There's no place like home for the holidays

My mom still goes overboard for Christmas. Every year, she says it's the last time she is going to do it and then the next year, she does it again. And she still writes "Love, Santa" on all the gifts. And we still all spend the night at "home" and wake each other up early to open presents. And I still feel the magic.

As I start to imagine a family of my own (soon, soon I hope!) I spend a lot of time wondering what it was that makes me feel so happy and safe at home. I want to recreate it for my kids. I want my 27 year-old daughter and her 31 year-old husband to come over on Christmas Eve and wait for Santa. I want my childhood, for my children.

I want a warm, cozy home.

I want a fat, lovely baby.

Come on 2009, bring it on.

All I Want For Christmas Is You

And Coralie. And Lindsay and Jacci. And Grandma. And so many more people who seem so far away.

I wish the world was not quite as large. I want to be able to fold it in half and touch Ohio. Switzerland. I want to put it in my pocket and know they are all safe and close to me.

Teach Me Tolerance

Whenever I tell people that I teach high school, I get the same reaction: "How do you deal with them?"

Them.

It's not enough to tell people that they are actually very sweet. They don't quite remember how funny and bright and inspiring teenagers can be. It's mostly the awkwardness we remember. The "acting cool" phase. The insecurities. The acne. The pain.

But today I witnessed something absolutely remarkable.

I am one of the advisors for the school's GSA: Gay-Straight Alliance. It is a nationally recognized club whose purpose is to ensure human rights on campus for every student. The goal is to try and stop discrimination and to promote acceptance and tolerance in the community. It's a good goal. It's a good club.

Today was our first day of sign-ups. We have been meeting for weeks to write a club constitution, to get it approved, and to elect leaders. We all knew that this club may not be well received. Escondido is a very conservative city and the original GSA was sabotaged a few years ago by the Christian Club when they crashed every meeting to "pray away the gay." Sadly for the Christian Club, prayer wasn't enough and we still have gay students on campus. Who knew? SO, it's safe to say that we didn't know what to expect today.

We set a big table up on the "greentop" which is where are the kids hang out and eat lunch. I must admit, I was a little nervous when two gay girls rolled out a huge sign covered in rainbows asking people to join. Would kids make fun of them? What if no one signed up? What would I say if someone did say something? I wanted to protect these kids so much.

My stomach dropped when a group of White girls (looked like cheerleaders to me) approached the table. "What is GSA?" they asked. One of the ladies flipped her hair. Our girls explained and they signed up. Phew. Two Asian girls were watching our table out of the corner of their eyes. They were whispering and exchanging looks. Crap. They walked over and signed up. Within a few minutes there was a line.

A line of Whites and Blacks, Asians and Mexicans, girls and boys. Freshman, Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors. 63 signed up on our first day. I listened carefully to the conversations going on around the table. I was anticipating something horrible. Waiting for a joke - for someone to be teased. It never happened. Instead, two boys who I happen to know are popular walked away saying, "That club seems cool."

Very, very cool.

Code Blue

On Monday, during third period, I started getting a shooting pain through my chest. It was a sharp, "jack rabbit" sort of feeling that was intense but short lived. No big deal. The day went on but the pain didn't stop. I picked up Meghan from school and we drove to her parent's house for a relaxing evening of quilting and these amazing apple cider drinks with ice cream (highly recommend them). I felt kind of bad because I couldn't stop complaining about my chest. Mom Dease kept asking if I needed to lay down, if a tums would help, what she could do. I was fine, I explained. And I was. It was probably indigestion. Who wants to go to the doctor and be told they have gas? Certainly not me.

I came home and told Dan about the pain and he immediately became worried and called one of his best friends who is a doctor (since I refused to go to urgent care). After going back and forth, describing my symptoms and answering questions, Dr. Paul determined that I probably pulled a muscle. Take it easy, relax. Not much I could do. Just what I wanted to hear.

But yesterday, my arm started to feel numb. Now, I'm no medical expert but chest pains plus a numb arm = Didn't sound so good. But of course the doctor's office was closed already and urgent care sounded like a long, horrible nightmare. Nah. If I made it through two days, I knew another night wouldn't hurt.

So I woke up this morning and the chest pain hadn't gone away and I still couldn't feel my arm. Probably time to call the doctor. I went into work, waited until the doctor opened at 8:30 and called to make an appointment. The doctor's recommendation: Urgent Care. Man!

I went to tell the secretary that the doctor recommends that I go into urgent care and within seconds she is running to the school nurse and calling out for the attention of every assistant principal in sight. Before I know it, I am surrounded by the school's administration and they are treated me like I am about to die. "I'm fine," I explain. "Seriously."

"Seriously," she answers. "You need to have your husband come pick you up and drive you. "Seriously."

Seriously?

And Dan rushes over (he told me I should have gone!) and speeds to urgent care. Oh man, what is going on?

Apparently chest pains and a numb left arm are code for "this chick is about to die" because as soon as I told her my symptoms she yells what I have just said and I am rushed into the back. Ain't this some service?

I was immediately given oxygen - I said I can breathe just fine - but no one is listening. They stick about a million stickers to my legs and my chest and my hips and my arms and the EKG begins. They are making sure I am not having a heart attack. I am not having a heart attack.

Four hours and an EKG, blood test, urine test, and seven x-rays later, the verdict: I have neck spasms and tennis elbow. The neck spasms are causing pain through my chest and my arm is numb because I somehow managed to be suffering the injuries of a sport I have never played.

"Seriously?" I asked.

Seriously.

Christmas Party

I wasn't 21 yet when I first met Dan. The bar scene was foreign and I could't wait to join my friends and be able to get dressed up and go out. To dance and drink until the infamous "last call" announcement. I counted down starting at my 20th birthday. It was a long, long year.

Fast forward to 27. I cannot even remember the last time we went "out." We might have some friends over (thank you Meghan and Dustin) for a few glasses of wine but that's as far as it goes. In fact, that's a pretty crazy night for us. So, I was excited about Dan's holiday party, but also a little reluctant. Could I stay up past 9:00pm without yawning and yearning for bed? I was determined to.

