

"Don't know about biscuits?"

Great. Now D'Azia was in on the action.

"Hush up, girl. I'm gonna lay some knowledge on Miss Em. A biscuit...laughter...well you eat it for breakfast."

Yes. That fact was fully established.

"And it's big and flaky. So when some boo acts real dumb, you call 'em a biscuit. Cuz they head is like a biscuit.

Now, Robert here, he's my biscuit. But like my home slice. My hot sizzle biscuit. See how they different?

Oh, yeah. That definitely cleared it up for me.

______________

Teamwork was the theme that week. To demonstrate, Darcy showed off her juggling skills, explaining how each ball had to be in the right place at the right time to accomplish the goal.

A bit of a stretch if you asked me. But hey, the girl could juggle. Not gonna hate.

She put the balls on the table behind her and began to talk. Luigi reached for them and she gently scolded him. "We're all finished with those, Luigi. It's time to listen now."

She began a long talk about teamwork. What had they learned about accomplishing goals when everyone worked together?

"Can I hold them things, Miss Darcy?"

"Those things, Alexis. And no. It's time to listen." Still gentle, but with a slight edge.

How did working as a team make them feel?

"Miss D. maybe we could just take turns touching 'em."

"We are done with them, Alicia. Please listen." No gentleness now.

Were they closer as individuals because they had to work as a team?

"I still hate Jamal."

"Reisha! That's not a nice thing to say about your teammate. Can you think of something positive to say about Jamal?"

"I liked that he stuffed hisself like a pig yesterday and couldn't come to class cuz he was so sick."

Darcy was reaching the snapping point. At that moment, there was a soft plop! and thirty eyes turned to Brandon, sitting across from Darcy, one of the juggling ball at his feet.

"How did you get that?" Darcy's voice was steely.

"Well, I guess we just passed 'em right on down." Brandon smiled winningly. "Teamwork!"