HOLES

Holes in my Street

Verizon is digging thousands of holes into Walnut. My knowledge of this hole digging all began with a rude jack hammer outside my window one warm morning, months ago. Since then, I dodge orange cones wherever I go. Sometimes I get lazy and drive over the holes that have been patched up by soft black gravel that aren't blocked off by cones. The little rocks spit up into my wheels sounding off a mini brigade beneath my ruby vehicle. They're bisecting the roads that take me to work, the store, and other's houses, off with these orange cones. Whenever I am forced to drive on the wrong side of the street, I imagine smashing into someone I know and how meting out the damage would fair. The other day I was taking a jog down Walnut Canyon and this man who I've seen several times over the span of 20 years, but never heard, started cussing to high heaven about the new box that had been implanted into his coveted green lawn. I've never heard so few words sum up such bloody rage.

Why are they digging these holes, you ask?

To make our phone/ Internet system better of course. As if it's not just fine as it is, of course they're going to spend millions of dollars to install the latest technology because otherwise, we'd be stuck with roads that don't have holes in them.

I'm not really that mad about the holes. Sure, they may have chipped off some of my car paint, or bolstered my propensity towards morbid thoughts, but I'm definitely not as mad as the neighbor dude who seemed on the verge of wanting to shoot the guy who cut out the big rectangle of his green property to install some corporate box. But I can't help thinking that these holes do stand for something.

I saw Salman Rushdie speak a few weeks ago and he said something that I'll never forget. He said the purpose of the novel is to open up one's universe. I loved this idea, but to understand it, I think it's essential to know what a little sliver of universe really looks like. How many people get so holed up in their own lives that the universe surrounding them can't even be seen? How many people stand face to face with someone they've known for decades, and still don't know what it takes to communicate with them? How many people relate more with a media-contrived image than with the depths of their own soul?

Rushdie said people in the 21st century don't know how to define themselves anymore, except by what irritates them. Count how many times a day words come out of your mouth; words that are the expressions of your irritations with something. If you weren't talking about your daily dramas and agitations, what would you have to say? What positive examples do we live by when the media constantly makes a commodity out of those that have issues. Having issues has risen above compassion on the "What Makes You Have Character" scale.

the audacity to...

I have this drawer in my desk that doesn't close. It rolls a centimeter open and however many times I try to shut it, it rolls right open again. I tell my dad of the annoyance, as if he should be able to fix it. He's equally astounded by the opening drawer. Isn't the fundamental job of a drawer to close?

I hypothesis reasons as to why it refuses to tuck away in its appropriate position. An answer none other than cheap manufacturing of either the house or the desk seems the most logical. The house is a product of booming tract developments and lacks straight edges; the desk a product of Ikea. I presume the builders of neither prided themselves on genuine quality.

It seems a bit ridiculous to complain. I've had this desk for more than a decade, and I've lived in this house for two. The comfort in having a home is a luxury I know many don't enjoy. Yesterday I was soaking in my tub after a ridiculous day of teaching kindergarteners, thinking of how long I've claimed my bathroom as my own.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Obama's campaign theme the "Audacity to Hope." It's intriguing how such a powerful slogan translates amid the average day's exposures. It is without a doubt that in our country we are at the point of desperation for a savior: a person who courageously defies the corrupt trellises that have made our country a palimpsest of shame. Yet the thing I fear is the word itself--audacity.

[me·ton·y·my--a figure of speech that consists of the use of the name of one object or concept for that of another to which it is related, or of which it is a part, as “scepter” for “sovereignty,” or “the bottle” for “strong drink,” or “count heads (or noses)” for “count people.” ]

Is audacity metonymical for America, and is that part of the reason why so many favor this candidate of keen game and masterful ego? We have the right to be audacious because we are American. We are individual self-seekers who will stop at nothing to attain the best there is to offer because we are emboldened by the sheer disposition that is American audacity. It is without a doubt this audacity has taken us places others in our world may never even fathom. Four cars a plot and the finest granite kitchens! The right to job security and a hopped up Stock Market! Female prostitute's Myspace pictures around every corner and the guilty politician's wife standing beside him!

Audacity! Audacity! Audacity!

It is our plight as Americans to embody audacity with all-mighty pen and sword.

Yesterday, a 5-year old student of mine faced major trauma during computer lab when he got the sudden urge to take a poop. Being that as the teacher I am the captain of all things bathroom (mind you although I do have a controlling personality, I don't pride myself on this variety of control) little Vincent popped up off his computer desk looking into my eyes desperately to report his need for the toilet.

"Go! Go!" I proclaimed.

He ran off, seemingly fearful of the natural force working its way through his rectum. I was astounded as to why. In my childhood, whenever such an occasion came without great strife, I felt sublime relief.