I was so determined that I drank three cups of coffee before we left. Bad idea. I hadn't eaten yet and since we had to wait in an hour of traffic before I could get anything in my stomach, I was shaking and fighting back waves of nausea before we arrived. But - when we got there - I felt better already. We pulled up to the beautiful, brand new Hilton hotel downtown. As we walked toward the ballroom, little cocktail tables were set up around a bright Christmas tree and holiday music was playing gently. It felt like Christmas.

As we walked into the ballroom, we were instantly greeted by Dan's coworkers and their wives. We were given glasses of wine and the fun began. Boy, did it begin.

We ended up taking a cab to several different bars downtown and dancing until the "get the hell out of here" announcement was made. While dancing with Dan, I was reminded of six years before when this sort of experience was ordinary. Dancing, drinking, feeling invisible and beautiful. Did I miss it?

And the truth is, I am so much happier than I was during that time, that I cannot even think about missing it. Here I was, dancing with my husband who I love more than I thought I could ever love, and we are so incredibly happy. And we both have jobs that we love and friends that we adore. We are buying a home that we will one day raise our children in and that is close to my family. It's strange, but in the midst of music and chaos, I was able to appreciate Dan more than ever.

We took a cab back our hotel room. Neither one of us was feeling very well, let alone invisble. Sleep overtook us.

In the morning, we both swore that we would never drink again. We both felt older than we ever have. This night out, that once was so commonplace, had completely destroyed us. And I looked over at my husband, whose red eyes and hunched over body looked quite different than it did a few years ago after a night out. I looked at my face in the mirror, mascara spread across my cheeks and wondered when things changed so much. And I laughed. And Dan laughed and I curled up in his arms and told him I wanted to go home. Things have changed and I couldn't be happier. I am so very happy.

We are buying a house!

The funky and functional front (Oh Alliteration, how do I love thee- Oh Allusion...)
The side of the house
The view from our driveway

Big Love

Yesterday was my first real day of vacation. I have pretty much been counting down to this break since August when we started school. Not because I don't love my job, because I absolutely do, but more because it's nice to catch up, get all those things done that just aren't possible while working, and then hopefully relax. The plan was to do it in that order. That hasn't happened.

I woke up early yesterday - out of habit - and flipped through HBO On Demand because a friend just told me I HAVE TO watch this show called "True Blood." It's about vampires (oooooooow) and sounded pretty good. I have a nerdy love for SciFi (thanks Dad - all those years of Star Trek rubbed off). Well, I didn't get as far as watching the vampire drama because instead I started watching BIG LOVE. I had seen the pilot a few years ago and liked it but then didn't have HBO so gave up on it. Let me just say - yesterday I watched the entire first season instead of doing ANYTHING productive. In fact, I didn't even shower until 5:00pm - right before Dan came home, and then shoved some pork chops in the oven and laundry in the machine to pretend that I didn't just sit around all day. Whoops. So I have a new addiction: BIG LOVE. The only problem is - I finished the entire first season and that is all that is On Demand so I guess that means I have to be productive and start grading research papers.

I'm going to shower right now and drive to Starbucks and get on that grading. I'm going to focus and plow through it so this weight can be lifter off my shoulders. I may stop by Blockbuster first, however. I think I saw Season 2 there and I need to finish it. Season 3 starts in January...

Empathy Continued

I meant to wait to post my students responses to the Elie Wiesel interview until I received both classes responses but I was so moved last night that I wanted to share them immediately. Here are a few more from my other 10th grade class. Just as amazing.

"But the only thing I don't get is why the world stayed silent." - Aaron

"I cant image how someone could kill people just because of their race. It just makes me want to cry for everything that happened. It hurts me to know that there is still raceism on this earth." - Zuly

"For a human to build a place like that and to use it to kill that many people, they turn into a monster. They are not human anymore. And the people that just sit and watch and know its wrong - they are even worse than monsters." Michael

"My heart felt weak." - Alba

"I don't know why humans would kill their own species, it's not right." - Noe

"How come people didnt do nothen in the beginning. Why did people take so long time to react. That's sad." - Reynaldo

"They could have really been someone in life. They could of been important." - Karina

"People were torture like if they werent human. they were torture like if they were animals" - Juan

"That is messed up. No one has the right to end someones life for no reason. No one has the right to end a race." - Lloyd

"I ask myself if they ever felt sad when doing horrible things to the jewish people but I think they didn't felt anything at all." - Berenice

If the one thing they learn all year is compassion and empathy, I will be happy. I am very proud of these kids who are able to connect with the past and feel sorry for what was done. If they are the future, we are in good hands.

Waiting on the World to Change

We are still reading Night by Elie Wiesel. It's still about the holocaust. It's still horrific and sixteen year-olds still cannot grasp exactly what 6 million means. They cannot understand the cruelty. And I think that's a good thing.

Today I showed them the video of when Oprah interviewed Wiesel. The second time. The time where she went to Auschwitz with him and he attempts to put into words, how he felt. What he saw. What he cannot forget. What makes the video so moving is the amount of silence. There are just not words.

I didn't make the kids take notes. That's distracting and I don't want them to watch because it is a grade. I want them to pay attention because it's necessary. Because it's human. But I also think it's important to put into words how you feel about what you see (hence the blog) so I had them write anything they wanted after the movie was over. Here is what I got (I left their spelling and grammatical errors because it's real and true and lovely):

"I thought I was there with all the people and be separete from my parents and after that not seem them again. I think Elie had a lot of energy and power to go there and so he could watch all that happened and I think that no one has to have this kind of punishment even if there are persons you hate." - Maria

"If I was in that situation I would not no what to do but just cry and pray to god that I lived." - Iratean

"It's kind of hard to believe it happened but, I know it is real and did happen. It's not so easy to believe that children, women, and babies were killed at an amount so large. The hardest part is to know that people knew this was happening and they did not step in to stop it. This helps on appreciate their life and freedom that we have. This is why I don't like prejudice people" - Juan

"I could see on his face the horror, the pain, the things that they passed, because it was hard for him and I can't see people diying, I can't even see blood because it makes me sick and is going to be stuck in my head but for Elie, he is a strong guy and I can't believe he had the courage to go to the camp again." - Sheila

"Watching this video was really hard to watch, but my eyes were glued to the TV. Its so horrible to image that ever happen. How could their be such horrible people. Evil people. It makes me mad on how they could kill thousands of people in a matter of minutes, especially babies, I mean how could they do that!!" - Cynthia

