Community Halloween

The air is crisp like the fallen, anthocyanin leaves. The sharp air frostbites the lining of the lungs, and when exhaled, the warm soul escapes in curls of white breath. The smirking pumpkins take up their sentry positions guarding each home from would-be trespassers. Tonight, children take the streets with masked dreams dripping in melted sugar.

Of the final yearly celebrated holidays in America (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve), Halloween is easily the least important. Halloween isn't a national holiday. Halloween doesn't get a day off from school. Some years, students pile into their classroom donning their freakish facades only to take a fractions quiz. Most years, kids intoxicate themselves on chocolate only to arise hungover and go to school.

And while Halloween is largely branded as a novelty, I find it one of the most generous holidays. While Christmas and Thanksgiving are based on giving and thankfulness, I find people's general spirit surrounding these two holidays is mostly confined to family and friends. There may be a day of volunteering, a food or toy drive here or there, but this is a rare occurrence for most people.

Halloween, on the other hand, unifies the community through generosity of spirit and candy. For the average American, handing out free treats to tens, even hundreds, of anonymous children is considered enjoyable normalcy. I have no evidence, but it seems that more people pass out candy at Halloween than go to soup kitchens on Christmas.

When I was growing up, my step father would spend hundreds of dollars every year on the newest and spookiest decorations for the front of our house. Coupled with the growing amorphous blob from past Halloweens in the attic, each year topped the previous. I remember one year our entire lawn was covered with black tarps serving as the morass turf of a graveyard. In conjunction with the headstones, fog machine, and strobe lights, one kid actually jumped out of his shoe when my step dad jumped out from inside a life-size coffin.

But oddly, his Christmas decorations were always modest in comparison to October 31st. My step dad chose to support and give back to our neighborhood during Halloween, not Christmas. I think he wanted to spend the most time and money on a holiday that put him in direct contact with Trick-or-Treaters rather than the purely aesthetic spectators at Christmas.

And pending a few bad apples who use this holiday for felonious mischief, Halloween seems to be about direct contact with the children and families of the community. While some, like my step dad, want to bring joy through fear, others generously open their doors allowing a puff of cozy air to warm shivering ghosts and goblins on their journey around their neighborhood. Christmas may be the time of giving, but Halloween embodies, for me, the truest sense of community.

Whiteboards and Toilet Seats

Two weeks ago, the principal approached me and asked if the Extended Care Program (ECP) could use my classroom twice a week after school. Of course, this is her subtle way of telling me that she'd already made the decision, and it was now my job to deal with it and vacate twice a week at the tolling of 3:30.

And of course, I get one of those ECP teachers who lets the kids eat chips and sit at my desk, use my precious pens and rearrange the desks. I tried reasoning with the ECP teacher. Tried logic. Tried pleading. Tried getting angry. My fellow teacher promised change, but nothing happened. Where is the educator solidarity?

Wednesday and Thursday mornings have devolved into moving desks out of "Fort Formation," erasing stars and Spanish words from the board, and cleaning my desk of FritoLay grease.

I never had sisters. I grew up sharing a bathroom only with an older brother. Putting the toilet seat down was never etched into my muscle memory. In a world where angry women bellow wet-butted through the bathroom to PUT THE SEAT DOWN, I never, until now, understood why the women, the ones needing the seat to be down, couldn't accomplish such a simple task on their own.

The ECP teacher may be a bad teacher, but she did teach me one thing: what it's like to be woman plopping down on the cold porcelain instead of the welcoming seat. The menial, maintenance tasks aren't hard, but it's the overall lack of interpersonal consideration that creates the screamable infraction.

To all my past cohabitants: I'm sorry for forgetting, and I'm sorry for arguing with you. I was wrong. You were right. And unlike my ECP fellow, I promise to change for real.

