Dear Prudence

Not a single day of my junior year of high school went by without a long, melodious "Hello, my dahhhhlings!" when my classmates and I walked into third period Pre-AP English. "How are all my kiddlets and bubbleses?" Our teacher, Prudence Hockley, was exactly the kind of engaging, encouraging, challenging, respected, and just downright cool instructor that makes even the greatest teachers feel inadequate. To this day I don't think of Hockley as a mortal. She was a god. She was going to outlast the Apocalypse.

Except that on Christmas Eve she died.

Every day was beautiful with her. I looked forward to every class, even the days on which we were scheduled to write what my friends and I lovingly called "in-classers" - essays written in class and often on a prompt we did not receive until the bell rang. Hockley was otherworldly in everything she did. She was so buff that just the threat of her muscles was enough to inspire us to finish our assigned reading. She was a feminist with short, spiky hair, high heels, a pierced nose, and tattoos. She could kick your ass. She was fabulous.

With her gorgeously exotic Kiwi accent she would teach us about iambic pentameter and wouldn't let us move on to the next lesson until we were saying "slahhhhnt rhyme" instead of "slant rhyme." She taught me the meaning of the word fey (quaint). While we were working quietly in our groups one morning she left the room, darting back in before the door had latched closed to ask us why it was that she had left in the first place. She called on me to explain a quote from Macbeth and after I had stuttered my way through my misreading she asked, "Is that really what he means?" She was no-nonsense but would occasionally stop class to get the low-down on the latest hallway gossip. One day the principal came over the intercom to tell us that we were having a modified lock down but to continue with class and not lock our doors. Hockley locked ours and went back to her lesson with a "that'll teach 'em to f*#$ with me!" twinkle in her eyes.

She made every one of her students feel like the most important person in her life. No question was stupid, no observation too obvious. We were all her children and she nurtured us and celebrated our accomplishments as if we were related by blood.

And she was effing hilarious:

-"She likes to hear herself talk. It's like verbal diarrhea."
-"So don't fall off the horse, the wagon, the donkey, or anything else that moves that you're riding."
-"Mind you, this movie was not set on a stage. It was set in the mud, with blood and chickens and medieval spiky things."
-"I do not want to read some crap like, 'The dreams flowed in a plethora of myriads.' I hate that shit! This isn't a Hallmark card, people, this is analysis!

Prudence Hockley was easily one of the three best teachers I've ever had, and there's no doubt that she has influenced my life more than most people I know and most people I will ever know. She made me love what I couldn't understand because it meant that there would always be something for me to learn. She taught me to think critically, to never accept an answer that was simply given.

I lit a candle tonight for you, Hockley. May you never forget how extraordinary you were and how often you were cited as the reason why your students loved to learn. I carry your lessons with me to this day and I will carry them with me for the rest of my life. I can't fathom how the world is still turning without you. 

I love you.

Thank you.

The Nutcracker

Last night my mom and I attended Pacific Northwest Ballet's production of The Nutcracker for the first time. After years and years of Olympic Ballet's (OB) adaptation, I wasn't quite prepared for the changes that awaited me. Some thoughts:

1. Can someone please explain to me why the nutcracker doll was not actually a nutcracker? (On a similar note, why does tying a handkerchief around the doll's neck fix a series of stab wounds in his plush little sternum? It made much more sense with OB, where his head came off and the handkerchief was meant to keep it on.)

2. I've been going to the show for practically my whole life and only last night learned that it's drunkenness, not elderly fragility, that causes Uncle Drosselmeier to stumble about during the party scene. (This is like finding out when I was a kid that I couldn't marry Aladdin because he was an animated character.) "How come in Olympic Ballet he's staggering before the party even starts?" I asked my mom at intermission as I made my way down my list of first-act talking points. "Was he already drunk? Oh my god, was Drosselmeier pregaming? Did they even have pregaming in Nuremburg in the 1890s?"

3. I found a pair of black tights buried underneath some hats in the back of a bureau drawer. Anticipating how cold I would be in my dress, I pulled them on without conducting a thorough inspection of the rear section. When I got home and found an unseemly rip in the very spot I failed to examine, I was forced to deduce that I hadn't worn the tights since I sang "Colors of the Wind" in my sixth grade musical. (Which must mean that I had enormous legs in elementary school.)

4. My mom and I mourned the absence of Mother Ginger, who in the OB's Nutcracker is played by a man in drag harboring a gaggle of small children in his hoop skirt.