"This whole idea of knowing the Holocaust truly happened, its hard for me to put this in my head. It was really horrifying to know 6 million Jews died, then not knowing they went to their death. If somebody said I can do 1 thing to change the world, I would return everyone back to life and Hitler would of never existed. If only this can be true....Everyone is happy!" - Edgar

"I hate this part of history. This should have never of happened." - Efrain

"The Jews didn't do anything to deserve that. It's really hard to take it all in. I wish I could visit Auschwitz so I could understand it more. Just understand how this could happen. Why?" - Liana

"Nobody no matter who or what they are should go through something like that." - Vanessa

"It brought me the most pain to see it." - Magan

"When you see the bodies, you get this weird feeling in your stomach." - Hannah

"I think that the part that made me react the most was the shoes. Like when he pointed out the red shoes and said - probably a dancer. Just the potential of all those lives, the characters, the personalities just taken away." - Marcy

"It gets me really mad. He will always have those sad pictures on his mind cause those kind of things - those could never be forgotten. - Michelle

The holocaust through the eyes of sophomores. The innocence. The outrage. The Hope.

Now and Then

Our second annual trip to Redlands was fabulous. I have purposely not written about it yet because I don't really know what to write. If I tried to describe what we did, the blog would be exactly one sentence long - and super repetitive. We went to breakfast, shopped, ate, talked, ate, laughed, ate, cried, ate, slept, ate, drove, ate, and then said goodbye. And there you have it. But if I were to omit all the eating we did (and boy, did we do a lot of eating) then you would understand how we have all been friends for fourteen years.

We talked. We laughed. We cried.

And I don't mean this in the cliche way that it sounds. I mean we literally cracked up, rolling on the floor and screaming (Liz's face at Meghan's reproduction questions) and lit-er-ally cried (this is top secret and would never be revealed to the public). How lucky are we to have a group of friends that trust each other this much? We talked about how we are such better friends now than we ever were as teenagers. High school has a way of allowing insecurities to eat at us that we still keep so much hidden. As adults ,we remember each other as kids and love each other even more.

When I went to bed on Sunday night, I sat up awhile and thought about each of the girls on the trip. Of how we have this way of fitting into the group - each of us - in our own unique place - that feels so important. Of Meghan, the sweetest most optimistic person I have ever met. How her naivete has always been so endearing and at times, so funny. How she does her best to be a teacher, a daughter, a wife - and how I know she will do the same as a mother. Of Liz, the rock of our group. Who seems to know everything about anything and how confident she is in her convictions. She will tell you what you need to know and make you work hard to be strong, like she is. Of Jessica, beautiful Jessica - who intimidated me in high school because of her grace and virtue - because of her beauty. Yet I really didn't know her at all. She allows herself to be so vulnerable and honest and it makes me wish I would have known her better, sooner. Of Sara, the most practical and well planned out person I have ever known. Who was my walking partner, locker partner, and lunch partner (in your car!) in high school and really made those four years bearable for me. She has the most realistic and dedicated approach to life that makes it seem possible. Of Jen, who is infinitely thoughtful and serving. Who always goes out of her way to make sure everyone is happy and comfortable. She has the-girl-next-door charm with a mix of Martha Stewart hospitality. Of Kim (we missed you this weekend) who brings energy and vitality to our otherwise fifty-year-old-at-heart group. She makes us laugh (and sometimes makes us smoke cigars) and makes us rethink some aspects of our lives (this is a G-rated blog).

The funny thing is - I don't really know which one I am - but that, I have realized, doesn't really matter. I have my place - and it's with my best friends. Christian, Mormon, Agnostic - we all believe in love and friendship. If the world could see through these titles, like we can, it would be a much more accepting place. And loving. And fun. And hopeful.

I love you all more than I can find words. My girls. BSC.

Love - Pass it on

Baby you and me got a cheesy kind of love

It is time that I admit the truth: I am addicted. No matter how hard I try, I cannot stop. I tell myself I'm not going to do it. It's no big deal. Today will be different. I don't need the high today. But I do.

The feeling I get from listening to the radio show "This American Life" is something that is hard to understand. It's a drug that changes my thinking. After a good fix I feel so relaxed and happy that the only thing I can think of is the next show. How can I download one I haven't heard? Is there a place I can buy the archives? What will I do when I catch up? It is sort of sick. I hear the name Ira and my heart melts. I hear his voice; it's all over.

And today's show hit me like a ton of bricks. The title: Valentine's Day.

I would not consider myself a romantic. In fact, anything that borders cheesy, I run from. It's probably the reason I rarely write about Dan. I don't like mushy. I like real. When I try to write about Dan, it sounds mushy so I erase it and find something that I can discuss that doesn't make people want to throw up. Me = not romantic. So honestly, when I saw the title "Valentine's Day" I skipped it. I'd rather listen to "The Audacity of Government," "Return to Childhood," or "Quiz Show." Give me pain, give me suffering but please spare me cheesy. I just can't take it.

But, like I said, I was desperate. I needed my fix and I was running low so I took what was left: Valentine's Day.

I don't know why I ever doubted my dear Ira Glass. He began the show citing an allusion to one of my all time favorite short stories -"What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." Wow. I was already impressed. He knows his literature and he has good taste (Starting to feel the warmth through my veins). And the first story starts off sad. The man telling the story explains that he had a fight with his wife (over pepper) and she ended up going to bed early and he sat up alone. While sitting on the couch, he came to the conclusion that he was going to leave her. The fighting was incessant. They didn't get along. They should both finally admit that it was better for both to end the marriage. And he walked into his wife's room to talk to her about his revelation and found her asleep. Instead of waking her, or walking out, he sat and watched her sleep and began to think back to when they met. It's a long story - but he ends up writing her a letter that night describing how all they had been through - good and bad - was worth it. He recounts specific moments of their marriage when they were truly happy. He marvels at how quickly the time has passed and how he doesn't quite understood when things fell apart. But, things fell apart.

What I love about the show is that it is real. This is how people live. At times they were very much in love - cheesy moments and all- and at other times they felt they hated each other. But he looked at her and thought if I never saw her again what would I want to say? He wanted to say it was worth it.

