Avon 39: Here I Go Again

Two years ago, I walked the Avon walk and it changed my life.  It changed the way I thought about giving back, it changed the way I thought about my body, and it changed the way I thought about health.

I wrote all about it in a blog post here: http://womanwifemama.blogspot.com/2014_10_01_archive.html

Last year, I decided not to walk.  Carlos and I had decided to have another baby and I thought I'd be pregnant by the time the walk came around.  I wasn't.  I still am not.  It took a long time to get pregnant with Celaya, and it looks like this time is no different.  Except I'm older now.

Also, my sister was toying with the idea of walking with a girlfriend of hers who had suffered breast cancer in both breasts and had had a double mastectomy as a result.  I told her it would be intense.  I told her the walk required lots of training, and the fundraising would require diligence, but that in the end, the pride, the reward, the feeling of accomplishment was inexpressible.  She seemed interested in forging ahead, and I didn't want to overshadow her challenge.  In the end, she decided not to walk.

This year, I realize that both reasons for not walking were pointless.  I could have walked pregnant, even if that meant I got help or assistance somehow.  I could have teamed up with my sister and her friends and we could have raised funds together.  Both reasons fell through, and I was left with no excuses, no reasons, and a sadness as the weekend in July came and went without me in my walking shoes charging across the Golden Gate Bridge in bright pink the one time a year I wear pink.  (I hate pink unless it has to do with breast cancer.)

In addition to the above, I made multiple attempts to get involved in charity work.  I found a shelter to volunteer with, a garden to help grow, leaflets to hand out, all of which I never ended up following al the way through.  My daughter had a cold, my daughter was having an emotional day, I was working extra hours and exhausted, I was leaving town, I was doing extra work from home, it was raining, it was too hot, and on and on and on.

Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that, as a mother of a young child to keep actively engaged all day long who then leaves to work all night long, I am not in a position to do weekly volunteer work.  I am not willing to leave my daughter any more than I already do, and she is still too young to do pretty much anything with me.  Maybe in a couple more years.

What I can do, what I have done, is walk.  I can walk.  I walk or run every day, at least 3 miles, usually closer to 5, with or without Celaya in a jogger stroller.  I can walk.  And I feel great walking.  I already walk for fun, for health, for exercise, for freedom, for stress relief.  I can certainly walk for a cause, a cause I believe in, a cause that has touched me through the people close to me, a cause that matters to a daughter and a mother, a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, and yes, a wife.  I know that early detection is key.  I know that knowledge is power.  I know that funding research is important, and this cause is one I can work for, I can commit, and I can follow through, walking every day until the weekend when I walk my butt off in bright pink.

I can also ask for money.  I have no shame, no fear, and no concerns about being shunned for asking money for this cause, for all the reasons listed above.  I will bake, I will cook, and yes, I will ask.  And ask, and ask, and ask.  I am trusting all the people I know to support me in whatever way they can, with small donations, large donations, or small donations now and large donations later, to get me to my goal of $1800.

I am also counting on my friends and family to spread the word, even if you cannot donate now, you can share my information on your Facebook page or in an email and ask for a small donation on my behalf.  Every little bit counts, and I'm starting early to make triple sure I can surpass my goal this year.

If you are reading this, it means you are either a friend, family, or a friend or family of a friend or family.  You've gotten this far, it is only a few more clicks to donate.

Please, click now.

http://info.avonfoundation.org/site/TR/Walk/SanFrancisco?px=7987164&pg=personal&fr_id=2484

My Hero, Even Though He Never Saved Me

I wasn't broken when we met.  I had already mended quite well, thank you very much.

I had fallen many times, and I had picked myself back up.

By the time I met Carlos I had fallen for the last time and had really come into my own as a grown up.  I had already set my feet on the path I would travel to where I am now.

Carlos met me on my path, and, after time, we decided we would continue on together.

The first time Carlos asked me out, it was casual. "Hey, maybe we should go get a coffee or something sometime."

"No."  I said.  Flatly.

"Why not?"  He asked, genuinely curious.

