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.

Reflections: Avon Walk For Breast Cancer 2014

I probably have too much distance from the walk at this point to accurately reflect on it.

But I am going to try anyway.

First, let me begin by saying that the one thing that stood out to me the most, the biggest impression I got, that I still have, the greatest shock I received came in the form of the outpouring of support I got from friends, family, and friends and family of friends and family.

One of my friends not only made a huge donation to the walk (after poo-pooing it for weeks! He's a stinker.)  but he also convinced friends of his, who have never met me, to also donate.

My mother's aunt came forward with a generous donation that I was pleasantly surprised by.

My sister's boss (again, never met me!) donated a hefty sum.

My aunt's boss, who I have only met a few times, both gave me some translation work to do for the pay that would go to the walk, and then doubled the promise commission when they donated to the walk.

A few of my coworkers stepped forward with nice donations.

Friends of my brother donated.  Even one kid who had no job gave me 10 bucks!  So sweet.

My investment banker donated.

And then of course, there are the amazing individuals, close friends and family, I knew would donate, but who nonetheless warmed my heart immensely when I saw their names scroll up my donation page with all the dollars they could give.

So, needless to say, I more than met my goal of $1800!

But none of it really seemed real until the day before the walk, when my toddler and I jumped on BART from Hayward to San Francisco to officially check in for the next morning.

Ahhhh, yes, there are those feelings of excitement and anticipation, all rushing back to me now.

The room at the St. Francis Hotel on Union Square was filled, literally, not figuratively, filled with pink.  People everywhere were lined up to sign up, or signing people up.  As Celaya and I stepped off the elevator we were inundated with pink.

I am not a fan of the color pink.

But in this case, I was exhilarated, thrilled, inspired, by the color pink.  Everyone, everywhere, seemed determined, motivated.  We all had a purpose, we all had a goal, we were a team, in this together, even if we did no more than exchange a polite smile across the room.

I stood in a very short line, filled out the crucial medical and personal information, got my bracelet, and Celaya and I headed back down to Market Street to catch BART back home.

I woke up the next morning at 5 AM, packed and ready to go.  I brought the baby monitor into my brother's room, and my husband drove me to San Francisco to meet at the Masonic Center.  We stopped on our way at Starbucks for a latte and a pastry, since I had no idea what was in store for me at the opening ceremony.  I arrived at the walk at about 6:30, and again, was greeted by a sea of pink.  There were giant moving trucks that took my sleeping bag, my overnight bag, and my pillow, to stow away and meet me later that day at the site in Larkspur, 15 miles away.  As I approached the opening ceremony, there was a woman on stage, giving her testimonial, to a crowd of hundreds of pink people.  She had survived breast cancer.  She had left her career.  She had become director of the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer!

Holding my coffee in one hand, and looking out at the sea of people, I was already moved to tears.  And I had only been there for one minute.

More people came onto the stage to share their experiences, to inspire us walkers, and inspire us they did.

And then, an announcer said something along the lines of, "alright everybody, let's go!"

And we did.

The actual walk was amazing.  We wound our way through the streets of San Francisco, seeing a lot of the tourist attractions:  Ghirardelli Square, Pier 39, The Palace of Fine Arts, the beautiful homes in the Presidio.  My girlfriend and I, along with a friend of hers, strolled the streets, chatting and stopping for coffee, taking our sweet time.

Then we got to our first rest stop, filled with awesome snack, namely the famous peanut butter and jelly graham crackers, and I realized we were behind schedule.  Way behind.

I took out the flyer with deadlines to leave each rest stop if you planned on completing the entire 26 miles of the first day, and I noticed that we were already 20 minutes behind.  At that point I began pushing, hard, to catch up.  I was determined to complete all 26 miles that day.

I felt like, first of all, it was a personal goal of mine to complete the entire 39 miles, and second of all, I had been telling all of my friends and family that I was going to complete this entire course.  I could not let myself, or them, down.  Especially after the enormous amount of support they provided to me.  So I raced.  I pushed my friends up over the Golden Gate Bridge, rushed them through the nice sandwich lunch waiting for us on the other side, and up the hill beyond, into Marin.

At that point, I realized I was being a big pain in the butt to my friends, who really were not in the same super fit shape I was in, and really were not as hyper active about completing every single mile in record time as I was.  So I waved goodbye, left them to their conversation, and from that point, became a solo walker.

I walked ten more miles alone, and it was fabulous!

I met tons of people as I passed them, they passed me, we walked a few miles together, sharing stories, family members of mine who had survived breast cancer, family members of theirs who had done the same, or sadly, had fallen victim to the disease.

I held my head high when the man taking a head count told me I was walker 360 out of almost 1,000!  I was making great time.

