Black Friday

The greatest shopping day of the year isn't great because of the deals; it's great because of the stories. I don't really need a Samsung MP3 player when I have an elite iPod. I don't really need a free Xbox game in exchange for sitting in the cold air for 3 hours. Sure, there are people who truly need the deals in order to make their holiday budget work, but I often spend my Black Fridays in line for some frivolous item, not a money saver.

I do it for the stories. In just one day, I told my Black Friday war story—sitting in line, drinking hot cocoa, fighting for my doorbuster bracelet—to my Grandma, Mom, Dad, my brother, and the guy who works at the Mail Center. I shocked them with the horrific conditions and the bloodshot eyes, and when they are reeling from adrenaline, I roll up my sleeve and show the scars and spoils of war.

And like all great war stories, there isn't just one enemy; there are several. The late hour and the long, twisting lines are the obvious foe, fighting you face to face with brute strength. But the cunning foes, your fellow individual shoppers, they are the one who flank you from the side and snipe you with psychological warfare.

Three hours in front of Old Navy, two ladies dangled inane conversations in front of me. Every noun was preceded by a swear-word adjective. Every topic concerned only the boorish riff raff of society. They let their friends cut in line. And to top off their arsenal during the Black Friday war, they blew clouds of cigarette smoke in my face.

I let it slide for an hour, but with my lungs feeling palpably fuzzy from the tobacco smoke, I took action. I asked them to please smoke farther away from the line. They gave me the 'stink eye' and begrudgingly moved their poisonous habit a mere five feet away still drenching me with funk.

I'm sure they weren't bad people. I'm sure they were simply irritable like we all were. I did my best to accommodate their psychological warfare without resorting to physical violence. I was still feeling thankful and positive from Thanksgiving...and, because of that, those ladies should be thankful I didn't knock out all their tar-stained teeth with the curb.

Black Friday. What a great day. What great sales. I'm tired. I'm going to bed now.

Sleepy and Turkey

Here's a tip: Never wear skinny jeans to Thanksgiving dinner. I wore my new dark-wash jeans in hopes that I would look more fit in the Thanksgiving family pictures. It was all for naught: the dining-room table hid my pants in the family portraits, and I had to unbutton my pants to sit on the couch, far from the "fit" image I wanted to project.

So here I am, thankful for the beginning of the holiday season and sleepy from the sugary yams and heavy gravy fermenting in my stomach. I knew I was in trouble when Grandma said, "We have less people than last year, but the turkey is heavier." It was a bittersweet moment of laughter.

My brother is working the 76 Fall Classic in Anaheim. Rebelling against the the warnings of Medical school tearing apart family holidays, my brother had never missed a Thanksgiving in his 7-year medical career, until today.

My brother and I usually have a contest to see who can use a punch to blow out the dinner candles. It was strange and pathetic having that contest with myself, like laughing when you're alone. And thus, Thanksgiving has been more docile this year.

But docile isn't necessarily bad. I spent some quiet time with my grandma looking at Black Friday ads. I took my dog for a nice long walk in the cold Sacramento air. Docile gives me time to reflect and be thankful for nice food and nice family.

Docile doesn't make for the most profound writing, but it's nice to sit with my grandma, watch my brother on TV, and wish the outside world a Happy Thanksgiving.

Bad Words

Even though it was Friday, I decided to stay late at school and help the short-handed tutoring program. My tutee was a tiny girl with hair straight like a filly's mane and soft like a freshly baked gingersnap. Her smile was dear, and while it was over-burdened with her adult teeth pushing through, I could tell she would one day smile her way out of speeding tickets. Her name was Chaitali.

My task was simple: take her through her second-grade vocabulary book. And with words like 'badge' and 'tread,' it was going to be an easy session. I sat quietly in the undersized chair across from her and read her workbook upside-down. Her handwriting was bubbly like a child's, but one day, her curvaceous swoops and curls would write notes to break boy's hearts.

