I'm sitting here, December 22nd, shorts and t-shirt, outside, sun hiding behind cloud, drinking 5th cup of coffee, writing grammatically incorrect sentences, stomach clenching,

And I'm trying to figure out when I stopped liking Christmas. 

Yes.  I said it.  I do not like Christmas.  It does not inspire any pink coloration in my cheeks.  It does not make me feel good about the world.  It is, at this point, an excuse for a two and a half week break from school. 

When was it?  When did this happen?  I obviously couldn't have always felt like this.   Certain memories rattle to the surface, echoing like holiday gunfire.  Other changes are not so definite, cannot be dressed up in a red suit, but are instead gradual and hard to pick up on.

I thought about coming up with a top ten list.  Then, realizing that ten is a large and daunting number, tasting sour like the time we tried to add rum to our egg nog.  (Apparently there is some sort of recipe you're supposed to follow)  Then, I thought about division, twos and threes, leaving numbers like 5 and 3.3333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333

But those numbers are just as arbirtrary as the 25th is.  So I will begin to enumerate, and I will end when I run out of ideas. 

When I stopped liking Christmas:

1.  Yes, Jonathon, there is no Santa Claus.  You know the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy?  Those are bullshit too.

Recently, my friends were appalled when I offered this quip to them:  "When I have kids, (Ha!) I will immediately tell them there is no Santa Claus."  My friends called me jaded, heartless, too pragmatic to enjoy this magical month.  Later, I presented the idea to my students to write about in their journals.  Perhaps one out of every fifteen kids agreed with my logic, the rest called me a horrible person.

I was five or maybe six.  We lived on Williams Road, in a house with an electric fence and a tire swing.  My neighbor, Kate Gifford,  told me that my parents were feeding me a lie.  Indignant, I called her bluff and told her it was impossible.  Santa Claus had to be real, because the whole world could not possibly be engaging in such a believable conspiracy.  So I confronted my parents.  I was a curious, precocious, stubborn child.  After an attempt to brush away my newfound fears, I persisted and demanded an honest answer.  My mother relented and told me that indeed - there was no fat man that brought tidings of joy. 

I cried, pounded my fists into the carpet, kicked the walls, screamed the few curses that I knew.  I accused my parents of an unforgivable crime and promised to never trust them again.  I always figured that every child reacted like this.  After talking to my friends, I found myself very much corrected.  According to them, the much more traditional reaction to news of this magnitude when something more like, "Oh.  Ok. - So what are you getting me this year?" 

Was I that wrapped up in the lie?  Or, was it because I found out so early and was blindsided?  My foundation had been shaken, my naivety exposed in all its naked pink ugliness.  I only remember being very deeply affected.

After all, every time I had received something from Santa that I did not like, I cursed his name aloud in the presence of my parents.  I wrote letters, baked cookies, imagined that I was being very good for a very selfish purpose.

That's why I will never allow my children to live inside of this facade.  It teaches ingratitude and deception.  Looking back, I know how hard my parents worked to get me all of the designer toys that I desired.  At the time, my mother didn't even have a job, and my father worked for a company named "Zeeb."  How much money could that have possibly brought in?  They went into months of debt to provide me with the presents that I thought were coming from another source.  Maybe if I would have known all along, I would have been more grateful for the red and white wrapped reminders of my parents love.

So the magic is gone.  I want to believe in something grandiose, something elegant and everlasting.  Instead, I remember those red-eyed mornings where I must have crushed my parent's spirits.

2.  Taking the Christ out of Christmas.

I stopped being religious about eight years ago.  Even for years after that, I still recognized the 12 days of Christmas as leading up to an event worth celebrating:  The birth of Christ.  This time of year, if anything, was at least a celebration of a miracle.  Miracles are nice to believe in when you have a very limited gag reflex. 

Now, as a heathen, X-Mas doesn't carry the same weight (about 7 lbs, 6 oz. - Jesus had a fairly average birthweight).  Plus, I am surrounded by varying different beliefs.  My roommate is Jewish - and while there are no menorahs in our house, I like reading about the different customs.  Two students in my 2nd hour missed last Thursday because they were celebrating Eid, a Muslim holiday.  One student told me the story of how the cops came and told them they were not allowed to sacrifice the goat that goes along with their traditions.  Another Christian student decided to take issue with that, and I politely walked away.  I wanted to ask the Christian student why sacrificing a goat was any more ridiculous then believing that three old guys walked through the desert following a star, while a virgin mother was blasting out a benign savior.  Instead, I shook my head and realized that this time of year has just become one more excuse for people to insist that they're right and follow that belief into war.

3.  Ad Nativity Nauseum

I think that "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time" is the most disgusting song ever created, and yet it is as ubiquitous this time of year as blinking lights and holy nights.  The only good Christmas song is "Merry Christmas Emily," by Cracker.  And thats because it is not at all about Christmas.

4.  Palm Trees and Sunshine

When I moved to Florida, I gladly left the cold behind forever.  I could no longer stand scraping my windshield, using the outdoors as a convenient refrigerator for my beer, or wearing two pairs of socks.  Now, I very rarely wear socks, but of course this time of year doesn't feel the same.  After all, aren't the holidays automatically associated with snow and  jack frost nipping at my hardening nipples?  It's noontime in December, and the sun is casting a warm light on my face.  I'm thinking about taking my shirt off.  Christmas is the last thing on my mind.

5.  Reunions

As already said, there is one upside to this time of year:  The break from work that accompanies it.  So at least every year in the near future, I will climb onto a plane full of people in their eighties, and hurtle towards the north at breakneck speed.  Noels have simply become the background music to the scene where I finally get to see my family and friends again.  Of course, this is not a negative aspect - I'm getting to it.  The Holiday season is just this arbitrary excuse to get together with the people I love and miss.  But its more than that - its a distraction.  It would be nice to just see all of these people without some larger, looming event taking away everybodies attention.  Why can't I just go back to Michigan for no reason other than a reunion?  Why does there have to be some greater reason?

6.  Empty Wallet Tidings

Last year was nice, because teachers at my school got a bonus around this time for raising FCAT scores or some shit.  So, I had some money to spend on people.  Because lets face it - thats what it has come down to:  What am I gonna get for everybody?  I absolutely loath shopping, and even if I didn't, I have no clue what anybody wants.  Last year, I got my sisters gift cards to Victoria Secret.  Seriously?  That's bordering on perversion.  But, my mom said they would like it.  I think I got my father a sweatshirt for the 9th year in a row.  My mother?  I have no idea.  What can I provide for these people?  A romantic would say that us being together is gift enough, but that is incredibly false.  If I could wrap up my love in a bow and present it to my sisters, they might still look for the price tag.  That's making them sound materialistic - that's not my intention.  All I'm saying is that I don't have the money or the knowledge to get anybody the gifts I would really love to give them, and that hurts my feelings.  As for the gifts I receive, they just make me feel like a shitty person.  My mother called me from the mall a couple of weeks ago and asked what I would like for Christmas.  I honestly had no answer for her.  There is nothing that I can think of that I desperately need.  I actually wish that I could receive no gifts, because I'm not so sure I deserve any.



This whole blog makes me sound like a long-winded, cynical asshole.  Maybe I don't like what Christmas has become for me.  Maybe I am not that happy that in three days I will be sitting around a tree with a somewhat forced smile upon my face.  But I want to get one thing straight:

At around midnight tonight, I will be back at my parents house to see the friends and family I love so much - and I couldn't be happier about that.

I hope to see you there.

Happy Holidays!

