I had what I would call a mediumly productive Saturday. I went for a run, vacuumed my room, took out my garbage, mowed the lawn, and cleaned the fishbowl (after which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern floated melodramatically to the top of the bowl, as they do every week after, as if the change in the water's bacterial levels was debilitating to their fragile fins. Wusses.) My mom and I watched the LA/Sporting Kansas City game, and after SKC kicked the Galaxy where the stars don't shine I ran some errands.
The LA/SKC game, along with this weekend's Sounders game against DC United, made for some shining moments of humor that were enough to keep me, a raving lunatic when my boys don't win, from hurling my empty bowl of popcorn at the TV screen after we tied. (That's right: We didn't win and I wasn't pissed. Look at me go.) Three of such moments are the following:
1. One of the DC United players goes by the name Perry Kitchen. Unfortunately for him, when this name is spoken aloud by pretty much any person in any circumstance it sounds mighty close to "Harry Kitchen." "I wouldn't want to cook there," I said, and my mom followed that up at halftime by suggesting that we call him "Furry Kitten." She seemed pretty proud of this nickname until the second half when she decided that he should actually be called "The Stove." I suggested "The Blender." We felt very happy of ourselves. (For those of you who didn't catch that reference, I implore you to watch this video of a little boy who has just learned how to ride his bike. No need to thank me.)
2. Maicon Santos, one of DC's top players, had shaved the sides of his head to create the beginnings of a mohawk. (And when I say "mohawk" I'm being generous. His hair was already so short that his 'do just looked like a stripe down the center of his scalp that was just a shade darker than the skin around it.) My mom and I attempted a couple jokes at the expense of this hair, but it wasn't until the cameras showed him catching his breath while an ad for DQ chicken strips flashed across the bottom of the screen that my brother shouted "Chicken Strip!" and the camera panned in on Santos's head. Cue raucous laughter for the next seven minutes.
Also, can we agree as a country--and really, a soccer universe--to be over David Beckham? Yes, he's an incredible athlete. Yes, he has the build and features of a Greek god. But really, is there anyone who doesn't know that? Is he really news anymore? Can we please just cool it on Beckham? Thanks.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Poetry Corner Wednesday
There's Poetry Corner Monday, and then there's Poetry Corner Whenever-I-Feel-Like-It. Clearly this is the latter. In my defense, I meant to post this on Monday. I just didn't.
I dedicate this week's poem, by Billy Collins, to all my former English teachers. (Hockley, I love and miss you and think of you each and every day.) I've often wondered if teachers thought about the musings of this speaker (who I will refer to as "the speaker" for all my professors who cautioned me against assuming that the poet/author is the voice of the poem/story, even though I know for a fact that the speaker is Collins himself. Let it be known that I have sufficient evidence to back up this claim, but I will refrain from presenting it here for the sake of brevity.)
Schoolsville
Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.
I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.
The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it's cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.
I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.
Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A's stroll along with other A's.
The D's honk whenever they pass another D.
All the creative-writing student recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.
Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.
Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.
I dedicate this week's poem, by Billy Collins, to all my former English teachers. (Hockley, I love and miss you and think of you each and every day.) I've often wondered if teachers thought about the musings of this speaker (who I will refer to as "the speaker" for all my professors who cautioned me against assuming that the poet/author is the voice of the poem/story, even though I know for a fact that the speaker is Collins himself. Let it be known that I have sufficient evidence to back up this claim, but I will refrain from presenting it here for the sake of brevity.)
Schoolsville
Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.
I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.
The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it's cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.
I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.
Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A's stroll along with other A's.
The D's honk whenever they pass another D.
All the creative-writing student recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.
Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.
Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Kids Be Crazy
It occurs to me that I have been negligent when it comes to recounting the excitement of my day-to-day work life. This past Monday was about as eventful as they come and will likely go down as one of the most memorable in the brief history of my life. I will now describe the trio of fiascos that occurred between 5:15 and 5:45pm on Monday, the 26th of March, 2012.
