Divorce-iversary

Being your ex-wife is pretty wonderful. It’s better than being a wife ever was… except for the part where I realize the amazing adventurous, kind, patient and infinitely generous version of you that I see now -the one someone else has brought out in you- is the one that I wanted to be married to. It’s not that I am giving her the credit for your metamorphosis, not entirely anyway, but I do truly believe that in a healthy and successful couple-ship, partners bring out the best in each other, you inspire one another to be more of who you really are, underneath all the neurosis and insecurities and the whateveries. And most importantly you encourage each other to keep growing.

So I am happy for you that you’ve found that, that you have that kind of relationship in your life because you deserve to be happy, to be loved like that.

But I guess despite the passage of time, I still don’t really understand why we couldn’t do that for each other. I only know that we didn’t.

I only know that the variable that changed in the you + me = not-very-happily-ever-after is replacing me, and now the equation is much more successful. I feel sad and confused and –as is such a common sensation for me- like I fucked it all up.

Also I never really realized how much you liked me, like as a human being not just as a romantic partner, or how much you paid attention to me and the things that I value and care about. I didn’t know. You never told me before, but I also didn’t ask.

When we divorced I seriously questioned whether or not I ever loved you, whether or not I had ever loved anyone, but what I have come to realize is that I was asking myself the wrong question. It is so obvious to me that I loved you, I have loved many many people. In fact, loving is something that comes very easily to me. It’s my super human power. The question I really needed to be asking myself was whether I’ve let those people love me back, whether I was able to accept their love. I didn’t trust you to love me. I kept waiting for you to break my heart, and ultimately I ended up breaking my own.

So now we hang out together as a family and tell stories about “Remember when…” and it’s cute and easy, and I wonder why it ever seemed so damn hard. The conclusion that I keep circling back to is it’s got to be me, not that I am unlovable, but rather I don’t know how to be loved. I know I am loved. That is not the same thing as letting someone love you.

I know you are never going to go salsa dancing with me, we likely wont ever carry a full conversation in Spanish, my taste in movies will forever provoke protest, etc. Ultimately, I see what has always been true: that we make such great friends, that is what we were always meant to be, and I am so grateful that we get to keep being friends. And seeing you be amazing in your new relationship gives me hope, that I didn’t ruin you, that I am not ruined, and that someday when I fall in love with someone new, someone who will dance with me, I will learn to let them love me back. That maybe I will learn to love myself as much as they do, as much as you did.

Mis cejas

He told me I have nice eyebrows. Eyebrows. Not you have beautiful eyes or I like your smile or I love your laugh or even damn girl your ass looks good in those jeans. Nope. Eyebrows. He likes my eyebrows. It is the most random complement I have ever received, but I don’t really care because I’m not interested anyway. I told him thank you, and let him know that I was with someone else… which in that moment, was no longer actually true, but I didn’t feel the need to explain that to him. Later while we were dancing, he asked me if my boyfriend would be jealous. I raised my eyebrows. Boyfriend? No te dije novio. Dije novi-a. I turned under his arm. ¿Eres bisexual? He asked. I nodded. We continued dancing. ¿Ella es bella? He wanted to know. Sí. I replied. He leaned in for a spot turn and with a flirtatious grin, asked ¿Más qué tú? I nodded emphatically. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ¿De verdad? I stopped dancing and looked him in the eyes: Yes, she really is.

But what I really wanted to tell him was that she made me nervous from the very first moment I saw her. Nervous in that way that fills your stomach with a strange fluttery feeling, and I knew even from across the room that I was in trouble. Then she smiled and I melted. It took me two weeks to even get up the courage to talk to her, and then magically one day, I got her phone number in an uncharacteristically sly and unassuming way, and she got mine, and we haven’t stopped talking since.

I wanted to tell him that loving her has made me a better person. I have been small and powerful, gigantic and fragile and everything in between. My heart has become a kinder, more inviting place. I have grown more patient. I have learned to give better hugs, to sit with terrible and watch it transform, and to not take so much so personally, especially when angry. I have learned to be vulnerable and let others bear witness to my own sadness. And to not always be so strong and solitary.