In the past, I have bemoaned the existence of such films as Lean On Me; Dangerous Minds; Freedom Writers.  They leave me with a sour taste in my mouth.  They are like the expired sour cream I scooped onto my tacos the other night.  They look so pure and full of possibility at first, but later the gag reflex always kicks in.

So I turned on the movie Half Nelson tonight.  It is a movie about a junior high school teacher who deals with addiction.  At the same time, this teacher cares about his students - he inspires them to believe in a world that is unbelievable.  Yet his life spirals down, down.  As I picked out parallels, I was filled with a sense of dread.  Despite my earlier yearnings, one thought ran through my contradictory cortexes:

This had better turn out well.

Lately school has not ended.  When the dismissal bell rings, there are more questions to be answered, more hands to be called on.  I have a homecoming float to create, I have a soccer team to condition.  I go through my school day just fine, but at about four p.m I have only one question to answer:  When can I finally have a beer and a cigarette?

This had better turn out well.

I question myself as a teacher constantly.  Am I challenging my students enough?  Am I giving them the education they deserve?  When I constantly ask them to self-reflect and demand more of themselves, are they learning what they need to?

This had better turn out well.

The teacher in Half Nelson self-medicates with crack and cocaine.  He looks his students directly in the eye and earnestly asks them about the possibility of change.  Nights turn into mornings, and wide eyes become blurry. 

This had better turn out well.

I sit on my patio drinking rum out of a designer cup that is fashioned to emulate a stoic piece from stonehedge.  I remain stoic as I think about school, long after the fact.  I light a cigarette and blow the smoke up, up. 

This had better turn out well.

A few days ago a young latina named Jessie told me that every day that she comes to school, I make her day.  A young white man named Robert wrote in his journal that he suffers through six periods of school because he looks forward to my seventh hour.  My eyes twinkle despite the bags directly underneath and I wonder if I can keep this up.

This had better turn out well.

The teacher buys crack from one of his eighth grade students.  He does it cognizantly, knowing History class will make no note of this historic event. 

This had better turn out well.

Tomorrow I'll sluggishly make my way to a storage space so that I can help 10th graders build a homecoming float that they'll be proud of.  I'll smile, I'll joke, I'll probably give a fist pound or two.  After eight or so hours, I'll return home, crack a beer, and smile an entirely different kind of smile.

This had better turn out well.

In the movie, it didn't turn out well.  Then again, it didn't turn out badly.  It turned towards the future.  It gave change a chance - It gave the future a face.  This face doesn't smile, it doesn't frown.  It stares stoically forward and waits.  This ending - the one that doesn't have an end, that doesn't turn out anything, not just yet - this is the ending that I have been waiting for.

I wrote my students a letter.  Today was the second day of school, and I thought old-fashioned correspondence, sans the stationery, would be nice.  It was a long letter - too long - but the tenth and eleventh graders eagerly dove into it, devouring each word like it was a delicacy. 

I watched their faces as they scanned the page.  A few laughed, more smiled.  Some remained stoic, not eager to give me any of their emotions - not just yet.

It was a fairly simple letter.  I told them about my upbringing - about eating pancakes for dinner too often and how the implementation of a Wal-Mart in my hometown was like the building of the Taj Mahal.  I shared with them dark parts of my life - depression, doubts, digressions.  I poured out my passions onto the page - my family, my friends, my feats.  I explained to them my personality, and how they could expect me to act inside the classroom.

They seemed, for the most part, to enjoy the letter.  But there was a catch, of course.  (Teachers always do this shit.)  They had to write a letter in return.  I told them I wanted to try and understand them as people, so that I could be a better teacher.  They could elucidate as much or as little as they felt comfortable with.

Their sparkling, blinking eyes glared up at me.  I have seen the twinkle in some of these orbs before - not in class but at other events.  But for the most part, these faces are brand new.

And they began.  Many of them fervently stabbed their writing utensils down, down into their loose leaf sheets of paper, drawing blood, and not abating in their violent shanking for a good twenty minutes.

When they were finished, shyly, they handed me their papers.  I stashed them quickly into their class folders, safe from any straying eyes.  A warm, comfortable breeze blew through each of my classes, as the students let out a collective breath of relief.

Later, I began to read them.  I read slowly, meticulously.  I am good at getting to know my students quickly, so immediately I began to match their nuances with names, handwriting with hair, feelings with faces.  Reading their writing, I couldn't help but smile and laugh.

These young adults can be incredibly insightful, funny, and inspirational.  I immensely enjoyed smiling and laughing at their writing.  But I also cried.  I cried even more.

Imagine:  Abandoned by your mother as an infant.  Watching your father shot seven times.  Seperated from your family in Haiti.  Dealing drugs to get by.  Raising your three younger brothers and sister.  Losing your mother to cancer.  Sentenced to 18 months in prison.  Having a miscarriage.  Being three months pregnant.  Forced into a world where you don't speak a word of "their" language.  Being told you're stupid over and over again.  Hating yourself.  Not trusting anyone.  Never knowing either of your parents.  Running away from home.  Being forced from home.  Watching your mother get abused.

It has been hours since I put down the last college-lined sheet of paper.  I am still extremely shaken.  It feels as if I have ripped my heart out, dipped it in hot butter, and offered it to a pit bull named Steve.  How am I supposed to go into school tomorrow?  What can I possibly provide for these teenagers who have already seen too much? 

And I realize that I am selfish.  How can I make this about me?  There are parts of my job that are certainly self-fulfilling.  I get to stand in front of classrooms every day and make them laugh, quenching my desperate need for attention.

But there are parts of my job that need to be completely selfless.  Some of them have deep, dark, daunting histories.  But they are there, aren't they?  They are there!  Every mother fucking day, they come back.  And they chose me as the one adult they would share their secrets with.  Some of them even thanked me for asking them about themselves.  I guess this is an oddity:  A teacher that wants to know who his or her students are.

I am crying now, because the realization of responsibility rips through my tear ducts.  However, I am no coward.  I asked for this, and I received.  The drops will dry, because they are not salty, selfish tears.  I will return tomorrow.  Their unbelievable strength gives me strength. I will smile, and I will laugh.  If needed, I will even cry, because the worst action I could take would be to pretend all is forgotten.  I wanted them to show me who they were, and they did:  Some of the most amazing people I have ever met.

Now I guess it's time to show them who I am:  Their teacher, Mr. Kus.

Four Definitions:

Virus:  1.an ultramicroscopic (20 to 300 nm in diameter), metabolically inert, infectious agent that replicates only within the cells of living hosts, mainly bacteria, plants, and animals: composed of an RNA or DNA core, a protein coat, and, in more complex types, a surrounding envelope.

Ok you know what, Dictionary.com?  You're an asshole.  I have a minor in chemistry, and even I have no idea what this means.  I obviously know what a nanometer is, and I'm pretty sure that it's pretty small.  I also happen to think that ultramicroscopic is redundant.  If I can't see a virus with a microscope, I doubt I'm going to spend the money to buy an ultra microscope.  Maybe an uber microscope, but that's because I have a thing for Germans.  No, not nazis.  Never nazis.

According to you, you only replicate yourself inside of bacteria, plants and animals.  Then why are you so fruitfully multiplying yourself inside of me?  I am no animal.  I am a human being, and I am impervious to viruses.  I am stronger than you, even when you have a surrounding envelope.  Ooooh, I'm so scared of you, complex virus, with your fancy envelope with your fancy insignia. I just searched google images for "virus insignia", and this is what I came up with:



Big deal.  You're going to wipe out Southern California.  Viruses don't scare me.  You need to come up with a much more informal definition.