"Because I'm a bitch."

And I was.  I was a twenty seven year old bartender.  I had been around the block too many times.  I knew way too many Mexican men who played with white girls for kicks, treating them like trophies.  And I had no intention of being a trophy.

How I was supposed to know he was different?

It is a wonder after that first encounter that he ever came near me again, ever gave me the chance to get to know him, ever fell in love with me, with bright sparkly eyes, with hope.  He had, has, an innocent kind of hope that someone who has been through all that he has been through should never have been able to hold onto.

But he did come near me.  He engaged me in conversation again, months later.  He asked questions about my ideas, my thoughts.  He thought I was interesting.  I thought he was sweet.  He challenged me without being threatening, and he pushed me in ways I would not ordinarily put up with.

Our friendship grew into a physical relationship, which quickly led to an exclusive romantic one, and we married about two years after we first met.

We are fast approaching ten years together and when I look back, today, on his birthday, I think it's gone by in a flash.

I feel like I know him so well and like I still have so much to learn.

He never saved me.  He didn't carry me through anything.  I didn't need him to do anything for me.

And yet he has always been there, right next to me, walking the path with me.

When he first moved in with me, his rent helped me continue on in school full time.  When I was considering graduate school, he pushed me to take time, take the loans, follow my passion.  When I was pregnant with his child he saw me at my most vulnerable, and loved me anyway.  No, more.

He loved me more.

I am unendingly flawed.  I still trip over myself through overconfidence and a harshly judgmental nature.  I am critical and aggressive, crude and callous.

He is none of those things.  He is absent-minded and silly.  He is endearing and earnest.  He breaks my heart with his joy in small things and his ability to be a fellow toddler with our daughter.  He is confident and sure, open minded and open hearted.  He is pure and unjaded.  He always always tries to put himself in the other person's shoes.

My daughter gets her unbelievable empathy from her father.

No, he never saved me.  But he makes me better.  Every day.  He makes me better.

If I am smarter now than I was before, it is because of him.

If I am a better mom than I could have been, it is because of him.

If I am a stronger tutor, helping students all day every day, it is because of him.

If I am a more available wife, more loving, more sharing, it is because of him.

If I give more on so many levels than I ever thought I could, it is because of him.

If I am a genuinely happier person, if is because of him.

On this day, the day he was born, I realize that my life would be different in so many tiny ways without his ever having been born, so many tiny ways, that my life, my person, my path, would be unrecognizable from who I am, what I am, what it is today.

And I am happier, more full, more complete now than I ever have been before.

I say "if he had never been born," instead of "if we had never found each other," because, I am sure, somehow, some way, we would always have found each other.

So, in the end, maybe he did save me after all.

He saved me from myself.

Happy Birthday, Carlos.  I hope someday I have the chance to save you right back.

City Kid Country Kid

I have always loved the city.  I sit out on my balcony now and watch the orange light from the sunset shine against the church, highlight the browns of the branches under the leaves on the trees that spread out across my bustling neighborhood.  I can hear families in other apartments with their own sliding glass doors open speaking in at least three different languages among them.  I can hear motorcycles starting up, dogs running in their backyards, cars going by on the busy street below us.

I love the city.

But when my parents moved to Humboldt county 20 years ago, I followed them about a year later, and I fell in love with open country, with the rural life.  I only stayed for a year; I missed the city too much to stay. But in that year, and in subsequent frequent visits back over the last two decades, I have explored the diversity of the wilderness, the beaches, the small town neighborhoods, the quaint cafes and salons, the annual parades down Central Avenue (Yes, it is really called Central Avenue.  At least it's not Main Street.), and the backyard barbecues that all seem so quintessentially "country."

I love the country.  I love it all.  For a short while.

I am always so happy to drive across the San Rafael Bridge that takes me back into the East Bay.

I am not a woman torn.  I know where I belong.  Maybe someday, when I'm ready to slow down, I'll settle onto a big piece of land with wide open spaces and sit on my porch in my retirement with coffee or wine (or whiskey) in my hand and watch the sunset, or the sunrise (don't judge me).

