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the quiet room

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The kids sat, desks spread out throughout the classroom, concentrating on their work. Work they didn’t want to do. Didn’t have to do. If only they’d simply behaved. Work they were doing as a punishment for their uncooperative behavior.

The teacher also sat writing notes, ideas about upcoming lessons. Her back was aching from hunching over. Her eyes scanned the room, watching the kids. She wondered why a last ditch incentive didn’t curb their misconduct like it did with most of their peers. Peers who were in another room enjoying the reward of staying focused, putting in their best effort. Why does it seem to be a joke, a given right to misbehave with this group of kids?

She reflected on herself as a youth. A young girl who simply followed the rules, followed directions and was respectful to those around her, especially the adults. Especially her teacher. Not these kids. They defy everything, say they don’t need to listen, and Who cares! And she knows that is a big part of the problem. Who does care? Anyone? Is there an effort to teach them to be productive and valuable individuals? Or does it not matter? Just give these kids whatever they want and assume everything will turn out okay.

The teacher knows, though, that it won’t be okay unless someone besides herself, at this moment, during this year, and more importantly, throughout their life, sets boundaries and maintains some sort of structure in their lives. Everyone plays a role in the growth of each child. Everyone involved.

The kids are tired, she notices, just like she is. Some of them look up, look at her, but then quickly bow their heads, returning to their work, defeated. She wishes she can change everything, make them understand the importance of responsibility; but, they just roll their eyes at her, not accepting her explanation.

For the moment, they are quiet here in the quiet room. Working because she told them to, because they have no choice, because she has expectations. But, when the bell rings, alerting them that their day is done, the kids spring from their seats, and once outside, return to their shenanigans.

Tomorrow is another day she tells herself. A chance to try again.

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zoom

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Moises zooms around the school’s field, passing all the other fifth graders. He checks behind him to see who is on his tail. There’s Jesse, neck-in-neck with Flavio, competing for the second place spot. And finally, right behind them, Leticia tags in, her face red with a light film of sweat covering her brow. All the other kids are either jogging a slow pace, or walking and chatting, not putting much effort into their morning routine before heading into the classroom.

There are only 27 days left of the school year, and just as some of the students zoom around the grassy ground every morning, another year of learning and expanding the sponge-like minds of such impressionable people has zoomed by oh-so quickly. It all began with hellos and soon the goodbyes will be heard as the final bell rings. One full year wrapped up, not with crisp streamed-lined edges, not perfect, or even the best presentation; but, one year, 180 zoom! zoom! days.

by

YOLO

ice cream truck

Oh, those crazy crazy boys. Making plans to hop onto the back of the soon-to-be-passing-by ice cream truck. They sat on the curb, watching as it rounded the corner a block down.

“Okay, this is it!” one kid shouted.

“You Only Live Once!” the second kid, the younger brother yelled in response.

Tra-la-la-Ding-ding-Ring-a-ling went the megaphone stationed at the top of the moving freezer. Up ahead, the driver saw a group of kids standing on the curb, waving to him. He stopped, smiled, and asked each and every kid what his or her preference was. Including the two crazy crazy boys. One chose a Bomb Pop, the other grabbed a flavored Snow Cone.

As the ice cream man waved and slowly pulled away, those two not-so-silly boys climbed onto the rear bumper, grabbing hold of a protruding metal bar. The rest of the well-behaved kids just watched, in awe of the bravery they were witnessing. Until, well, when the truck rounded the next corner, the brothers fell off, scratching arms and legs. Battering heads and faces.

While those crazy crazy boys spent the evening in the emergency room, the other kids were given a second helping of oh-so-yummy ice cream.

by

x-ing

walk sign

There I was, little miss twelve year old, standing on the corner of a busy boulevard, pressing the walk button, and leaning a 5-speed bike against my left hipbone. I was watching the traffic flow by, waiting patiently for the WALK sign to illuminate. The opposing traffic’s light turned red, and-not-a-second-later the capital letters blinked, prompting me to forge ahead.

Hands firmly planted on the handlebars, my left foot on the left pedal, my right foot pushed off the ground, setting me in motion; then, my leg swung over the narrow seat so I could straddle it. The spin of the pedals rotated the chain, moving me and the bike forward. About half-way across BAM! a car struck me, knocking me to the ground, where my head smashed onto the paved road. I was knocked unconscious, for-how-long-I-don’t-know-but-not-too-long, when suddenly I opened my eyes, rubbed my head, and realized I was causing a traffic jam.

I was extremely embarrassed.

I stood up, and-was-probably-helped-by-someone-but-I-can’t-remember-those-details, then I wobbled my way to the opposing corner from which I had come. Next thing I knew medics were asking me if I was okay. Still overwhelmingly self-conscious I told them yes, looked up and saw my brother Greg standing there, probably by happenstance. I didn’t need any medical attention I adamantly told them, that I just wanted to walk home.

My brother rushed into the house alerting my parents to the fact I had been hit by a car as I was crossing the street. As any parent would, my mom gasped and checked me over, finding a deep gash in my head. I was taken to the hospital where I received some stitches to close up the hole created when I fell.

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william

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     Bill, maybe 7-8 years old.                                                    A partial Bill, on the far left.

Four young kids. Three boys and a girl. Brothers and a sister. That’s who we were. Soaking up the sun for a week. Darkening our light-colored skin, naturally. We woke in the morning, ate a quick meal, and spent the day using our imagination. Exploring our sandy world. We’d walk up and down the beach, and occasionally stop to investigate a bunch of seaweed that had washed ashore. We’d take turns using the only boogie-board available to us, watching each other fall off, flipping into the crashing waves. And, building sand castles using small styrofoam cups was a must-do. So much happened throughout those long days. So much of not much.

