I Had Enough!

I’m a rule follower. I always have been. I only break the rules if I believe there is a good reason to break them. Otherwise, I’m a “by the book” person. I did not get in trouble in school. I was always shy and quiet. I kept to myself.  I was always reading a book or writing a story. I definitely did not do anything to get sent to the principal’s office. So, it was a surprise to everyone when I got in trouble had to visit the principal in seventh grade.

The incident happened on the bus ramp after school. I know that Nana had already died, so it was after October, but I didn’t have my braces on yet, so it was before May. There was a boy who picked on me every day. He would only see me on the bus ramp, while we waited to be picked up and shuttled home. He would talk about how ugly I was and how my teeth were terrible (I clearly needed the braces I got in May). Every day he called me names. Every day I silently ignored him. He clearly rattled me, but I was not witty enough to have a come back. I just tried to keep walking and get away from him.

After Nana died, there were a lot of feelings inside. Plus there was build up from this boy being mean to me everyday. One afternoon, I’d had all I could take, and I blew up. I pushed him and told him to leave me alone. If I had just yelled at him, it would have not been as bad, but I put my hands on him. I was so angry inside. I was tired of being called ugly. I was tired of being teased.

A teacher took our names down. I probably cried (I don’t remember, but I cry at just about everything). I went home on the bus. I do not think I said anything to my parents about it. They wouldn’t understand. 

The walk from my classroom to the principal’s office the next day was terrible. I was scared of being in trouble. I never broke rules. I was not a mean kid who pushed kids around. I didn’t even call kids names.  I planned to tell the principal the whole truth; I was going to tell her how this boy picked on me everyday and I had enough. I was hoping she would believe me.

I sat in a chair in front of her desk. The boy sat in a chair next to me. This made me scared. How could I tell her how he teased me all the time with him sitting there? the principal asked what happened. He told her that I pushed him. I summoned the courage to tell her that I did push him after he called me ugly. And that he called me ugly and other names every day on the bus ramp. I told her I should not have pushed him, but that I could not take the name calling anymore. He tried to deny it at first. She wanted to know why I never told on him before. I shrugged. I did not know what telling would have done. I had to apologize, but was not given another consequence. He had to apologize too and was told to leave me alone. He was not given another consequence either, but was warned there would be one in the future if he continued to bother me.

I went to my locker after leaving her office to get the books I needed for my next class. I felt relieved that I was not sent to detention or in school suspension. I was happy she listened to me. I was also happy the bus ramp was a safer place to be after that day.

Lessons from Grandpa

When asked who I admired most and why, I always answered, “My grandpa because he built a business from nothing.” When he passed away, I found out just how famous he was in the music world. I did not realize prior to his funeral just how many lives he had touched. He was just my grandpa, the man who led our family. Going to visit Grandpa at the office was a big deal. So was a chance to go to his house. I have fond memories of holidays at his house.

One of my favorite moments with my grandpa was when he would gather the “grand girls” (me, my sister, and two cousins) on his bed to share a story with us. We would giggle with excitement until his serious tone would signal to us it was time to settle down and listen.  Most of his stories dealt with not drinking and getting an education. These were what he valued.

My favorite story is “The Bridge Story” which was always told when Grandpa drove the family down to Galveston to have lunch at Gaido’s. When driving from Houston to Galveston, there is an overpass called the causeway.  It’s really tall and allows for people to get on and off the island while boats can drive underneath in the bay. The original bridge is one that goes up and down so boats could pass. It’s still there, almost always raised up.

As we would drive over the causeway, Grandpa would tell us about a guy who got behind the wheel of his car after drinking too much. He was driving across the bridge and did not realize the bridge was being raised for a passing boat.  As his story goes, the guy drove off the bridge and drowned. My grandpa always ended the story by adding that the car drowned too. We would silently look out into the bay and imagine a guy and his car drowning because he drank too much and drove his car.

I’m not sure if this is a true story. I think the make, model, and color of the car was different over the years. He wanted us to not drink and drive. I think out of all the “grand girls”, this story stuck with me the most. I cannot say I never drove after drinking, but I can say that I’m terrified of bridges. I do my best to avoid them, especially suspension bridges and those like the one in Galveston that goes up and down.