The sun was making a rare springtime appearance so my fellow counselor "A" and I brought out the chalk and took the kids outside to the playground for afternoon activity. Everything was going fine until a group of girls ran up and alerted us to the fact that a little boy who was not part of our group was using our chalk. "That's fine," I told them, after looking over and noting that the boy was sitting on the concrete harmlessly drawing a flower. (It should be mentioned that parents often bring their children to the playground after school, so seeing a little boy running around was not surprising. What was surprising, though, was that this particular child's parent was nowhere to be found.)
I hadn't turned my back on him for two minutes when the same group of girls marched over once again, this time with noticeably heightened purpose, and announced, "That boy is eating our chalk!" I spun around and sure enough, the boy was gripping the stick of pink chalk in his little fist, gnawing away furtively. "Um," I said to the girls, "just...um...keep drawing." It may surprise you to learn that while we counselors receive multiple certifications and go through monthly trainings on topics like How to Recognize and Report Child Abuse and How to Prevent the Spread of Infectious Diseases, we are not exactly schooled in How to Approach a Strange Child Who is Ingesting Your Chalk. As more and more of our kids kept approaching us and informing us of the boy's chalk-eating progress--"He put it in his pants!" "He's spitting it out and rubbing his hand in it and putting it back in his mouth!"--I became more and more concerned about the absence of his guardian.
After he had devoured the entire stick and scampered off toward the slide, I took a girl, R, to the bathroom to wash the chalk dust off her hands. "I can't believe that boy ate our chalk!" R said. "How much did he eat, exactly?" I asked her. "The whole stick!" she replied. "And he said he was four! My two-year-old sister knows not to eat chalk!"
When R and I returned to the playground, I was approached by a woman with a little girl. "Excuse me," the woman said, "is that little boy in the turquoise shirt with you?" "No," I answered, "and actually, we're looking for his parent, too. He just ate our chalk." The woman's eyes grew wide and she laughed. "He ate it?" I nodded. "Well, Honey," she said, turning to her daughter, "it turns out that this boy might be a little special." I realized that the little girl must have had some complaint about Chalk Eater and the mother had set out to investigate. Several minutes later the boy's father appeared, and several minutes after that the boy had disappeared from the playground. Shortly thereafter we ran out of chalk.
Fiasco #1
The sun was making a rare springtime appearance so my fellow counselor "A" and I brought out the chalk and took the kids outside to the playground for afternoon activity. Everything was going fine until a group of girls ran up and alerted us to the fact that a little boy who was not part of our group was using our chalk. "That's fine," I told them, after looking over and noting that the boy was sitting on the concrete harmlessly drawing a flower. (It should be mentioned that parents often bring their children to the playground after school, so seeing a little boy running around was not surprising. What was surprising, though, was that this particular child's parent was nowhere to be found.)
I hadn't turned my back on him for two minutes when the same group of girls marched over once again, this time with noticeably heightened purpose, and announced, "That boy is eating our chalk!" I spun around and sure enough, the boy was gripping the stick of pink chalk in his little fist, gnawing away furtively. "Um," I said to the girls, "just...um...keep drawing." It may surprise you to learn that while we counselors receive multiple certifications and go through monthly trainings on topics like How to Recognize and Report Child Abuse and How to Prevent the Spread of Infectious Diseases, we are not exactly schooled in How to Approach a Strange Child Who is Ingesting Your Chalk. As more and more of our kids kept approaching us and informing us of the boy's chalk-eating progress--"He put it in his pants!" "He's spitting it out and rubbing his hand in it and putting it back in his mouth!"--I became more and more concerned about the absence of his guardian.
After he had devoured the entire stick and scampered off toward the slide, I took a girl, R, to the bathroom to wash the chalk dust off her hands. "I can't believe that boy ate our chalk!" R said. "How much did he eat, exactly?" I asked her. "The whole stick!" she replied. "And he said he was four! My two-year-old sister knows not to eat chalk!"