Virus:  2. Informal. a viral disease.  

Very funny.  You are so condescending, Dictionary.com.  At least be a little more specific.  Like any disease?  Could I get Scurvy from a virus?  No, I couldn't.  I can only get Scurvy from not eating enough fruit.   You are the most assuming, unfavorable virus I have ever had.  This is what I came up with for "pompous virus."



Enjoying Alaska, are ya virus?  You have no idea how strong I am.  I will push your wrinkly ass over those handrails and you will sputter and die in the icy ocean water.

Virus:  3.  a corrupting influence on morals or the intellect; poison.

Clever, clever.  Just because I'm sick doesn't mean I haven't contemplated the darker connotations of the word virus.  Am I sick because I don't treat my body like a temple? (I think someone famous said I should do this.  I think it was George Clooney.  Not George Clooney now, but George Clooney on Family Ties.)  Or am I sick because societal pressures have poisoned my spirit, leaving nothing but a wheezing, sniffling, shell of a man?  Keep it up with your magic philosophizing, virus.  I call you Rene DesVirus:  I stink, therefore I am.



You stink, virus.

Virus:  4.  a segment of self-replicating code planted illegally in a computer program, often to damage or shut down a system or network.

Listen:  You started in my throat, made your way down to my lungs, spread to my chest, nose, head and heart - If you even think of going near my computer, I will crush you into megaultramicroscopic pieces.  Then nobody will be able to see you, and you will surely die.  I have no respect for you.  You're nothing but a sad, lonely virus.



I'll bet you're not this colorful when you're sucking the life out of me.  I am through with you virus, and I'm through with you, dictionary.com.  You can both go to hell.




I guess if talking smack to a virus is my way of feeling better, then maybe I'm sicker than I originally thought.

I miss you, friends.

Sometimes I search the whole night for a song I've never heard.  But I've heard it before - I have.  I can close my eyes and mouth the words.  My ears perk up as the chords tingle the hair on my arms, making them come alive.  The tapping of my feet comes not from any mellifluous melody emanating from my computer, but rather from the deepest corners of my cerebral cortex.

See, I love experiencing the world.  I step into new situations and my irises widen, hoping to allow more light to make its way into my brain.  I smile at new conversations, nod my head at new revelations, laugh at new situations.  But sometimes, its still not enough.

So, I turn to the vicarious.  I look to music, to movies, to television, to tell me how I should be feeling.  It is lazy, sure - but a very close kinsman to lazy is his more respected cousin:  easy.  It is so easy to just sit down and wait for the right words, the right looks,the right riffs, to tell you exactly how you should be feeling.

Tonight is one of those nights - I want to be told.  Any additional thinking is very unwelcome.  I searched song after song, waiting for the perfect combination of notes and don'ts and blues and dos, and in the end was left unsatisfied.  In the end, I just turned on the television.

A rerun of House was on.  We can all pretend to loathe television.  But, we all have our secret loves.  Hugh Laurie happens to be one of mine.  And Cutty, Wilson, Chase, Foreman, and Cameron.  They are real in a very distant and delectable way.  I imagine conversations, give eyebrow-raised looks inside of the OR.

In this episode, a girl was stricken with CIPA.  This stands for Congenital Insensitivity to Pain and Anhidrosis.  She could not feel physical pain.  Hit her in the head with a shovel, she would be likely to smile.  Beause lets face it - that's funny.

No broken bones ever caused her to double over in pain.  Scabs did not give her a recollection of recoiling, only red decorations.

Happy with my vicarious moment, I got to thinking - Would this be a desirable disease?  Would it be nice to not feel pain?

I have broken many bones in my life.  The one that I remember the most vividly was on a summer day in 1993.  My parent's house in St. Johns was lively, the backyard entertaining guests for a barbecue of some sorts.  Somehow a shoe got tossed onto the roof of our back porch.  Facing the back porch was a swingset.  I was eleven, and I was intent on impressing an older neighbor girl that was over - her name was Allison Whitford.  So, I got onto the swing on the left hand side, and began pumping my legs like a cyclist on steroids.  I feigned jumping off so that I could soar, fly through the air onto the roof, heroically collecting the written-off-as-lost shoe, and returning it to the bare foot of the victim.  I let my arms flail wildly through the air, pretending I was about to jump any second.

Then, I did jump.  Sort of.  I flew, that's for sure.  Backwards.  I lost my grip and gained speed back towards the old elm tree, until gravity took over.  I landed on my right wrist.  I initially ignored the pain, and instead looked up to see if Allison had witnessed my folly.  She had.

Later, lying on the couch and writhing in uncontrollable pain, I tried to convince my mother that my injury was in need of a second opinion.  We went to the emergency room - my wrist was broken.

I was fitted with a cast that displayed the logo of my beloved Detroit Pistons.  Having this trademark of this bastion of my childhood was almost worth the break.
 
This cast accompanied me to Denver, Colarado that summer.  My mother, a fervent Catholic, decided she just had to see the Pope.  John Paul II was visiting Denver for World Youth Day.  So, we packed a sedan full of granola bars, and my mother, me, and my three sisters headed off to be a witness to greatness.

We took a completely illogical detour through South Dakota in order to see Mt. Rushmore.  It was bike week there, and more than once I had the urge to use the hard plaster covering my right extremity in order to protect my mother from the leering, leather-clad, mustacchioed men present.

We did finally arrive in the Rocky Mountains.  We stayed at a campground that was red and dusty.  In the wide open expanse, I remember tryig to play whack-a-mole amid the hundreds of prairie dog holes.  My cast made for an apt mallet. 

Very early one morning, we parked the car in a dark parking lot, and embarked on our pilgrimage.  It was about a four mile walk to Cherry Creek State Park, where his Holiness would be presiding over the final mass.  The road was gravel and full of holes.  I took turns allowing my sisters, Alycen, who was 8 at the time, and Jacalyn and Jillian, 6, to hold my cast during the long, daunting walk.

We arrived.  So did about half a million other people.  The heat index reached about 110 degrees that day, and it was amazing to see the hundreds upon hundreds of port-a-potties set in rows, with masses waiting to relieve their dehydrated bodies.  A small glass of orange juice cost eighteen dollars.  Religion has its price.

We left early, even before the papal helicopter had touched down.  We set back for the incredibly difficult journey home.  The skin under my cast was sweaty and calloused.  We reached several oases along the way.  Do-gooders were handing out bottles of flavored water, and I remember very few people accepting the charity.  Trudging through the desert of discontent, I gladly accepted the liquid.  I took a drink, and immediately spit it out.  I will always remember that bitter taste on my lips.  It was wet, yes, but it had a taste that would make a starving man shrink into himself.

We finally arrived back to the car, tired, bitter, and beaten.  My Detroit Pistons cast sparkled in the malevolent sunlight.


All of this, this whole memory, from a TV show. 

I'm glad that I don't have CIPA.  Pain, whether it be physical or emotional, can only bring pleasure later.  The pleasure of memory, the pleasure of growth.  It can hurt so bad that you spit out the water that touches your tongue, but later you see the scars and know that you are quenched.

And this pain - this pleasure - might have been created from a vicarious outlet, but in the end it couldn't be more real.

Tonight, I was sitting in a dirty bar, my fingers lingering over a dirty computer monitor, playing a dirty game, when a dirty milestone was reached.

As the ball sank down into the crowd in the bleachers, all I could say was, "Wow."

Barry Bonds had hit his 756th home run, breaking Hank Aaron's record.  As disputed as it might be, I will forever remember where I was when it happened.

