Half-Hour Lunch

Snacks wait at ends of hallways inside black-grilled dispensers: stimulations of craving what becomes most wanted. You pray machines won’t devour coins or bills. Curse when money disappears, when a wrapper gets stuck on its way down, hangs shiny mockery in full view. There’s sadness in eating at school. Sadness in not eating, in cues to eat, hungry-or-not, now-or-never. The industrial bell signals lunch break, nutrition break, passing period. This is the suburbs. It’s the inner city. It’s the inner city inside the suburbs.

Food gets hidden away before and after those bells, hoarded, slipped into backpacks, sweatshirts, purses. Sneaked in. Like drugs or weapons. Student points a chicken strip or quesadilla instead of an index finger, a blade or gun, instead of voicing interesting complaints or reaching for a napkin. Learns to compensate. To stuff it. Teachers who themselves can’t stop moving begin class with bagel in hand, a giant mug of coffee or Big Gulp of Sprite. “Put that food away,” they tell the kids. “When you’ve got this job, then you can eat in class, too.”

School food breeds strange violence, conditions and repeats binge-purge rhythms. I have no time to eat. I want to eat all the time.

Still, the newspapers wonder: Where do bullies come from?

Salivating and fidgeting hide the sadness. The bell rules, its gentle brutality internalized like a biological fact--interrupting and pre-interrupting all day. Anything in its path: girl bending to sip from water fountain, boy copying geometry theorems, men screwing parts in a broken copy machine, girl frantic for toilet paper to wrap her first maxi-pad, teacher explaining a paragraph. So with food, with lunchtime. The bell conflates hunger and movement, makes them indistinguishable. Ring as the child takes first bite of sandwich. As he comes finally to the front of the lunch counter, ready for his turn. No student escapes this lesson. No teacher escapes, absorbing exactly how the half-hour lunch is truly ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. Less if there’s a make-up quiz to proctor, a parent meeting, advice for a student or two (or three, or ten), any small personal emergency. Cravings turn subliminal for everyone on campus. Salivate. Fidget. Frustration tightens eyelids, tired ankles, a sore bladder, or else spills blatantly open--haste, haste--on a binder of notes. Wiped up.

One solution is constant eating. Another, not eating at all.

Read the rest of this essay, along with other amazing poetry, fiction, and nonfiction in the Summer 2008 issue of Babel Fruit online, the new literary hotspot where social justice meets the arts.

Smokers, I Love You

After graduating from university and taking my first job teaching English, I actually made a serious effort to become a smoker. I loved how the package’s glossy cellophane felt in my palm, the tidy hinge of the flip top, the creased silver foil revealing that sweetish smell of tobacco and paper.

I’d buy a pack of long, slender menthols and sit with girlfriends at the card table in my kitchen and gossip away Friday nights. True to cliché, I smoked and scratched comments on student writing assignments with my mugs of coffee. Before it was illegal in California bars, I lit up with dates over pitchers of beer, football games, buffalo wings.

But I didn’t exactly inhale.

Like many wannabe smokers, including (according to my mom) my dead grandma, I sipped rather than dragged on the paper white stems. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t conjure the habit, or the pleasures, I craved from smoking. Nowadays, I confess to love watching the people who’ve been successful.

I know, I know: in our current climate, that’s practically endorsing terrorism. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish nicotine addiction on anyone. Like lots of kids in the seventies, I walked through the American Lung Association van and gaped at the pair of tar-mottled smoker’s lungs. In the eighties, at my SoCal high school, there was a “smoker’s quad” on the blacktop for years--the pre zero-tolerance trend of the time, “making it safe” for kids to do whatever they wanted. (That seemed clearly silly.) Ever since my parents tossed out their Kents and Mores, I’ve been sensitive to the ick-smell cloying hotel rooms, rental cars, elevators. And yes, I know that Big Tobacco lied.

Despite it all, I can separate obvious risks and virtual certainties (lung cancer, emphysema, coughing fetuses, stinky wallpaper and upholstery) from the sensuality of the act in the moment. Just now, somewhere: woman strikes a match and lights her Marlboro, winces the first breath, punctuates a smoky exhale with a single, thoughtless flick of ash.

I married a smoker who looked quite sexy with a cancer stick. Taking that initial drag, he always seemed both attune to the moment and blissfully unaware of himself. He has now (thankfully) kicked the habit. But I never wished, as did one worried relative, that he’d been a racist instead.

I grew up loving movies like Casablanca and Now, Voyager, where cigarettes appear with trench coats and letters of transit and moonlight and national anthems as a kind of aesthetic resistance to fascism and sour provincialism. This may seem ridiculous and passé now. But the few smokers (or former smokers) who remain in my life appear more intimately aware of weaknesses and frailties--not just other people’s, but their own. They relish meals, tell lively stories, risk repeating politically incorrect jokes.

