Disney at CPS

"And the birds will sing
And wedding bells will ring
Some day when my dreams come true." --from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs







This school year and last I have some pretty sweet students. But that hasn’t always been the case. Because I’ve had classes full of ne’er-do-wells for the previous five years, I’ve gotten in the routine of praying each morning before leaving the house. I pray for an open and kind heart, for patience and compassion, and for open eyes and ears to notice the blessings of the day.

It’s easy to pray but hard to do my part in all those requests. I forget to be compassionate when a student comes in late to class, walks in front of me while I’m explaining the lesson and starts talking to someone about a fight he saw down the hall. I forget to open my heart when an angry boy is so mad at me for sending him to the dean that he stands two inches from my face and informs me with bulging veins that I’m a copulating female dog. And I’m blind to any blessings when security officers come in my room asking for some kid but can’t remember who so they stand inside my class talking loudly on their radio: “Who did you want again? Samira? What was that name again?”

But some blessings are just handed to us and even the thugs, like Eduardo, who sleep in the back of the class, can see them.

First period, the biggest challenge is getting the kids to do any work. Even the sweet kids tend to catch the highly contagious disease of “I’m too lazy.” But on this day a miracle woke us all up. A little green bird flew in through the window and fluttered above our heads. Most of the kids were mesmerized with oohs and ahs and oh he’s so cute, but one kid decided he needed to swat at it. I demanded that he sit down and asked someone to turn off all the lights and close the door. With passive obedience never before seen in first period, the kids watched as I opened the windows wide and pulled down the shades even with the openings. We watched and waited. Unfortunately, the poor little thing was attracted to the light shining through the transom and flitted against the glass above the door. I tried to reach up and swish him away back toward the window, but he just continued to flutter against the glass and rest on the wood trim.

I grabbed a stool and climbed up toward the little bird, hoping to guide him away from the transom. Slowly and steadily I reached out my hand, and since he didn’t stir, I gently grabbed him. He didn’t even flutter. He was so still and small inside my loose grip. I was amazed and at the same time felt like this was as natural as squinting in the sun. I climbed down from the stool, walked to the window, and with a flourish of my arm, released the little thing. He fluttered in place then off he flew.

The kids all gasped. Then Eduardo, with his flat I’m too cool for school voice said, “Whoa! You’re just like Snow White.”

At that I turned back to the window, leaned out with dancing arms and sang, “♫Ah ah ♫ah ah ♪ah!”

Our Disney moment passed and we, okay some of us, went back to school work.

Today and every day, when a student refuses to do any work, or someone talks over me, or swears at me, I can conjure up the time when I had Disney magic and held a little bird in my hand. Any maybe Eduardo and the others will remember that experience and will be a little softer in some way to someone. Who knows? Maybe even to me!

Mmm. Nah!

Let’s call all the chipmunks and mice and little bluebirds because I’m in the mood for pie!

♫Ah ah ♫ah ah ♪ah

Apple Pie

Double crust pastry (see Onions Cry Too, You Know, August 6^th)

8 or so good sized apples: Avoid ones from wart nosed witches. They’re not to be trusted. Also avoid Delicious and McIntosh. Honey Crisp, Granny Smith and other tart, hard apples are best for cooking.

¾ c. sugar

2 T. unbleached flour

1 t. ground cinnamon

¼ t. ground nutmeg

2 T. butter

Core, peel and slice the apples if you can’t get the smiling mice to do it for you. Combine and add flour, sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg and stir into the apples. Dump it all into your nine inch pastry lined pie plate and dot with slices of butter. With a twinkle in your eye, ask the little bluebirds to carefully raise the top crust and flutter it over the pie plate. They’re good at laying it down gently on top of the apples, but you’ll need to cut the crust evenly around the pie plate so you can fold it under the bottom crust. Get the birds to make little tracks around the edge for aesthetics. If they won’t, pushing your index finger on one hand between your index finger and thumb on the other (like a worm into a beak) pinch the crust to make a nice pattern around the edge of your pie. You can also sift some cinnamon and sugar on top. With a sharp knife, cut a star in the middle of the crust for steam to escape. Place in the oven at 400 degrees for 50 minutes. Let cool for at least 20 minutes to a half hour before serving. It’s hard to wait, so you might want to step outside and sing to the squirrels.