5. For the love of God, do not bring infants to The Nutcracker. There are cannons. They are loud. I almost cried.

6. Can someone with more knowledge of this Nutcracker production please deny or confirm my suspicion that several mice minions in the evil Mouse King's army were dressed to look like Muslims? (If they were, as they so blatantly appeared to be, that's offensive.)

I realize that all this snarkiness probably makes it seem like I found nothing of substance in the production. On the contrary. Despite the above attempts at humor and half-assed complaints, the ballet was beautiful. The sets and costumes were gorgeous, the orchestra was flawless, the dancing was incredible. I did miss the three-year-old Russian boys tripping over their hands and feet while attempting the "coffee grinder," but I gained an elegant peacock woman riding onstage in a golden cage so I count that as a victory.

What is Left Behind

"Come over," he'd said. "Go through her things. She would have wanted you to have them."

His wife's death had left my neighbor with a world that wasn't his. The dogs his wife had trained were now his responsibility, as were the horses. All over the house her absence was almost more of a presence than she had been, a giant pit in the floor that you had to step around.

We rang the doorbell. Never once in the almost twenty years we'd lived next door had I rung the doorbell and not been greeted by a cacophony of barks and howls and yelps so predictable and consistent that it was as if the doorbell itself rang to the tune of the neighborhood dog pack. This time when I rang there was silence. The noise that should have been there was a tangible thing rattling inside my stomach.

Dave opened the door and pointed us toward the kitchen. We rummaged through pots and pans and dishes that he would never use (his wife had always been the warm body in the kitchen), opening cupboards that belonged to a woman who was no longer around to be embarrassed by their disarray. It seemed unfair. A head-start in a race we would have won anyway.

"Dave, do you want this big saucepan?" my mom asked. The ghostly thin image of a man who'd only two months ago received a full set of teeth shook his head. "I only need the smallest one. For my camper." I could picture my quiet neighbor, who eats mostly mashed potatoes and meatloaf, who would never think of asking another soul for help at the risk of intruding, heating himself a can of chicken noodle soup on a trailer stovetop in the middle of Arizona. His daughter had told my mom that she worried he would head out on the road and she'd never hear from him again. Never a burden, to the point of being a burden.

I opened a cupboard door and saw that his daughter, at his behest, had stripped the shelves of everything except three small plates and two cereal bowls. My stomach clenched. 

"Do you want to take a look at this pile here, Dave, and tell us what you might need?" My mom gestured to a stack of dishes and pans we'd balanced on the counter. "No, I won't need that," he answered, not even glancing over from his seat in front of the TV set that I didn't think I'd ever seen turned off. My mom and I each gathered an armload of kitchen necessities that suddenly weren't so necessary anymore and headed toward the door. "Thank you, Dave," I said, hoping he could sense that I meant for his unerring wisdom, his stability, the constant peace of mind that came from knowing he was always next door. I turned to face him, desperate to offer some semblance of generosity to the frame of a man across the room, but his head was down.

In his lap he was twiddling his thumbs.

Things That Saved My November

1. My job. Whose heart wouldn't melt if you were given a picture of a rainbow panda or a Halloween snowflake or your name spelled with one backwards letter? (Interestingly, my job also ranks high on the list of things that almost savagely murdered my November. If you want that list, though, you'll have to wait a few minutes for my good mood to pass.)

2. Children's picture books translated into Spanish - mainly Jorge y Marta, La Hora de Acostarse de Francisca, and Gracias, Sr. Falker. If the employees at the Bothell Public Library are wondering why there has been a recent surge in the number of these books being checked out, that would be me. Sorry. And yes, I am four. And I may or may not have to look up an average of ten words per ten-page story, including words that I apparently needed to look up twice. 

3. Brainstorming how to condense my entire life into a catchy memoir title while maintaining the high level of self-abasement that you've come to expect from me, and on which I pride myself greatly. Titles so far include:

-How to Be a Pushover

-How Not to Be a Pushover (and Other Things I Don't Know)

-It Made Sense in My Head

-Open Your Own Damn String Cheese: A Tale of Dexterity

-Seriously, I Will Hit You in the Face

4. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I gasped. I shouted. I squealed with delight. And then I called my friend Casey (or rather, she called me) and I did it all over again. 

5. This one has to do with my Sounders so I'll save you all the drudgery and give you the abridged version: something great happened, something amazing happened, and something spectacular happened (but not necessarily in that order).

6. Casey Lynn Langford and our wonderful two-person interstate book club.

7. The photography of Arturo Torres. 

8. And, of course, my sweet little Taffodil. Mostly I just included this to remind you how adorable she is.

Honorable mentions: my bed, European soccer, literature, Thanksgiving dinner rolls, and my scarf collection.