I always have to tell “The Bridge Story” as I drive over the causeway, no matter who is in the car with me. It’s tradition. I’ve even been travelog with people who were talking and I couldn’t share the story aloud, so I told it to myself in my head. I wish I had recordings of my grandpa telling his stories. 

My Rambling History Full of Holes

I don't have many memories before the fourth grade. There are a few bits and pieces in my brain, but I think a lot of it comes from the pictures I've looked through or the stories I have heard. When I turned 30, I created a scrapbook of my first 30 years. I went through old pictures and papers and found out some interesting information. I was born in Houston, Texas, but my parents were currently living in California. Only my grandmother from California was mentioned in the birth announcement from he newspaper. My parents went back to California after I was born. In fact, I have a California social security number. I learned shortly after becoming a teacher and someone saw my social on a sign-in sheet. She asked if I was born in CA. I told her no and asked why. She said it starts like hers, 546. I thought that was odd since I was born in Texas. That was before I knew my parents were living in CA.

So, my parents went back to CA. My parents stayed married for about a year after I was born. There a lot of happy photos of my first year. My dad, who I did not know growing up, was always smiling at me and looking so proud to have me as a daughter. My parents split when I was about a year old. Now, I always believed that we were in Texas and moved right in with my Nana, but it turned out we spent a mysterious year in Las Vegas. My mom was with a man. We lived there for a whole year. We didn't move to Texas until I was three. WOW!

When I found this out, I had a ton of questions! I never had any idea that we lived in Vegas. I don't know who this man was. I found out I was hospitalized for pneumonia for my second birthday. There weren't pictures of this birthday in any of my photo albums and I saw my medical records that showed I was in the hospital. I asked my mom about this time. This whole part of my life I didn't know existed. She was quiet. She said she didn't want to talk about it. She wouldn't say anything. I asked my grandma (her step-mother). She said she doesn't know much. She said she and my grandpa didn't meet me until I was three and we were back in Texas. All she knew is that the guy my mom was with wasn't very nice.

So I've pieced together that we came back to Texas when I was three and we lived with my Nana. From then until she passed away when I was twelve, my Nana was my caretaker. My mom was very self-involved. She was getting high, and partying, and doing who knows what part of the time. Nana made sure my needs were met. She cooked for me. She washed my clothes. She look care of my long, curly hair.

Nana died when I was twelve. I told her goodbye when I left for school. She wasn't feeling well. I gave her a kiss and told her I'd see her after school. I came home to a note that Nana was sick. I can't remember much. My sister had been home with her when she had her heart attack. My Nana went by ambulance. My mom wouldn't let me go to the hospital to see Nana (now that I'm a parent, I understand that). I wrote her a letter. My dad was home with us. I remember my mom coming home from the hospital after being with Nana. My dad met her at the door and hugged her. I drifted off to sleep shortly after. The next day, my parents told us Nana had died. I remember my dad crying. I was so sad. My Nana was my everything. She took care of me. My mom was sober by this time and around more, but what would I do without my Nana?

One of the first things that happened is my mom cut my hair off. It was down to my waist. I'm ashamed to admit it, but my Nana still washed my hair for me. My mom said she wasn't going to take care of it, so it got cut off. It wasn't super short, but it was no longer down to my waist. My sister and I started staying alone after school and on the long summer days. I was old enough to take care of us, but I missed having Nana there. Both our parents worked.

I still miss Nana today. I still imagine her as she was in 1988. She'd be in her late 90s by now if she was even still alive. When I got married, I wanted her there. When I had Alex, I wanted her there more than anything. My mom seems to have no maternal instinct, and I attribute all my maternal instinct to my Nana. She was always there especially when things were bad. I remember having a dream when I was in high school where I was riding in a car with someone. I heard a voice from the backseat, turned, and saw my Nana. I asked her, "What are you doing here?" In the dream, I had the knowledge that she was dead. She replied, "I would never leave you." This has stayed with me all my life. I feel like she is with me, but I wish I could hug her. I wish she could still hold me when things were tough.