A dear friend’s husband quietly excuses himself from the dinner table for his now occasional, lonely indulgence. He’s not exactly happy about this ritual anymore, half-resigned to the game of “cutting down,” quietly seeking the best patch, gum, or anti-depressant to help bridge the gap between will and weakness.

Perhaps it’s this character, and not the cigs, I’ve always admired. (Think Johnny Cusack's Rob Gordon--between drags of smoke and sips of beer--confessing sins into the camera at a green-colored bar in High Fidelity.)

Our well-meaning zeal against smoking seems lamely in denial against what smokers know too painfully well: that ashes and dust are inevitable for all of us, sooner or later, and that meanwhile there’s a lot of failure and struggle in between.

So that’s why, where righteous hygiene substitutes for kindness, I’ll sit with the smokers any time. Contrary to popular myth, they’re rarely the ones blowing smoke directly in my face.

Sorry, Ladies: Satire Is the New Sunshine

Environmental Rhetoric

Said and Heard

Those who can, do.

Must be nice to finish at 3:00 every day.

At least you have summers off.

But that’s your job.

You could have just moved him to another seat.

No, I never received your note.

She tells me she never has homework.

Why don’t you use workbooks/worksheets?

What did you do to make him angry?

Your D-plus will ruin his chances to play ball.

He didn’t know he was cheating.

Do you have any kids of your own?

I know she turned the assignment in on time.

Your grading is so subjective.

This work is too complicated.

I’m sorry, but why are you calling again?

I don’t have time to help her with everything.

My child always tells the truth.

She didn’t know she was failing.

He behaves that way because he’s not being challenged.

But what should I do with her at home?

He’s only seventeen.

What was her grade two days ago? yesterday? this morning?

You aren’t meeting all our needs.

Just because you don't see a wheelchair doesn't mean she isn't really in one.

I used to teach, so I know for a fact that you should____________.

I know for a fact that everyone else in the class is failing.

I know for a fact that you’ve given an ‘A’ to ____________.

I pay your salary.

You haven’t heard the last from me.

I went to U.C.L.A.

Because of you, she won’t get into a university.

Because you made him upset, he didn’t do the assignment.

I’m friends with school board members.

We thought you’d be different from all the others.

(Less often or never)

How are you?

It won’t happen again.

Thank-you.

What a challenging/creative/thoughtful assignment.

May I visit your classroom again?

We’re so glad to see him working hard.

It must have taken a great deal of thought to plan this exercise.

I’ll be calling your boss to tell him how much I appreciate you.

We’re pleased that you’re not using a workbook/worksheets.

Yes, she lied and we're terribly embarrassed.

Yes, we’ve had this problem before at home.

Our daughter/our son isn’t the center of the universe.

How do you stay so passionate about this subject?

His character matters more to us than his test scores.

You must be exhausted.

I have two children--how do you handle one hundred-sixty of them every day?

Or: I have two children--how do you handle thirty-six for five hours straight?

You’d make a terrific parent. (Or: Your kids are lucky.)

I’m still thinking about what you said.

What else can we do to make it better?

Please hold your ground with her.

But what makes this paper really deserve an ‘A’?

I’ll keep to the point—I know your time is spread very thin.

If she worked further on this, would you be willing to look at it again?

We’re concerned about her new circle of friends.

We’re trying to teach him that what’s fair isn’t always easy.

When is the next round of auditions so she can try again?

She didn’t deserve it yet. That’s okay.

We want him to actually learn--not think he can “buy his way” everywhere.

I’ll bring friends to the board meeting to support you.

You’ll have a written apology in the morning.

We certainly understand why you’d be concerned.

We appreciate your taking the time at lunch/after school/this evening.

I’ll talk to some of the other parents on your behalf.

Heavens no, you’re not crazy.

We really appreciate your call.

I want my son to be a teacher.

Welcome to...Public School?

Back to School

It is morning this Tuesday in the school hive, the buzzy middle of third period, almost-middle of the day--the third instructional day this year. While I work at home, my friends and former colleagues stand in front of their classrooms. Stand in the aisles between desks or at the back of the room, beside the metal cabinets.

One teacher has sat down on a student desk-top, crossed his legs and continued talking. One has corrected a word she misspelled on the board: “Platnic” instead of “Platonic.” There is green ink on her fingers. She is talking and writing at the same time. Writing the correction too fast, she drops the marker.

One teacher has made her students laugh for the third straight day in a row--diaphragm and throat laughter, the laughter of people who cram sweater sleeves up their forearms, re-shift in their chairs before a heavy negotiation.

One teacher has called a sarcastic student by his first name. He stares at the student staring back at him, a dare of his authority.