When R and I returned to the playground, I was approached by a woman with a little girl. "Excuse me," the woman said, "is that little boy in the turquoise shirt with you?" "No," I answered, "and actually, we're looking for his parent, too. He just ate our chalk." The woman's eyes grew wide and she laughed. "He ate it?" I nodded. "Well, Honey," she said, turning to her daughter, "it turns out that this boy might be a little special." I realized that the little girl must have had some complaint about Chalk Eater and the mother had set out to investigate. Several minutes later the boy's father appeared, and several minutes after that the boy had disappeared from the playground. Shortly thereafter we ran out of chalk.
Fiasco #2
When I returned to the playground with R, I saw A practically sprinting toward me. (I should tell you here that this was only A's sixth day on the job.) "Quick question," she said, alarm strangling her voice. "Do you know that guy?" She pointed to a man who had his arms around K and N, twin girls in our program. He kissed one of them on the cheek and A became visibly distressed. "It's okay," I told her, "he's their dad." A sighed and her shoulders relaxed. "Thank God," she said. "I was about to call CPS!" We detailed the story to our supervisor later that evening and she smiled. "It doesn't help that whenever he picks them up they both say, 'We don't know him!' I should get them to stop."
Fiasco #3
After the woman and her daughter marched off to find Chalk Eater's parent and before said parent was located, A informed me of an incident that had taken place while R and I were in the bathroom. "So," A started, "E tried to sit on some guy's dog." (You may remember E from the conversation she and I had several weeks ago about the purpose of scarves and how I do not play for the Sounders.) "She what?" I asked. "Well, first she asked to pet it and proceeded to stab it in the eyes with her fingers." A paused to judge my expression. "Then she tried to sit on it." It had been a small dog, A explained, with tiny legs unequipped to handle the weight of a kindergartner. "I told her to stop," A said, "but she didn't listen." (Typical E.) "What did the guy do?" I asked. "He kind of stared at her and said, 'Please don't ride my dog.' I had to yank her away." Later that evening, during the ice breaker portion of our monthly staff meeting, A and I recounted the story of E trying to ride a strange man's dog and were met with a roomful of "Oh, E." Oh, E, indeed.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday
This is a day late. I'd apologize, but no one gives a crap.
I just discovered this poet, whose collection, A Love Story Beginning in Spanish, was hiding bashfully on the top shelf of my local library's meager poetry section. I'm in love with this poem, which I think sounds so wonderful when read aloud.
To Understand El Azul
-Judith Ortiz Cofer-
We dream in the language we all understand,
in the tongue that preceded alphabet and word.
Each time we claim beauty from the world,
we approximate its secret grammar, its silent
syntax; draw near to the Rosetta stone
for dismantling Babel.
If I say el azul, you may not see the color
of mi cielo, mi mar. Look once upon my sky,
my sea, and you will know precisely
what el azul means to me.
Begin with this: the cool kiss
of a September morning in Georgia, the bell-shaped
currents of air changing in the sky, the sad ghosts
of smoke clinging to a cleared field, and the way
days will taste different in your mouth each week
of the season. Sabado: Saturday
is strawberry. Martes: Tuesday
is bitter chocolate to me.
Do you know what I mean?
Still, everything we dream circles back.
Imagine the bird that returns home every night
with news of a miraculous world just beyond
your private horizon. To understand its message,
first you must decipher its dialect of distance,
its idiom of dance. Look for clues
in its arching descent, in the way it resists
gravity. Above all, you have to learn why
it aims each day
toward the boundless azul.
I just discovered this poet, whose collection, A Love Story Beginning in Spanish, was hiding bashfully on the top shelf of my local library's meager poetry section. I'm in love with this poem, which I think sounds so wonderful when read aloud.
To Understand El Azul
-Judith Ortiz Cofer-
We dream in the language we all understand,
in the tongue that preceded alphabet and word.
Each time we claim beauty from the world,
we approximate its secret grammar, its silent
syntax; draw near to the Rosetta stone
for dismantling Babel.
If I say el azul, you may not see the color
of mi cielo, mi mar. Look once upon my sky,
my sea, and you will know precisely
what el azul means to me.
Begin with this: the cool kiss
of a September morning in Georgia, the bell-shaped
currents of air changing in the sky, the sad ghosts
of smoke clinging to a cleared field, and the way
days will taste different in your mouth each week
of the season. Sabado: Saturday
is strawberry. Martes: Tuesday
is bitter chocolate to me.