I started writing this about my memories and how I feel like there are so many holes. I wonder if my brain has blocked these things out and if I should leave them there. I wonder if it is information I should know. I guess it's buried for a reason. My mom and step-dad married when I was five. My sister was born right before I turned six. I called him Bob for the longest time. I'm not sure when I decided to start calling him dad, but he is the only dad I have ever known.

There was a point when they split. My sister was young. My mom dated some asshole whose name I think was Frank. Nana was absent was a part. My mom hired babysitters. I don't know where my sister was. I can't picture her with us.  We lived in a house that always had ants in it. My step-dad would come pick up my sister and me and take us to K-Mart and for lunch. He would buy me a Strawberry Shortcake doll each time. I don't remember what my sister would pick out. She may have been too young.I treasured these moments. At some point they got back together.  We lived in this house when Hurricane Alicia hit. All I remember is trying to make canned ravioli and was mad that the microwave didn't work.

We lived in a great house on Huntington Field. I loved that house. It's not the one I always dream about, but it was a great house. I have a lot of great memories playing in the yard and having adventures all over the house. This is the house we lived in when my mom went into rehab. My Nana was still alive. This is where my memories begin. When my mom was in rehab, my dad rented the movie, Stand by Me. My mom was so mad. I remember this. I guess because of the bad language (R rating). Maybe it was because the kids were looking for a dead body in the movie. In this house we had our own rooms (my sister and me), a playroom upstairs that housed our Barbie town, a huge backyard we hunted frogs in, and rooms that were warm with family time.

Then we moved to Plum Point into a house that was full of fleas. My dog, Baby, had never been covered in so many fleas. This is where we lived when Nana died. This is the house where we lived when I had the large chalkboard I played school with. The Barbies were housed in the formal dining room we didn't use, but it was a huge downgrade for them. From here we moved to Spring Grove, which is the house I always dream about. Then an old man was out for a walk one night on our street and was shot in a drive by. My parents promptly decided to move to Sugar Land. I had to start at a new high school my junior year.

All these things have shaped me into who I am today. I wonder how much those things I don't remember have shaped me. This goes back to me wondering if knowing what happened would matter. If those things are important. Is what happened in Vegas important? Do those holes need to be filled in?

How I Became the Christmas Grinch

We celebrated a secular Christmas in our house until I was in high school. It was suddenly taken away without explanation. This moment ripped the "Christmas Spirit" from my heart and left a deep, dark hole. It left a bitterness toward the happiness of the holiday time. It wasn't the symbols of Christmas I missed, but the family traditions that went with decorating the tree and opening gifts on Christmas morning. Taking Christmas out of our home took away a reason for the family to do something together.

I looked forward to getting the tree and ornaments from the attic. It was fun to unwrap each delicate ornament and relive the important memory behind each one. We had a Miss Piggy angel whose wing would fall off every year. We super glued it back on so she could hang on our tree another year. We had a Garfield ornament where the front showed him looking out the window at the snow, but when you turned it around, you saw his back and the Christmas tree. There were mine and my sister's first Christmas ornaments, mine obviously from 1976 and hers more updated from 1982. Each year we went to select a special ornament from the Hallmark store with the year on it. I looked forward to going to the store and looking at all the new ornaments for the year. We'd select one to add to our tree.  This created a new memory to unwrap for the next Christmas.

We had stockings and special stocking holders. I would hang these with care by the fire place with anticipation of candy and other things that could possibly fit inside.

I would love when the sun went down and darkness would blanket the house, so we could turn on the twinkling lights and (if cool enough) have a fire in the fireplace. It was a warm, happy feeling. Something that brought my dysfunctional family together. It brought warmth and peace to the house. I wanted it to always last.

Then the brightly colored, carefully wrapped presents would appear under the tree. I do not believe Christmas is about presents and hate how commercialized the holiday becomes each year. But, the presents under the tree were so pretty and filled with wonder. My sister and I would find the presents labeled with our name and shake them trying to guess.

We'd leave a note for Santa with his milk and cookies. We also always left a carrot for Rudolph so he could lead the sleigh. When we were young and still believed in the magic of Santa, falling asleep was so hard. I couldn't wait to wake up and see what Santa brought. I also couldn't wait to see what had been under the tree. It was an exciting time.   We had really elaborate Christmases for people who didn't have a lot of money. We pretty much received all the hottest new toys and everything on our lists. Now that I am grown up, I see that my parents were probably trying to make up for all the crappy stuff by buying us a lot for Christmas and Hanukkah.