And what is wrong with this memory?  I was with two of my best friends - Kim and Derek, playing Naked Photo Hunt on a touch-screen game console at Beer Belly's.  There were a few other sets of eyes glued to the TV screen behind my left shoulder.  We were all waiting for it to happen.

Whenever I remember this moment, my life will get to relapse into the laughter.  The fun, the fathoming - the flirtatiousness and the fraud.

To tell you the truth, I could care less about the record.  I remember plenty of other milestones in my lifetime.

When the planes hit the Twin Towers, I was sleeping in.  I rose, rubbed my eyes, and ran outside.  In East Lansing, with several others, we chain smoked for hours, wondering what was wrong.  Later in the day, I attended my first class of the day.  It was an integrated social science class.  A large, sweaty room with wooden chairs.  Along with a hundred or so others, we filed into class that day looking for answers.  The man who was burdened with our questions had a very unique last name:  Hussein.  He was Iranian, and also had nothing to do with the attack.  But we selected a course of action that the United States would soon follow, and we bombarded him anyway.  Luckily, for us, it was with questions and not bombs.

After a lifetime of love and longing, when the Detroit Tigers finally made the World Series I was carrying a large piece of chicken wire.  I was in the home of one of my students, gluing pieces of paper-mache flower to metal wires, preparing our homecoming float.  I walked through the living room, and Magglio Ordonez hit a walk off homer to secure the victory.  I dropped the piece of potential float, raised my arms into the air, and screamed, screamed, screamed.  Teenage girls came running into the room to see what was wrong.  As the tears streamed down my face, I tried my best to relate to them that nothing - absolutely nothing - was wrong.

When I first got my heart broken, I was lying in a dark dorm room in North Holmes Hall, listening to Dashboard Confessional, staring at a clock that was blinking eights.

As horrifying or terrific as these milestones might be, they still have one thing in common:  They are vicarious.  When I truly think about them, I wonder why I should really care about them that much.  Sure, the 9/11 attack was awful, but I wish I could remember some of my own milestones.


So I got to thinking about all the milestones I have yet to achieve.  Will I remember where I was when I first:

Fall in love?
Get my writing published?
Own a house?
See my child's smile?
See my sisters truly happy?
Ensure that my parents never have to work a shitty job again?
Recite a poem in front of thousands?
Watch Europe from a balcony?
Listen to one of my cousins sound like an adult?
Realize I'm just where I want to be?

Barry Bonds hits a baseball for a living.  I love my Detroit Tigers, but in the end, I'm not too concerned about their milestones.  I have my own goals that I need to see to fruition.

With my thin white ass secure snugly in a thin white chair, I watch the sun go down.  My legs are propped onto another chair, and I smile as the sun spins, swirls, spirals down.  It sinks too fast, and I'm left with only shadows.  I love reading at this time of the day.  I sit in my patio, pretending that the golden orb shines only for me.  Page after page, I peacefully sit and placate the doubts I have.  Until finally, the sun settles underneath the top tier of my apartment.  The second floor absorbs the sun, and darkness reigns.

Then, the mosquitoes descend.

They have a timetable, like anyone else, I suppose.  During daylight, they lie dormant, happy with their humble existence.  When twilight takes over, they attack, and they are extremely efficient. 

Most creatures are, when the sun goes down.

It is a masculine feature to wait for the lights to dim.  Then comes the assault - searching for blood.

I was in Grand Rapids - a perfectly good town.  A bit conservative, but every city has its drawbacks.  The hills are beautiful.  Michigan does not have many hills to offer.  But as we headed west, down towards where the sun had recently set, I vaguely remember cursing the mountain we would have to climb later in the night.

We made our way into a cookie cutter Irish Pub.  Billy McKommatchas, or, Kevin Murphtastics, or Ryan O'Meatmarkets.  I'm not sure of the name.  I just know then we got in, there were a lot of tall guys in collared shirts.

It was fine, I guess.  Like most bars, on the first floor, there was a crowded bar area, with frat guys calling out drink orders like cowboys at an auction, hoping that they would be the highest bidder.  There was a dance floor with sweat steaming towards the ceiling, creating a nauseating mist.  We eventually made our way to the second floor.

The top tier was like most - deserted, except for the desperate.  We were the ones who could not get it done on the bottom floor, or we were hoping for a quick drink to settle the bottom of our stomachs.  So we sat at a table - we were just there to enjoy each other's company, after all.  Still, I scanned the bar.  I have a smile sonar, looking for genuine grins.  So many women fake smiles, and I can usually tell their hearnestness from the way their pearly whites sparkle or fade.

One of Matt's friends came to meet him on the top floor.  He looked me in the eye while they made their way up the stairs.

"Hey, Jon - This girls sister - she is pretty much up for anything, with anyone.  I think you should try to get laid."  And then Sean nodded.

I smiled and nodded at this.  I'm not sure what other reaction I could give.

Matt's friend and her sister joined us at her table.  Immediately, Michelle, the sister came to me.  She rubbed shoulders with me, and smiled at me in a faux innocuous way.  She was tall with long, dark hair.  Her face was long, her smile wide.  She took to me.

So I put on my charm.  I cracked jokes, asked her questions.  But she was having none of it.  You see, I was already in.  I needed not give her any reason - she had already made up her mind.

So no conversation took place.  She asked me to sit on a leather couch with her, and I complied.  At that point, she shoved her skinny, smooth shoulders towards me and demanded, wordlessly, for a massage.  I assented, and began to run my fingers through her bronze skin.

She said to me, "You know, I don't live very far from here.  You really should come back with me."

She could barely sit up straight.  She slurred her words.

I nodded and smiled at her, and she hunched her shoulders forward so I could continue the rub-down.

In that moment I looked around the bar.  As I worked my wrists to give her comfort, I began to observe my surroundings.  It was near closing time - the sun was about to go down.  Mosquitoes milled everywhere, waiting to draw blood.  As my hands hid their hesitation, I kneaded her lower back.

She pulled her face towards me, and I said, "I'm with my friends tonight.  I guess I probably shouldn't go back with you tonight."

She sprung up from the couch, rising like the sun in a hasty eastern sky.  "What?  Why would you think you're going back with me!  Fuck you!"

As she stumbled away, with both of her middle fingers aroused in a salute, I couldn't help but laugh.

So later, I walked back up the hill.  It was a treacherous climb, not only because of the gruesome grade, but because of the belittling I received from my friends.

"You mean you had a chance to be at her place right now?  You are such a fucking wuss."  Sean said this.

Maybe so, but trudging uphill didn't feel so bad. 

She didn't even want to have a conversation with me.  Instead, she was ready to sleep with me based on a rough game of duck, duck goose.  My head was the one her hand rested on last, after making her way around the table.

Mosquitoes descend after dark, and do you trust them?  I am no mosquito.  Perhaps that means that I'll buzz fruitlessly for a while, but in the end, daylight will bring me some nourishment.

This might be my favorite time of day.  Night has nearly broken.  It is a fragile glass, teetering at the edge of the countertop, facing imminent destruction any second now.  To the east and west, the Florida sky is a hazy gray.  There are some clouds that hang, latent like passions and fashions sometimes are in Florida.  But if you look straight upwards, there is a serendipitious sight.  Craning your neak, you can see a break in the clouds directly overhead.  And in this gap is the most beautiful blue you've ever seen.  Next to the dismal clouds, it is the color of the aquamarine Carribbean Sea.  It is the shade of that favorite teddy bear you used to have, as soon as he came out of the wash.  I guess what makes it so breathtaking is the contrast of colors.

The contrast of colors.