Something about this letter made so much in my life seem small. Small in a good way. I want to freeze the way I feel about Dan right now and wrap it up and keep it safe. I want to always feel the way I do in this moment. So, even though it goes against my instincts, I'm going to make a list of my ten best moments with Dan just this week. I want to capture the fact that I can easily list these off without digging deep and stretching.

1. Dan made me nachos at 10pm after we were already in bed because I asked nicely and really wanted them.
2. We went together to fight for equality and held hands while holding signs.
3. He ironed my shirt for me at 6am while he could have been sleeping.
4. Dan has completely taken over kitty litter duty because I gag and hate it.
5. He left work early to get my prescription and then drove to Vista during the week to have dinner with my family.
6. Dan set up a place for Jeff to stay in Tahoe which warms my heart because he loves my brothers so much.
7. I woke up this morning with a huge zit on my nose and static in my hair and he said I was beautiful anyway.
8. He is working extremely hard to buy us a house and is going with my mom to check one out while I am with my girlfriends for the weekend.
9. He sent me a message in the middle of the day while at work that said, "I love you so much I feel like I'm going to explode."
10. When I was in the shower this morning singing "The Luckiest" (our wedding song) he heard me and joined in the singing and then ran up and hugged and kissed me.

All wonderfully cheesy - and all very true.

I hope I never have to write a letter that explains why it's been worth it. I want Dan to always know, that I know, that the life we have together is exactly where I want to be. Thank you Ira, for reminding me of the little things in life that add up to mean the most. Thank you for the high.

Tributes and grassroots

Two steps forward one step back.

Last night, Dan and I volunteered to work with one of the largest grassroots efforts California has ever seen: The No on 8 Campaign. We met with the group for the first time last Sunday in Hillcrest where we were "trained" on how to help on election day. I must admit, it felt a little strange to walk in the building as a straight married couple holding hands. Was it okay that we were here? How odd to feel like outsiders. We waited for everyone to file in.

And as we waited, my mind began to wander. For a split second, when walking through that door, I thought - Maybe we shouldn't hold hands. Will this offend someone? Does it make people feel awkward that we are married and enjoying our lives together when they cannot?

What a horrible feeling to have to hide how much you love someone. How demeaning to pretend like what you share is not significant because others may be offended. And thus - you have the life of the people that surrounded us. Always offending, always hiding - for simply being who they are.

The meeting began and what I respected most about the campaign was how they were determined to stay away from negativity and how the only message they wanted us to spread was "Stop discrimination." I wish the world could have been there to see how simple the message really is.

So last night, we met up with a group of people and we did our best. We had a church group approach us yelling and threatening to call the police. We had one woman take a friend's jacket and throw it into the street. We had many middle fingers and hateful stares. I guess I didn't realize equality was so offensive.

At the end of the night, as we were waiting for the polls to close, a man leaned over to me and Dan and asked, "Are you guys married?"

We are.

"It's so amazing," he answered. "It's so amazing to see so many straight people here helping us. What motivates you? If you're married, why spend election night in the cold, holding signs and getting yelled at?"

I don't think I have ever been as proud of my husband than in this moment. "We care about rights," Dan said. "We are committed to fighting discrimination in any form because we don't want it coming to our door. We want to raise our kids in a world that is equal and fair." My heart soared. I cannot imagine loving anyone more than I love Dan.

The man thanked us. I wish it was possible to somehow describe what it feels like when someone thanks you with everything that he is. It was an emotional moment. I was biting my lip, trying not to cry. Then this man, probably noticing my eyes welling up with tears, saved me and said, "Well, if you ever need an interior decorater, you have a room full of friends." We all laughed.

A few moments later, Obama won the election. I knew I would remember this moment for the rest of my life so I looked around to take it all in. Here we were, me and my husband, sitting in the meeting room of a church in Carlsbad, surrounded by strangers and feeling so hopeful. We watched this tiny little TV, complete with bunny ears and static, and held hands and cried.

Maybe we lost this battle, but we will win the war. It is only a matter of time. And I have to admit, it makes me feel pretty confidant knowing that I am married to a man who is so full of compassion, dignity, and love. I am so grateful to be married to my best friend and we will fight on together so that everyone can share what we are so lucky to have.

Please

Vote NO on Prop 8. Please.

This is a vote for rights and for equality. It's the right thing to do. Please, please, please don't take away one group's rights.

America is not about discrimination. It's not about hate. Make us proud to be Californians. Please enter the polls with love in your heart and let LOVE rule.

Love rules.

NO ON PROP 8.

"You know who you look like?"

I was in the middle of a lecture about Realism today, when a kid in my class blurted this out. "You know who you look like, Mrs. Aardappel?"

Oh man. I couldn't even imagine what this kid was going to say.

"You look exactly like the girl from 'Bee Movie'" he said. All of a sudden the class broke out in agreement. They couldn't believe they had not noticed it before. "You guys are twins!" "You look EXACTLY alike, ohmygod!" "You do!" The comments continued until I finally settled the class down.

"Uhhh, isn't "Bee Movie" a cartoon?" I asked.

"Yes, but you have to see her! It's YOU!"

As a class, we made a deal. I would look up my "twin" if they would calmly listen to the difference between realism and romanticism. It worked. So, I have a class full of enlightened kids and they left me smiling at how cute they are to compare me to an animated character in a children's movie. See, high school kids are adorable too!

History repeats itself because no one listens

My sophomores are going to start reading Elie Wiesel's novella NIGHT next week. If you are not already familiar with the book, it is a true story about Wiesel's life and how he was transformed after his family was taken from their home in Romania and transported to Auschwitz during WWII by the Nazi regime. It is a story about torture, loss of faith, survival, and remembrance. It is a story about discrimination.

I really want my kids to understand the context of the holocaust before we even open the book. I want them to understand the dangers of discrimination. I want them to acknowledge what can happen when people are too passive. I want them to feel outraged at what occured in our world, just 66 years ago. I want them to feel.

So, I started gathering background information to get the kids angry. I have pictures of children lining up to enter gas chambers seconds before they were killed. I have photos of thousands of shoes, piled up to the ceiling - confiscated before families were separated and murdered. I have pictures of tiny suitcases - packed and never opened.

We need to get angry. We need to see the dangers of hate and fear.