But for now, I'll stick to the city, thank you very much.

And I want that for my daughter, too.  I love that she doesn't bat an eye at bizarre looking characters that wander down Mission Boulevard as we head out for our walks.  Recently, a mother of one of Celaya's friends shuddered at the thought of taking her own daughter to the Hayward library.  "Ugh," she said.  "I just see all the homeless people out front and I just... can't.  I can't bring myself to go in."  I laughed (on the inside of course; I'm not that rude.), and imagined what she pictured the inside to look like, an opium den, perhaps?

It is true; there are many homeless people congregated around the library, but so what?  One of the things I love about living in the city is that you can't hide from the realities of life.  Celaya says hello to the people that say hello to her, she has given money to needy people who ask for it, and these encounters prompt conversations between us about need, about want, and about perspective.  I'm not telling her stories the truth of which she'll never experience.  Need is a part of her everyday life.  This is important to both my husband and me, that while Celaya will likely never need for anything in her own life, she will also never consider herself removed from, or above, the people who do.

We also frequent museums, the ballet, the symphony, and plays.  And she's only three.  There is something to be said for exposure to all kinds of people, all kinds of experiences, and all kinds of culture, that you can get from life in the city that you just don't have access to in the country.

At the same time, there is no experience on earth like direct contact with nature.  And the country is so much bettter at providing abundant nature than is the city.

Sure, you can go find parks, beaches, trails, and rivers, and we do.

This last week I started taking Celaya on what I call city nature walks.  We walk from our house along a very busy, very dirty part of Mission Boulevard to get to a park that leads up into the Hayward hills, up enchanted stone steps, into a wide expanse of field.  It is a pretty tough two mile walk, and it is both urban and natural.

This is what I want for my daughter.  I want her to love the urban life, and also take refuge in the natural.  

In Humboldt I don't have to find nature; it hits me in the face.  I am so grateful that my mother can continue to provide a sort of "home" for us.  I love that Celaya longs for grandma's backyard, which feels like a magical fairy hideout.  I want her to know the redwood parks of Humboldt like the back of her hand.  And I want her to smile, to breathe deeply when we drive out of Eureka, past Arcata, toward McKinleyville, grandma's house, smile like I do.  I look out the window and see nothing but land for miles, open land, land meant for running, for lying on, for dreaming impossible, magical dreams.  I want her to see that, too.

The city gives us reality, dreams of drive, of achievement, of overcoming impossible odds.

And the country gives us magic, dreams of fairies, of getting lost in the woods and finding ourselves, of impossible imagination, of whimsy.

So, yea, I want her to be a city kid.  And I want her to be a country kid, too.

A little bit country.  A little bit rock and roll.  A little bit of R&B.

I Lost My Friend

She's not dead.

Thank goodness.

She's not in another country.

Thank goodness.

She's not even on the other side of this country.

Thank goodness.

But she's not on the other side of this tiny hill I live on anymore.  And I loved that.  I really loved that.  She was the first friend I had like that in so very many years.  We talked about everything.  We laughed over silly stuff.  She is nothing like me, but she is oh so much like me.

And it hurts.

I do not deal well with pain.  I bury it.  I dig it up.  I attack it with an axe.  I bury it again.  I crawl into the earth to lie with it.  I scream at it.  I turn my back on it.  Ignore it.

And then I write about it.  And it washes clean.

She's young.  A young mother working hard to raise a strong, independent, happy girl.  She was in a violent relationship that would have taken from her daughter, her two year old, everything she had envisioned for her, ripped her future away from her before it had a chance to sprout.

And I had no idea.  I laughed at her jokes, I talked with her baby, I watched our girls race toward each other each time they met again.  And I had no idea.

Until I got the call.  She was fleeing in the moment of a violent episode, racing for her life, packing her bags, arranging flights, meeting the cops at the door.  And I had no idea.

