Vows to My Wife

I think of you and see your subtleties.
Your laugh at "taco hugs," my dancing shows.
Your often overlooked ability
To listen to my shouted anecdotes.

And from these small affections choices rose:
To live in San Jose, to dream as one.
To know our passing summer days unfold
In winter's basket, each delight in turn.

And every night, when sleep has caught your eye,
I come inside and whisper sweetest dreams:
"That though I've held another's hand, your smile,
Forever trust, is all of which I dream."

These words, tattooed by faith, are promises:
The greatest day of life has yet to come.

Infanticide

With hundreds of students bringing in six periods worth of other class materials, I feel somewhat isolated in the English building. I see enigmatic Chemistry books under their arms and esoteric History books peering out of unzipped backpacks. Earlier today, in a vain attempt to feel connected, I read the cover of a student's math book and said, “What's 'cal-KOO-luss'?” She was more confused than amused.

The grass is always greener...On my side of the fence, King Zeus and Kobo Abe sulk with me as wonderful experiments, exciting projects, and intriguing homework from other classes parade around, flaunting their grandiose mystery.

And the Grand Marshall of the parade, the most educational and most entertaining project, the Flour Child. High-school students are asked to be “simulated parents” by carrying around a sack of flour everywhere they go. The Life Skills teacher at my school took it step further by having the students put faces on their flour sacks.

Some keep their flour sack in their lap all period. Some coddle their faux offspring. Some even made clothes for their simulated child. The simulated parents are passionate parents. With their general apathy for my forced English assignments, seeing their enthusiasm birthed a faith in me that students do have fortitude and “stick-to-it-ness.”

I've grown so accustomed to the flour children that I, too, have now started to personify them. I know Julia has a “child” named Pearl. I know Ivan had his “son's” ear pierced. Though I sometimes lose hope in my students desire for their own education, I've put my deepest trusts in the flour children to teach ultimate responsibility, honesty, and mental toughness. In that way, maybe the simulated parent assignment was more important for me than for the students.

But to my horror, this morning I stumbled upon the scene of the crime. A tiny child brutally torn open by the blunt force trauma of a shoe tip. Smooth baby flesh could not repel the rage and irresponsibility of a failed parent.

The murder fled the scene, leaving the gutted carcass behind. The callous parent tracked sneaker grooves unceremoniously through the white powder during their cowardly escape. Still smiling, the infant looked up at me. Love for one's child or education was not universal. My childish belief curb stomped to death: students cared no more for this beautiful project than they did for any of my sterile essays.

Halo Reach ID

I just wanted to buy Halo Reach. That's all.

All weekend, I planned on purchasing the new Xbox 360 game during my Tuesday lunch break. This would allow me to go home directly after work and avoid the brutal rush-hour traffic around my local Best Buy. I put my "Happy Birthday from Best Buy" gift card in the top drawer of my desk at work. With a $100 balance on the card, the only thing standing between me and Master Chief was 4th period.

The second hand moved with the speed of melting ice on a cool day. Though I usually appreciate student comments, today, minutes from Halo Reach, their inanity grated my patience. I kept glancing back at the top drawer of my desk, imagining the moment when I could fondle the plastic gift card and slide it into the cashier's scanner. So eager for the climax of my day, I held the card in my hand five minutes
before class even ended.

And when the bell finally released me, I shooed the children from their chairs as if the room was on fire. I power walked to my car and almost vehicular-manslaughtered the janitor as I cut through the lines of the parking lot. Down the street, the deep blue of the Best Buy sign taunted me like the ocean taunting a captive goldfish.

In the moment of sweet release, I got into the Customer Service line, stacks of Halo Reach a mere three feet away. "Next in line," never sounded so beautiful. I slammed my pre-order receipt on the counter and said, "One standard Halo Reach please." The female cashier mockingly smirked at my nerdy bravado. I didn't care; I could taste firefight and forge modes, Spartans and Elites.

"Can I see your ID?"

In my feverish haste, I sped to Best Buy without my driver's license on my person. I had no form of identification to purchase the "Mature" rated title with realistic blood and gore. I pleaded with her, showing her my car keys and necktie: "Would someone under 18 be wearing this in the middle of the day?" My fingers grew wet with frustration. Sweat bled onto my gift card. It was no use: the tiny girl would not budge for my logic. I walked back to my car knowing I wouldn't have time to return until after school, when traffic would ensnare me.

Some people like getting carded. In their folksy voices, I hear crinkled women say, "Oh, I take it as a compliment!" People can only be happy when they don't have something at stake. Or maybe old women just don't care about alcohol or video games.

Chalkboards vs. Whiteboards

I was spoiled by the whiteboards at the affluent private school last year. My chisel-tipped Expo pens glided across the boards like a sharpened knife through a peeled banana. Though there was some expense in buying those pens, they were consistent for me: the ink flowed abundant or it didn't. I found comfort in the efficiency of that binary.