As I am researching, I come across a poem that is engraved in a wall at the holocaust memorial. And I'm thinking-hoping - that this poem will show us how far we have come. It will reflect the progress we have made and I can show the kids how much we can change the world in such a short amount of time. We will feel so powerful! And I read:

In Germany they first came for the Communists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant.

Then they came for me —
and by that time no one was left to speak up.

And I cannot help but wonder - how far have we come? Maybe it's not communists or Jews we are afraid of anymore - but instead Muslims and homosexuals. We, as a people, cannot let discriminaiton go. We hold on to hate as if we need it to survive. It's not enough to sit back and quietly disagree. Speak up and fight! Talk about equality and rights whenever you can. Speak up for others!

Prop 8, I see what you are - a tiny seed of hate fighting for survival by clinging to the fears of the weak. Fight. Speak up!

Thank you Catholic SUV driver!

My heart leapt for joy today in the parking lot of Blockbuster. I was pulling out when I noticed the side of the SUV parked next to me had a tiny little Obama-Biden sticker. That's odd, I thought; An SUV driver supporting Obama. (My kids would be yelling out, "That's a stereotype!" I have taught them well). So I back up and am about to pull out of my parking spot when I notice two more stickers on the back of the car. Whoa. Not only is this an SUV driver supporting Obama but they are also a Catholic voting NO on Prop 8. Utter bliss.

Finally, progress.

"Sharks!!!"

I'm already in bed. It's almost 7:30pm (Jeopardy is about to start) and Dan is at his basketball game. The apartment is rarely this quiet. I am in a peaceful mood. I am alone.

I muted the TV so I can write and I let my mind wander. It's really strange when you allow yourself to forget where you are and just let your thoughts go where they will. It's weird where they go. Mine often return to my childhood.

My dad used to go to bed late. And by late I mean 7:00 in the evening (it's gotten earlier). I don't know why he did - I guess I never thought about it until now - but as he was heading down the hallway to bed he would yell, "Sharks!! Get on the big boat! There are SH-ARKS!!!" Okay, so we all somehow knew (I don't know if he told us this or if it was just understood) that the "big boat" was my parent's bed and the "sharks" were the ground. If we didn't sprint down the hallway in time, we would obviously be eaten. Obviously.

And this went on for I don't know how long. "SHARKS!" My dad would yell and we're off, sprinting down the hallway and jumping into bed and laughing. Yelling for my mom until she would finally stomp down the hallway (pretending to be annoyed) and then flop onto the bed with us. We barely made it. They almost got Brad. Mom was so brave. I am so relieved we are all safe.

And we are safe. All five of us together on a Tuesday night in the middle of the ocean. We are floating along the carpeted sea and the air is warm and blowing our little ship onward. Bon Voyage...

"You can't fix stupid," he wrote.

And he's right.

Although my friend was referring to another political issue, his words seemed exceptionally timely.

On my way to school this morning there was a group of people standing on the corner with "Yes on Prop 8" signs. Egh. I wanted so badly to shout at them and flip them the bird - but - I followed the lead of a very good friend and decided to act maturely. (This was hard). As I sat at the light, I gave them the thumbs down sign. At first (it was foggy and hard to see), they thought I was waving and two of them leaned forward excitedly. Were they thinking, "Yay for hate! We found another one who wants to shove her ideas on innocent people"?

I rolled down my passenger side window to clarify. "No," I said. "What you're doing makes me sad." I rolled up the window quickly and took off. If I couldn't scream or cuss, I would at least have the last word.

I wanted to forget about it. I wanted to walk into my classroom with a smile and get ready for Monday - but I was pissed. All day I thought about what I could do to get back at them. Makes signs? Blog? Donate? Scream?!

So I tried to understand. I went to the "Yes on Prop 8" website to see what I was missing. It has to be something, right? All these people who claim to be good people are passionate about voting yes. Yes, I must be missing something. So I read. And I read. And I read and I read and I read.

And what I discovered is that these people are concerned with "protecting marriage." Okay, marriage is sacred. I get that.

But then why not put their energy toward trying to lower the divorce rate? Why not ban divorce all together? Why not ban getting married more than once? If marriage is so sacred, how can divorce occur? The answer is that it's not about protecting marriage. It is about discrimination and hate. It's about believing that your views are right and better than other people's. It's unconstitutional and it is wrong.

If you don't believe in homosexuals getting married - then don't be a homosexual who gets married BUT don't stop people that love each other from doing what they want to do.

"You can't fix stupid," he wrote. But you can sure as hell try.

"Is it the best book you've ever read?"

If you grew up in my family - you understand the joke.

If not, here is a little background information : I have always loved reading. Every time I finished a book I would run to my parents and tell them how wonderful it was and how it was the best book ever. I would describe the characters as if they were my best friends and discuss the ending of the novel as if it were the end of a very important part of my life. I would lament the fact that I didn't know how I was going to go on without these characters in my life anymore. I was, admittedly, dramatic.

I would be sitting on the couch, while my family watched TV, and would slowly close a book and look at my parents with tears in my eyes. I waited for them to notice me and my anguish.

"I know," my dad would say. "It's the best book you've ever read."

"But it really was!" I would insist. "If only you knew what just happened..."

This exchange ended with my parents laughing and me finally cracking a smile. There are so many best books.

But today I really did finish the best book ever. (My mom and dad are laughing right now - Jerks!) And the book was so good that I feel compelled to recommend it to anyone who is looking for a good read. A great read. Anyone looking for the best book ever.

The World According to Garp, by John Irving, will change your life. It changed mine; As all the best books ever written will inevitably do.

Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land

I took this picture when I pulled into my apartment complex today. Although I pass the gigantic flag every day, I rarely notice it. Today, however, it looked beautiful.

Without even thinking, I pulled my car over and snapped this picture with my camera phone. What had overcome me?
I had never taken a picture of a flag before. In fact, I usually cringe when I see the red, white, and blue flying in the wind. It's not that I don't love America - I absolutely do. But the flag seems too often paired with phrases like, "These Colors Don't Run," "God Bless America" and "Fear this!" Phrases that are overconfident, exclusionary, and intimidating. Phrases that don't represent the reasons I love America.

Maybe the election has sparked a new, uncharted depth of patriotism I didn't know I held. Hope, perhaps?