It's Too Windy and Cold Outside

Summer, regrettably hibernating for the next nine months, has passed its crown to the necrosis of Fall. Autumn winds rush into the vacuum Summer left behind. The coup of the cunning Fall has succeeded.

And that is why we detest the surreptitious Fall. That sunlight through our bedroom window tempts us to leave our coats behind, and with Summer's warmth still radiating from within, we forge into the bright winds unprepared.

The wind's eager fingers unbutton our shirts and coil around the torso like ribbons made of ice. In the unfamiliar cold, we walk backwards saving our eyes from brittle leaf shards.

Fall is the fox, the trickster of the seasons. Evil compared to its charming Summer predecessor; invisible compared to Winter's opaque rain. The danger of Fall lies in beauteous colors and frozen whispers.

Lost Duckling

I'd sit on the dock and let my feet dangle two inches above water, kissed by the surface only when a gust of wind crested a wave beneath me. The water is more green than blue, but emeralds shine as tempting as sapphires. My hometown house sits on the artificial shore of a man-made lake, and even though my lake was carved into earth by a mortal, I feel nature's sublimity.

I'd eat wheat toast in the Spring. And always only in the Spring, mother ducks parade their goslings to the bandstands at my feet. I'd take two slices outside with me for breakfast. Most days I ate both slices, but if I was lucky, I would be privileged to feed my toast to the fledgling family.

Every Spring was the same. Eight puffs of wispy down bob passively on the waves as the mother hesitantly approached and gathered torn strips of bread. Two weeks later, the same family, reduced to six siblings, had wisps of brown highlights in their coats. And, at the end of Spring, only four adolescents, rough in textured brown feathers, survived the brutality of nature to accompany their mother.

The family numbers dwindle every year. Maybe a foul-mouth bass swallowed one. Maybe one drowned. Maybe one got run over by a car. I never see the dead ones: only the ones who survived. The dangers of nature took the ducklings swiftly, and I could only mourn by feeding their portions to their siblings.

Today, in the first color changes of Autumn, I felt the cruelty of April. One of my students from third period was expelled. I got the notice from the front office this morning. In response to my lunch-time inquiry, the principal simply stated that the mother of the student was not "on the same page as another teacher at the school." The math teacher.

I knew the student and the math teacher were having issues, but I had no idea the problems were brutal enough to result in an expulsion. The student was not an angel, but he wasn't a devil either. I felt like I failed the student. I was unable to save him from becoming collateral damage in the battle between his mother and the math teacher.

Third period felt noticeably smaller. I made 14 copies of a worksheet as usual, but had one left over. It was then I felt Spring: third period only has 13 ducklings in it.

The Simple Answers

At the end of every period, while the students are zipping their bags and rustling their papers, I ask them, "What's my philosophy?"

"Leave the room cleaner than we found it," they all reply in mantra-like dirge. They may sound apathetic, but truly, they understand this principle.

The "It" girl, the soccer star, the class clown—they all crouch down, equalized by the custodial task at hand. The jock may have dropped the cheeto, but the prom queen stoops down and paints her fingers with carpet grit and cheesy powder. Even I, the teacher, am not above the policy. I too use my bare hands picking up shattered potato chips and edges of paper torn from unsuspecting corners.

The students roam the classroom; no one loyal to their own territory. Trash, regardless of origin, is collected and disposed.

But every day, there is one student, Jay, huddled around his desk at clean-up time. While the others travel the room like nomads, he stays home at his desk picking up pencils.

Jay, like all the students his age, has trouble keeping his pencil on his desk. When he scrutinizes a passage from his textbook, or when he twists to access his backpack, his pencil rolls onto the floor.

All the students drop their pencils at least three times during class, so this isn't a unique problem. But Jay has taken this common pencil problem and created a wildly unique (and hilarious) solution.