Top with vanilla ice cream for extra calories and big dreams.

Out of Quicksand

When I was about four years old, I dreamed I was in my backyard in quicksand up to my chest. My mom called out to me from the backdoor. I couldn’t see her. I didn’t yell out. I’ve had that dream twice more in my life, and this week I had it again, but I was awake.

Getting stuck in quicksand is really dumb. First of all, if you watch where you’re going, you can avoid it completely. When your first step is soft and sinky, it’s common sense not to take the next step. If you’re alone, then you’ve got to use all your senses to avoid traps, right? But if someone is traveling with you, chances are you won’t get stuck. Your pal will be there to pull you out, or better yet, with a wide eye and open mouth, tell you, “Uh oh! Don’t go there.”

While traveling alone through life this week, I found myself spread eagle in two different bogs. Really dumb. I think I was so focused on the first bog, I didn’t have any sense about stepping carefully into unknown territory.

Since visiting a secondary school in Tanzania, I have been motivated to establish a sister school relationship. I envisioned a club dedicated to maintaining connections, holding fund raisers and a book drive, and sending a student and a teacher to Tanzania next summer, with gifts in hand, ready to help build the girl’s dormitory they so need. A week before the school year started, I found a $5000 grant staring me in the face in my email inbox. It could cover the cost of airfare and additional baggage of books and supplies. The principal was behind me and I was psyched. The grant was vague, I thought, and I have no experience in grant writing. I got started. I sifted through materials and wrote goals and objectives. But now what? So much I didn’t know. And the more I looked at the requirements with a deadline approaching in one week, the more I lost confidence, and so, motivation. I was that little four year old girl, silent, alone and stuck. But there was my mom calling me. Well, not my mom. All these teachers and staff around me had branches and ropes. Oh! I just have to ask. One of the teachers told me, “It’s all in the details.” She rattled off the possible details to provide faster than the speed of sound. Brilliant, she is. Another teacher gave me some ideas on creative uses of technology. After I climbed out of my mucky isolation and cleaned myself off, I buzzed through every prep period planning, researching and writing, making great progress, believing more and more in my mission. I even stayed late yesterday, a Friday. Not that I deserve a medal; a lot of teachers stay late every day, even Fridays, Rahm.

When I got home from school yesterday, I stepped into my next trap. I saw the sand in front of me but took the step anyway just to see how deep my foot would sink. I said something that opened up an old sore for me and someone I love. I expected that enough time had passed so that remorse and maturity had set firm ground. But I was shocked to find that wasn’t the case. I was angry that this person I care about was not remorseful about the past. And I was scared that we might so easily go back to the nightmare of that time. I struggled in the quicksand, which, as we all know, only makes us sink faster. But I learned from that first bog to ask for a rope. I called my friend Jan, a mother who is successful at detaching with love. She was nurturing and wise. “Relationships, she said, “aren’t linear. They don’t travel in a straight line.” Right away, I’m not kidding, those words worked like a rope of faith and eased me right out of the pit. I pictured that relationship like a slinky, spiraling up. I grabbed on to my faith in goodness and progress rising like bubbles in the sea.

My caring son overheard part of my phone call and came to meet me at the swamp’s edge with a warm, wet cloth. He handed me an interesting piece of wisdom he gathered from a gross movie. The characters in the movie had visible veins, runny noses, greasy hair, really disgusting. He thought the director may see people like that. “The director is correct, but that’s not what I see when I look at them.” Riley said that all those things are in us: urine, snot, blood, but we don’t have to concentrate on them. He suggested that when you look, see the good, but still know the junk is there. I like that. He also pointed out that my loved one was defensive, which, he said, shows some remorse. That made sense: remorse, yes; just not enough self-esteem to use it yet. Looking back at the some of the details of the past, I realize now that, to some extent, that must be true of me too. Hmm. We both have some maturing to do.