Do you know what I mean?
Still, everything we dream circles back.
Imagine the bird that returns home every night
with news of a miraculous world just beyond
your private horizon. To understand its message,
first you must decipher its dialect of distance,
its idiom of dance. Look for clues
in its arching descent, in the way it resists
gravity. Above all, you have to learn why
it aims each day
toward the boundless azul.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Poetry Corner Monday
I know, I know. You were hoping I'd forgotten about Poetry Corner Monday. Well, in fact, I did. But I just remembered and guess what: it's baaaack! You're welcome.
I read this poem tonight and, as my ninth grade English teacher would say, it spoke to my truth. Not historically a hater of mornings, I have grown to resent daybreak with a passion that surprises me. This poem is a reminder that there's always something worthwhile to get out of bed for. Granted, I'm still going to be pissed when my alarm goes off tomorrow, and I'm still going to spend 20 minutes denying that any good will come of me throwing back my covers, but for now I like to think that these lines will change something in me.
Up
Margaret Atwood
You wake up filled with dread.
There seems no reason for it.
Morning light sifts through the window,
there is birdsong,
you can't get out of bed.
It's something about the crumpled sheets
hanging over the edge like jungle
foliage, the terry slippers gaping
their dark pink mouths for your feet,
the unseen breakfast--some of it
in the refrigerator you do not dare
to open--you will not dare to eat.
What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
immense as outer space.
You could get lost there.
No. Nothing is so simple. The past, its density
and drowned events pressing you down,
like sea water, like gelatin
filling your lungs instead of air.
Forget all that and let's get up.
Try moving your arm.
Try moving your head.
Pretend the house is on fire
and you must run or burn.
No, that one's useless.
It's never worked before.
Where is it coming from, this echo,
this huge No that surrounds you,
silent as the folds of the yellow
curtains, mute as the cheerful
Mexican bowl with its cargo
of mummified flowers?
(You chose the colours of the sun,
not the dried neutrals of shadow.
God knows you've tried.)
Now here's a good one:
you're lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?
I read this poem tonight and, as my ninth grade English teacher would say, it spoke to my truth. Not historically a hater of mornings, I have grown to resent daybreak with a passion that surprises me. This poem is a reminder that there's always something worthwhile to get out of bed for. Granted, I'm still going to be pissed when my alarm goes off tomorrow, and I'm still going to spend 20 minutes denying that any good will come of me throwing back my covers, but for now I like to think that these lines will change something in me.
Up
Margaret Atwood
You wake up filled with dread.
There seems no reason for it.
Morning light sifts through the window,
there is birdsong,
you can't get out of bed.
It's something about the crumpled sheets
hanging over the edge like jungle
foliage, the terry slippers gaping
their dark pink mouths for your feet,
the unseen breakfast--some of it
in the refrigerator you do not dare
to open--you will not dare to eat.
What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
immense as outer space.
You could get lost there.
No. Nothing is so simple. The past, its density
and drowned events pressing you down,
like sea water, like gelatin
filling your lungs instead of air.
Forget all that and let's get up.
Try moving your arm.
Try moving your head.
Pretend the house is on fire
and you must run or burn.
No, that one's useless.
It's never worked before.
Where is it coming from, this echo,
this huge No that surrounds you,
silent as the folds of the yellow
curtains, mute as the cheerful
Mexican bowl with its cargo
of mummified flowers?
(You chose the colours of the sun,
not the dried neutrals of shadow.
God knows you've tried.)
Now here's a good one:
you're lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Some Things Everything I Forgot to Post Earlier
I volunteer with a tiny poetry publisher in Seattle. One of my current tasks is to compile a list of bookstores in the state so the press can send copies of their poetry reviews and anthologies to them. Not only am I learning how to use an Excel spreadsheet (which is always a good time), but I'm learning towns in Washington that I had no idea existed (Camas, Chattaroy, Normandy Park, Newman Lake). My greatest find by far, though, is a bookstore in Davenport called Hart n Home 4U that specializes in books on Christianity and brain disease. I find this combination utterly delightful.