I am scared. I don't know how I will recover if California outlaws gay marriage. America is about freedom. It's about choice. It's about love and equality. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free" How can we represent this, and at the same time force our own views on other people? The answer is devastating: We cannot.

But this election can also make me overwhelmingly proud of the progress America has made. If we can come out of this election with a black president (who I'm voting for because of reasons other than his race - it's just a nice bonus), rights for everyone, and hope for the future, I have a feeling my chest will swell with pride again at the sight of our flag. We will show the world that America is truly a nation to be admired. A progressive people. The greatest nation on earth.

There is so much riding on this election. I hear people make comments like, "I don't really care who wins, nothing ever changes." (Grandma said this, among others). But the truth is things do change. 143 years ago, in the United States, blacks were slaves. The idea of any one of these "boys" running for office was unimaginable. Unattainable. Impossible. Yet - here we are.

So here it goes. My whole heart is at stake.

Come on America, show me what you got.

Ghetto-Fabulous Nails

are pretty "sick" at my school. And by sick, I mean popular. So, I decided to give into peer pressure and 'get my nails did' too. It is October, I love Halloween, I'm in.

So I sit down with Lynn, like I do every other Tuesday, and tell her this time I want to go festive. Orange and black please.

We talk about the election. She tells me how she took her husband's ballot and voted for him and then accidentally signed her own name. We laugh. For the first time today, I am actually relaxed. (Teaching writing really sucks the life out of you).

Fast-forward to ten minutes to six. Lynn's next appointment walks in and sits down. Lynn is starting to paint part of my nail orange.

This lady, who I quickly discovered is named Irene, starts to tap her foot rather loudly (deliberately, in fact) and huffing and puffing.

Oh god, I think. I'm tense again.

Okay, I will admit it. My festive Halloween nails took a little longer than normal. Eight minutes longer. Eight freakin' minutes and this lady was about to burst.

Lynn finishes up my nails and I switch seats with Irene. I need to let my nails dry before I drive home.

Immediately, Irene starts telling Lynn how she was going to stop at the store before she got her nails done but she didn't want to be late. Being late is rude. We all get the "deeper meaning" in her message. It's not that deep.

Lynn ignores it. So do I.

Irene continues by bitching (no other word works as perfectly as "bitching") about how her family is going to wonder where she is since she is not going to be home on time. She wonders if they will call her. Hopefully, they don't worry. She should probably call them.

It was eight minutes. Eight.

Irene then continues (Irene is pretty self-absorbed) about her day at work in which the idea of being late comes up two more times.

Honestly, I wanted to show Irene my perfectly painted holiday nail - on my middle finger.

There is no poetic message to wrap up this frustrating experience. I gained little insight other than one clear observation: Irene sucks and my nails are ghetto FAB-U-LOUS!

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile

We have a name for our group of friends. Instead of calling each other "the group" or "the gals" we call each other BSC. There is no better group of gals than the BSC.

"Is everyone from BSC going to be there?" we sometimes ask. We always hope so.

BSC translates to Baby-sitters Club. Now, we never officially babysat together, but if you were ever a fan of the series of books written by Ann M. Martin titled "The Baby-sitters Club" you will understand. The baby-sitters club is a group of thirteen year old girls who do everything together. We were about thirteen when we met. The girls have adventures that are simple and real. They have slumber parties and eat pizza. In this way, we were absolutely the same sort of girls. We are the same girls.

And sometimes this puzzles me. I often ask myself, "When am I going to feel like a grown-up?"

But I DO feel like a grown-up often. Every morning when my alarm goes off at five a.m., I feel like an adult. Every day when I am responsible for thirty-five kids, I am reminded I am a grown-up. When I spend Saturday mornings cleaning instead of sleeping in, I cannot forget that I am indeed not a kid anymore.

But then, I get together with the BSC.

And this is the best surprise about friendship so far. When I am with the BSC, I am twelve again. We are all twelve. And the laughter and tears and confessions go on and on. I cannot remember how many secrets have been told over the years. How many admissions of fear have been revealed. How many insecurites dispelled. We are at a slumber party and we are 27 only we are not. This friendship is a sort of Never-Never-Land where we go to be safe. Where we can go to be us.

"Are you going to give him a hug?"

My class asks.

Yes, if he wants one.

And he does.

Andrew is leaving our class. He is leaving our school. After a year in Juvenile Hall (you don't want to hear what he did) and two years back in high school the consensus is he should be transferred to our continuation school. No chance for him here.

But I will miss him.

I can see through the crossed arms and the socks pulled up above his knees. He thinks he is tough. He is tough. But Andrew wants a hug.

I wish I could squeeze him and tell him that I care about him. He would roll his eyes. Andrew is very tough.

The bell rings and everyone runs out. It's Friday.

Andrew lingers and tells me he might be back. He's going to try, at least, to come back. I give him a hug. I don't care if he is tough. So am I.

I hope when he goes home, someone gives him a hug. He's tough and he desperately needs a hug.

other things may change us, but we start and end with the family.

Jeff is smart. I have always been aware of this. Painfully aware at times. I often call him for answers to questions that I don't even know how to approach. When he graduated with his bachelor's degree he was awarded the honor of being the religious studies "Outstanding Graduating Senior." He gave a speech and everything. I cried.

After he graduated from San Diego State, Jeff was fortunate (well, do you still call it fortunate when you earned it?) enough to get accepted to Claremont Graduate College. He's been there for a few months now, but just yesterday I finally got to see his school.

My mom and dad took the day off work. Dan worked a half day. I called out sick. We all piled into my dad's car and drove up to Claremont to see Jeffy's school. (Aw, my little brother. He will always be Jeffy to me!)

I don't know how to describe the school unless you grew up wishing for big oak trees and quiet lawns. I know I did. The college is so serene and peaceful. It smells of intelligence. Oh my dreams were all wrapped up in place like this. And my brother is really doing it. I felt proud. He's my brother, I thought, and ran to be close to him.

Yesterday was perfect. Jeff showed us where he sits and studies. My dad complained about all the walking and stopped to smoke his cigar and chug diet cokes as often as he could get away with. My mom danced around the open lawns, trying to get me to capture her graceful leaps in a snapshot. Dan begged for snacks and said he was getting weaker by the moment without food. I loved it. You can change our surroundings, but we are who we are.