I was at work, ribbing one of my students for making the same mistake for the hundredth time.  I was looking forward to leftover pasta on my lunch break.  I was thinking about the glass of wine I would have that night at home.  But that night at home I had refugees, hiding from rage, hiding from discovery, hiding from the hand that might stop their flight.

And she was so weary the next day, as the morning sun rose and the air came in through the windows; she was just weary.  She was sad about the death of something that could have been.  She was sad for her daughter losing a father.  She was sad to leave her home.

But she was also looking forward.  Eyes up, shoulders back, firm set mouth.  She was not looking back, not looking behind her.

And how selfish of me, that in quiet moments that morning before she left I felt sad for myself, sad for my daughter, sad for our loss of such beautiful close friendships.

Ten years her senior I can say I am proud.  Proud she could be so strong in such an impossible situation.  Proud she could walk away with her baby in her arms not knowing what the future held but knowing that it had to be better than the past, than the present.  I am proud she is my friend.  And so many months later I can say I am proud of how far she's come in such a short time.  A new job.  A new place she can turn into a home.  Her little village around her.  I am proud to call her friend.

But yes, I am still sad for myself.

Washed clean now.  But still sad.

Blogging for Work

I have had several ideas for my next post floating and solidifying, floating and solidifying in my head for the last week.  I've even taken notes down so I remember my scattered thoughts.

To no avail!! I have been so busy with that thing called life that I haven't had a clear-headed moment to sit and write.

But, I did have the opportunity to sit and work on a blog for work today.

So, I thought I would share that with you below.

"Why Math is Cool"

Recently, I had a conversation with one of our math tutors, Alex, about the interconnectedness of subjects. 

I have taken on a personal project to study in depth the Scientific Revolution and the Enlightenment periods of history.  My students learn about these eras to varying degrees and depths in all of the history and government subjects I tutor, and part of what I like about tutoring history is discussing context.  To that end, I have decided to explore the details surrounding these particular eras of history because they are responsible for a plethora of revolutions, movements, new ways of thinking, and education systems. 

What an incredible opportunity to connect for a student the Enlightenment movement in the 1600s to the reason we promote liberal education today, essentially, the reason this particular student in front of me has the right, the obligation, to attend a school wherein she learns a little bit about all the subjects she can possibly imagine, for free.

So there we sat, Nichole, our Spanish tutor, Alex, and me. 

“I love that in our Humanities program I get to help kids think critically, think about ways of understanding things, ways of thinking, and not just address basic skills or answers,” I said.

“Well but I’m sure that those same opportunities are not as often available in, say, Math,” Nichole responded, motioning to Alex.

“On the contrary,” He said, “It is so much more important for me to teach my students how to find their own answers, how to think about math in an abstract way, why math matters, than it is for me to teach them equations.  If I can give them the tools to first think about the problem in different ways, then I can help them think about how they might go about finding their own answers to those problems.  Unlike most other subjects, math is derided by many students as unnecessary to the real world.  It’s the one area about which students always ask, ‘when will I ever use this?’”

I remembered then having a similar discussion with a tutor from our Berkeley center who has since left us, Jennifer.  I asked her, after hearing yet another student complain yet again that geometry is useless for the real world since said student had no intention of going into architecture.  I knew I was putting Jennifer on the spot, but, like a lawyer in the courtroom who knows to ask only questions in open court she already knows the answer to, I also knew Jennifer could hold her own.

“How about when you need to parallel park?  How about when you think about fitting all of your items in a bag?  How about when you load your car?  When you go rock climbing and need to make the next precarious move?  All of these things are spatial concerns.  Geometry helps you think about spatial relationships.” 

Yea, she’s pretty brilliant. 

I relayed this conversation to Alex and Nichole, and Alex exclaimed, “exactly!”

You know those moments, when you’re having a really good conversation, you feel like everybody is on the same page, and everyone just “gets” everyone else?  This was like that. 

“Math is about relationships, spatial and otherwise.  Ways of understanding the world, making connections, from addition and subtraction to geometry and even physics,” he said.

“Right,” I nodded, “Math will help my daughter think about the planets someday.  Because she understands basic geometry, she will be able to imagine herself on this sphere, earth, and imagine the planets around us.  Without math we cannot see the world in all its wonder.”