But the chalk boards on the East Side are a breeding ground for debauchery. The frail sticks of chalk irrationally break mid-sentence. The pieces roll into the corners of the room, forcing me to bend over and expose my unflattering angles. The friction between pasty chalk and mealy board sends tremors through my whole body. I write the word "warmth" on the board, yet I quiver from an involuntary orgasm induced by chills.

When erasing them, the boards become stubborn palimpsests, unwilling to relinquish the past. I stand in a blizzard of chalk, blinded by shards of diamond dust irritating my eyes. Turning away, my students bluntly state, "You have chalk all over your pants." I look down. White, faded hand prints cover my black slacks. It's as if a phantom fondled me from my blind side, leaving behind a whisper of the one-sided romance we shared.

I cannot have these moments of weakness; I have a fiancée to think about.

I love you, Pop Tarts

Pop Tarts make me smile. For me, the toaster oven in my apartment exists only to warm my crispy, sweet pastries. I don't use a spatula to buffer my relationship to my Pop Tart; I coax it from the still-red toaster oven like a mother holding her newborn for the first time. I gently pass the rectangular treat from hand to hand so the darkened corners of the pastry don't burn my fingers.

And then there's the first bite. My front teeth pierce three layers of euphoria: sugary white frosting, puffy warm pastry, and the gooey fruity filling. My mouth combines the three striated layers, and I french kiss the grooves of my molars filled with a fruit-frosting-pastry symphony.

Some of my skeptical friends criticize my choice to consume Pop Tarts regularly. “Those are for little kids!” “Those are so bad for you.” “You're an adult; why don't you just cook food for yourself?” Excuse me, did I hear you right? Make my own Pop Tarts? That's like asking someone to make a Unicorn.

For me, Pop Tarts are perfection. Pop Tarts are the well-rounded toaster treat. The frosting isn't overly gooey. They don't need to be refrigerated. Sure, there are other cheaper, more delicious, or better-for-you pastries. But Pop Tarts and I are in it for the long haul. Pop Tarts and I have an equal relationship: they taste great, and I return the favor by eating them.

I love you, Pop Tarts.

Calypso Footwear

The white borders encroached farther down like an invading army from the north: About half my nail was jolted loose from my big, left toe.

I wear my Reef sandals lovingly. Even in the cold blasts of winter, I dedicate myself to my flip flops. They give accessible, sock-less comfort, and I give them four-season usage. And when summer breaks free, my sandals and I are inseparable. The tan lines, where my Reefs gently caressed my feet, demarcate the space between my darkened flesh and virgin skin. I am Odysseus; they are Calypso. We make love on island beaches while all responsibilities are far, far away.

But today, in the glowing honeymoon of sunshine, my commuter bus broke down. With only 15 minutes before class, I decided to run the last mile to campus. This was the moment our footwear/wearer relationship was tested.

Through the urban corridors of Downtown, my flip flops pounded over gutter trash and stagnant garbage water. My open-toed footwear, in unfamiliar territory, couldn't protect my feet from the grime and filth. With my briefcase unevenly chopping my running stride, I contorted my feet into eagle claws preciously gripping my backless sandals onto my feet.

In mere moments, it became clear, though. We were not made to run together. The final realization came when I bashed my unprotected toe on the curb. The concrete separated my foot from my footwear, ripping foam and flesh.

My Calypso flip flops love me casually. Going to the beach, going to the market—those are the lustful trysts captured so vibrantly in my fantasies. But in the real moments of life, away from frivolities, I can only run with functional, loyal, Penelope-like shoes. And, looking down at whiteness of my toenail, I see Calypso is a dangerous temptress: she hides her jealousy for Penelope behind a veil of comfortable beauty.

Happy Birthday, America

I can tell it's the Fourth without looking at the calendar. The smell of bbq traipsing over summer green lawns. Plywood bunkers selling Roman Candles in a dusty field. And of course, hot dog buns on display in the Safeway parking lot.

To be honest, I really like America's birthday. Sure, I'm not David McCullough, and I don't even like going on picnics. But, I celebrate the Fourth the only way I know how: I sit at home and eat popsicles watching Seinfeld reruns...not as a British subject.

But of course, some fool had to go and mess it up. A man grilling on his back patio set off the sprinkler system in my building. The annoyingly loud, putting-fireworks-to-shame siren blared in my building for 2 hours. I was forced to eat my Big Stick on a park bench.

I'm not a manly bbq chef like Bobby Flay, but at least I understand my shortcoming. I don't douse my charcoal in lighter fluid, and I certainly don't ruin my neighbors holiday weekend by forcing them out of their homes.

Watching my neighbors evacuate the building, I counted 38 people. That's 38 people's prime relaxation hours destroyed by one man's bbq ego. Making matters worse, the unapologetic buffoon came outside in a tacky red, white, and blue apron.

I love the Fourth, but American flags are not pants. The date on the calendar doesn't automatically make people good outdoor cooks. And mylar balloons are not meant to be eagle-shaped. Come on people; let's give America a tasteful birthday without fire-related accidents.