So come with me back to this grant. This morning, while filling in the budget chart, I opened my eyes to a detail I hadn’t seen. “This grant may not be used for travel.” I sunk. For only a moment I thought, after all this work. But instantly I perked up. Not only will I have my day free to write and play, I learned a lot about grant writing. All is not lost. I can still shop around for another grant and possibly use some of what I’ve written or revise my vision. I also learned a little better how to keep my eyes open to the details, to my own needs for growth, and to call out for help to friends with strong lifelines.

In honor of Jan, and with her permission, we grant you her recipe for authentic Scottish Shortbread. It’s out of this world, well, at least this country.

Scottish Shortbread

1 lb. butter, softened

4 c. unbleached flour

1 c. sugar

Cream butter and sugar. Add all the flour and use your fingers as a mixer to make crumbles, all even in size, like biscuit dough. Press in the dough in a 9 by 12 inch pan, but not too hard. Sprinkle extra sugar over the entire pan. Use a fork to puncture the dough all over. Now here’s a detail you want to know. The point is to get the sugar in, so placing the fork between two fingers will prevent the dough and sugar from popping up. Bake at 325 degrees for about 40 minutes, or until the top is lightly brown. You’ll need to cut into squares while it’s still hot and quicksandy. It will be impossible when it cools.

You’ll want to keep eating these, so be sure to hand these out to plenty of friends. Big butts don’t stand a chance in quicksand.

Miracle and Muffins

9-12-10

Last night I received the miracle of reverse osmosis and insomnia.

Maybe you don’t believe in miracles. I wonder if we have to believe in a higher power or the energy of the universe or alignment of the stars or Allah or Jesus in order to believe in miracles. I do know that when I see events and connections with others as miracles, then I feel the miracle of seeing them as miracles. It’s like the mirror facing the mirror, I guess.

Last night I lay in bed for an hour trying to sleep. Finally after midnight I got up, walked around my dark home, looked out the windows for any signs of life, then got down on the floor and stretched. My head continued to pump so I tried to calm the flow by journaling on my laptop. About a half hour into my treatment for insomnia, my son came home—early for him, saw my computer light and came in. “What are you doing up?” I said, beating him to the punch. Riley laughed.

“I need water,” he said.

About six months ago he convinced me to get a reverse osmosis water filter. I am so happy I did. Not only is the water delicious and free of fluoride and pharmaceuticals, it also brings my son downstairs from his dad’s apartment where he now lives, for a daily fill-up.

He filled up and lay down on the living room rug while we talked about his day. I joined him on the floor and expressed concerns for a couple of people in our lives. Riley’s a great person to talk to. He listens critically and is naturally compassionate and insightful and wiser than a twenty-three year old should be. Somehow the conversation got around to memories of when he was little. He said he remembered making Christmas presents on the kitchen table in our old house—the house we lived in as a two-parent family, the house he was born in.

He said, “I don’t know how Casey can watch those old videos of us. I can’t watch them.”

“Why not?” I asked. “They make you sad?”

I could hear his voice crack next to me in the dark. “Yeah.”

I was surprised. We hadn’t talked about that time, about the separation for years, maybe since he was in grade school.

“It was a sad time,” I said. “I felt so bad telling you. Do you remember when we were walking alone together later on that day, and you said you thought something like this was coming?”

He said he did. I told him his dad and I lived together for a whole year after we decided to separate. We were waiting to sell our house and buy a two-flat so we could all be close.

And Riley, being kind of heart, said, “Wow. That must have been hard.”

I told him I was surprised that he couldn’t watch those old videos. “What is the sad part?” I asked. “Is it the divorce or losing the house?”

“It’s all of it.”

His breathing and gaps between words told me he was crying.

I reached over and wiped his tears from his neck and ears. I hadn’t done that since he was in high school.

Riley, my lovely son, said something so beautiful and sad and profound. “I stepped out of my home, not house but home, and into the abuse of the world. I wasn’t prepared. It was too sudden.”

He told me that a couple of older kids had made fun of him at school but that maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembers. He thought it might have seemed worse because he lacked confidence. He said he wants to know how that happened so when he has kids they won’t have to go through that.