The way I interact and empathize with others has changed because of my interactions with her, and if I were to tell her all of this, she would brush it off, not acknowledge that she has been any sort of positive influence, and she would tell me I am prettier than her. But gifts don’t always know they are gifts. We can’t always see the light and warmth we emanate.

~~~

And as I was typing this I received a call, notifying me that my grandfather had passed away. I told my son what had happened, and he was thoughtful for a moment before he said earnestly: It is a good thing he died after Christmas. My maternal grandfather had passed away on Christmas day when I was a child, so I had to agree, but I was curious to hear his reasoning, so I asked him why, and he told me: Because that way he didn’t miss out on getting presents!

Presents. Presents are pretty important when you are five, so in his own five-year-old logic, my son was showing a great deal of empathy for his great-grandpa, but what it immediately made me think of is the way people talk about the present as a gift. I started thinking about presents and the present and this one brief and delicate life we are given. And I realized that the best way to celebrate the life of my grandfather is to live like every single day is Christmas. Like unless we live our life as if we are driving a stolen car we are not living it. Like being loved and loving others as often and as honestly as possible might be the best present we could ever hope to unwrap. Like no matter how it turns out, loving another person with your whole heart is never a mistake. Like being heartbroken is really just an opportunity for your heart to grow bigger.

Sit with me

I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot lately. Seeing him show up in surprising ways like the face my son made at dinner last night in exactly the same way my father would have if he had been there. Or like when I was searching for a recent email in my inbox that I needed to respond to and my search pulled up a chain of correspondences with my dad about Christmas, the one that ended up being his last. Five years later I miss him. I don’t think that missing ever really stops. It just changes.

I remember when he was dying and we would go and sit with him and watch TV. I hated it. It felt like such a waste of time. I mean he’s dying and we are sitting and watching some bullshit TV show. I didn’t get it. I was uncomfortable. I was young. Nothing really made sense, and I was frustrated. I wanted to do something, but there was nothing for me to do, but sit there. Why did I need to be here to watch him watching TV?! I didn’t feel like I was needed. I felt like I was just in the way and that the best thing I could do was to be independent and on my own so at least I would be one less thing he needed to worry about. And there was plenty to worry about. So I left.

It was only after he died that I started to understand the value of sitting with people, on the phone or in person. Sitting with you means I value you, it means I don’t need you to be or do anything other than you are, it means even though I could be doing a lot of other things I am sitting here with you because you matter to me. This is a lesson I am learning again with my son. He is always wanting me to play Legos with him, but what playing Legos means is he plays Legos and I sit and watch. It. Is. So. Boring. And I often think: Why does he even want me here? He’s not actually playing with me. Sometimes I build my own creations, and sometimes I try to help him, but usually we play beside each other not with each other. I can last for about 20 minutes before the anxiety of everything else I could be doing while he is playing independently takes over and I creep away to do the laundry, write an email, etc. Then he usually ends up following me, asking me to come back and play with him.

What I’ve realized though is that he doesn’t really need me to play Legos (clearly he is quite skilled at this) he just wants me near, wants to be noticed, wants to know that I am there, that I will be there. So now when I’ve hit my max of sitting idle, I’ve started bringing the laundry into his room to fold, writing my emails or lesson plans or whatever while I sit next to him. He keeps playing, occasionally pausing to ask for assistance in locating a particular Lego piece or to show me his new invention.

It’s the same reason we ask friends to go shopping with us, why we want them at our sports events, why dancing is always more fun when my friends come along even if they don’t actually dance. Because I don’t need 100% of your attention 100% of the time. I just need you to be here, to remind me that I am real, that I matter enough for you to sit here with me whether I am happy, sad or too confused to even know what I feel.

I can’t sit with my dad anymore. I wish I had sat with him more, and that’s not something I can fix, but I am grateful that this experience helped me learn how to be comfortable with being uncomfortable, with feeling inadequate and unproductive and to. keep. sitting. anyway.  Quality time looks like a lot of different things, sometimes it even looks like sitting in silence next to someone you love because there really is nothing to be said, your presence is all that is required.

Two minutes

The truth is I am moody. I need a lot of time to process events before I decide how I feel about them, and the busier I am the more unrealistic this “think time” becomes and so I wander around with all my emotions jumbled up in my tummy.

I storm, moody, brooding, and usually, I’m not even sure why… at least not immediately.

I have enough self-awareness to know that my response is a disproportionate reaction to whatever just happened, the thing that set me off, but I am too far-gone to find the real cause. Everything is overwhelming and nothing will make it better, and I want everyone and everything to GO AWAY! I don’t want you to touch or try to cheer me up. And I don’t want to explain myself because nothing makes sense anyway.