I described the current book I am listening to for my Scientific Revolution project, called The Jewel House, by Deborah Harkness, about the birth of the Revolution on the streets of Elizabethan London.  In this book, math, mathematical function, and thinking mathematically, are new and exciting phenomena in the world.  Harkness describes the interactions between Queen Elizabeth and the everyday members of society who are trying to get letters of patent to practice teaching math, to sell books about math, to create and sell mathematical instruments.  People at all levels of society are coming to realize how crucial math is to life, both personally and in business.

At this point, Alex jumped up and ran out of the break room only to come running back in with a book in his hand. 

This book that he had apparently been carrying around in his backpack and reading at his leisure is made up of different math stories, points in history when math has played a crucial role. 

“So this particular story,” he explains flipping through the pages to find the right chapter, “is about the adoption of the Arabic number system in Elizabethan London.”  Apparently, the author makes the point that Shakespeare waxes philosophic on the zero several times in his writings.  “This author asks us to imagine what it must have been like.  For Shakespeare’s father, basic math involved X as 10, V as 5, i as 1.  Imagine trying to do math with those symbols.  And what a revelation, what a wonder, to be able to simply line numbers up and multiply, divide, add, subtract.  The beauty of simplicity.”

The beauty of information, of knowledge.  The beauty of curiosity, of a joy of learning. 

I tutor Shakespeare.  My students and I pick apart lines, we examine words, we search for meaning, but many of the conversations we have are about why this matters now.  Why should I care about Julius Caesar?  Othello?

Alex tutors math.  He helps students start from zero and understand its relationship to the vast infinity of numbers beyond.  But he also shows them why that infinity matters.  And why the relationships within infinity are important.  Why math is cool.

At the Bay Area Tutoring Center, yes, we tutor most high school subjects, we help you get through an upcoming test, we support the learning you’re experiencing at school.

But at our best, and in my not so humble opinion our best is, if not constant, consistent, we are excited, and we get our students, if not excited, engaged.  Because we are engaged.  As Alex, Nichole, and I sat that day discussing interconnectedness we found a new connection among our subjects.  Why?  Because we live and breathe our subjects; we are curious, and we enjoy creating and feeding curiosity.

The beauty of curiosity.

The Most Successful Failures: Potty Training and Christopher Columbus

As a history tutor, I often think of ways to make history exciting.  Not just interesting, funny.  Not just informative, outrageous.  And so, I love to tell the story of Henry VIII.  Scandal!  Divorce.  Execution. Betrayal.
"And then, imagine, he finally gets the son he has moved mountains for, his heir, his dream, and the kid is sickly from birth, and dies shortly after taking the throne, before going through puberty!"
"Karma," one of my students said.
Gotcha!
And they're with me.  Involved in the story, engaged.

Because I think about history so much, and ways of telling these stories, I also often try to relate tales from hundreds of years ago to today.  If I'm really lucky, I can weave in lessons that kids need to learn in general, like overcoming failure.
Christopher Columbus is my favorite story in terms of failure.  The man was an ambitious sailor who was anxious to find a path, by sea, around the horn of Africa, over to India, so as to avoid the drama involved in crossing through the Ottoman empire.
At this point, I pull out the map, reveal to my students what the land journey would involve, and point out what he was trying to do by sea, when, whoops, (their eyes follow my finger as I slide it across the vast blue Atlantic) he lands in the Caribbean, ahem, excuse me, "West Indies."
The most successful failure of all time.
He failed to find India.  Vasco da Gama did that a few years later.
But what a success for Europe, his "discovery" of the New World. (Obviously not so much for the Native Americans.)
Riches beyond riches piled upon riches.  (Not to mention death, destruction, and dysentery.)

In any event, I get to turn this piece of history into a lesson on both revisionist history and the incredible success to be found in failure.  And they get it.  We have wonderful conversations about evil and good, about learning from mistakes or forging on blind with cognitive dissonance.