He was surprised to hear that he was born scared of the world and frustrated at not being able to manipulate his world around him. I told him he was only happy in my arms, with something in his mouth, usually me. Even being in his dad’s arms wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t until he could talk at age two that he was able to go off to friends’ homes without me for a few hours. And I was the oldest member of his four-year-old pre-school, with perfect attendance, no less!

But going to a small private school, participating in a small scout troupe with the greatest scout master in the world, and making lasting close friendships with kids at school helped Riley build his confidence. He has a huge posse of friends, some of whom are from Kindergarten. He initiates and organizes rallies in the big city of Chicago. He joins in on break dancing sessions where he knows no one. He’s travelled to Taiwan on a scholarship he landed. I’d say he’s learned well how to manipulate the world around him and is no longer afraid of it.

But here’s the really sweet part of all this: My son moved out a week ago and last night we got even closer. Reverse osmosis.

James M. Barrie, the fellow who wrote the play, Peter Pan, said, “God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December.” Lovely. Just as prominent are the thorns of memories. And if you’re lucky, you get to have someone to travel through that pain with you. And if you’re even luckier, you get to have someone share their pain with you.

Because I was privileged enough to wipe his tears, I’m going to make Riley some muffins: his favorite!

Carrot Bran Muffins

This is my standard muffin recipe that can be easily changed to suit your tastes, the season, the occasion. You can play around with different flours. Almond meal, brown rice flour, or if you must: white flour. Try grated sweet potatoes, or cranberries and a little lemon, zucchini, bananas, pears, mango, blueberries, prunes, whatever your joy. Riley likes them all which is my joy!

¼ c. whole wheat flour

¼ c. rolled oats or oat bran cereal

¼ c. corn meal

¼ c. wheat bran

2 t. baking powder

½ t. cinnamon

1 medium carrot grated

Handful of chopped walnuts (try sunflower or flax or millet)

1/3 c. sugar (brown sugar is great too)

½ c. milk (or soy or almond milk)

1 large egg

¼ c. canola oil

Mix the dry ingredients then add all the wet stuff. Spoon into a greased muffin tin and cook for twenty minutes (sometimes a few minutes longer, depending on how wet they are—so keep checking for them to bounce back) at 400 degrees. Pour yourself a glass of reverse osmosis filtered water and watch for the sweet blessings of the past and present.

CPS 2011-2012

Day One

I walk into the office where teachers and staff are swiping in, mingling and eating doughnuts. I swipe in and turn around to see the back of a woman with long dark hair like my good friend who found another job in a suburb few weeks ago. I cry. I don’t want to be here.

I have nowhere to set my bags since I have no classroom so I carry them down the hall to our first meeting. I hear the principal say he wants to make decisions with us. Then I hear him say he has thrown out some of our furniture because we have too much. He has decided we don’t need planning and prep time as much as we need meetings.

Between meetings I carry my bags to the women’s room. The toilets are stained from rusty water. There are no paper towels.

We are scheduled for meetings all day and all day I wait to find out what classes I’ll be teaching. They don’t know yet. I’m told by the programmers that programming has been a lot of work.

Teachers complain between meetings that we have too many meetings.

At the end of the day I leave with my bags that are fuller from materials from the meetings. I still don’t know what I’m teaching or what classroom I’ll be in. Programming, I hear, is a lot of work.

I toss and turn most of the night and plan my speech to the principal, convincing him we need to prepare for students rather than sit in meetings. It sounds really reasonable to me. In my bed in my head I tell him throwing out our furniture is disrespectful. Surely this speech would change his approach, if ever I had the nerve.

Day Two

I ride my bike to work with two bags full of complaints. I carry them with me down the hall to our first meeting. I’m angry. I tell myself I can’t carpet the world; I’m going to have to put on some shoes. But when I get in the meeting and realize it’s about things I already know, I ask a friend why I need to be in this meeting. She shakes her head noncommittally. I step out to go to the bathroom. Today there are paper towels. On my way back into the meeting, I lean over to another teacher and ask why we need to be in this meeting. She doesn’t feed my cause like I expect. Hmm. I suddenly see myself from the outside, and I don’t like what I see. I figure out a way to put on some shoes, to make this meeting be worthwhile for me. I ask questions. I get something out of this.