Soon he was back from the toilet, recruiting one of his peers to help. I sent a reliable munchkin to talk him through his dirty work. She quickly returned in desperate need of a male munchkin. In my thinking, Vincent may have just needed some verbal encouragement, who better to send then a kinder role model. They both came running back from the potty in utter despair.

"VINCENT'S IN TROUBLE! HELP! HELP!"

At that point it seemed a desperate time, dire enough for the aid of the teacher. I ran through the halls seeking out the bathroom, when finally, I came upon little Vincent, sitting atop a toilet brim full of healthy shit.

"What is wrong?"

In annoying child garble, Vincent muttered "Tissue... Tissue."

"It is right there. You can do it Vincent. You can!"

"Nooo. My grandma always wipes for me. You have to do it." Oh hell no I didn't. Not to a five year old.

He mustered up the courage to tear off some tee-pee. Wipe! Wipe!

"But how do I know it's all gone? Can you see it? Can you?"

Holy, holy shit.

Later on in the afternoon I observed Vincent asking a fellow classmate if he knew how to do his own tucous work. It must've been an epiphanous moment for him when the boy said, "Ya. Don't you?"

Since then I've wondered why his grandma decided to wipe for him for the past five years. I hope after such a traumatic time on the pot, he's discovered the audacity to do it himself.

dot eleven

You may wonder why I jump to "11." I begin with this number because while my fingers began to tap down on the keys, I thought of a pertinant moment with my 4 year old student today. One of the fundamental studies we cover are numbers and the beginning of addition. I've been trying to teach him "11" in a variety of ways. I got out color pencils to demonstrate a numeric situation and he insisted on building a house with them. Building his counter top was a crowning moment. After a few minutes I halted playtime to get back to the teaching at hand. He was ordering and identifying numbers 1-12 and today, like every other day we've tried to read 11, he got stuck.

"If you tell me the number, I'll let you play with my stamps."

"Uhhhh. . .uhh...ehhHH-LEVEN!!!"

When he comes upon something as important as the key to a reward, he likes to scream at the top of his little lungs. I'll admit it; I felt a bit like a sell-out, but my inkling that such an approach would deliver was just too strong to pass up. Give him some palpable incentives and the answers come spilling right out.

A similar situation occured earlier today when I decided to play a little trivia game with seventh graders on aspects of the five world religions. I happened to have some desperately old candy in my purse, but hell, it got their hot hands flying.

"What is the word for believing in many gods? What is the word for believing in one? Why is the cow sacred in the Hindu religion? What is the word for Jewish dietary laws? Answer them all and you will get a candy."

Boom, boom, boom.

There are always those kids that raise their hand every single damn time, never thinking that they will ultimately need an answer.

"I got it, pick me, pick me, PICK ME." Yes, you (I shoot a feeble point.)

"Uhh. . .uhh. . .I don't know."

Of course you don't know. You just got so excited about an incentive that it didn't even occur to you that you would have to do some thinking.

It wouldn't be fair to write an entirely cynical dot without sharing some of the sweeter bits of my day: an extremely caring and friendly student, a delicious lunch salad from my mom's kitchen, valentine making with Brie, and a heart swell from reading an old children's story with colorings done by my brother and me from when we were little kiddies.

Ma vie. . .

dot something

The weather has been so fickle today. Fat drops, light ones, sun beams, gray. I worked for three hours in a fifth grade classroom at my old elementary school this morning. It's a strange, subtle feeling I get being at Westhoff. Normally when I walk into a school the secretary asks me if I'm a student or a sub. They spit a little laugh into my face, and say, "Oh, good, the room's right over there." At Westhoff the office lady is still the same. She enquires about my family, and has a lovely smile.

Today, out of 35 students, one was Egyptian, two were Caucasian, and the rest were of Asian descent. I'm not sure what the exact racial background was when I went there. Indeed, the "make-up" has changed; the majority is vast. My college friend Stella told me she read in the LA Times that Chinese diplomats have moved to Walnut to learn about our cities government for the benefit of their own. I haven't researched this further, but I do wonder what makes Walnut distinctly attractive in this respect.

When I was in high school a news station came to report the utopian-like diversity of our community. I recall writing my essay to get into college with this vision of my background in mind. Growing up in Walnut instilled in me and my peers a great sense of multiculturalism. I feel reluctant to put it out there, but I’m curious if this sense is still enabled in environments such as the one at my old elementary school.

A few months ago I was heading out to a spot called the Library Bar with a dear friend of mine and some others. One girl acted shocked that I could’ve grown up in Walnut. As they spoke in their native language, I recall one of them saying, “She must be used to hearing it, living in Walnut.”