And this last week, I got served my own healthy portion of successful failure.

My toddler potty trained by accident.

Yes, you read that right.  By accident.

I had very few supplies:  a potty we bought months ago that has been used as a stool and a storage container by my daughter, and a half dozen pull ups and two pairs of training underwear handed down by my niece.
Horribly armed thusly last week, I watched as Celaya was running around naked and rushed to me, urgently, "mama, put a diaper on me!"

Ding!  I thought.  Serendipity!

"Go on your potty, honey, it's right there."

She did.  Well, she sat on her potty.  And played.  For thirty minutes.

"Honey, if you don't have to go, you don't have to sit there.  You can run around.  Just let me know when you have to go."

What followed was three hours of this exact scenario repeated.  Her asking for a diaper, me urging her to sit on her potty, her playing on it, eventually getting up, and repeating it all over again.  Finally, she broke down in tears (I had been filling her up with water the entire time, so I'm sure her bladder was quite full).  She sat and cried for a good ten minutes before she couldn't hold it any longer.

"Oh!  Oh look!"  She said, sincerely pleased with herself.  And truly as if she had done this all on her own with none of the preceding drama.  That was a week ago.  With the exception of one really bad day because of some too embarrassing to repeat parenting mistakes, she has taken to potty training like a pro.  In public, outside, at home, with me, my husband, and my brother, my not even three year old behaves incredibly maturely about a process that to me has seemed highly charged emotionally.

A successful failure.  I do feel like I failed her in so many ways this last week.  I should have been prepared.  I should have just let her put a diaper on that day.  I shouldn't have threatened to kill my husband when he handled it differently than I would have.  (Yea, that really happened.)  But we rode the waves, we battened down the hatches, and we, for the most part, let the ocean guide us in the direction she chose, toward her success.

And she is turning out to be one of the most intuitive little oceans I've ever heard of.

And I'm a history tutor.

In Love with Two Lives: Finals and Motherhood

Today is my first day off after working for eleven days straight.  Three of those days were back to back thirteen hour shifts.

I work at a tutoring center that caters mostly to high school students.  The work is perfect for me for many reasons.  First and foremost, it allows me to be home with my toddler every day until either my husband or my brother (who lives with us) gets home from his day job.  I only miss the last quarter of her day. Second, the work is truly rewarding.  There are only a handful of people (if that) that I know who I consider sincerely good, through and through.  Positive, happy people, who challenge the cynic in me.  Ninety percent of this handful I have met at work.  One of them is my boss.  I am surrounded by goodness when I go to do work I love.  I enjoy the subjects I teach/tutor (often it really is teaching).  I began at the center tutoring kids preparing for the SAT and ACT.  I have degrees in English and Comparative Literature, so helping kids with grammar and reading comprehension seemed like something I would enjoy.  But it got even better.

Less than a year into my work there, my boss (the owner) called a meeting for his Humanities tutors.  There were four of us at the time, and he wanted to discuss our program.  At the time, we had a few History students who would come in to the center for a little help at random, but nothing regular, and he mentioned that our History program used to be vibrant and that we should be able to make that program grow again.

This small aside to a discussion largely about English and SAT struck a cord with me.  I have always loved history.  It was a major focus in my literature classes because I studied minority and women's literature, which required a lot of context for discussion.

I could do this.  I could grow our History program.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I started my job as a fun part time, eighteen hours a week gig.

As I started saying yes to the many requests for the varieties of History subjects taught at high school, my knowledge grew, my interest grew, and my hours grew.

When I said, once again to my boss, "I mentioned to one of my students that he should come see me for help with his AP US History class when he needs it,"  My boss said, "Shanna, it's wonderful that you are growing the program, but where are we supposed to put all these new students?  You don't have any more hours available on your schedule."

Oh.

So this year I came back from summer to a thirty two hour week.  And I have rarely had a calm moment, a free hour without a student, to stay ahead of the crazy ball I started rolling.  I worked every single hour possible this last week of finals for my students.  Most hours I had more than one student at a time.  I taught World History, US History, AP European History, AP US History, American Governement, and AP American Government.  Many of my days consisted of switching among all of these subjects, taught by different teachers, at different schools, with different study guides.  And many of my students remembered nothing from their classes.