We ate lunch at cool little place in "the village." We had beers and margaritas. Ah, heaven!

Afterward, we walked around the little shops near Jeff's school. My mom and I bought things we could not afford. We looked lovely.

I don't know how I got so lucky.

On the way home, after bidding farewell to our scholar Jeff, I fell asleep. My dad driving made me feel safe. My mom, with her feet up on the dashboard reading a book, make me feel happy. My husband, with his head on my lap, made me feel loved.

I don't know how I got so lucky.

Happy Birthday Daddy. (I think he has something to do with my luck)

Slow down everyone you're moving too fast

I have been tired all week. I don't actually feel sick but I have a suspicion that I am getting there. When I look around my classroom and see all my kids blowing their noses and coughing I know it is only a matter of time. I will get sick. I feel sort of bad because I know I haven't been very enthusiastic this week. I feel worn down and I just cannot muster up the energy to jump around the classroom like I usually do.

So, as I was leaving today, the guilt started. I felt like I was not doing my job to the best of my ability and my kids had to know it. I am not a good teacher. They hate me. I have failed. All I wanted to do was drive home and go to sleep. Yuck.

I packed up all my stuff, shut down my computer, wrote the agenda on the board for tomorrow and locked my classroom door. I could almost count the steps to my car and freedom. I hate to admit this but I was happy that I didn't have to see any more kids for the day. No more being patient. No more answering the same question one hundred times. No more reminding them about the vocab test on Monday. No more responsibility.

When I was about twenty steps away from my car I heard, "Hey, Mrs. Aardappel!"

Oh god, I thought, just leave me alone. I was so close to escaping.

Then two girls from my fourth period class - Chelsea and Mia - ran over to give me a hug. Okay, that wasn't so bad. Sweet, even.

A group of boys turned around and it was four kids from last year. They walked over and gave me the fist bump and said that they missed me and it was weird to hear people call me "Mrs. Aardappel" because I would always be "Ms. Murico" to them. I laughed.

I laughed. And as I walked away and this group of high school students was waving goodbye to me, I felt honored to be their teacher.

Kids surprise me every day. Sometimes they frustrate me to the point where I want to pull my hair out. Sometimes they impress me with what they know. Sometimes they break my heart. And sometimes, every once in a while, they make me laugh and re-energize me and make me slow down so I can remember how much I love them.

Hope Floats

I cried at work today.

As a class, we watched Invisible Children's latest film entitled "GO". It is a film about a group of students traveling to Uganda (which is the heart of Africa's longest running war) after raising money for the children who live in this war-torn country. The children, who are often kidnapped to become child soldiers, want nothing more than a safe place to sleep and a chance to go to school. A chance to survive. It is everything you would expect it to be: Violent. Horrific. Brutal. Savage. Unnecessary.

For the first time in eight weeks my entire class was quiet. There was no falling asleep, no talking, no trying to sneak cellphones. They were intrigued. Moved, I hope.

I wish I could have gotten inside their little heads. Were they, for just a second, feeling lucky? Grateful even?

The part of the movie that got to me the most - that made me really evaulate my own life - was not just what these children had to endure but the amount of hope they still had. They have. Amist a life that seems impossibly brutal and brief, they make plans for who they want to become.

I wish I had the answer. I wish I could say something profound. I wish I could save the world. I wish. I wish. I wish.

Seek Up

I do most of my philosophical thinking in two places: the shower or the car - Both of which are extremely difficult to get my thoughts down in written form. I always have the right words to explain how I'm feeling in these moments. My usually jumbled thoughts come together in extended amounts of clarity. They seem simple. Poetic even. But, by the time I get out - of the shower or the car - and get to the point where I can sit down and write - poof! Gone.

On the weekends I listen to music while I shower. I know it's not a good thing to do considering we are in California and conserving water is necessary but there is something rejuvenating about listening to a song with extraordinarily beautiful lyrics while feeling vulnerable and relaxed. It makes me feel connected. (If I were an character in a movie or book my dad would yell out - rebirth!) So this morning, there I was listening to music (ipod was on shuffle) when a song that I have always loved seemed extremely poignant.

Oh music!

When I got out of the shower, I felt moved to write something important. So many thoughts were swirling in my head and I felt certain I could finally write something that would really mean something. A way to allow people to see me the way I know I can be. The writer inside me was finally ready to emerge.

I took out my laptop, sat down in my towel-like cover up and was ready to create. Nothing. Nada.

Was it possible that minutes ago I felt like I could write a masterpiece and now I sat staring at the cursor, having no idea how to even start? Then, I realized the awful, undeniable truth : I was not only a poet in the shower but I was also a singer. And a movie star. And everything that I have always wanted to be.

Oh fickle shower! Oh rebirth!

"You have been my friend," replied Charlotte. "That in itself is a tremendous thing."

Charlotte's Web is the first book that made me cry. I was in second grade and when I realized what was happening - that this was not Disney - and that Charlotte really was going to die, I felt cheated. How could she really die? How was Wilbur going to recover? How was I going to recover? I put my head on my desk to hide my tears. No happily ever after?

Luckily, I was able to recuperate from Charlotte's passing and realize what had made me so devastated: She was such an amazing friend. Maybe the best there ever was.

I think, at one time or another, we all hope to have a friend like Charlotte. Someone that would go out on a limb for you. Someone who would work all night to put your mind at ease. Someone who would save your life.

My parents bought my a copy of Charlotte's Web that year and I still have it. Even when money was tight, I was always allowed to buy a book. What tremendous parents to understand how much those books meant to me. To have the insight to know that I would soon forget the Barbie I had wanted and always remember the book I had.

Happily Ever After.

Her So-Called Life

I rarely remember exactly when certain events happened. Instead, I loosely group memorable experiences into general milestones: My first kiss was in middle school. I got my first job in high school. I fell in love in college.

It's easier to lump it all together in this way this because it saves me the time from having to figure out exactly when "things" occurred and most people don't really care anyway. But my favorite television show of all time, My So-Called Life, is easy to recall. It aired, for the first time, in the fall of 1994. I know this sounds ridiculous but the reason I remember so clearly is anything but. It's important. It's life-changing. It's tragic.