I've been noticing this a lot lately - although not so much in the nighttime sky.  Rather, in this world, the contrast makes me look at myself in the mirror and notice a color that seems bland, inconsequential, and nauseating:  White.

I've been reading a book - We Can't Teach What We Don't Know.  White Teachers, Multicultural Schools, by Gary R. Howard.  It's incredibly interesting, because it details the steps that white people must go through to be productive conversationists in the discussion about race.  These steps very much mimic my life.  Snapshots:

Contact:  The step where whites that have previously had little or no contact with minorities get their feet wet.  My freshman year at Michigan State University I played on a racially mixed intramural flag football team.  I wasn't very good friends with any of them, but I was trying my best to be social.  This conversation took place as we were walking to our game:

Upon seeing a ongoing soccer game, I said, "Wow - that guy is really good."
Random person:  "Which one?"
"The guy up in front - the black guy."
Brandon, a black freshman says, "what do you mean the black guy?  What do you mean by that?  Why did you say 'the black guy'"?
"Ummmm."

I had never been surrounded by much diversity, so I guess I was still a little uncertain on the discourse that took place in such settings.

Disintegration:  The step where whites begin to reject their own whiteness, ashamed at the knowledge they are beginning to collect.  Around the end of my freshman year, after reading a few books about race, I thought it was time to leave the white race behind.  I came upon a guy that lived on the same floor as I did.  His name was Teddy, and he was consorting with some of his other black friends.

Coming in strong for a fist pound, I said, "W'sup, Teddy, my man!"
Teddy, a little offput, "Hey Jon.  How you doin."

Teddy's friends looked at me a little awkwardly, and I think one might have even laughed a bit.

Reintegration:  The step where whites begin frustrated with their failed attempt to reach out.  As a result, some begin to feel frustration or even supremacy towards minorities.  The KKK and other racist groups stay stuck in reintegration.  I was frustrated my sophomore year - I lived in a science honor college dorm - the least diverse dorm on campus.  My interactions with minorites pretty much ceased altogether.

Pseudo-Independence:  The step where whites again begin to question their identity.  They haven't quite figured out where they fit in, but have decided that being white is definitely an advantage.  This stage is usually marked by a "lets go save the minorities" agenda.  Luckily I didn't stay stuck in the reintegration stage.  My junior year of college, I began to have an interest in eduation.  More specifically, poor, minority education.  Twice a week I went to a school in downtown Lansing to try and teach a struggling black girl, LaShaunda, to read.  A fourth grader, LaShaunda had a captivating smile that she showed to me on rare occassions.  I remember looking around the room, my eyes focusing mostly on black and brown faces, and thinking, "look at me!  Whitey's saving Minority America.

Immersion/Emersion:  The step where whites finally begin to accept their whiteness, and at the same time stop believing they are a savior towards minority.  Whites don't want to change others anymore, but rather themselves and other whites around them.  When I first told my mom where my new apartment was, my Aunt Molly, who was sitting nearby, said "Oh wow!"  She immediately covered her mouth, but it was too late.  After much abuse from my mother, my aunt eventually told my mom that my apartment wasn't in the "nicest part of town."  For much of my family, living in a "shady" area usually equates to one word:  Black.  Still, I moved into the apartment on Butler street in downtown Lansing.  I loved it there, and I did immerse myself.  My second year of living there, I taught at Sexton high school, only a few blocks away.  This school was made up of about 85 percent black students.  As the book states, this was a time where I struggled with the question:  "How can I be proud of my race without being a racist."  My students helped me to attempt an answer at this question.

Autonomy:  The last step where whites can feel comfortable with their whiteness, but not comfortable about the racist state of the world.  I am not sure I have reached this stage yet.  I still squirm in my white skin every once in a while, and I still struggle with what exactly I'm supposed to do with racism.  Examples:

In North Bimini, The Bahamas, I was sitting at a stool in the smallest bar I had ever been in.  It was called "The End of the World."  It was basically a dirty old shack.  The floors had been covered with sand, a small bar was installed, and the shelves had been stocked with liquor.  The lady behind the bar was at least 150 years old, but I had the feeling that if I messed with her, she would elbow me across the face.  Bimini is not exactly a tourist destination, so me and my friend Max were about the only white people in the joint.  A large, looming man with dreadlocks entered the bar and took a seat at the stool next to me.  The only thing more massive then his form was his giant, gleaming smile.  He was wearing a Detroit Pistons T-Shirt, so it was easy to start a conversation with him.  His name was Andrew.  He was a local.  We talked for a while about sports and other inconsequentials.  He said to me, "Hey man, I need to buy you a beer."  I replied, "no way man, I should be the one buying you a beer."

I immideately regretted saying this.  Andrew did not voice any frustration, but I could sense it a bit in his demeanor.  Why should I be buying him a beer?  Because I'm a white dude on vacation?  He doesn't have enough money to get me a fucking Corona?  I shrank back into my whiteness.

I've already partially told this story in a previous blog.  In Dowagiac, Michigan, attending a wedding of a friend, we were at the bride's parent's house.  Late in the night, the few people remaining around the campfire were drunk.  A few members of the bridal party started slurring across the fire.

"Hey Jung-Jung, why aren't you drinking any beer?"
"Yeah, Jung-Jung, are you too good for our beer?"

They were talking to my friend Joe, who was born in Korea.  My friend Kraig who was sitting right next to me, began to stir and even in the dim campfire glow I could see his face turning red.  I tried to calm him, justifying the comments with the amount of alcohol that had been consumed.  Joe also tried to placate Kraig, never one to want to start trouble.  I even tried to make a joke to the girls, explaning that Joe was technically Polish by adoption.  This seemed to work for a while.  Then:

"So, Jung-Jung is a polish chink, huh?"
"Haaa!  Yeah - so chinaman, you speak English?"

There was no turning back at this point.  Kraig went crazy, and I added in comments every once in a while.  Surprise surprise, they were incredibly offended when Kraig and I accused them of being racist.  White people HATE being called racist by other white people.  Still, I remember feeling a little ashamed that I hadn't spoken up early.  I guess I thought to myself, "Oh, thats just white people being white people!"

I'm not entirely comfortable with my whiteness yet.  But it's here to stay.  Let's face it - I am incredibly white - just look at me!



I am slowly learning to say the word "white" without  pronouncing it like a dirty word.  I am also learning how to effectively advocate for minority groups without pretending that they are doomed without me.

These issues are very important to me, because as long as I'm teaching here, the white faces that give me confused stares will be in the minority.  I need to facilitate their quick progress through the aforementioned steps as much as I need to give my minority students the knowledge that they can succeed.  It is an incredible joy looking out at my classrooms and seeing the diversity that is present.  You know what makes it so beautiful?

The contrast of colors.

Disclaimer:  If you are a very religious person and get easily offended, feel free to read this.

The weather in South Florida is very predictable this time of year.  It almost feels as if someone is planning the whole deal.  A soft, strong hand paints purples and pinks into the sky in the morning hours.  As afternoon rolls in, powerful, pursed lips blow clouds into the blue-domed world.  Then, softly, you can hear the pitter-patter of the rain.  You can actually hear it before you see it.  It is an incredibly comfortable sound.  In the distance, a roll of thunder cascades with a laugh. 

Remember this conversation?

"Mommy, where does rain come from?"
"Well, sweety, when its raining, its really God crying."
"Oh.  Why is God crying?"
"Probably because of something you did."

Ok.  So maybe your conversation didn't go exactly like this, but I bet it was similar.  Parents are either oblivious to the rain cycle, or they just don't feel like explaining it.  Instead, they poison their child's mind with a silly myth. 