And then the word 'separate' came up. "What's this?" she asked. "It's when things come apart." I used my hands, increasing the distance between my palms. "Is it like divorce?" she asked.

The only way a girl who didn't know 'corner' would know 'divorce' is by experience. I could see her father and mother sitting her down on their pristine white couch. Chaitali on the far right, parents—with palpable distance between them—on the left. It's not your fault. We love you the same. It's a problem between us.

"My parents are getting a divorce," she said. It was like hearing her swear, only worse. Words like 'ass' and 'shit' and 'damn' all have a context. Kids will hear these words eventually, even internalize and personalize their meanings. But their lives don't change when they learn how to use 'fuck' as a noun, verb, or adjective. To be so young, to have a discussion with a second grader about divorce was the real bad word.

She swore using a socially acceptable word. She showed no disrespect, and yet her word showed a brutality of life and a loss of faith. Forever will Chaitali's comfort in the family unit and the undying power of love be separated from her childhood. With her smile and with her charm, I'm sure she'll regain the lost faith one day...but it's that much harder.

Most times a child cries, I know better than to humor them. I know a pinched finger in a door will heal, and the tears are magnified by naivete. But when she started to cry in front of me, her tears were salted by experience. I remembered my past and hugged Chaitali, my sister of divorced parents.

Awe

I had a craving for some salad and a steak sandwich, so I went to Pluto's. I owe a debt of gratitude to the Wednesday-night lull as the typically hectic and haphazard ordering line at Pluto's was replaced with a wonderfully empty ordering counter. In fact, I only saw three other people: two boys and their mother.

"You want to watch?" She coaxed the two boys over to the glass window overlooking the 20+ toppings at the salad station. The two boys toddled over to her, and the mother quickly grabbed a chair from the seating area for her two young princes on which they could view the salad tossing spectacle.

I have to credit the staff at Pluto's tonight: the salad technician channeled his inner Benihana showmanship. He added each item with flair and gusto. He banged his salad tongs on the metal bowl as if beating an ancient war drum. He tossed the salad high into the air; the boys had to tilt their heads back, mouths open, to watch the medley rise and fall.

And the boys loved it. The older one left excited fogs of breath on the glass, and the younger one clapped his hands together, the imbalance almost causing him to fall off the chair.

Afterward, the three of them sat down to eat. Mother with her salad, and boys with their sandwich halves. They were still there when I left. I tried to catch the eye of the younger one, just to say hello, but he was too busy smiling.

Two Orange Starbursts

I knew it was going to be a great day; I ate candy for breakfast. Halloween candy in November is fabulous when you're a child: the lingering elation of the holiday sustaining you just long enough to reach Thanksgiving. But when you're an adult, Halloween candy is dangerous. Those small, "Fun Size" portions call to you like a seductive whisper on a cold night.

Hey. Come eat me. I won't make you fat. Your teeth can survive a tiny coating of corn syrup. What's one tiny bag of Skittles? or an inch of Twix?

Even in the face of that danger, though, I tore into this Halloween left-over Starburst pea-pod, and, even with the permutation odds against me, I found two orange squares coquettishly staring back at me. Orange is the best flavor of candy, isn't it? The exoticism of citrus, and the stimulation of its vibrant hue. Ah, yes. Orange really is a treat for the senses.

I knew it was going to be a great day. Both fate and deliciousness were on my side.

Marry Me

I didn't see it happen. I didn't see the spectacle. I only saw the curtain of rose petals, the half-empty champagne bottle, and the banner reading Marry Me, Pansy—the chocolate-sweet echoes of a marriage proposal.

I stood, with several spectators, gently waiting to feel the aftershocks of their happiness. Over the vermilion pond rubbing the puckering ovals with my shoe tips, I waited in hopes that a voyeur could witness two people's brightest moment.