After the meeting, I see one of the programmers. No, she still does not know my classes. She says she’ll have them tomorrow, the last day of preparation for school on Tuesday.

I search for my cabinets and book cases. They are all here. Nothing has been thrown out. Privately I hang my head for the drama I created for myself.

Teachers complain most of the day. When they tell me their cabinet got moved into the wrong room, or that they have three different rooms, I want to say at least you have a room, but I don’t.

We are given an hour today to prepare for students. I’m scheduled for a meeting at that time. But it doesn’t matter since I can’t prepare because programming is a lot of work. I’m beginning to relax into the freedom this gives me. I store some things from my bags in a locker. My bike ride home is lighter today.

I sleep heavily this night.

Day Three

I walk to school wearing a backpack. Finally I’ve made the perfect adjustment. I find one of the programmers who says he’s working on it now. Yeah. Mind you, this is my last day to prepare. I wear my backpack to three morning meetings. In the second meeting, I look up at a window and see only blue sky and white clouds framed so beautifully. I wish I had a camera. I feel lucky to see it. The timing is perfect. In our third meeting in the dark auditorium with no windows and no clouds we hear the same spiel we heard last year about standardized tests. Afterwards everyone complains about our wasted time and CPS money.

I wear my backpack into the women’s room and a teacher tells me I look cute, like I’m going mountain hiking. I sing Valerie, Valerah which she’s too young to know. The toilets have been cleaned. I point that out and the young teacher says things are looking up.

At lunchtime I find a programmer again. Guess what? Go ahead guess. Surprise, you’re wrong! I got my classes! I have my room assignment. I heat my black beans and rice and hustle them up to my classroom so I can locate and organize my supplies, fill out work orders to get my furniture delivered, prepare materials, arrange the room and decorate the boards. I ask how I can get my dictionaries from the book room. I discover I can’t, that no one will get any books for the first three weeks of classes. I wonder what I can do for three weeks without the books, but at least I had three days of meetings to help me be a better teacher. In spite of these little tiny setbacks, I’m psyched. I feel like the parent of a pregnant teen. During the pregnancy there is anger, feelings of mistrust and betrayal, lots of worry. But then the baby arrives and the drama, the shouts of disappointment and shame are replaced by soft coos and everybody is bustling around making space for the wee little thing. All is forgiven. I’m glad I’m here.

I wear my backpack to the bar my friend and I decide upon for our next meeting. Now things are really looking up.

As a tribute to the hard work of programmers and the efficiency of Chicago Public Schools, how about we make those black beans and rice I’ve been carrying around? Your shopping bags will be light, your time well spent.

Black Beans and Rice

1 package or 2-3 c. of black beans

2 T. oil

4 cloves of garlic, chopped or minced

1 small to medium onion chopped

2 green peppers cut in bite sized pieces

1 lime

1 ½ to 2 T. salt

1 t. black pepper

2 t. cumin

1 T. chili powder

Fresh cilantro

Rinse and soak beans overnight, or soak for an hour in water brought to boil. Saute onions and garlic in oil. (For low cal version, forget the oil and just let the onions and garlic cook with the beans.) Add spices and stir. Pour in beans with soaking water. Some people like to drain and use fresh water. Add another 2 cups of water. Bring to boil. Add juice of lime. Lower heat and cover, stirring occasionally. After about two hours or more, when the beans are close to being done, add the peppers. Add more water if necessary. Cook another half hour until peppers and beans are tender. Taste for salt and spice content. My measurements are approximations. Serve over brown rice and garnish with chopped fresh cilantro. A dollop of plain fat free yogurt is nice on this too. Consider adding more vegetables in this recipe: tomatillos and chayote are a great addition.

This recipe is for Nitya, which rhymes with forsythia, a flower of a teacher who is blooming outside of CPS now.