The Rituals of Death

So his body was there in the box.  We watched it lowered into the ground.  My aunt sobbed into the shoulder of my cousin's only real beloved of his lifetime.  A picture of him sat there, so we could see him smile.  It was hot in the sun and freezing in the shade.  My daughter hid her face in my neck and asked if we could just go see Barkely (my aunt's dog, who my daughter does not even like).

All I could think was, these are the rituals of death.  His body is there, in the casket, a simple, wooden box that sends him back into the earth from which he came.

She opened the bathroom door with a key, his body blocked the door, she noticed the purple color of his arm ("that's not good." She thought to herself.), she noticed the thin white cord around his neck.  She noticed his head back and the peaceful look on his face, the most peaceful look she's seen in a long time.  And all she could think was, "well, he's okay."

"He's not okay." Her fiancée told her.  "Call the police."

The police rush in, straight upstairs.  They come back down, more slowly.  "He's passed away.  There's nothing we can do."

Then the coroner comes.  He talks about limbs getting stiff.  About moving the body.  About objective stuff that doesn't relate to the boy he was, the man he became.  That's not Carlos.  That's a body that used to hold Carlos.

That's not Carlos.

These are the rituals of death.

"I don't want a funeral," she says.  Why?  Carlos would not have wanted a funeral.  Carlos wanted his spiders to be taken care of.  Carlos wanted his mother to have peace.  Carlos wanted the fuck out.

"I'm having a funeral," his father says.  "I'll be there," she says.

Because we all mourn in different ways.  We all have different ways of dealing.  He needed the ritual, the ceremony, the words, the prayers, the large gathering.

We gathered.  Those who loved him, loved him deeply, for his greatness and for his pain, for his innocence, even as a twenty eight year old man, and for his transgressions.  We loved him not in spite of his "flaws" but because of them.  Because you cannot be Carlos without the flaws, you cannot have the sweetness without the bitterness.  You cannot love so deeply if you do not also hurt so deeply.  His emotional depth knew no bounds, and in the end, that is what killed him.

There were many people who also gathered because it is what you are supposed to do, which is kind of funny, when you think about it.  Carlos rarely did what he was "supposed to do," and so if he visited us today, on this gathering day, if he laughed at all, it was at that.  Haha.  A good chuckle.  Silly humans.

But she knew.  "I'm here.  She thought.  I'm still here.  And I will recognize you in the clouds, in the surf and in the sand.  I will remember you when those desert lizards cross my path and every time I spare the spiders lurking in the corners of my room.  I will feel you patting me on the back.  I will hear you comforting me in my loss"

We are sad.  Those of us who loved him.  Those of us who see him in the ones who made it.  "Why couldn't he make it?  Why couldn't he find a way?" We ask ourselves, selfish in our need to have him here in our lives, even at a distance.

The answer is so simple that it is beyond us:  this was his way.

How simple and yet how complicated for those of us who fight to live.  My grandmother has battled two cancers and survived running herself into glass shelving in the pitch black, fighting to live, to breathe, to stay here longer.  "I love life," she says.

And her grandson smiled at death.

There we were, eating cookies and laughing and crying and sharing moments and memories.

The great love of his life, a young, beautiful, broken, but healing girl was there.  I watched my daughter reach out to her, "can I play with her?" Celaya asked.  She had never met this young woman of twenty eight.  She had only met my cousin once, in passing, at one of his darkest times.  She reached out, recognizing a kindred spirit.  Brianna brightened, "exploring" the area with my daughter for a few moments.

Tears hid behind my eyes all day, dew drops ready to fall as I thought, "these are the rituals of death."

We acknowledge that this is now part of our story.

This is part of my story now.  My cousin killed himself.  He took his own life in a way that is unique to all others of which I know.  And now I look at my daughter and I see my cousin.  I see depth, empathy, emotion, an angelic sweetness that is unearthly.  I see my daughter ask if she can hold your hand, if she can let the ants run up her arm, if she can gently cradle the ladybug or the roly poly bug.  I see my daughter's heart break for a crushed snail, for a smushed acorn in the street.  I see her frantically want to save the crushed Cheerios from the wheels of the shopping cart, and I think, "how do I love you enough to save you from this fate?"

And is that even my job?  Is it even possible?

I don't think so.  Not anymore.  Before my cousin killed himself, completed his journey here on this plane of existence I would have argued otherwise, but now, no.