Every time he drops a pencil, he simply reaches into his Naruto pencil box and pulls out a new pencil. At first, I thought he was lazy for not standing up and reclaiming his writing utensil. But after careful study, I've noticed that it is more efficient. In the middle of an essay, he would need to push out his chair, crouch down, find his pencil, stand back up, sit back down, scoot his chair back in; grabbing a new pencil circumvents the whole tedious procedure.

And so, by the end of the 50 minute period, Jay is ankle deep in pencils. Then, when it comes time to enact my philosophy, he springs out of his chair and relines his box with 10+ pencils. Of course I've told him that this particular solution is inefficient, and that it makes a mess. But inside, I secretly applaud him. I envy his youthful problem-solving abilities, unmolded by the "right way" of doing things. How can I punish him? He leaves his area in better condition than he found it.

Even if it is silly...it's a simple, simply charming answer.

The Intersection of Spirituality and Reality

I am not an avid baseball fan, but I try to stay up-to-date on the happenings. And while I have no logical reason to do so, I find myself rooting for the Los Angeles Angels this post season.

Nick Adenhart, a young up-and-coming pitcher for the Angels, was killed by an allegedly drunk driver on April 9, 2009. The days after the event, ESPN showed numerous interviews with the Angels, who all expressed their sadness at losing a teammate, but more importantly, a friend.

After a few weeks passed, the media stopped covering the story, and I simply forgot about Adenhart.

Then, on September 29th, the Angels won the AL West. In the customary fashion, the Angels celebrated in the locker room lined with plastic and showered with champagne. But the team, obviously still feeling the void Adenhart left behind, chose to shower their fallen teammate's jersey as well. It was one of those moments you don't expect to see: Baseball locker rooms, foul mouthed and boorish, don't seem like the place for an act both powerfully symbolic and wonderfully respectful.

After trouncing the Red Sox, the Angels are having a hard time against the Yankees in the ALCS. Today, on the verge of going down 3-0 in the series, the Angels looked in control in the 8th, up 4-3. Then, Yankee Jorge Posada hit a home run directly over Adenhart's memorial banner in center field. Angel Torii Hunter futilely chased the uncatchable ball. The Yankees had tied the game, potentially crushing the Angels' hopes of making it to the World Series.

In futile defeat, Hunter slowed to a trot, and placed both hands on the banner, perhaps asking Adenhart for a victory, perhaps apologizing for failing him.

I've seen athletes thank God for touchdowns or for crossing home plate, but this moment was not routine prayer; this was the true intersection of spirituality and reality. Outside of So. Cal, I'm sure much of the world, like me, has forgotten about Adenhart. But Hunter, at the center field wall, showed that life and death permeate even the most crucial moments.

I'm glad the Angels won tonight. I'm rooting for Adenhart and the Angels. How can you not?

It's October!

I don't go Trick-or-Treating anymore, so the shiny plastics and sequin cloths of the costume aisles don't interest me in the same way. I walked the lanes of Target gently perusing the costumes sealed airtight in thick plastic bags. I try to imagine myself looking spooky or festive in the costumes, but all I can see is frivolity and expense.

I know some people really devote themselves to this holiday. They plan their costume on paper, driving store to store unifying disparate pieces into one magnificently wicked disguise. I just don't have that kind of patience.

No. For me, my October pleasure is much more simple. In mid-to-late October, stores like Target realize Halloween is less than two weeks away, and they panic at the Sisyphean mound of Franken Berry, Boo Berry, and Count Chocula. As a result, the prices drop from the $3 range into the $2 range.

When the sales begin: That is when October festivities really begin. I spent $30 buying more cereal than I could carry. The 31st is for the boors. The cheap, spooky cereal...that's the holiday.

Evolving Knowledge

Apes are large animals that are related to...elephants?











I think I'm developing a teaching-induced phobia of paper. There are just so many assignments to grade. I'm organized, to be sure. I have colored coded paper clips (thank you Office Max) and all the papers are in discrete piles per grade. But even the most organized mounds still cause chills.