I'm not taking a shot at religion (not yet - wait for it).  There are plenty of ridiculous secular myths as well - the stork delivering babies, rainbows leading to pots of gold.  All of them have something in common:  They loathe science, abhor knowledge.

For the most part, these untruths are harmless.  The tellers smile as they spout their bullshit, understanding the fallacies that are flowing from their faces.  But some people hold on to their folly a little faster.  Some of these people take pilgrimages to a magical place.  Families pack minivans full of Capri-Suns and undertake a journey to their personal Mecca:  Petersburg, Kentucky.

Petersburg lies in a cultural vortex - in just minutes one could claim to be standing in Indiana, Kentucky, or my personal favorite, Ohio.  Cincinnati is only minutes away.  So, Petersburg was a very logical choice to build a beacon of bewilderment:  The Creation Museum.

Creation.  It is actually a very loaded word.  We've all asked impossible existential questions to ourselves.  Who am I?  How did I get here?  Who put me here?  Why?

These questions are, of course, impossible.  Pondering the answers can pass the time on a Monday afternoon, but for the most part, we are not qualified to actually attempt to answer them.  However, at the Creation Museum, there is one, unified answer to all of these questions:  The Bible.



Listen - before I continue I think I need to confess a few details.  I do not want to sell you something that you have no intention of buying, like the other day when I purchased dental floss in bulk over the internet.  I am in no way objective.  I hate it when I read articles where authors pretend to be something they are obviously not.  I disagree very much with the principles of the Creation Museum.  I used to call myself an atheist.  But, that one word kept popping up:  Creation.  So, ever since I've decided to replace a lack of beliefs with an apathy for them.

However, apathy does not fly.  This occurred to me today when I was planning my curriculum for the following year.  The 10th grade text book focuses heavily on writings from across the planet.  Many of these texts have religious roots.  Today, from a Prentice Hall literature book, I read Genesis 1-6, parts of the Koran, and writings from Confuscius.  Obviously the world sees these as very important texts - and they are.

It had been a very long time since I had read the story of our creation, as written in The Bible.  I was shocked!  There was something that I had never noticed before, and it would forever change my interpretations.  The revelation was this:  The Bible is very poorly written.  It is nondescript, vague, and it leaves so many details out.  Whoever wrote it must have not been very smart.  Maybe the author was a Brontosaurus.

Because according the Creation Museum, that is entirely possible.  As you maneuver your car through the gates, you can not help notice that the entryway is designed to look like a Stegasaurus.  The Creation Museum believes that humans and dinosaurs lived concurrently.  Before The Fall, (a term used to describe Adam and Eve's major faux pas, the eating of some delicious fruit) Adam and Eve actually got along pretty well with the massive predators.  As you enter the main hall of the museum, there is a lifescape of Eve hanging out with some Velociraptors.



 Little children pointed and "ooooohed."  They shouted "Look out Eve, there's a dinosaur there!" 

Not to worry little ones, no harm will come to Eve.  Before Sin, dinosaurs used their incredibly sharp claws and their razor-edged teeth (given to them by God, not evolution) to dig at roots and get at appetizing flora.  Before Sin, every creature was a vegetarian.



With my friends Sean and Bryan, we purchased our tickets with a slightly guilty conscience, and strolled towards the entrance.  It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and masses had made their way to the museum.  There were elders with walking sticks, ambling along and nodding.  There were tots, teeming to and fro, asking questions from their parents, who they assumed were just as omnipotent as God.  I think the phrase I am about to use was created specifically for this situation:  The Creation Museum was a madhouse. 

The museum was bright and colorful.  In the first several rooms, it took to explaining its position.  It was actually set up very well.  It had many plaques giving details of how this crazy planet came to be.  On the left of the plaque, it said "Human Reason," and then would give a short, dismissive blurb about what modern science says about our situation.  On the right, it was "God's Word," and it would depict The Bible's explanation.



It made for a lot of interesting reading.  The people-watching was also intense.  I wasn't sure how my intrusion would be taken.  I guess in the depths of my destitute heart, I was hoping for an argument. I was hoping someone would yell at me and call me a heathen.  But then I looked around.  I mean, these are people, aren't they?  Beautiful human beings, with a belief that happened to be different than mine.  I was beginning to feel a little self-conscious.

But I persevered.  Several times I had to stifle laughs. According to the museum, the world is about 6000 years old.  Scientists have decided that the first fragments found of The Bible are about 10000 years old.   The Fossil record is wrong, because the fossils were actually displaced by the Great Flood.  I'm not going to include any contradictory evidence in this blog.  It's pretty easy to find.  Go to google.com, and type in this word:   Science

Is it right of me to laugh?  Does my minor in Chemistry give me some greater knowledge?  Probably not.  Does my major in English give me some greater humility?  Definitely not. 

Before we left the museum, we took off our outer layers of clothing to reveal our inappropriate shirts.  Bryan was wearing a shirt that said, "I went to church and all I got was this lousy t-shirt (and a guilt complex).  Sean's read, "Fossils, not Gospels," and I of course was wearing my ubiquitous "I Think I Pinched Something" shirt.  Bryan and I posed by the dinosaur out front, a little sad.  We were sad for the human race, sad that we had come to mock nice people.



But then Sean and I took a much happier picture.  We were happy that we had escaped with our lives, happy that we had gotten to view Creation from another perspective.  That has to be worth something, right?  (About 19 bucks - the cost of admission)



It was fascinating.  I really do try to be fairly open-minded.  But there are some myths that are just too damaging to accept.  In an exhibit about Noah's Ark, a normal-looking family was checking out a picture of the boat adrift during the float. 



There was this conversation - see if it sounds familiar.

"Mommy, how was Noah able to survive for all that time with all of those animals on the boat?"
"Because, honey, that's what The Bible tells us."
"Oh."

Actually I read it today.  It doesn't say that.  It's pretty vague.

The child actually posed a very intelligent question.  According to the museum, all of the dinosaurs were on the Ark with Noah.  So after The Fall, how did
Noah and his family survive a harrowing journey with massive predators aboard?
His mother knew the answer, and I'll bet that kid won't be asking any more questions for a while.  His curiosity has been silenced, and that makes me very sad.

When religion becomes a convenient excuse for not having to explain difficult uncertainties about life, that's when it becomes dangerous.  I do not know many of the answers.  Actually, sometimes I do have an answer:  "I don't know."  Sometimes it's ok to simply not know.

It could not rain at all tomorrow, and that would be ok with me.

I thought that I detected the stench of death in the air.  The Florida air has been dry, leaving the grass to wither and yellow.  That is, unless residents sneak out late at  night to break the water restriction and hose down their lawn, giving life to what once had been dead.

I have had very limited experience with death, so I suspected that the odor might have been emanating from the decaying crab dip in the refrigerator. 

Lately, Florida's rainy season has arrived, bringing torrents to erase away any ominous aromas.  Still, the smell lingered.  The signs remained

For instance, my car - My 1995 Chevy Lumina, although still sickly beautiful with it's dark, sick-green shine, is no longer luminous.  It sputters, it spits.  It pitter-patters down the road, pining for the days when it purred.  In fact, the car has lately taken on a brand new sound effect - Every time I shut the engine off, a noice issues forth somewhere from the bowels of the car, sounding like a baseball bat line driving a single somewhere deep into my carburetor. 