According to Biblio.com, the store Taradise Books in Kirkland is "currently on vacation and their inventory is not available at this time." Where, pray tell, does a bookstore go on vacation?
Here are my two most recent musical obsessions. (Pay attention, because it's not often that I get a new one): 1) Scars on 45. This band has recently joined my growing list of concert openers who I might possibly like more than the bands they opened for. 2) Rodrigo y Gabriela. I first heard this Mexican musical duo where I hear most things: NPR (or as I like to call it, Why I Have No Friends). Of this video's nearly 304,000 views, I think I account for about 300,000. It's absolutely mesmerizing. I can't stop watching.
I wore my Sounders scarf to work the other day and this happened:
When my cousin was here visiting last month we ordered takeout Thai food from a place near my house and put the order under Naomi's name. When we showed up to get it, the lady at the register was profoundly confused by Naomi's name and couldn't find our order on the shelf. "Could it be under any other name?" she asked, and Naomi shook her head. "What did you order?" the lady asked. Naomi told her and she finally found our bag and rang it up. No wonder she couldn't find our food: the name on the receipt was Mel.
So a few days ago I had the following conversation with my mom:
I'm probably the only 24-year-old in the country who groans when the Oscars are on because it means no ABC World News. (Speaking of the Oscars, my mom and I spent the entire three-hour broadcast trying to pinpoint what exactly about Tom Cruise's current appearance makes him look so ancient. My mom said his cheeks. I said his nose, then my mom decided that maybe I thought it was his nose because his hairline is receding. No, you didn't miss anything - that logic really does make no sense.)
According to Biblio.com, the store Taradise Books in Kirkland is "currently on vacation and their inventory is not available at this time." Where, pray tell, does a bookstore go on vacation?
Here are my two most recent musical obsessions. (Pay attention, because it's not often that I get a new one): 1) Scars on 45. This band has recently joined my growing list of concert openers who I might possibly like more than the bands they opened for. 2) Rodrigo y Gabriela. I first heard this Mexican musical duo where I hear most things: NPR (or as I like to call it, Why I Have No Friends). Of this video's nearly 304,000 views, I think I account for about 300,000. It's absolutely mesmerizing. I can't stop watching.
I wore my Sounders scarf to work the other day and this happened:
E (a kindergartner): Did you make this?
Me: The scarf? No.
E: What is it?
Me: It's a scarf.
E: What's it for?
Me: To wear.
E: Are you part of this?
Me: Part of what?
E (pointing to the Sounders crest): This thing.
Me: The Sounders?
E: Yes.
Me: Am I on the Sounders?
E: Yes.
Me: Sweetie, it's a professional men's soccer team.
E: It is?
Me: Yes.
E: Oh. *Thinks for a minute* So you don't play on it?
When my cousin was here visiting last month we ordered takeout Thai food from a place near my house and put the order under Naomi's name. When we showed up to get it, the lady at the register was profoundly confused by Naomi's name and couldn't find our order on the shelf. "Could it be under any other name?" she asked, and Naomi shook her head. "What did you order?" the lady asked. Naomi told her and she finally found our bag and rang it up. No wonder she couldn't find our food: the name on the receipt was Mel.
So a few days ago I had the following conversation with my mom:
Me: I told Michael about the Mel thing.
Mom: Mel?
Me: You know. Naomi.
Mom: Oh. Haha!
-approximately three minutes later-
Mom: Wait, I don't remember the Mel thing.
Me: Then why did you laugh?
Mom: Because I remember that it was funny.
I'm probably the only 24-year-old in the country who groans when the Oscars are on because it means no ABC World News. (Speaking of the Oscars, my mom and I spent the entire three-hour broadcast trying to pinpoint what exactly about Tom Cruise's current appearance makes him look so ancient. My mom said his cheeks. I said his nose, then my mom decided that maybe I thought it was his nose because his hairline is receding. No, you didn't miss anything - that logic really does make no sense.)