So when a second-grade teacher sat down next to me at lunch, flustered by a pile of vocab tests, I offered to help correct the exams. "Do you have an extra copy of the answer key?" I asked. She laughed as she slid me half the stack. "What's so funny?"

I unsheathed my red pen and went down to business, and I was soon in on the joke. The test was deliciously easy for me, an adult. Cavern. Torch. Spear. Planet. If only the GRE in Literature was this easy!

Most of the kids got over 90%. But one student really struggled. Spears have blades on the end, not hooks. Torches are used for light, not climbing. And apes are related to monkeys, not elephants.

I remember distinct times in my life where I thought, "I know everything there is to know." I always knew there were random facts outside my grasp, but I thought my main intellectual prowess was complete at, say, age 10. Again at 16. And yet again at 21. It's hard to realize that becoming smarter is not just about facts rattling around in your brain; it's about the actual process of manipulating those facts in intellectual situations.

I looked down at this young second-grader's test. There was once a time when I was unknowingly capped by such a ceiling: a ceiling where simple animal nomenclature challenged the very limits of my knowledge.

We often disregard children as unknowledgeable, but we should cherish that ignorance. Students are microcosms in which teachers have the good fortune to witness, first hand, knowledge in its primordial state: full potential waiting to burst forth into destiny.

Maybe he should have studied harder. Maybe he should have practiced his test taking skills. But really, I have no worries for this student. He's just a mentally clumsy kid waiting to evolve into a genius.

Viewing the Storm

Today was the first big rain of the season, and the world seemed to kowtow to its power. The drive to work was interminable. Traffic splashed along at 35 mph down the 880, and hydroplaning cars geysered leaves and twigs onto my windshield.

My classroom, constructed in the 1950s, provided little shelter from the storm. The roof leaks about 2 feet from my desk, which is just far enough that the school won't immediately rectify the situation but just close enough that tiny beads of splashing water pepper my desk papers.

With every gust of wind outside, the joints of the classroom creaked like an arthritic man easing into a rocking chair. Because there's a hole in the side of the building, the Lucite light coverings flap up and down with each exhaled puff of wind. The lights flickered on and off as the decrepit wiring in the building struggled to keep pace with the vigorous storm.

"Mr. Judo, I can't work on grammar. I feel like I'm in a haunted house." Firetruck sirens from two blocks away alluded to a rain-caused crash. I was safe from the dangers of the slick roads, but even I could not escape the vengeful ghosts who patrol the school.

"Just focus. The storm will be over soon." Nature never misses a chance to make a fool of me.

The wind gained courage and screamed at me to open the door. The thin wooden plank rattled in the door frame like in a Boogie-Man dream. The rain shouted at my students, soaking the windows in its tempest spit.

The students couldn't help themselves. They dropped their grammar books and ran to the window to watch the spectacle unfold. I had to raise my voice to its peak to make myself heard over the cacophony outside. "GET TO YOUR SEATS. YOU'VE ALL SEEN RAIN BEFORE." I had to reprimand them; I can't have students running and gawking at every little hiccup of nature. I felt in control. I felt authoritative.

When the bell rang, the kids armored up in their water-proof coats. Some kids even used my grammar textbook as an umbrella. In the empty classroom, I walked over the window and saw the rain coming in from the side. I imagined myself standing in the horizontal torrent: half my body pelted by slivers of water, half my body dry. I could see the bursts of wind, speckled with rain droplets, pulse and expand like ocean currents across the grass. The amazing powers of nature.

It was a sight worth seeing, and, yet, I had robbed my students just minutes before. My job title has stolen the memories of what it was to be a student: eager, excited, and, sometimes, uncontrollable. In the reign of being a teacher, the unexpected pleasures of students are rarely tolerated.

Shotsuki

October 9th, two days ago, would have been my grandpa's 91st birthday. All through the September of 2003, he kept saying how he wanted to make it to his birthday. He overshot by two days, just to be on the safe side. But that's how he was: stubborn, loud, and true to his word.