By mid-November I was an addict. I could not get enough of "My So-Called Life." Here was a show that I could really connect with. This was a school similar to mine. It didn't have the heightened drama of 90210 or the sleazy excitement of Melrose Place. Instead, the characters suffered quietly. Rarely did anyone even know they were suffering. And they "suffered" over what we did - not teen pregnancy or sleeping with your best friend's boyfriend- but zits and unrequited love. It was spectacular. I was Angela Chase. We all were.

It was a Thursday - my show was on.

She didn't come to school that day and I should have known something was wrong. I saw her after school and I asked her why she stayed home if she wasn't sick. She said she just didn't feel like going. I should have asked her more.

Why didn't I ask her more?

We talked on the phone that night - the usual. We asked each other who we liked. At the time, that was everyone's biggest concern. We agreed that each other's crushes were worthy. Both cute. Both smart. Both nice. Then - came the last thing I would ever say to her besides "goodbye."

"Hey, can I call you back after My-So Called Life?" I asked.

November 17, 1994. Thursday. 8:00pm. - So much for not being good with details.

We would never talk again.

I have this connection with "My So-Called Life." To this day, when I watch old episodes, it still puts me in this place I can't quite describe. It reminds me of being twelve and insecure. It reminds me of secretly loving someone from afar and hoping and dreaming they would one day love me back. It reminds me of looking forward to high school and all that was to come in my life. It reminds me of telling a friend who needed me that I had to go to watch a stupid tv show. It reminds me of Carmen. Of guilt. Of an emptiness that I just recently learned how to fill.

It reminds me.

When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad. That's my religion

Abe Lincoln nailed it. Unfortunately, in America, that just doesn't cut it. You have to define yourself as something. You have to be a Christian. Or a Catholic. Or Mormon. Or Muslim.

Well, maybe not Muslim.

I have a bulletin board in the back of my classroom. Since I teach American Literature I decided it would be good for the kids to see the faces of the founding fathers. So, I started with Geroge Washington. I added Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams...you know, the regulars. But since it's MOSTLY a literature class I decided to add famous American authors: Nathanial Hawthorne, Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Arthur Miller. But then, why not add famous American scientists, athletes, thinkers, actors, presidents?

So that's what I did.

The kids adore this wall. They walk in and see how many people they can name and what that person did to influence America. They make eloquent sales pitches on why I should include people like Bob Marley and Cheech and Chong on the wall. Huge advances in reggae music. Revolutionized the film industry. Spread laughter and joy to people internationally. Right.

So it sort of surpised me today when I saw a kid standing at the wall, point and say, "God, what a stupid name. Why would anyone name their child that?"

I have to admit - I thought it was someone like Bono or something. A nickname that the kid didn't realize was a nickname. An innocent mistake.

I wish it was that innocent.

"Who are you talking about?" I asked.

"Barack. That's suuuuuch a dumb name," he answered, as if this was the most obvious fact he had ever come across.

I wanted to shoot back that I thought his name was dumb.

Then, I quickly remembered - I am the teacher. Crap. I am the teacher.

"It's not a dumb name, it's an African name. Just like we have people with names from all around the world in this class, his name is part of his culture. I'm sure if you went to Africa they would think your name was pretty strange." - Okay, I think that was fair. I didn't attack him. I just tried to open up his perspective. I crossed my fingers.

"It's not just his name that's dumb..." he continued.

I held my breath.

"It's not just his name that's dumb, it's also the fact that he is Muslim. Who wants a Muslim for a president?"

Oh boy.

I answered too quickly. I should have thought about it. I should have settled down, took a deep breath and looked around the classroom before I shot back, "He is not Muslim!"

If I had taken a second to look around, I would have remembered Nihad. My sweet, introspective, kind, painstakingly quiet Nihad. And the reason I would have answered differently, the reason I should have answered differently is because Nehad is Muslim.

I hate the way we, as a country, have talked about Barack Obama's religion. The media spends their time disbanning rumors that he is Muslim insteading of discussing the fact that it should not matter what religion he practices in the privacy of his own home. Time is spent convincing Americans everywhere that Obama is Christian, just like the rest of us. "Don't worry America, he belives in God." "He's been a Christian for twenty years now." "His famiy has been raised in the church." "Here is Obama with a bible." Obama is safe.

What happened to the separation of church and state? What happened to equality and freedom? What happened to America? This sort of backward thinking has even gotten to me. When a kid in my classroom "accused" Obama of being Muslim, I quickly came to the rescue."Don't worry class, Obama believes in our God. We can all sleep easy tonight."

Luckily, I recovered quickly. I saw Nehad's head shoot up and look at me curiously - waiting to see my next move. I saw the rest of the class wait for me to continue. ( I obviously don't raise my voice very often so they were excited to see me fired up).

We talked about steroetyping for the rest of the period. We made lists on the board about different ways people could be classified and then how and why those particular groups are attacked. Then we added discrimination against short men (yes, the kid that thought Islam was scary, is short - intentional, yes) and we added discrimation against tall women. We added sterotype after sterotype until every kid could be labeled as one of the groups on the board. We talked about what it feels like to judged before your met. How it hurts when someone generalizes about people. We talked about how lucky we were to live in America where we could have this conversation. It was hopeful.

It was something.

Heartbreak, old friend, goodbye it's me again

I'm determined to write every day. I've found, however, that the hard part of writing is not necessarily just finding the time to write, but to find something to write about. If I approach this as a "What I did today" sort of blog then it would inevitably turn into a compilation of stories about the most annoying high school students in the world. And since I know it will happen that way eventually, I'm going to make a conscious effort to NOT talk about my students for awhile. (I know some of you are breathing a sigh of relief - In real life, I do this far too often). Instead, I'm going to write about what is really on my mind. What I think about after I crawl into bed but before I fall asleep: my brother, Jeff.

Jeff is heartbroken. Jeff was heartbroken. Jeff is heartbroken.

Hmmmm. I need a definition of heartbroken.

Merriam-Webster's dictionary defines heartbroken as "overcome with sorrow."

Jeff was heartbroken. He is not overcome anymore.

And this is what makes Jeff remarkable. I know he feels sorrow. I know he feels, at times, like his world will never be whole again. But Jeff has this ability, this unmistakably brave and delibrate ability to see life for all that it can be, not just what it is. He has this desperate hold on idealism that makes even the most cynical have hope.

Jeff was hearbroken.

Jeff is back.