Another teacher has just said, “Take out a piece of paper.” Another is saying, “Let’s pass those papers up.” Another tells a story about her son, his new guitar and the lyrics he’s written for his junior high garage band. She beams, her hand to her breasts, watching students watch her.

The hallways, with their asymmetrical tile patterns, stand vacant like prison tunnels. The floors, though polished and waxed, have begun to show shoe scuffs and roller bag scratches. Fluorescent light blooms vague and greasy splotches down the middle.

A teacher voice echoes from a corner doorway: “Let’s go, People. Three quotes from the novel. How can we tell the protagonist has changed?”

One teacher gets chills from the near-silence of students writing at their desks, bodies bent towards their papers, necks spring-wound with intention. He admires the calves of a young girl who has tucked herself into the second row, her feet bent forward at the toes. I am married, he thinks. I am forty-seven years old. He calls on the girl to run roll sheets to the office.

An older teacher senses his bladder tugging but he doesn’t imagine leaving the classroom, stares into the black type of a textbook passage he asked students to re-read.

One teacher notices the headache she’s had all morning. One teacher is wondering which student will be the problem this year. One teacher has backed up to the whiteboard during her lesson on thesis statements, and she bumped into a chair, and she heard a cluster of boys sniggering.

One teacher stares at words on yellow paper, an official memo in her hand: In a Professional Learning Community, all stakeholders set Smart Goals. All Smart Goals must be measurable. Celebration will be demanded when Smart Goals are achieved.

One teacher has just realized that her plan for the class period will leave almost seventeen empty minutes. She is planning another plan in the last few seconds of the plan-in-progress. She keeps pulling hair around her ear, worries about seeming lightweight. One teacher is feeling unprepared to talk about what he’s told his students they will talk about.

One teacher is drinking the last silty grains from her coffee cup. It’s more of a gesture than a drink, because when she walks back to her desk and raises the cup, she knows it is empty already. One teacher’s stomach is disagreeing with his breakfast muffin. One teacher is craving potato chips. One teacher snags the knee of her pantyhose on a splinter on the underside of her desk’s top drawer. She stares at the hole she made and pulls her skirt over it when she stands. The skirt slips up again.

One teacher lays his torso across the lectern, tips it forward on its front edge. He is looking at the clock while he talks. He is worried about running out of time. He is feeling foolish about a comment he made about No Late Work and wonders if he can back it up. If the administration will let him.

One teacher thinks she is fat and thinks of her husband patting her bottom while she brushed her teeth to get ready in the morning. One teacher knows that the boys are checking out her blouse and she likes it.

One teacher repeats herself: “If you don’t care about learning, no one can do it for you.” She makes a grocery list in her head. She strategizes how to make worksheets at the copy machine when no other teachers will be there. She imagines herself in a movie.

One teacher feels like the last real teacher in the school. Another teacher feels like the last real teacher in the school. One teacher has decided to leave the job.

One new teacher is self-conscious about her name. Another new teacher keeps mispronouncing the name of one student, tries to keep it cool, tries to ignore the student’s shrug and frown. “I am a positive person,” the teacher says out loud. “I’m learning just like you. Please correct me.”

A teacher’s toes burn inside tight new shoes with small heels. A teacher re-imagines sex with his lover last night as he stacks empty folders on the front row of desks for students to pick up later.

One teacher wonders why his daughter hasn’t called yet from college. Another is standing outside her open doorway, classroom filled with students waiting in desks, and she raises her voice into a cell phone: How many times do I have to ask you? How many times?

One leads a line of students down the hallway, out the heavy door towards the quad and the library. She is not much taller than her students. She is not talking. She looks alone.

One teacher just realized he forgot his lunch, and that his wife will be hurt again, and how this doesn’t help after the fight they had this weekend. One teacher realizes her mentor didn’t say “hello” in the hallway, wonders why.

One teacher realizes she hasn’t taken a full breath in too long a time. She breathes in, rotates her shoulders. She hears a voice at the front of the room: “What’s wrong?” Someone giggles.

One teacher fingers the waistband of his pants and thinks to himself that they have shrunk. One teacher notices the plant on her desk is dying. One teacher has run out of pencils. One teacher has misplaced his keys. One teacher has tripped on the stairs when no one was watching, her bag spills down the stairs to the landing, and she descends the stairs to drag the bag up again. One teacher just told the student who broke his stapler that it’s okay, that staplers aren’t everything.
--from "Treading Air"

Feel Safer Now?

from Teaching at Point Blank

Their youth is touching, but I know I can’t be deceived by it.
The young ones are often the most dangerous, the most fanatical,
the jumpiest with their guns…You have to go slowly with them.

--Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

The campus buildings could be cell blocks dried out in the valley heat. Chain-link fencing, cement and brick configurations, piles of construction debris, metal frames, fiberglass and drywall, awnings, unpaved paths and rows of trailer rooms assemble an empty ghetto. A dead city. Colors collude in a demoralized palette: cadaver gray, cinder orange, fecal brown, army green, madhouse white. It is difficult to break anything here, more difficult to fix what is broken. There are few windows, no delicate flourishes of style. Nothing says, “Be careful” or “This is important.” What distantly resembles art is merely cartoonish: Across the side wall of an administration building, the picture of a bear sprawls under the school name, all on orange background.

Plastic signs are screwed into structures across the site: Needles, pill bottles, guns and grenades are sketched into circles with lines drawn through them. Above it all, the mantra of zero-tolerance: “This is a drug and weapon free campus.”

***

So I taught English for eleven years at my former high school and then pulled myself out, severed a career in half to accept a modest writing fellowship at a local university. The choice cost me in tangible ways: I abandoned the security of tenure, a stable salary with paid medical benefits and a pension plan. I let go of my well-earned reputation as a highly regarded instructor in one of the community’s best schools, one with a proud tradition of alumni teachers.

Not long after my exit, I ran into a former administrator near the university library. He left the same year I did, moving up the ranks to become principal at his own school. “You always really cared about The Kids,” he said, implying the capital letters. He looked past me, at cars entering the parking lot. “I suppose this is just…better for you now.”

I might as well have left a child in a basket on some random doorstep. I might as well have walked out on my husband or disowned my mother.

After I left, the administration put out a staff survey: How would you describe the feeling you get as a member of our staff? Do you feel that we as a staff share a feeling of family? What obstacles do you feel exist that prevent us from bonding more closely as a faculty?

I thought about how the demands of teaching had made me feel too burdened and isolated to have children of my own. How, just recently married and approaching my mid-thirties, I had already donated my most fertile and energetic years to The Kids.

“So...what are you doing?” a former teacher-colleague asked. I guessed I had lost my place at the center of gravity and turned into a figment, some kind of shadow. She pressed again, though I had told her about my research several times before: “Hm? What are you doing now?”

I’ve forgotten now whatever answer I attempted. Amnesia was everywhere. I wanted to reject it, to remember and re-learn.

Complete essay available now in Fourth Genre 9.2, Fall 2007.

from How Data Will Save Us

No one warns you about the data.

It actually begins in obvious things, unquestioned givens, like theorems in a geometry proof. Mandatory attendance. Roll call. Head counts. Of course, grades. Points possible. Units of instruction. Credits. Syllabi. Salary tables. No money in the budget.

You’d been the student years ago rushing forward in geometry class because you were good at seeing ahead, could visualize the steps toward a proof. It was fifth period, the class right after lunch, when everyone was either too loud or too quiet, the smell of corn nuts and sweat and antsy hunger weighing in the close air, the male teacher putting on his gameshow grin, Joker’s Wild, for the rough crowd. “I just don’t get it,” a classmate had said, again. She clawed at her bangs and stared down into numbers, diagrams, arrows, words—a textbook that was water warped, torn and technically outdated except, well, the Cartesian plane doesn’t change year to year. (Maybe that was the first clue, the clue disregarded.) Anyway, the girl sat behind you or beside you and so you turned to help, turned back a page in your own book, maybe edged your desk at an angle, so the sides of your faces, your shoulders, your open books and pages together made a kind of folded Rorschach imprint—What does this make you think of? And this? And this? You were proud to see how the ends of things got to be there. A line. A quadratic equation. A triangle. A tangent. You attributed this skill to some natural aptitude for Getting It.

This pride now vexes. How could you not see what was coming? Or did you see it after all, pretend it wasn’t really there? That it wasn’t your responsibility or your doing? Data crawled out of blackened AC vents and dropped ceiling panels, up from the tile floor, out of broken and unbroken desks and drawers, sharp screws or bent nails poking from where something used to be attached. Came from the fingertip smudges and scuff marks on both sides of doorways—entering, exiting: students and parents, other teachers. In the checkbook, too, your rent payments. The car loan. Miles per gallon. Caught up with you. You were actually begging. By the time you called data by name, it was everywhere. There was not enough.

You were its handmaiden.

Seventy years ago, tycoons built fortunes on polymers, home appliances, machine guns, TV and frozen corn, frozen meatloaf. The military industrial complex, economists said. Now you live inside a data-tainment-surveillance complex. It’s still industrial, still militaristic, but this can’t be said aloud. Don’t make this equation: data equals advertising, equals progress plus we-know-about-you-what-you-don’t. Don’t say data equals children. Equals learning. Say something gentler. Say No Child Left Behind.

Read the rest of this piece, along with other amazing fiction, poetry and nonfiction, in the brand new issue of Swink online.