She watches me stomp around the room, cleaning because I’m pissed and I need to create order. The chaos of my inner terrain suddenly seeming manageable if I could just get the house straightened up, if only the toys were put away. I can feel her watching me, but I ignore her because I am pretty sure I am mad at her too even though as I fume around I cant really articulate why. I can’t think. It doesn’t matter. It’s her fault anyway… probably.

Finally, when I have put the room back together, she says from her seat on the couch “Come here” with her arms outstretched. I turn halfway in the direction of her voice and eye her suspiciously with a sidelong glance. Undeterred, she says “Just for two minutes.” Without wanting to, my feet, ignoring the stubborn hurt devouring my stomach, begin to propel me towards her. “I’ll even time it for you,” she says messing with her phone. I slide in beside her on the couch. Effortlessly my head finds its place in the curve of her neck. With my ear to her chest, I can hear her heartbeat. With my hand resting on her abdomen, I can feel her breathing. And slowly I forget everything that came before the moment I found myself. right. here. The two minutes pass, and now I don’t want to move. I don’t know why I was upset before. I don’t care. I just want to live here. Forever. Or for at least as long as possible.

It took twenty-seven years to realize that most of the time, I don’t need to fix or defend anything. I just need to be held. And it took someone as moody as me to be brave enough to offer, and when I resisted, to insist in such a way that I could no longer refuse.

Heartsore and Hungry

Everyday in kindergarten I tell my students: “There are no boy colors or girl colors. There are only colors and you are allowed to use whatever color you want.” We have a new student. Today he started to make fun of one of the other boys: “You got pink (laughs) that’s a girl color!” The whole table said in unison “They’re just colors. He can use whatever color he wants.” Schooled. A few minutes later, same child looked around, reached into the box and picked out a pink crayon, smiled and started coloring. Social progress is sometimes harder to measure than test scores, but equally as valuable.

Evidence that I have at least accomplished some small token of equity. Most days I feel like I don’t really have anything to offer them. What I mean is I have no idea what I am doing. And doing my best just doesn’t feel… well, very good.

On the worst days when I am sure that I am utterly failing them academically, when I am so tired and frustrated that I sit down and sigh, put my hands to my face and rub my eyes in front of them, when I yell so much my voice is hoarse and cracking by lunchtime, I wonder why I am here. I wonder who the hell thought I was qualified to help these children learn. anything. ever. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s not that I don’t understand the importance of early childhood education. I care more than I could ever explain, and I know exactly why ECE is critical to children’s future success in life.

The problem is that most of the time my knowledge gap feels greater than theirs, and I want to be good at this like yesterday. No, I want to be great at this. I want to be transformative, but most days I feel mediocre at best.

I spend my lunch organizing their binders and backpacks. I spend my planning time calling parents. I wake up way too early and go to sleep way too late. I barely see my own child. And I still have yet to find the light and joy that I led myself to believe would come easily to me. Teaching kindergarten is a lot like being a mother… just with 44 of my own children instead of one. Fortunately, I’ve yet to be judged by my son’s academic success (that comes later) so in some ways being a mother is actually less pressure.

The joy of mothering is sometimes big and shining, but it mostly exists in the tiny unseen moments like yesterday when I gave my son a hug and said I love you, as he left my classroom to begin his day. He told me “I know mama. I know you love me no matter what.” That. That is what gets me through the agonizingly rough times in mamaland, and trust me, there are plenty.

Love is often (always?) the only thing I can offer my students. I love them as if they were my own children. Love them from a fierce and quiet place that will not let go. That’s got to be worth something. It’s not a conscious decision. In fact, I feel as though my love for them is completely beyond my control. I have no choice in the matter. In the same way I fell in love with my son before he was born, I loved my students when they were just names on a list, bags of school supplies in my empty classroom.

In my room by the door, at adult eye-level, I have a quote from Audre Lorde which reads: “The learning process is something you can incite, literally incite, like a riot.” The riot, I think, lives inside of me. I put that quote up to inspire me to teach, but everyday I see it and think that truthfully it refers to my learning process rather than theirs. On the opposite wall is the clock and in between a great lucha. I am fighting for my students, fighting with them, fighting my way upstream. No, really you do want to learn this. You can learn this. You must learn this. I must learn how to teach you this.

And my love for my students is the driving force. My love is like a one-woman riot. Underweight and bone-achingly tired, I kneel at the base of an enormous and unrelenting wall, my heart in my hand like a hammer against the coarse bricks. This is all I have to offer, everything that I am, and it seems like so little in the face of such adversity.

And when I start to think it will never be enough, that I can not go on, they bring me yellow flowers to put in my hair at recess, and the “worst” kid looks up at me while we are waiting for everyone to get quiet in line, stares innocently into my eyes and says: I love you. And I know he means it.

Almost There

We’ve been here before (or a moment like it) and survived. We always survive, so I know we’ll be okay. The difficult part is that I didn’t expect to be here again. This was supposed to be our direct path out and up, but I am finding it to be less straight and narrow than I had anticipated. I am still standing heels dug in the ground pushing pushing pushing this big ass boulder up that damned proverbial hill wondering why I ever told myself it was going to get easier.