When my dad decided to convert to Judaism, my parents no longer saw the need to celebrate Christmas in our house. I guess we did it for him all those years. Since we only celebrated the secular Christmas, I didn't understand why it had to stop. We didn't do the religious parts. They weren't removing a holiday "our people" didn't celebrate, they were removing years of family bonding and traditions.

I've been pretty grumpy about the holiday since then. Like I hold something against it. I don't embrace it. I don't want much to do with it. I'm bitter. I should direct that at my mom, but instead, I direct it at the holiday. I feel bad about this.

Teaching: Not What I'd Thought it Would Be

I had a large chalk board to teach lessons to my sister and the neighborhood children. I had nonfiction books for them to read as textbooks. I passed out report cards. I was only in sixth grade, but I already knew I wanted to be a teacher. I loved "playing school."

When I got into high school, I baby sat my younger children and other children in the neighborhood. I worked with kindergarten children at Sunday School. I applied to a university known for it's education program and set out to be a kindergarten teacher. I wanted to shape young minds. To teach. To make a difference.

I entered the classroom as a pre-kindergarten teacher in 1999. I was so excited to have my first classroom. I carefully decorated it. I labeled everything with my students' name. I soaked in as much as I could during the staff development week so I could be the best teacher I could be. I was ready for my four year old students on the first day.

We were doing an activity in my morning class. One boy wanted his crayons out of his read cubby. I explained we were not using our crayons right now and attempted to redirect him to the activity the rest of the class was doing. He put up his middle finger and said, "Fuck you!" This is how I started my career as a teacher in public education.

I spent ten years in the classroom before I got burned out and took a hiatus. Kids got harder and harder to manage. Parents got less supportive of teachers and constantly insisted that their child WOULD NOT do anything wrong. Administration grew fearful of unhappy parents and backed them instead of their testing. State testing demands grew unreasonable for teachers and students. I was not the teacher I always dreamed of being. I was not even the teacher I went to college to be.

Over my ten years in the classroom, I tried out different grade levels. I even went up to middle school, which were the worst three years of my career. I still had some great students and some great moments, but the bad moments and experiences, outweighed the good ones. It was not the grade level. It was not the school. My passion was gone because teaching was not what it was supposed to be.

I returned to the public school classroom in August 2015 because I could not find a job that paid me enough to support me and my son. It took everything I could muster to return to the classroom. I tried to be positive. I was told to "fuck off" by a high school junior on the second day of school.  I pushed through that first year in the back in the classroom and survived to tell about it, but not without being reminded every day why I left. The students are more difficult to manage. They do not care. They have no accountability at home or school. Everything is the teacher's fault. The parents are still on their child's side when it comes to behavior and academic issues in the classroom ("My child would not do that." "You must have not explained the assignment correctly.")

I find it sad that public education is so broken. I think that should be priority number one for everyone. The students I have in high school right now are the future of our country. They will be making the decisions when my generation is too old to make the decisions. Good teachers leave every year to go to jobs outside the classroom that will be less stressful.

Drug Rehab

My mom got high in her closet every night. My sister and I would be sitting on her bedroom floor because back then we watched TV as a family, and she'd go into her closet and snort cocaine. I knew she was doing something bad in there, but when I was young, I was not sure what it was. I never went in her closet. I knew it was off limits, and I am a rule follower.

She went into rehab when I was in sixth grade. We lived in Alief, still on Huntington Field. I was ashamed to have a mom in drug rehab. I told one friend about it at school. We were changing in the girl's locker room and she kept asking about my mom. Another time, I was next door on my friend's swing set. I remember the warm sun in my face as my her mom asked a lot of questions about where my mom was. I did not lie back then either. I tried to answer her without lying or mentioning drug rehab. I do not remember how I satisfied her curiosity, but I remember the relief of her being satisfied with my answer and going back inside her house and me getting to swing with my friend and be a kid.