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Jackets: the End of the Universe
I work at an after-school program for kids. Every day before we take them out for recess we have to judge the weather and decide whether we'll let them outside in long sleeves or if we want to torture them by making them wear their jackets. We woke up this morning to an inch of unexpected snow on the ground, and even though the snow had mostly melted and the sun was out, it was still downright frigid. We informed the kids that they had to wear their coats and they groaned as they always do. Actually, to say that they groaned would be a massive understatement. Their hatred of winter clothing goes so deep, boils so hot, that I frequently fear a full-on military coup staged by 18 seven-year-olds who are still 45 minutes away from snacktime.
Today the mandatory jacket policy enraged one girl in particular - a normally cheerful 2nd grader who I will call G. After I dismissed her to go line up at the door for recess, she approached me with the despondent face of a child whose puppy has just been slaughtered in front of her. "Do I have to wear my jacket?" she asked. "I hate it! It's too heavy!" I calmly explained to her that considering that we had been caught in a flash blizzard a mere two hours earlier, yes, she was to wear her jacket. Upon hearing this news G yanked her jacket down from its hook and stomped to the end of the line, dragging the coat on the floor behind her. She made a final last-ditch effort on her way out the door. She had the hood on her head but her arms weren't in the sleeves and the jacket flapped behind her like a cape. "Arms in, G," I told her, and she crossed them in front of her chest and muttered the requisite "HUMPH!" before brushing past me and heading toward the playground.
Not five minutes into recess I noticed that G, who was already depressed because her best friend E wasn't there today, wasn't playing on the playground like she usually did. I found her, moments later, lying on her back in a patch of sunlight on the bark. Her arms were still crossed, still not in their sleeves. "G," I said, "you need to put your jacket all the way on, please." "But I haaaaate it," she said. "It's too thick and heavy and it's so hot out!" "G, it's 38 degrees. There's a pile of snow two feet away from you. Jacket on."
"Is G staging a sit-in?" my supervisor asked several minutes later, nodding to the gravel next to the portable where G was now sitting. Her arms were finally in her sleeves but her scowl seemed to have replenished itself. I was about to answer when an army of kids trotted up to me ("trotted" is actually quite an accurate verb as they were pretending to be horses), their jackets shoved all the way down to theirhooves hands. "Can we take our coats off now?" they asked. "We're boiling!"
Poor things. The shaking of my head must have looked a lot to them like the cracking of a bullwhip.
Today the mandatory jacket policy enraged one girl in particular - a normally cheerful 2nd grader who I will call G. After I dismissed her to go line up at the door for recess, she approached me with the despondent face of a child whose puppy has just been slaughtered in front of her. "Do I have to wear my jacket?" she asked. "I hate it! It's too heavy!" I calmly explained to her that considering that we had been caught in a flash blizzard a mere two hours earlier, yes, she was to wear her jacket. Upon hearing this news G yanked her jacket down from its hook and stomped to the end of the line, dragging the coat on the floor behind her. She made a final last-ditch effort on her way out the door. She had the hood on her head but her arms weren't in the sleeves and the jacket flapped behind her like a cape. "Arms in, G," I told her, and she crossed them in front of her chest and muttered the requisite "HUMPH!" before brushing past me and heading toward the playground.
Not five minutes into recess I noticed that G, who was already depressed because her best friend E wasn't there today, wasn't playing on the playground like she usually did. I found her, moments later, lying on her back in a patch of sunlight on the bark. Her arms were still crossed, still not in their sleeves. "G," I said, "you need to put your jacket all the way on, please." "But I haaaaate it," she said. "It's too thick and heavy and it's so hot out!" "G, it's 38 degrees. There's a pile of snow two feet away from you. Jacket on."
"Is G staging a sit-in?" my supervisor asked several minutes later, nodding to the gravel next to the portable where G was now sitting. Her arms were finally in her sleeves but her scowl seemed to have replenished itself. I was about to answer when an army of kids trotted up to me ("trotted" is actually quite an accurate verb as they were pretending to be horses), their jackets shoved all the way down to their
Poor things. The shaking of my head must have looked a lot to them like the cracking of a bullwhip.
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