I had a blast.  It is the most fulfilling work I have ever done.

On my very last day, beaten down by exhaustion, my second to last student sat in front of me, after an hour and a half of a two hour session and said to me, "I have learned more in my time here with you today than I have all semester.  Most days in History I am bored after forty minutes, and I can't wait to get out of there.  Here, I can't believe the time is almost up."

Incredible.  It blew my mind.  I am a superhero at work.

And there is still so much more to do.  I have so much data to compile from these lessons, I have learned so much from my students, from teaching them, tutoring them, and I have to record it all while it's still fresh.  And then there's another whole semester to tutor through and prep for June's finals.

I love my work.

But I'm a mom.

It is quite the dilemma.  I am a full time mom working an almost full time job.  And I am madly in love with both of those occupations in such different ways.  I am a better mom because I have work that I am passionate about, and I am a better tutor because I am invested in Histroy, and education in general, as a parent.

For finals week, in order to ease the pain I knew my daughter would experience having me gone for three straight days, me, a mom she is accustomed to seeing all day every day, I asked my own mom to come visit.

Grandma.

Grandma showed up with armloads of movies, a cookie press, and boxes of sugar.

Okay, maybe not boxes of sugar.

But only because they probably wouldn't fit in the back seat of her new Camaro.

Yea, for years my mom has wanted two things, to be the owner of a badass car and to be the best grandma in the world.

I swear she is more excited about being a grandma than she ever was about being a mom.  And who could blame her?  She shows up here and my kid goes crazy.  Celaya could have cared less when I left each morning at 830 AM.

"Bye Mama."  She blew me a kiss, and turned back to Grandma, eager to get into their day.

So, I am finding my balance.  Finals only happens two weeks a year.  Summer is full of down time.  I think I'll only be working three days a week this summer for four hours a day.  (My wallet just said "ouch")  And next year I'll probably cut back one day.  But the work is alive and breathing.  I am already thinking of other ways to expand and grow, to contribute to my company and reach out to more students.  My boss recently asked me to attend a meeting to represent our company with him at a local high school.

And my kid?  Monday night, after three days away from her mama, she woke up, shortly after midnight, sobbing.  I went to her room, picked her up out of her crib, and held her against my body.  She sniffled, sucked on her pacifier, placed her head against my chest, ear to my heartbeat, one hand up around my neck, snuggled into my arms and lap, and fell asleep.  I rocked there for a while, thinking about my life, my choices, loving that I would not be leaving her again the next morning.  Nobody else in her life but Mama is Mama.  I am a superhero at home, too.

We have spent our mornings this week just enjoying our reunion, playing, spending time with friends, getting back into our routine.  She kissed me goodbye when I left each afternoon, and welcomed me for another day of our fast paced fun and fundamentals each morning.

But this last week was a good reminder to me that there is a limit.  That when the balance tips toward work and away from my home life, there are consequences, and my daughter feels them more intensely, more acutely, than anyone else.  The reminder is a good one, and it is essential.  Because I would be one to throw myself into work, pushing myself to do more, achieve more, learn more, give more.  And I would kill myself to maintain the level of engagement I have with my kid, off to the park, to dance class, home to color, to read, to snuggle.  To be a better mom, an active parent.

So I will continue to walk the tightrope of balance, tipping often, surely, but righting myself just as often, hopefully, because I pay attention to the signs, and I listen to the reminders, whether they be the gentle cries of my baby, tears wet on my chest, or the call of my students from their desks, minds bludgeoned to disinterest with a History that textbooks and public education have found a way, remarkably, to make boring.  I will push forward and continue the fight.  For both sides.  For both good fights.

That's what superheroes do, right?

Yes I Am Charlie Hebdo. Stop Trying to Convince Me That I Am Not.