My dad was good to us while my mom was getting help. Monday nights we went to Pistol Pete's Pizza which was kind of like Chuck E Cheese. We'd eat dinner and get to play games. It was during this time that I perfected my skeeball game. My dad taught me to aim for the forty instead of the fifty. It was easier to sink the ball in the forty over and over and still get a high score. A high score equaled lots of tickets which meant lots of prizes.  Monday nights at Pistol Pete's continued ever after my mom came home because AA meetings were on Monday nights.

Rehab and AA for my mom meant therapy for us. We would go to therapy at the hospital. The kids, my sister and me along with the other children who had parents battling addictions, would meet in the small room with a male counselor. He wore glasses, had brown hair, and asked a lot of silly questions. I learned early on not to give silly answers because he would probe deeper trying to find the dark reason for my response when all it really was a silly answer from an eleven yer old girl who wanted to be home playing Barbie instead of in this room with him and these other kids.

West Oaks Hospital would have "family days" which were supposed to resemble BBQs and carefree times. I guess these days were created for patients to feel like they were having normal family time. To keep them connected to the family they left at home so they could get clean.  These never felt real to me in the sterile beige rooms with plastic blue furniture. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't home.

After rehab, my mom was more physically present. Less nights were spent in the closet. She watched full tv shows and movies with us. We could depend on her to pick us up after school if we needed her to. Drugs still took my mom from me. She was not part of the early years like she should have been.

Where is my Flux Capacitor?

After Alex saw Back to the Future, he told me he wanted to be a scientist so he could invent the Flux Capacitor and make time travel possible. I laughed at his innocence and belief in the magical, but I quickly explained that I've seen The Butterfly Effect (a movie he can watch when he is older), and I do not wan too travel back in time because changing just one thing in the past can be disastrous to the future. He kind of laughed at me and told me he won't change anything. I told him I wasn't going to take any chances.

Last year, I told Alex that I changed my mind. I said that we needed a Flux Capacitor right away. He asked why. I told him I needed to go back to 1776 and talk to the Founding Fathers about the Bill of Rights, specifically the second amendment. I explained that I'm tired of every interpreting it in crazy ways. I don't think the Founding Fathers meant what most defenders of it say they meant. Alex laughed at me and went back to his Pokemon cards.

I shared wanting to go back to speak to the Founding Fathers with a few friends.  People found a lot wrong with this. I would have to explain the 21st century to the Founding Fathers which could change a lot of things. Of course they didn't have the same interpretation, weapons/guns were different then. The Founding Fathers wouldn't have an understanding of what we have now. So, my need to discuss the second amendment with the Founding Fathers was met with a lot of opposition. Did these people not want to know they were wrong? Did they not want to me to share too much information with the drafters of the Constitution because it could have disastrous ramifications to the future?

On November 9, 2016, I wanted a time machine. I wanted to go talk to the Founding Fathers about democracy. I wanted to find out their thoughts on elections, presidential candidates, and the electoral college.  I do not think this election exemplified democracy as envisioned in 1776. I do not think it showed any form of democracy ever seen by our country.  It was fueled by hate.

Republicans hated Hillary from day one.
Democrats hated the dozen people running for the top spot in the Republican party.
Trump hated everyone who wasn't a straight, white, rich, old man.

There were wrong-doings on both sides.  I wasn't 100% behind Hillary because of some things she had done in the past. I do feel she was more qualified next to Trump because he has done nothing political. I almost voted third party, but decided to put my vote toward someone who had a chance of winning.  I bought into the hype that a third party candidate couldn't win. I know I voted for Hillary out of fear of a Trump presidency. As a woman, I couldn't vote for a man who clearly has very little respect for women. As a survivor of sexual assault, I couldn't vote for someone who encouraged rape culture. As a Jewish American who lost family in the Holocaust, I couldn't vote for a person who wants all Muslims to register and wear a symbol to identify them as Muslims.

But, how did our country get to a place where we voted out of fear (for Hillary) and out of Hate (against Hillary for Trump)? Where did democracy fall apart? How did we as a country get so wrapped up in fear and hate, put these two as our front-runner for president? That's what we should be asking. Notice, I didn't want the Flux Capacitor to go back and change the election results (tempting, yes), but I wanted to get an understanding of our Founding Father's principles and find out where they got lost.