But they were gone—probably strolled back into the Sunday Farmers' Market in Oakland's Jack London Square. The right knee of his pants, moist from where he knelt in the fresh roses. Her mascara streaked downward like her umber bangs laced behind her ears. In one hand, an organic chocolate cupcake, saved for a celebration, and in the other, he held her syruped hands, sticky from tears and champagne.

But they were gone—off meeting each other for the first time as betrothed and promised. I waited with the children who tossed the fluffy rose petals in the air as if it had suddenly snowed in the East Bay. And the parents modestly joined their children in the rose-carpeted courtyard outside the Waterfront Plaza; they softly rubbed flowers between their fingertips remembering when they too said Yes.

After my dinner, I walked back through the courtyard, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Pansy. But there was only grounds keeper making piles of dead foliage. But as I walked by him, I swear I saw his wind torn lips crack upwards into a smile as he swept the roses into a dustpan.

Guess Who?

I was watching TV today, and I saw an add for (what I assuming is a new version of) Milton Bradley's Guess Who? This new Guess Who? Extra has changeable line-up cards, and electronic timers, and trap doors. This is surely the Cadillac of Guess Who?

I remember the original 1987 version of Guess Who where there were 5 women and 19 men. If you were unlucky enough to pick Jan out of the pile, you were finished.

Is your person a man? No. (The sound of plastic doors and your chance of victory being slammed shut)

And this game is still very relevant for me today. There is logic without the stress of Chess or the annoying pegs of Battleship. A sense of mystery without the inordinate setup of Clue. And there is a quick winner without having to go bankrupt in Monopoly.

Why, just a few months ago, my brother and I were playing, and our questions were updated for adult versions of us.
Does your person look like they are a jerk?
Does your person look like they have an inflated albeit unfounded sense of pride?
If I were a woman, would I want to make out with your person?

Of course the game always devolves into screaming matches about how we have skewed opinions of our cartoon, Guess Who? characters.

But that's what's so great about Guess Who? It is a quick way to have a big laugh. Other games take themselves too seriously. Sure, I love a good game of Backgammon, but my abs never hurt after I finish playing. There is something so wonderfully cynical about playing a game where we are asked to judge the appearances of others.

You might be wondering what kind of show I was watching to have such an advertisement, and I'm not ashamed to say that Spiderman cartoons have really come a long way. And so has Guess Who? Now with Guess Who? Extra, I can add over a hundred faces to my original lineup of 24, and make even more off-color comments with my loved ones.

Ah. Board games. Bringing people closer together through a shared sense of rudeness.

Slow Progress

I have a multi-lingual student in sixth period. He has only been in the States for about four months, and he is struggling to keep up with the language. The private school for which I work is his only education, meaning he is not getting any outside help with learning to speak English.

My private school is pretty fabulous except that it doesn't have multi-lingual program. That means that this student first encounters words like "love" and "desire" in esoteric Romantic poems.

Despite his grades, he quite intelligent. His comments are thoughtful but stunted in vocabulary. I made an impromptu visit to his math teacher, and she agreed with my assessment. The student excelled at the algebra because it is only numbers, but word problems posed a huge challenge.

I've been meeting with him during lunch about three times a week to try to help him. We read from Kindergarten phonics books while we slowly chew our peanut butter sandwiches; it's nice to know that a Russian national and Asian American can find common ground in PB&J.

Then, during sixth period, we jump forward about eight years into high-brow literature like Beowulf and Shakespearean Sonnets. In class though, it's much more difficult to devote so much time. Some students are aching to move faster while my Russian apprentice dissects every word, slowly leafing through his $60 Russian to English tome.

"Mr. Judo, what 'occur'?"

"Like 'happen.' When did it happen? When did it occur? The same." I find myself using an English I've never spoken before. My sentences are terse, and simple in their brevity. It's as if we've come to have a special language between us; a rhetoric somewhere between Russian and English.