I didn’t feel awkward as an outsider. In fact, I felt very much on the inside, even if they did speak frankly about the difference in our descents. I’m sure the minorities in the classroom today feel the same. They may not know an Asian language or the family dynamics of their peers. But I’m certain they still view Walnut as their community.

I found it interesting last week. A teacher at another elementary school in the area had a pamphlet for the new “Buddhist church” to open on a street lined with other religious institutions of Christian origin. Some community members had voiced their concern about the architecture of the building—would it be as prominently Asian looking as the Buddhist temple in Hacienda Heights? Thankfully to some, the new facility would look more like a community center than a religious building. And what do you know, it’s also being called a church.

A friend of my mom recently wrote a book about Barack Obama’s position in the upcoming presidential election. The author, Shelby Steele, marks Obama a “bound man,” incapable of rising above the “politics of guilt and innocence generated by our painful racial history.”

In conversation with my grandpa this weekend, a former superintendent of schools through the eras of segregation and integration, he exposed his view that there are simply too many Americans who cannot see beyond the color of Obama’s skin, thereby making him unelectable. If America were to elect Obama, we may be viewed by the world as a nation who’s defied the force of racism.

I’d like to continue in my thoughts. Unfortunately I must squirm in the suburban traffic to get to my next location…

dot 6

I'm doubting the ability to type with fingers as frigid as mine. Why a home is so cold is beyond me. Today was spent with the children; sweet, concerned, conniving children. I was roving, meaning that wherever I was needed to relieve a teacher, I would be. 1st graders, pasting standarized testing scores into student files, 4th graders, 2nd graders. A day that sucks a certain juice out of me.

After an hour with questioning, "low group" 9 year olds, all willing and desperate to know the division of decimals without even understanding 20-18, or 5x3, I then went to count beans with 7 year olds also struggling with the concepts of adddition. It struck me as draining. The 7 year olds' teacher had an incentive method though. Get an answer, collect a pretzel! This seemed appealing at first, directing the children with pretzels. It quickly got old. Especially when I wanted to bark at the girl who asked in her sweet, syrupy voice But if we do this, can we get a pretzel?

"ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO ASK THOSE SORTS OF QUESTIONS...YOU?"

They expect me to know their names. Sometimes for the naive ones, nametags provide them with such disbelief. I can read your mind, sweet one. Then a saavier kid will chime in and let the truth hang out.

I was enquiring to my boyfriend the other day if he remembered when he lost his belief in Santa Claus. He recalled the moment sharply, when Heather DeFeather had blabbed the truth out in class. Crushed. My student Alex eagerly asked me the other day what I got from Santa Claus this year. Money and some earrings. That's it? A creme brulee machine. HAHAH, money! he laughed. I had a feeling he was squirming away his loss of faith.

Spending an hour with a 7 year old and then another with a 4 year old every day can be something else. I'd like to report that Brian, the little one, presented phonemic awareness today. I was peachy. A is for Apple and Q is for Queen. I won't deny that it was the Hooked on Phonics program that made it all transpire. I decided today was the day we focus on letter sounds instead of names, and with the flashy computer screen and power mouse controller, he was on his way. It was enlivening to be a part of. Then he demanded I read two books, instead of barely getting through one. Hurricanes and tornadoes, topics that he fancies.

Now I'm watching Jack Nicholson in his sexy years as a cuckold's detective in Chinatown. The bath is seducing me with all its heat energy potential. I'm curious what happened to the popularity of a broach.

dot five

on this winter day in january i'm lying out in the sun. green mountains, a long white picket fence in the distance, glaring blue pool water in my short view. dynamic clouds.

i took an exam this morning to become a teacher of adolescents. quite a long, fat exam. rich with important knowledge, i now conclude.

to know the colonization of California, the science of a lunar eclipse, the necessary cognitative development of a child. to be familiar with post- World War II economy, the personification in Neruda's prose, the discussion of force and gravity.

let's hope i passed.

in the next one-half year of my life, i am free to do whatever i want. in this moment, i believe i know what that means. things sometimes can become muddled. however right now is where i ought to be.

dy·nam·ic /daɪˈnæmɪk/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[dahy-nam-ik] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–adjective Also, dy·nam·i·cal.

1. pertaining to or characterized by energy or effective action; vigorously active or forceful; energetic: the dynamic president of the firm.
2. Physics.
a. of or pertaining to force or power.
b. of or pertaining to force related to motion.
3. pertaining to the science of dynamics.
4. of or pertaining to the range of volume of musical sound.
5. Computers. (of data storage, processing, or programming) affected by the passage of time or the presence or absence of power: Dynamic memory must be constantly refreshed to avoid losing data.
6. Grammar. nonstative. –noun
7. a basic or dynamic force, esp. one that motivates, affects development or stability, etc.

what a multi-faceted word.