When I first heard about the massacre in France at the offices of French weekly magazine Charlie Hebdo, it registered in my head as yet another bombing in Europe, and I thanked my lucky stars, yet again, that the United States is an ocean away from the random, regular terrorist attacks that occur in the eastern hemisphere. 
Then I read the details of the story.  A terrorist organization, swearing fealty to Yemeni arm of Al-Qaeda, specifically targeted the journalists at Charlie Hebdo because the magazine had published cartoon images of the Prophet Muhammad and other cartoon images that were apparently insulting to him. 
I saw the "I Am Charlie Hebdo" and "Je Suis Charlie Hebdo" announcements scroll up my Facebook news feed and on my Instagram feed. 
Yes, I thought, I too am Charlie Hebdo.
I shared the meme on my wall in both English and French out of support for the families of the victims, out of a belief in free speech, out of an unequivocal distaste for religion in general and an outright abhorrence of the extremes of religion in totality.
But, the next day, I saw another post on my news feed.  It read, "I Am Not Charlie Hebdo." The article was written by David Brooks, someone I respect, and I thought, "Oh, great.  I posted too soon.  He's going to make a point that for some reason I should not in fact be claiming alliance with the magazine." 
Indeed, he makes some good points.  The magazine publishes articles and illustrations that can be considered highly offensive.  And it is true that most of us do not engage in intentionally offensive humor.  But Brooks goes on to argue that of course we should not change the law and restrict free speech.  Of course we should not ban offensive language or publications.  Of course.  But, he says, he is not Charlie Hebdo, and neither are we.
Well, I disagree.  No, I do not go out of my way to offend people.  But I do say things quite often that offend people.  Sure, it is the truth, but, yes, my foot is a regular fixture in my mouth.  I would never draw a cartoon that caricatures the Pope having anal sex with the Prophet Muhammad.  I can barely draw a tree. 
It's true.
But I do ridicule religion on a regular basis, pointing out inconsistencies, hypocrisies, and downright absurdities found within both the literature and the practice of major religions of the world. 
Yes, ridicule.  I think it is ridiculous that God would care at all about whether homosexuals marry.  I think it is ridiculous that God would prohibit the consumption of pork.  I think it is hypocritical for men to aim for several female virgin lovers upon death (and in life, in fact), but a woman should be stoned for showing her hair.  Because hair is a symbol of sex.  It is hypocritical to uphold marriage as an equal partnership but prohibit nuns from holding the highest offices.
I understand that my opinions are offensive to some.  But if we shy away from offending people with our beliefs, while those very people are not only not concerned with others being offended by theirs, but in addition aim to push their beliefs on others, how do we change minds?  How do we change the conversation?  How do we move forward?
It is pushy people who will not shut up who change the world.  We simply cannot stop, anxiety ridden, over every single person, or group of people that might be offended by our ideas.  We must exchange ideas in a free society in order to learn and grow.  And it is the people who push the envelope, the ones who go right to the edge, doing things we would never dream of doing, who make this space safe for us.  I am not interested in deliberately offending anyone, but the people who do remind us that we can push just a little bit further, two steps closer to the line, to express ourselves.  Because they will always be the avant-garde, way ahead of us, taking the hits and drawing first blood.
As Charlie Hebdo prepares to release its new cover, predictably offensive to Islam, we are now scared for the magazine again.  We must worry that new shootings will take place, that more will be killed, that the extremists will be enraged and retaliate with a sentence of death.
A sentence of death.
For a cartoon.
For a remark.
For a belief.
Do I think that all Muslims are represented by these attackers?  Of course not.  I similarly do not think that all Christians supported Timothy McVeigh.
What I do think is that we should all identify with victims of extremism.  In whatever form. 
Not just empathize. 
Identify. 
This time it was Charlie Hebdo.
20 years ago it was award winning author Salman Rushdie.
Charlie Hebdo was not targeted because the magazine was highly offensive. 
It targeted because it was merely offensive. 
As I can be at times.
As we all can be.

Oui, je suis Charlie Hebdo.  Ne me dites pas que je ne suis pas Charlie Hebdo.