The death of a vehicle is not really worth crying too much about, but then there's this:

I was helping Clifford get into this dying car when he gave me the look.  Clifford is a black lab with wise eyes.  He has blotchy white spots all over his chest, and his fat, bulbous body prompted one of my friends to comment that he looked like a "manatee with legs."  Oh, yeah, and there's the tumors.  A lot of them.

It would seem likely that a dog as benign as Clifford would only produce benign tumors.  However, science is never so kind, and so malignant they must have been.

I was dog-sitting for Clifford and Sam, brothers that were about eleven years old.  Sam was a golden lab that was the picture of health.  I needed to transport them in my geriatric car from my aunt's house to myh own when I noticed how geriatric Clifford had also become.  Sam jumped right into the backseat, wagging his slender tail and smiling like a maniac.  Cliff propped his front two legs up, struggled with his back limbs for a second, and then slowly turned his head around to look at me.

The expression on his face was so comical, so understanding, so prophetic, that I practically knew what he was thinking:  "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

So I asked him if he wanted a hand.  I'm pretty sure I perceived a nod.  Thus, I lifted up the back legs of this dying black lab, and boosted him into the backseat of my dying green chevy.

The slow but benevolent death of a dog is not really worth torturing myself about, but then there's this:

My Aunt Molly called me yesterday to inform me that she would be putting the dog to sleep.  It had taken hours of deliberating, crying, and wishing, but the final decision had been made:  Sam had to be put down.

Yeah, Sam.

It didn't come as a total surprise.  Sam, who loved to play, loved to smile, loved to run, had been stricken with seizures lately.  They hadn't been too frequent, but scary enough to worry everyone.  Sam's last seizure came at my house.  At 5:15 on a Wednesday morning, I awoke to a strange noise.  In the glow of Sportscenter playing on the television I had left on, I could see Sam drop to the floor and start shaking uncontrollably.

Watching Sam seize filled me with an incredibly helpless dread.  While he flopped and jerked in my doorway, all I could do was coo calmly, "it's gonna be ok, Sam.  It's gonna be ok."

The noise!  We was in close proximity to the wall, so crack! crack! crack! went his snout against the hard plaster.  All the while, all I could do was lay in bed, whispering like an asshole.

When the horrible event was over, which by the way could have been 30 seconds or 30 minutes, it took Sam a while to come to. He sat inhaling and exhaling so hard his tousled yellow hair appeared as though it was covering a lion rather than a simple, happy dog.   I took a step towards him and he growled, still disoriented.  So I waited in bed.  Forever.  Eventually he came to me, panting, smiling, wagging his tail. 

During the entire breadth of the escapade, Clifford sat beside my bed, looking at me with his perceptive, penetrating eyes.  I knew what he was thinking:  "That should be me."  I asked Cliff if he was ok.  I'm absolutely certain that he nodded.

Afterwards, I cleaned up.  Sam had relieved himself on my bedroom floor, as seizing creatures are wont to do.  That took little effort to clean up.  But the blood stains on my wall from Sam's banged up nose were another matter.  They are still smattered there, untouched.  I can't bring myself to wash away that haunting reminder.

Tomorrow I will babysit Domanik and Eli while my aunt and uncle take Sam to be put to sleep.  I am charged with the duty of helping a 6 year old inventor, a 7 year old author, and an 11 year old dog-prophet try to make sense of it all. 

Domanik and Eli have never slept a single night of their lives, except on vacations, without both of the dogs sleeping near them.  Their black and yellow tails have always wagged whenever they entered a doorway.

Clifford has never spent more than an hour away from Sam.  How am I supposed to avoid those eyes?  How am I supposed to turn away and pretend I don't know what he has to say to me?

Am I supposed to pop "All Dogs go to Heaven" in the DVD player and pretend the stench isn't making my eyes water?

The loss of a wonderful, winking face is nothing to lose any sleep over, but then there's this:

I have no idea how to deal with death.


                                

                               Me and Sam - Tuesday, June 19th, 2007

One of the perks of being a teacher is noticing the incredible contrasts between my life and what I thought a teacher's life must be when I was a student.

Today was our first day back from Spring Break.  Of course the students were reluctant to learn, and slouched in seats, and groaned when I gave them their assignment.  All of this was expected.  What was not expected was that when a students asked in third period, "Oh come on Mr. Kus - it's our first day back.  Can't we just sit back and relax?" I had the urge to scream "Yes!  Let's all just take a nap."

Despite my best attempts to sabotage a Tuesday with my lackluster enthusiasm, the day actually went pretty well.  Education is sometimes a beautiful sight - in the same sense that a manatee munching on seaweed is beautiful. 

On days like today, however, my interactions with Education do not cease when I depart the steaming parking lot of Lake Worth High School.  Today, like many other days, I am afforded the joy of picking up my cousins at North Grade Elementary School.

Domanik and Eli, second grade and kindergarten respectively, still revel in their education.  When I arrive at their school to escort them safely home, their yellowish mops of hair come hustling around the hallway corner, their backpacks singingly swinging around their shoulders.  When I ask them what colors they received that day, they cheerily respond in unison, "Greeeeen!"  Apparently, this fascination with using colors as symbols and archetypes begins at a very early age.

On the way out of the school and into my scorching car, we nonchalantly chat about what they did today.  Smiles are easy to come by when school is still a word that is sung from the lips of cherubs.  As we got in the car, two girls, 5th graders maybe and seperated by about 30 yards, were yelling something at each other. 

"Yeah, well you go set the clock."

"No, why don't you go set the clock."

I dismissively thought about what a strange conversation that was as I made sure Dom and Eli were snug in their seat belts in the back seat.

"Jonny, what does "suck a cock" mean?

Seriously?  Is that what they were seriously saying?  I froze for a second and tried to rewind my memory a few seconds.  No - that couldn't have really been what they were saying.  I guess that my subconscious initially blocked out the possibility of those being the actual words coming out of those innocent schoolgirls' mouths. 

Domanik, I think they were saying, "set the clock.  Go set the clock."

"Set the clock for what, Jonny?" asked Eli innocently. (Eli is constantly auditioning for a spot on the next Kix commercial, even when cameras aren't rolling.)

"Apparently for their manners lessons, E."  It slipped.  When they tried to follow up this answer with more questions, I deftly diverted the conversation towards what they had for lunch that day, which was, surprise, corndogs.

It began to rain, and thus our plans to go swimming in our Aunt's pool were thwarted.  They boys began to question what else we could possibly do, and Dom asked if we might be able to watch a movie (usually a rarity in the realm of afterschool activities.)

"Hey!  I have a movie in my agenda book that my teacher gave me at school today!"  Eli said this with anticipation and excitement.  For just a second, his elation was so pure that it rubbed off on me.

Until Domanik said with surprising bitterness for a seven year old, "it's just an FCAT video."

No.  This couldn't be the same one. But it had to be.  This was the exact same video that they gave high school teachers to pass out to our homeroom periods.  It was a video entitled, "What Florida Parents need to know about the FCAT," or something else incredibly ridiculous.  It was the same video that was still sitting on the shelf in my workroom, never handed out to my third period, awaiting the day when I would throw it away.

"My teacher said I shoud take it home and watch it with my parents.  She said I could watch it as many times as I wanted!"  He delivered this last line as if the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were coming to pick him up at school the next day.

Eli is in kindergarten.  I generally try avoid being this crass, but are you fucking serious?  Asking me to hand the videos out to teenagers is one thing, but to five year olds? 

Fortunately I got comfort from two sources:  Domanik, wise in his seven years, rolled his eyes at me every time Eli mentioned the video.  Also, Eli's pleas to watch the movie were quickly rebuffed by his mother, also a teacher.

"But momma why can't we watch it?"

