Safe Space

 As I was stripping the hallway walls of the book report posters and enjoying the momentary respite before the bell would call the wild denizen out to run free for five minutes, my mind began to wander about the upcoming year. Everyone is always so hopeful that the next new crop will be good kids. They will complete their work on time. They will be inquisitive and will love math and reading. My books will disappear off my shelf because they sneak them out to read, and keep them by their bedside for the whole year, not because they lose them at the the bottom of their locker eventually tossing them into the lost and found as though my name were not on it. They will be quiet and stay in their seats and not need to go to the water fountain, bathroom, or locker every few minutes to escape. 

This made me think about our loud student. The one we all know even though we don't have her in our own class. It dawned on me that she will not have an audience. How will she get the attention she needs? Then I thought about the bully. I wonder who will be protecting him from his bullies -- the ones who taught him how to pick on others. I thought about my little friend who, when given free time, hunts me down and corners me to show me his art, or computer program, or story that he wrote instead of playing with the other children. Who will be there for him to share?  There's my genius chess player, who loves to shout and make funny noises to make people laugh. Will he be all alone studying all summer? Lastly there is my negative Nancy. A glass half empty person, her every response to "how was your weekend" was always "Terrible." All she does is complain about having to take care of her sisters by making breakfast before school and dinner after school. Will she now be their all day caregiver, cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner without anytime for herself nor anyone her age to play with. 

As happy as I am for school to end to get away from all the ones that were problematic, I am in reality worried about them as each and every behavior good or bad comes from home first, and I pray they have peace until they can get back to this safe space called school.

The Reluctant Student

 She is a force to be reckoned with.  She transferred into my class two months after the start of the year , but had no fear. She has a quick tongue and wants nothing more than to let it be known that she is in the room. Unlike the other girls who wear cropped tops or tees that are twisted into a knot in the back to show their waists or shirts that cut wide at the neck to bare their shoulders, she wears long skirts to her ankles and hoodies that hide everything else.  A clear sign that some type of ultra strict religion is involved. I noticed her body turned slightly away from my book display at Halloween where I placed books about the Day of the Dead and Day of the Dead Barbie dolls from my exclusive Barbie doll collection. I removed them and then went further to remove my Harry Potter Collection. She never said they bothered her, but when I pointed out that I sensed her discomfort and had moved them, she grabbed me and gave me the biggest hug.  

My student does not get get grades. Other teachers thought she was a struggling student. I sensed otherwise. She doesn't like to do the work, so she doesn't. It has become a battle of wills. When asked why she doesn't, she says she has to take care of  her four siblings until her mother gets home. When I threatened to email parents of those who had not done their work, she goaded me." Go ahead, she won't answer. She never reads it anyway." She was right. 

I tell her I don't care, I am going to stay on her and not let her fail, and she smiles. But she still did not write the essay.

Every question is answered with negativity. When I ask how was your weekend, or day, or evening, she always says, "Terrible." When I create a silly morning question of the day about which is better, Adidas or Nike, she quips, "Neither, they are an overpriced waste of money."  No matter the discussion, she shouts out the loudest most pessimistic phrase she can muster.

For spring break she complained because her family was going to Peru and that it was going to be horrible while I tried to engage her in conversations about seeing her grandmother to no avail.  

Upon their return from spring break, I circulated around the room to ask my other students how they spent their weekend. She actually said the first positive thing ever. She said it was better than she expected. And when I finally had spoken to every child and returned to my desk, I couldn't believe what I found. I looked up and across the room at her and saw her looking at me side-eyed with a sly little smile on her face.  There in the center, sat the most beautiful hand painted mug from Peru. 

A Stinky Rascal

 March 5, 2026

A Stinky Rascal

They say be careful what you wish for. 