If anyone loved, anyone accepted, anyone gave, more than Carlos' mother, in all the right ways, not too much, not a smother, just a support, not a squeeze, just a hug whenever he needed one, it was her.

All I can do is hold her hand when she asks, mourn the lost life of the snail with her, pick her frantic body up out of the cart so she can retrieve the fallen Cheerios.  I am here as her guide.

The pastor said today that we have no control over our lives, over who our parents are, the paths we follow.

I disagree.

I imagine Celaya chose me, her soul reached out to mine, she needed a mother who would "taste" her mud pies, who would give her space and freedom and at the same time open arms and a predictable routine.

And I know Carlos chose Deena, his energy called out to her energy, so strongly that despite her being unable to bear children he reached across another woman, a biological mother, a birth giver, from another country, to bring Deena to him, to witness his entry into the world, to live in a trailer with him in the dingiest corners of Mexico, to bring him back to her space, her haven, her sanctuary.  A mother who would feed his reptiles when he was away, who would send him care packages when he was out of town, who would listen to him philosophize for hours.

This was always his end.  This was the path he was on from the very beginning.  He began with her, and he needed to end with her.  And he never would have been able to complete his journey on his terms, in his way, with a smile on his face, but for the mother he chose.

These are the rituals of death.

Blissful Suicide

They say "celebrate the life and mourn the death."

With Carlos I think it's the reverse.  I cry for his life, for his pain, for how dark it had finally gotten that he finally gathered the courage to flee his demons after twenty eight years.  I celebrate his death.  For him.  He won his last battle.

As far back as I have memories, to when I was nine, when he came home to the states, I remember an angel.

Only, ever.  An angel.

He had a big, fluffy, curly afro as a baby, and a big, wide smile.  "Is that real?"  People would ask my aunt as we walked through a store with my cousin.  "No.  I put a wig on my one year old."  She would roll her eyes.  Even then, people didn't get him.  But she did.

He loved dinosaurs when he was a toddler.  He played with Power Rangers as a kid.  His first bedroom was bold reds, blues, yellows.  Happy colors.  And he was a happy kid.

Except for when he wasn't.

Mostly, I think that when he wasn't happy it was because he was beginning to realize that his skin didn't fit right.  The world was too small, too straight, too.... just wrong.

When he wasn't happy he went to a dark place, inward, deep inside, and voices told him it was him that didn't fit right.  He was too big, too crooked, too... just wrong.

And, on some level, I think what the voices said was true.  He didn't fit right.  He was too free, too wild, too open, too observant, too wise, too... unearthly.

An angel.  A tortured angel.

He saw through all of us, through the need for a BMW, the need for the perfect hair cut, the need for an office job that pays 50k a year with health benefits and a 401k plan.  He saw the depths of the ocean and the smallest creatures as they crept.  He saw life as fragile and imperfect and too goddamn fucking hard.

Once, in the car when he was a young boy, he was struggling with a math problem in the backseat.  I remember the despair when he said "Ugh!  I'm such a loser!  I'm no good at this!"

My heart breaks for that kid.  The kid with lizards that he kept so carefully in a room whose door always had to be closed so as to maintain the right temperature as the beloved lizards, Luna and Sun, crept along their branches that reached up to the ceiling of his room.  That kid loved life, just not his own.

His mother always assured him that he was not a loser, that she loved him, that he was perfect the way he was, dreadlocks dripping down his back, plain black t-shirt over slightly baggy jeans and worn tennis shoes, drinking his yerba mate before heading off to another job, this time at the vet, that time at the shelter, this time at the reptile room, that time at the smoothie shop.

She loved him even when he drank himself to oblivion to chase away the demons, when she found drugs, pipes, empty bottles, and a passed out full grown man in her bathroom, still too drunk to pick himself up and head back to a bed.  She loved him even when he screamed at her "Why did you adopt me?!  Why should you love me!?  I'd be better off dead!  I should just kill myself!"  And even when she screamed back, out of years of pain and frustration, agony and a simple loss of what to say after she had heard these words hurled at her, thrown at her, leaving dents in her soul, "If you were going to kill yourself, you just would! You wouldn't be talking about it!"

Oh, what kind of mother says that to her son?  What kind of son slices himself up with a knife, hangs himself from the bathroom door in his mother's house, the house of the only person he could always turn to?