William, who was never called that name, but was instead referred to as Bill, was the oldest at thirteen years old. My brother Christopher, nicknamed Kit, was somewhere in the eleven-age range. I was ten, and my youngest brother, Andy, was seven. At the day’s end, our aunt would call to us, having come down from her home on the hill, to come on in! to have dinner with her and our uncle. Suddenly realizing how hungry we felt, we’d run up the slight incline, rinse ourselves off with the hose in front of their long and narrow beach house, wrap a towel around our small frames, change into some dry clothes, and then sit at the dining room table for a home-cooked meal.

I remember it was Bill who smiled at me, made me feel better, when my aunt seemed mad when I wouldn’t eat the canned peaches she served for dessert. Cling peaches with a little whipping cream. I politely told her I don’t like peaches. Not even if it was candy. My aunt grunted when she took my dish away. Bill’s smile widened.

During those carefree days, those fun-in-the sun days, no one, not anyone, knew that six years later Bill would die in a car accident.

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vital

gardener's sons

The gardener’s young son stood out in front of the house, trying with all his might to get his two year old brother into the burnt orange stroller.

Their mom had just dropped them off, so that, I suppose, she could get herself to a mandatory meeting, of some sort.

It took every bit of strength for the older boy to finally lock his wee brother inside the confines of the stroller’s padding. As he spun the stroller slowly around and around, his dad emerged from a side gate. He’d been in the backyard pruning some bushes, and waved, knowing that his boys were there waiting for him.

He walked into the street, crossing to the other side, heading for a neighboring house. The older boy sprinted after his dad, up the steep driveway, using the strength of his arms and legs to forge ahead, pushing the stroller and his brother up to the top. He stopped in front of the red brick porch steps, and pressed his foot down on the latch to lock the stroller in place. He sat there with his brother while his dad finished his gardening duties.

The vitality of their situation seemed predetermined. The need of a husband and wife to work together, to get things done.

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unite

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Two birds are perched on an ivy covered fence. Below, two cats are sprawled out on the cemented pool deck; their snooze-fest interrupted by the birds swooping down, each taking a turn at a dive-bomb, as if teasing the somber felines. Are the birds upset that the coal-black cat caught, and shook the life out of, one of their companions? Is that why they have decided that it might be worth it to antagonize the pretty kitties? Who knows? But it seems the kitty cats are willing to play. One stretches her body at full length, pretending not to notice the swirling birds, yet she keeps one eye firmly focused on the winged specimen. The other multicolored cat springs into the air, clasping her front paws in anticipation of grabbing hold of a bird in flight. No such luck. Both birds chirp, chirp, chirp while sitting safely above their arch-enemies. The domesticated animals unite, paw to paw, nose to nose, as if planning some kind of strategy to trap the birds. The birds seem to do the same thing. Each tilts its head toward the other, as if whispering. Suddenly, both birds soar low, straight towards the fluffy felines, and just as both cats snap their legs, hoping to jail the birds, the birds swing back up towards the sky, and then they circle around, landing once again on top of the sturdy fence. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Meow!

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time

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There was a time when I would read to Bradford. Read him children books. To engage him. To bring forth his imagination. We would sit together, on his small bed, leaning against pillows, a book opened, spread across both our laps. I’d ask him questions, explain passages, and laugh with him while looking at funny illustrations.

But now, Brad reads to me. Reads books for middle-schoolers. Engaging me. Bringing forth my imagination. We sit together at the kitchen table, each of us holding our own book. And, like I would when he was younger, I’d ask him questions, explain passages, and, instead of looking at illustrations, we’d each imagination the scene within our own thoughts.

Time flies…. Way. Too. Fast.

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size

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he had barely joined the ranks

as a teenager

when he walked into his favorite skater store

strolling along, passing shirts, pants, and boards

heading straight to the shoe arena

where he browsed, walked back and forth, inspecting various styles

until he made his choice.

so, he grabbed the single shoe off the wall display

and sat and waited for someone to help him.

hey, man, what can i help you with?, a young guy asked.

in response he casually answered

can i get these in a size 11? 

not realizing the impact that question would have on an older guy sitting nearby

the one who jerked his head in the young boy’s direction, observing his big feet.

then, he looked down at his own feet

and quietly, so very quietly, asked for his shoe choice in a pint size

by

quick

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Stranger-danger was put into play one afternoon when Roberto, who was 5 years old at the time, and I approached our new home. I was driving very slowly down the street and noticed a man slow his pace as I pulled the car into our driveway. Roberto, I said, still inside the car, when we get out of the car I need you to be as quick as you can, as we walk to the front door. You cannot take your time and move slowly today. There is a man standing nearby, a stranger, and I just want to get inside quickly. Got it? He nodded, confirming he understood what I was saying. Then I pushed the car door out, wide, while saying, Come on, let’s go. I completely ignored the guy. Until, out of my peripheral, I noticed he began walking towards us, coming down the drive. Instinct kicked in. I shoved Roberto behind me, protecting him from possible, I don’t know, harm? I just looked at the man, as I reached my arm around, pressing my palm against Roberto’s back. Hello, he said. I’m just on my way home. I live right down there, he continued, pointing to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. I just wanted to introduce myself. And welcome you and your family to the neighborhood. Oh hi, I said feebly. Nice to meet you.

Like any good parent would, I taught my children about stranger-danger. Not always an easy task considering I also wanted to teach them to be kind to their fellow man. This can be somewhat confusing to their tender minds. Be kind but don’t talk to someone you don’t know, I might say. I never felt one hundred percent sure about how to approach the topic with my kids, but overall I think they got the gist of what I meant.

Roberto looked back at the guy as we walked in the front door. Wasn’t he a stranger? Why did you talk to him? He asked.