I stopped at each rest stop to reapply sunscreen, neatly displayed on a table, have a snack (always a pb&j graham), and refill my water bottle, which I always aimed to empty entirely before the next stop (the stops are about 3 miles apart).

At the end of the day, at a stop light, mere feet from the entrance to the site village where we would be camping for the night, one of the lovely motorcycle riders who provided the safe street crossings for us asked which of us would be continuing on the complete the full 26 miles that day, which required 3 more miles, and which would be going straight to the village.

I hesitated.  Just for a second.  But I did hesitate.

And then I raised my hand.  Yes.  I would complete the full 26 miles.

So he gave me instructions for a 3 mile loop through a residential area that would wend its way around the back of the site, and come around to the entrance from the other side of the street.  I forged through it.  Along the way, I met a brisk and brusk older woman who had been alternating walking and volunteering each year for the better part of the last ten years.  She was a middle school teacher, not fond of California's new Core Curriculum standards, by the way.  And we caught up to a husband and father of four who's family, also walkers, had raced ahead, while he decided to hang back a bit and enjoy the view.

We arrived at the village and I all but collapsed.  No.  I couldn't collapse yet.  I held my head high, legs feeling like rubber, body feeling like jelly, and walked through the giant pink arch, past the booths displaying Tiger Balm and Reebok gear.  I grabbed a folded up tent, found a volunteer "tent angel," essentially a teenager ready and willing to pitch my tiny pink, pop up tent, and laid down in the grass until the work was done.  Then I found my overnight gear, loaded it in my tent, and headed for the mobile showers.

The organizers of this walk really did think of everything.

After cleaning (scrubbing) off my tired and dirty with sweat body, I headed over to check out the booths, wandered over to the dinner tent, filled up my plate with generous portions of salad, veggies, rolls, rice, the best meatballs I've ever eaten, and a delicious piece of chocolate cake.

Bliss.

My girlfriend met up with me shortly after I finished dinner and we talked for a bit, but by that time I was so exhausted and she was so hungry, that we parted ways, I toward the tent and she toward some much needed food.

I feel asleep almost instantly and slept for 9 hours straight.  I woke up while it was still dark, packed up my gear, had some breakfast, and headed out with my girlfriend to make our way back to San Francisco.

It was not long before it was quite clear that my girlfriend had no intention of power walking the way I wanted to, so I blew her a kiss, wished her luck, and raced forward.  It was awesome.  I met a woman waiting for the walkers in Tiburon with flowers, asked me for a dance, and gave me a tiny pot of flowers.  I danced, cheek to cheek, with an older greek woman on the water for some flowers.  As I marched up one hill toward a traffic light, all by myself for the moment, I spotted a motorcycle rider waiting for me, pushing the button signaling our intent to cross.  He was, like most of his fellow volunteers, decked out in pink, standing alongside his motorcycle, also decked out in pink for the occasion.  I think the bike had a pink bra over its handlebars.  The song "I'm a Survivor" by Destiny's Child was playing on his radio, and as I approached him he began waving his arms over his head, gently swaying back and forth, like we were in a concert.  He gave me a soft, sweet smile, and lipsynced the words with me and I continued forward, toward him.  When I finally got up the hill, to him, he took off the single pink beaded bracelet he had on his wrist, looked into my eyes, and hugged me.  He walked me across the street, and I waved goodbye, all the time with that gentle smile on his lips.

I don't know his story.  I don't know who he lost.  Or if he even lost anyone.  I just know he made me feel like I was doing something powerful, something important, something meaningful.

There were dozens of others that made me feel that way on this walk.  Children holding signs with tears in their eyes.  Bearded men with leather jackets and pink bedazzled motorcycle helmets.  Older women standing by their cars as I walked along holding signs with pictures of Adam Levine and the words, "walk like I'm waiting for you at the finish line."  And a Greek lady with a tiny pot of flower and the legs of a dancer.

But the one motorcycle man at the top of the hill was the culmination of all of my experiences.  He made my tears stand out in my eyes.

At the end of the walk, my husband, my brother, and my baby were waiting on the sidewalk for me, and my tiny toddler got to walk through the final pink arch with me back at the Masonic Center amid cheers and congratulations.  It was one of the best experiences of my life.  And I realize at the end of it how much not only the money means, for research, for support, for supplies, but also how much the movement means.  How much the community comes together to raise awareness.

Now, in October, Breast Cancer Awareness month, I know I will register, I will bake cookies, I will harass my friends and family again (yes, that's you, I'm coming for you), and I will do whatever I can to continue to be a part of this movement for as long as possible.

Halloween cookies, $1 each, Christmas cookies, $10 a dozen, Valentine's cupcakes, St. Patrick's Day muffins, oh the possibilities are endless!