The first few months after his death, the pain felt so visceral, so palpable. But after six years, the throbbing has dulled. When I visit Grandma, I often walk through the house trying to relive the moments of grief. I feel guilty, somehow, that I'm able to visit Grandma and smile.

Even though his house has drastically changed, his workshop in the back of the garage remains largely untouched. Even after all the house cleaning and remodeling, no one in the family has had the courage to remove any of the old mechanic's tools.

In his garage workspace, yellowed masking tape labels display his capitalized handwriting. Pieces of fossilized coal in his metal trays keep the tools from rusting. When my grandma sleeps, she still rests on the left-hand side of the bed, an invisible barrier of his territory corralling her to one side. I now know more of his absence than his presence.

Last week, I looked at his photo at the butsudan. It's a picture of him sitting in a chair at an Extended Stay in Fresno. He about 83 years old in the picture. The echo of his voice, the deep grooves on his fingers, the feeling of listening to one of his stories—these weaken with time, and sterile snapshots usurp my living memories of him. That is the treason of photography.

Today marks the six-year anniversary of my grandfather's passing. I missed the Shotsuki service last week, so this is my repent. This is my way of saying that I still think about you...and that I miss you.

Gang Violence

Like all things that start wars, it was beautiful. This was no ordinary soccer ball. The tessellation of metallic silver and luxurious purple hexagons begged to be corner kicked. And every day, during the mid-morning and lunch breaks, students play with this wondrous ball on the soccer field adjacent to my classroom.

Now, by soccer field, I mean a 20' x 20' patch of grass that flanks the side of my classroom. The kids go out there and take turns kicking the ball at the side of the building: their imaginary goal. They always use this Helen of Troy of soccer balls.

Today, I was sitting at my desk grading papers, and the seven students politely knocked on my window asking if they could play soccer. I waved them through like usual. But minutes later, something was amiss. They were missing their ball. Apparently, it had be left outside during the mid-morning break. But where was it now?

I helped them search, and at the exact same moment, like an over-dramatic movie scene, the seven students and I spotted it. The neighboring school, with whom we share the large open field, had our ball. Between the five boys, a ray of purple metallic essence attracted my eye.

At this point, my seven students were pissed. They were itching to bum rush these rivals. But I quickly shepherded my kids back inside, telling them "it's just a ball."

I should have taken my own advice, but I just had to be the heroic leader.

Without my posse of seven, I walked alone to the other school leaving behind the safety of my own turf. At first, the hooligans were only about two inches tall on the horizon, but as I approached, my nervousness and their height grew. One boy, no more than 12 years old, towered over me.

"Excuse me fellas," I said, unable to see their faces back lit by the sun, "but I think that's my ball."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"Because that's my silver and purple ball." I was trying to defend myself from mere children.

"Nah, man. It's ours."

What a bold-faced lie! That was my fucking ball! And they stole it, and were now lying to a teacher.

"It's my ball. Please return it. You took it from outside my classroom." I could feel my face flushing red from the sunlight and the pressure. I was behind enemy lines. My "teacher" status of privilege and power were worthless.

"Nah, man. It's ours." I saw his eyes drift down to my school crest on my shirt, and I saw the glint of disrespect. It was like were flashing our gang signs. I wanted to find a teacher and explain the situation. But there were no teachers to be found. Apparently I'm a teacher, but I didn't feel like it.

1:10. I had to get back to my class. I could keep arguing and maybe get fired for being tardy to my own class, I could grab it from them and risk having an all out gang lawsuit, or I could retreat. I chose to walk away defeated. I had let the five 12-year-old street toughs dominate me.

I know it would have been wrong to start a fight, but I dragged my feet through the dirt on the way back, nursing the bruises on my ego. I felt inadequate as the leader of my gang. I had let my homies down, and I have to live with that.

Gangs are one scary mother.