I am an artist. I draw, paint, and write. And I do each one fairly well. No, I do not live my life in a profession that allows me to hone these skills/hobbies/talents/gifts. Well, I suppose one might say I do as I try to teach 75 totally uninterested sixth graders the long lost and quickly disappearing art of writing due to AI. Instead, I live my life feeling stifled by a lack of time to ever perform any of them, (this writing aside of course.) In the last year, I made a pledge to myself to make time. So I re-read the Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and proceeded to spend the entire summer writing Morning Pages. I spent afternoons working on and finishing a short story that I vowed to publish on Amazon KDP – no it’s not there yet, but at least I finished. I purposely chose a short story to allay the overwhelming feeling of tackling a whole novel while I’m in this baby step phase of reclaiming my long lost loves.  I also began painting. I painted tiny little pictures that were portable for my upcoming first art fair. You see, I have an MFA and used to paint on canvases that were 4’x3’ at the smallest and 4’x7’ at the tallest. That will not happen again. It literally takes a room to store all those paintings from grad school 25 years ago that I cannot seem to part with. (Emotional attachment is real.) But I digress, so as I near retirement I have vowed to start honing my skills to prepare for a life of artistry in my leisure time. I will write, and create works of art. 

Well, someone got wind of my talent, maybe it was the art fair, maybe it was me seeking praise and confirmation for my long lost art skills. And now I have been invited to show at a huge fundraiser. I am to stand there and perform like a trained monkey painting on site (something I would never do), while displaying other completed pieces that I have not even started yet because I was also given a theme to paint. Meanwhile, people who do not value true art but want a piece of it will clamor for me to sell it at ridiculously devalued prices as if it is a machine made giclee print being sold in TJ Maxx for $40.00. Even if I sell it at a very reasonable $500 for time, materials, framing, and execution. The organization will want their cut to go towards their scholarships. 

Maybe that's why I dreamed last night that I went out foraging. I came in and some mushrooms fell out of my bag. Then, I put it in the corner, and it began to move. Next a baby skunk crawled out and before I could react, a baby racoon popped its head out of the bag too. I guess something stinks, and I am going to be dealing with a relentless mischievous rascal. Be careful what you wish for.

The View

All of my  blogs used to be funny because I love to laugh at myself and make others laugh in the process. However, tonight I was going to write about the  deplorable treatment of my mom in her nursing home, and I stopped. It is far from funny. It would depress me, and you would not want to read it. Besides, I would not have enough time to write about it anyway.

Then I decided to write about my son, there always used to be some funny scenario to share about growing tweens. However as I wracked my brains, I realized that there is nothing funny because he has reached the start of brooding teenaged funks! He mopes past me and grunts barely audible answers to any question I pose.

Lastly, there’s my husband, I am sure that there is a story there however, I am so busy teaching, taking care of mom, going to class, and grading papers or creating lessons that I scarce see him enough to experience anything funny. (Though I will say that my newly retired husband had the audacity to nudge me in an electronic game of scrabble because I had not made time to make my move.)

Which brings me to my final thought on this situation which is quickly becoming the norm and beginning to overtake my weekly submissions.

Last week, I couldn’t find the time to write at all, and the week before that I wrote a poem about… well, not having anything to write about.  The week before that it was a short paragraph about not having time to write… and the week before that I squeezed in a very short paragraph after school and before the parents arrived on Back to School Night.

And now here I sit basically filling this blank space with more banter on not being able to write due to time constraints as I watch the big hand near the 12 on the clock and my grad professor turning on her presentation.

Sadly, as I perch here straddling this window sill called SOL Tuesdays, looking out at all the other wonderful writers running past my house, I feel like Esperanza’s grandmother in House on Mango Street, who “looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.” Life has a tight grip on my leg pulling me back, so it can board up the opening through which I have been trying my best to escape these past few weeks since finding you

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Breaking a Leg!

The time is 5:45. I am anxious…anxious and tired. Although, this day comes every year for the past ten years, and I know I have made it through alive and unscathed, I am still nervous. What is it you say? Why it’s Back to School Night of course! This is the night when we face all 75 (or 150 if you teach the block schedule) parents.

Why am I anxious, you ask? Well, we teachers fear being cornered for an impromptu parent teacher conference, or questioned as if we will not challenge their student enough. We fear technological glitches that leave us putting on an impromptu dog and pony show without cue cards. We fear our presentation being too short leaving us as vulnerable as a president being pressed at a press conference. However, the night goes on… (and on, I might add), and we make it through somehow. And so, I shall tonight – I hope. Thus, this is a short blog tonight because the time has come; I must end because in six minutes, the show must go on. Wish me luck – or maybe I should say “tell me to break a leg!” B

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