"Because Eli, it is an extremely stupid movie.  I've already seen it."  And then as an aside, she mouthed to me, "in action."

As long as Education can clasp onto its bright, eager faces like Domanik, and hold tight to its strong, sensible teachers like my Aunt Molly, Education will probably prevail - No matter how many swearing fifth graders and shitty movies it tries to produce.

A scene that unfolded before me two weeks ago has burned its image into my retinas.  Sometimes when I close my eyes, I watch the events again, and it is as good as any horror movie that I could neglect to see.

I was making my way home from the beach on a Sunday evening.  Thanks to daylight savings, the sun still hung a quarter of the way into the sky, casting orange beams down onto my wind-whipped hair.  I did shoulder shrug exercises inside of my car, loosening my sore muscles.  At the beach, some friends and I had played a rousing game of football, complete with fifty yard sprints and full-body dives.  My body was fairly angry at me, but as I sat waiting for the traffic light to change, I felt alive.

At a busy intersection, I noticed that several cars ahead of me and in the lane to my left a white Ford Explorer had all of it's door open.  Naive and playful, I immediately thought of a "Chinese Car Alarm."  (By the way - is that term racist?  I have no idea of its origin, so probably yes.  I'll have to look it up.)  Instead, I saw the men that should have been inside of their vehicle standing outside of a vehicle several cars ahead in my lane.  They appeared to be having a fairly heated argument.  Then, I watched in horror as one of the men on the outside punched through the open window several times, presumably landing open the face of the car's driver. 

I couldn't see the car or the passengers in my lane, but I braced myself for the gunshots.  Instead, another man circled around the car and began punching through the window as well.  The light turned green, the men hopped back into the Ford Explorer, made an illegal lane shift (at this point, they probably thought, "what the hell,") and made a left turn. 

So just like that, red stopped life, green bid it to continue, and in between all was supposed to be forgotten.  I put my foot to the gas pedal and continued on my way home, just like everyone else.  But something inside of me was screaming - Stop!  I wanted to scream to the cars carelessly passing on either side of me.  I wanted to know why we were ignoring this - why is this something that is so expected that when the light turns green, we go on our merry way and banish the red.  But I saw it - it stayed with me.  I saw red.

A week or so before that incident, several of the students at my high school were hospitalized due to a gang-related shooting.  The shooting took place about a block from our high school.  This, too, was treated as a frozen phenomenon - something to be passed by without so much as a glance in our rearview mirrors.

Tonight, as the ten o'clock news came on, I initially ignored the newscasters escalated voice, as I usually do, because I presumed he was going to babble about inconsequentials (like the story that was promised earlier - "At ten!  Watch as we investigate the increased frequency of South Florida bee attacks! - and no, I'm not making this up, and yes, they definitely cut to a shot of some of those boxes where bees hang out).  Instead, he announced that at about 7:30 tonight, at 1400 B street (around 10 blocks from my high school), seven people were shot - three were dead. 

I sat horrified on the edge of my bed as they gave the usual non-information that accompanies "breaking news" such as this.  I blinked away the bewilderment, and came to terms with it all.

For my students tomorrow, I guess it will be "just another day."  This isn't news anymore, because we've all grown accustomed to ignoring the red.  But I can't.  It is burned into memory.  I rub my reddening eyes, and imagine the scarlet red blood spilled in the town I call home. 

Tomorrow, I will tip-toe into school, and hope that every familiar face is still there.  But even if none of my students were injured, undoubtedly it was somebody's father, or cousin, or auntie or uncle.  Red tears will still flow.

I've known about gangs for a long time.  What will it take for our society to understand the reality of it all?  When can we remain stationary at green lights, instead of zooming off to watch horror movies about sand monsters and evil puppets?  I guess I don't have any answers.  But no longer can I pretend to be oblivious just so we don't have to confront everyday horror.  I can't - the scene - the very very real scene - just keeps repeating over and over again.

I'm still bracing for the gunshots.

I started this past weekend searching for something.  It was missing, whatever it was.  A natural part of me was gone, and it was bothering me.  All day Friday, I slumped along, not quite whole.  Deep into the night, deciding to not make an appearance at a birthday celebration, I tossed and turned in bed, fondling for the essential part of my essence that had been missing.  On Saturday, I awoke feeling rested and reinvigorated, and I realized what I needed to recapture.

My smile.

I am not much of a frowner.  A frown looks fake on me.  I put on a facade, but everyone knows it's a farce.  So on a Frowny Friday, I didn't feel much like myself the whole day.  There was a brief fight with a coworker, there were some unruly and disrespectful students, and then there was fourth period.  I have fourth period off - but I was asked to fill in for an absent coworker.  I entered her classroom, read her directions to the classroom, and marveled in their behavior. 

They got right to work!  They were playful, they were funny, they seemed genuinely interested to be in school.  This was an honors class, sure, but  weren't they still teenagers?  It was refreshing to see students engaged like this.

After class was over, I went to visit my friend Afton's class to see if she wanted anything from the supermarket.  I entered her fourth period, which she claims to be her worst class, to see them all seated with their books open, respectfully listening as Ms. Ginlock introduced Romeo and Juliet to them.  I was impressed. 

Afterwards, I swung by Angie's class to wish her a happy birthday.  Inside her class were twenty students throwing her a birthday party.  They had gotten her a birthday cake, signed by all of them, and they wore smiles and hats of appreciation.  It was a heartwarming site.

Then, I left.  I left all of that to walk into the cold, lonely hallway.  I began to think:  I just visited three successful classrooms - what am I doing wrong? 

This problem plagued the rest of Friday while I forced a frown.

Saturday morning I rose at 7 a.m.  I ate bacon and eggs, drank coffee, all the while still looking for my smile.  It had been a very long time since I had been up that early on a weekend, so after an hour or so, I was at a loss as to what to do with the full day ahead. 

I made a snap decision - it was time to do something out of the ordinary.  It was time to be spontaneous.  It was time to go searching for my smile.

So I began the drive.  Sometimes the drive can be just as important to the destination.  I drove down Florida's Turnpike, singing songs, slamming my hands into the steering wheel, giving passerbys an eager thumbs-up. 

Two and a half hours later, I arrived in Kissimmee, Florida, where I quickly jaunted up to the box office to buy a ticket to see my beloved Detroit Tigers play the Houston Astros.  After quickly purchasing a beer and a hot dog, I entered the park just in time to see Craig Monroe smash a fastball over the left-field fence.  And I smiled.

In the three hours that followed, I couldn't have feigned a frown if I tried.  There was polite conversation with the fans seated near me.  There was a chance encounter with an old high school friend, there was more beer and even more enchanting sunlight.  The Tigers rallied from a one run defecit in the top of the ninth, and I rose to my feet and applauded a team that has become the ideal of losers that can win.  After the Tigers closed the game to end with a 7-5 win, I took a picture of the scoreboard.  Not to commemorate a statistically meaningless Spring Training game, but to remember the day that I rediscovered my smile.

The drive home was just as bright, even though the five minute downpour attempted to disrupt my countenance.  All the rain did was to serve as a reminder that there will be reasons to frown every once in a while - it is only up to us whether we allow this feeling to last, even as the rain is evaporating on the sunscorched blacktop.

I'm still smiling.  I don't know what else to do.  If Mondays and frowns try to besiege me, I'll know that there is always redemtption around the corner.  Friends will be coming to visit me soon, and who knows what kind of smiles await this encounter.  The Ides of March are behind me, and the middle is an afterthought.  Frowns are only a reason to remember why smiling feels so right.

- - I miss you