Return Address: 24863 W Jayne AveCoalinga, CA 93210

Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.

from The Blind Assassin

Dear Jen,

Time moves slower than I thought it would, and time moves even slower since I don't know when you'll come next. You might think that the anticipation of your next visit would paralyze me, but not having you at visiting hours is much, much worse.

I should have listened to you more. I remember waiting for you on stone stairs outside your classes. The class would finish and hundred of scholars, your peers, would stampede their way over me. Even though there were people all around, I felt isolated that they, and you, were living in a different world.

I should have read more books you told me to read. That's one good thing about being in here: I have more time to read. I can't really remember the books you told me about except one by Margaret Atwood. I only remember cause you said she was the only good thing to ever come out of Canada. We were in McDonald's when you said that. You were eating an apple pie. I guess I did pay attention...sometimes.

Jen, I'm sorry. Things weren't supposed to be like this. I think about you all the time. This one guy Ken said that, in here, dreams drive you crazy. Like mirages or something like that. But the two times you came to visit were great. They didn't drive me crazy; they kept me going. I remember you kept worrying about your hair or saying you looked like a mess. But you know? I'm a mess too. Even though you don't look as good as you do in my dreams, I'd rather have someone at the bottom of the dungeon with me, even if it's only temporary. I'd pick your rough hands over the smooth fingers of a phantom any day.

Come back soon,
Brian

Hometown Friends

I haven't been back to my hometown since January but not much has changed. My mom's house is still cavernous in size yet recognizably cozy. My cat Neko still throws himself at my feet. And my old video-game systems are still willing to boot up with nostalgia despite a thin layer of dust over the disc drives.

Everything is comfortably the way it should be.

As part of my weekend in Sacramento, I decided to visit one of my old haunts: Arden Fair Mall. The long corridors of the mall look familiar despite a few store changes. Orange Julius realized it is 2009 and turned into a Jamba Juice. The fancy t-shirt store discovered that people would rather buy overpriced shoes than shirts and turned into a Foot Locker. Going to Arden this weekend was like seeing your buddy right after they lost 15 pounds: noticeable change but comfortable friendship.

And Arden was happy to see me too. It welcomed me with open arms and a Lego event. I felt privileged that the event occurred the weekend I happened to be there. Mall events are always moderately exciting; you see the event posters and say, "Dang! That looks like fun!" but you never actually leave your house for them.

I lucked out: The 8-Foot Lego Yoda was in full production.

There were about 10 tables full of Lego blocks. Each table had instructions on how to build larger bricks that the Lego Expert would then fashion into the Lego Yoda. So we, the Lego laymen, didn't actually build the Yoda, but we supplied the master architect the larger, 7-inch bricks.

I had no other obligations at the mall. I didn't have any shopping mates, so no one would call me asking me to try on pants. I didn't have any dinner plans, so I could stay as long as I wanted. I participated in this community build project and felt not unlike a member of an Amish community raising a barn.

I squeezed between an older gentleman and an excited boy. We worked as a team snapping the blocks together. Once we had a few 7-inchers, the boy would run the blocks over to the expert, who would add to the Yoda.

It was fun. The three of us chit-chatted about how much we love Legos and Star Wars. "Yoda was originally a puppet," the older gentleman explained to the boy. "No way. Yoda is too fast for a puppet." I looked at the older man, and we shrugged, both of us wishing we were so young to know only of a computer-generated Yoda.

I left the mall about two hours later convinced I would return the next day to see the finished product. I noted the time the final unveiling was to occur and planned my day accordingly. It was fun to be a part of a community project.

- - -

I arrived home to San Jose at 5:30. I had accidentally forgotten about Yoda and Arden and Sacramento.

But maybe that's how hometowns are. Hometowns give you comfort when you need them, but they never hinder you from living your new life in another city. Both Arden and Sacto will be there when I go back. It's strange to say, but they're two of my most dependable friends.