He's challenging me in ways I never expected. I often ask him to look up the words, but many times I try to give him real-context examples to help solidify the impersonal text from the dictionaries. Sometimes, words are easily reduced to a simpler form. "What 'frenzy'?" "Like really angry."

The challenge comes when the words have no reduction. Today, "leaflet" really stumped me. I didn't want to concede a Merriam-Webster sterile response, but he didn't know what was "pamphlet" either. After about 30 seconds of rhetorical dancing, and my other native English-speaking students giggling, he finally understood.

Progress is slow, but enjoyable. Today, he read "once" correctly. Just three weeks ago, over lunch, when reading "Once upon a time," he said aloud "Awn-kay ee-pon a tim." Slow progress is still powerful.

Curry Wafting Down the Hall

I don't know my neighbors at all. Because I've never formally been introduced, I've resorted to naming my fellow residents by their defining traits. Guy in 1C is Sweater Vest. Girl in 1D is Orange Cascades. Man above me is Stompy. I'm sure there are some apartment buildings that birth wonderful friendships like Joey and Monica, Jerry and Kramer, but, for the most part, apartments breed anonymity.

This acceptable loneliness is so bad that my next door neighbor, Business Gal, moved out, and I didn't even notice. I finally realized something was amiss when I saw a new girl moving boxes into the secretly vacated room. She was wearing a white sweatshirt billboarding green OREGON. Her jeans were comfortably worn with some white threading hanging like icicles from her knees.

I've since named her Curry.

Now this may sound racist, but I assure you this name relates only to the fact that she frequently makes curry. When I walk into my hallway, the smell often lingers like a single organ note in an empty cathedral. The first time I breathed the aroma, I had to bloodhound my way down to her door just to make sure of the source. And sure enough, the frame of her doorway oozed the viscous spiciness of curry.

I should have been personable and introduced myself the first time I saw her. I should have introduced myself the day I sniffed the lintels of her doorway. Her real name could be like ambergris dissolving the barriers of my isolation.

But maybe I've already met her by inhaling deeply every time I return home. I've grown accustomed to her cooking. I come home, beaten from work, and I imagine her throwing her arms around me and kissing me with a fresh bowl of Curry; smelling the spicy aroma of her flirtation comforts more than reality every could.

Untapped

Literaure? Beouwulf? Spell check?











It would be one thing if this student was at his intellectual limit. If he truly gave his best efforts, I could look upon his works as sweat-soaked proof of his genuine mental exertion. Even if these imperfect works were riddled with errors, I could still bask in the warmth that both he and I were at our outer boundaries.

But this is not the case.

This student is smarter than this assignment depicts. When he does the reading, his comments are trenchant and lucid. When he actually tries on the homework, it often sets the standards for the class. He is smart, but he rarely shows consistent passion.

Learning to be autonomous within the structures of school is part of the educational process. Though very bright, this student is just eking by grade-wise in my class. His homework is late, and assignments, like the one above, are bloated with careless typos and apathetic formatting. Being smart is not enough to be a gifted student. A gifted student uses all their resources: intellect, time management, effort, manners, creativity, accountability.

Getting "F" papers isn't the most disheartening thing; seeing untapped potential sinks me even lower.

Quilt

One thousand dreams woven together
along their seams of reality and faith.

The loops of joy and punctured flesh
sustained the sloping cotton hills
of pastel memories. And streams of stitching
marinated doubts in sweet strawberry jam.

This balanced cloth, honeycombed
of warming past and cooling present,
was sewn in twilight, between secrets
and truths...and for that, I gave my sight
for its intricate beauty.

It's for you: my blindness and my quilt.
My mollified darkness waits for the ridges
of your fingertips plucked by my eyelashes.
And I can love more warmly that wrinkles
of your wind-cracked face are soft like the grooves of your smile.
Red porcelain whispers on my cheek as white porcelain.

Come beneath what I've made for us:
Darkness for both of us, predicted by the matchmaker of thread.