The kind of mother who is out of options, who is at her wits' end, who gives and gives and gives to a man who doesn't know how to do anything but take and take and take, crying all the while that he doesn't want to take, he'd rather be dead.

The kind of son who knows that his mother's home is where he needed to die.  And who is finally ready to do it.  He needed to be with her even in his last moments, even if that meant she found him, even if that meant breaking her heart one last time.

Carlos was tortured soul.  An angel sent here to battle demons.

An angel?  You ask.  How could you call this monster an angel?  He terrorized his mother, he destroyed himself, he caused everyone around him pain and misery.  An angel?

Yes, an angel.  Let us remember that Michael was an angel.  Raphael was an angel.  And yes, Lucifer, was an angel.  They were also the fiercest warriors.  They battled demons and fought endlessly against a reality beyond our comprehension.  And Lucifer, God's mightiest warrior, his most trusted, beloved soldier, dared to question his will.  So we label him devil.

So Carlos questioned the world.  He questioned the boxes we all live in.  He never belonged in a box.  He questioned the rules of the game.  He was never any good at games.  He battled with the voices in his head that told him he was in the wrong place, wrong time, wrong life.  Just because we couldn't hear the voices doesn't mean they weren't real, demons with black eyes and charcoal wings, snickering at his pain, chasing him wherever he went, turning dreams into nightmares and love into agony.  And he battled with the real live voices of those all around him who he knew were saying the same:  loser, waste of life, devil.  He battled and battled his way through a world he never really belonged in.  And he battled his way into a death that gave him the sweet release he had no other way of finding.  Like a warrior.

We say, about those who commit suicide, "if he could only have gotten through this phase, if he could only see, if she could only wait, if she could just listen."

Carlos did wait, he did see, he did listen, and none of it helped.  He put his pants on one leg at a time countless times, went into work countless times, surfed through his pain countless times.  He cared for animals, and he mostly remained calm and patient with those of us humans too attached to this world and determined to stay on our hamster wheels, running and running and going nowhere, then judging him for daring to refuse the wheel.  We say "carry on."  He did.  He carried on, and on, and on.  Until he just couldn't carry on anymore.

He did cause everyone around him pain, but only because it hurt us to see him hurting so badly.  Our hearts break to see him so broken, and always with that broken smile.  And he was so quick with a smile for so long, but it was always a smile with sadness in it.  He was ethereal, made of material that shimmered if you looked too close, like he was already half spirit, but couldn't shake his flesh.

Looking back now, I hear different words in his enraged outbursts, the quieter, softer, hidden words under the shouts and the yells:  "let me go.  let me go.  please just let me go."

There was no other path for Carlos, there was no day that saw a brighter future, the world was not going to change, and neither was Carlos, and the two could just never see eye to eye.

I'm a mother of a child very similar to Carlos when he was a child.  She's sweet.  She loves dinosaurs.  She's an angel.  She's ethereal.  She's an empath that carries a sadness in her that runs deep for others' pain, especially animals and small creatures.  And she's a warrior.  I'm lucky my aunt and I have seen the similarities from the beginning and I can try to learn from Carlos' trouble.  I can try to help her stay out of the boxes, shape the world to her vision, ignore the voices that tell her she doesn't fit.  

My grandma and my aunt have said to me, time again, "you're the perfect mother for a child like her."

I would say the same thing about my aunt.  No other mother could have loved Carlos the way she did.  No other mother could have seen his purity through his pain.  No other mother could have been strong enough to listen to his distress year after year, and still smile, still buy his tea and his granola, still keep a bed for him.

My cousin held on as long as he did because of his mother, the love, the bond, the only thing that kept him in his skin.  He didn't stay for drugs or alcohol, for money or material things.  His mother was what kept him human, flesh.

My uncle says he didn't kill himself.  The disease killed him, the depression, the voices in his head.

I disagree.

He killed himself.  He did not die a victim of depression or disease.  He died a warrior.  He killed those voices, the depression, the disease.  With a knife and a rope, a smile, and a fuck you, he escaped.

If there is a God, and even if there's not, I imagine that when he finally shed his skin, finally burst free from his earthly box, a giant fellow angel swooped down from above, eager to embrace his spirit, pulling him into the shroud of her shimmering wings and whispering, "finally, finally, finally, you let go."

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.