I am here with no money, no car and a meticulously constructed support system now 3,000 miles away. I am no longer able to say definitively when it will get better, only knowing that it must and so it will because I will do whatever it takes to make sure my son is safe and nourished.  I want a life in which he thrives, not just survives, and I believe in our ability to thrive. I believe it is every child’s fundamental right to thrive.

I value planning. I am -as my good friend says- a plannity planner, but I have learned over and over that even my best plans are often derailed, so I have learned how to weather the storm, to survive, to keep pushing forward. And this is how I found myself trembling and terrified in yet another situation for which I was unprepared and inexperienced. But I believe in the power of perseverance, and so literally sitting in the driver’s seat of my future with my past packed in a storage pod being towed behind me, frustrated and flustered that this was not the plan, I took a deep breath and let out an exasperated sigh at the reality of my situation. My son, sitting patiently beside me, asked: “What? What happened, mamá?” since he is now as accustomed as I am to there always being something.

I believe in treating children as the real people that they are, and this includes speaking to them with honesty and humility, so I looked into his sweet 5 yr old face and said: “I’m scared.” He looked alarmed. I paused and took another deep breath. “But you know what?!” I asked. “It’s okay to be scared. Sometimes even when we are scared we have to do things anyway. That’s called being brave, so mommie is going to be brave because-“ I turned and looked into his chocolate brown eyes “-because I know we are going to be okay.” He nodded and sat pensively for a moment as I silently searched for the internal strength to do what I had promised. As I reached to put the keys in the ignition, he said: “Mamá, I’m not scared.” “Oh…?” I said hesitantly, unsure of how to respond. “No” he replied with determination “I’m not scared because I know you can do it.” I looked back at him with teary eyes, and we both smiled.

We haven’t yet arrived at the good life as I had imagined, but maybe arriving isn’t a realistic expectation because we are always in the process of creating it, of molding it, of growing into it. I don’t know, but I do know that whatever happens, wherever we end up, there will always be enough love to get us through, to keep us pushing forward.

Unrequited

To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.

~ Federico García Lorca

I moved across the country for a job. Not just any job but a career, an all-consuming one. I moved to have a better life for my son and to do work that is making a tangible difference in the lives and education of children in the United States. I did not come here to “hook up” with anyone.

Friends and acquaintances, who are familiar with the history of my less than stellar dating experiences, told me I would find a nice man in Texas. In response, I mostly tried to keep myself from audibly rolling my eyes and would instead smile politely and say something along the lines of: “Well, I’m going to be really busy, so I don’t think I will have time for that anyway.” I also kept myself from saying that I might be just as happy to find a nice woman in Texas because that hasn’t been, until recently, a conversation I have been comfortable having openly.

But that is neither here nor there because what happened is while I was busy taking my self so seriously and not at all looking for romance, I met my soul mate. The problem is that he doesn’t know.

It turns out my friends were right: I did meet a “nice man” in Texas. I traveled 3,000 miles to fall for a guy who is from the same state I left, the same city, the same university. We even know some of the same people, but we met for the first time here. at an elementary school. in Texas. Oh the irony.

When we met, we geeked out about dual language education, about how important it is and how it can change the world. We bonded over tattoos, Northwest culture and our love of Jarritos. We have spent hours talking about any and everything. We have the same weird, often inappropriate, sense of humor, and for maybe the second time in my life I have that feeling of coming home, of being home, just by being in the presence of a particular person. And it’s beautiful… and confusing.

We sit together on the bus on the way to and from school almost everyday. We have dinner together. During training sessions he will come sit with me and/or he will come and find me during breaks and between classes. He walks me to my room, holds my things when I have too many, etc. We spend a great deal of our “free time” together, and we can’t seem to sit a normal distance away from each other. Some part of us is always touching, even if we start out separated, within minutes we have moved together. Our knees touch while we eat dinner. Sometimes I pull away to test and see if it’s just by coincidence, but his leg always finds mine again. He doesn’t do that with anyone else. Yes, I’ve checked.

When we are together, we are like two peas in a pod. We have inside jokes and conversations other people can’t follow. I mean, seriously, we are fucking adorable.

And I’m pretty sure he is mi medianaranja… but sadly, he does not see it.

Maybe it is because I am not blonde or maybe it is because I have a kid or maybe it is because I don’t party or some other multitude of somethings, but the point is he’s not interested in me…  at least I don’t think so. I haven’t actually been able to get a straight answer… which of course is the answer. And pushing for an answer has only resulted in pushing him away.

And today when we did finally sit down to have “the talk,” it was clear that regardless of the numerous indications to the contrary, friend was all he ever intended to be. Unfortunately, friendship now feels very awkward.

So in the span of a few short weeks, I found a rare someone with whom I felt a profound connection, but then essentially I lost him, solely because I wanted to keep him… this person I wasn’t expecting to find, because I wasn’t even looking.