Month: December 2019

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Christmas Day, Skitter, And A Haircut

I chose a “wrapped gifts” theme Bow Tie o’ the Day to wear on Christmas Day. We didn’t do much but puzzle on Christmas Day, with the exception of joining Suzanne’s family at her parents’ house. Every year, Suzanne’s dad reads the family a Christmas story of his choosing, and tops it off by reading about Christ’s birth from the Bible. I look forward to it. Suzanne’s family is bigly and semi-boisterous and fun. I do miss being around Mom at Christmas though. (And not just for her food.) She tells me over and over she’s grateful to Suzanne’s parents for taking such good care of me. I’m grateful for it too. Now, that’s a gift!

Rowan wore his new haircut over to our place after we were finished at Suzanne’s parents. Skitter loves him, although Rowan’s male voice used to petrify her. You know Skitter loves you when she positions herself near you, then pretends to stretch and— nonchalantly and by calculated accident— puts her front paws on your arm or leg, as she’s doing with Rowan in the photo. She ever so softly and discreetly paws her way into your heart. But don’t look directly into her eyes, or she’ll shake her way to one of her crates. The Skit says, “It’s so hard to be loved.”

As was requested after this morning’s post, I’ve included here three pix of Rowan’s BEFORE hairs. His hair is thick and beauteous, so I don’t have a preference about its length. I am liking his short cut now, cuz it’s what he’s got. If it’s clean and not covering his handsome mug, I’m good with whatever.

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Breakfast With The Boy, Er, Man

We had a post-Christmas breakfast with Rowan at Vertical Diner, a vegan diner around the corner from his apartment in SLC. I wore my “ugly sweater” Bow Tie o’ the Day for the occasion. We see Rowan rarely since he slaves away many hours at his barista job and is student-ing at the U of U. He is 22, so his social life is a top priority, as well— as it should be. I think I’d be a bit worried about him if he spent all his spare time with us.

Note that Rowan cut off his flowing locks of head hairs last week. He’s donating the leftover 14-inch braids to an organization that makes wigs for chemo patients. Rowan’s heart has always been in the fight for those who struggle.

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The Reason

Nativity Tie o’ the Day takes its place around the “Day of the Dead”-style nativity scene, which Suzanne got for me when we were in Taos, NM in October.

I’ve seen nativity scene figures made out of pipe cleaners, and out of Coke cans. I’ve seen them made out of Wrigley’s gum wrappers. I’ve seen them carved into stone, and I’ve seen one sketched into the sand on a beach in Delaware. My grandma glued little toy nativity figures into milkweed pods. I could go on, but I won’t. No matter what style of nativity scene speaks to your heart, the point is this: Don’t you dare forget what this jolly, holiday hullabaloo is supposed to be about.

Peace, friends.

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Gracie Put On A Show

I threw on my ELF ON THE SHELF Bow Tie o’ the Day and headed to Bishop Travis’ and Bishopette Collette’s abode on the way to their ward Christmas program yesterday. Let me just say this: I saw many shades of Grace Anne I had not seen before. And let me add that the wee sprite was constipated.

Until yesterday, I had never even heard Gracie cry. I heard her cry more than once yesterday, and her Sacrament Meeting cries made me hark back to the days of designated cry rooms. Church architectural designs change. But, in my opinion, the need for cry rooms in churches is for time and all eternity.

At church, Gracie wasn’t content in the lap of any of the five adults in our group. She could not settle down and just hang, as is her usual attitude. When I’ve been around her previously, she has been chill, chill, and chill again. However, yesterday, she was acting her age, both at home and at church. Constipation can do that when you’ve only been on the planet for 7 months. Or 55 years.

The absolute best photo o’ the day of Grace is the one I couldn’t snap. During one of my turns trying to mellow out Gracie at church, I noticed she was the perfect size to sit on the saddle of my Saddle Purse, which I had with me. I sat her on the saddle, and— with the bows on her shoes— it was the perfect-est scene for a post picture. I knew I wouldn’t see Gracie after church, so if I wanted to take the picture, I would have to take it then and there. She might be too bigly to sit on the Saddle Purse next time I see her.

I cannot express to you how difficult it was for me to resist taking the best. photo. ever. for TIE O’ THE DAY. But it was during Sacrament Meeting, so I figured the takin’ o’ pictures wasn’t quite right. I just lifted Gracie off my Saddle Purse and onto my lap. I sat there in the chapel, wishing for a few minutes that I wasn’t a respectful person, so I could take pix.

And then Gracie squirmed around and cried out. In fact, she screamed her cries, and Bishopette Collette had to take her out of the chapel. It was like Gracie was trying to be her own evil twin. She was still the cutest baby in the world.

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Got Glitter In Your Hair?

Bow Tie o’ the Day is covered in Santa-hatted yellow labs, but for the sake of this story, think of them as white coyotes. Bow Tie’ll fit this Baltimore story better if you do.

After teaching writing to adults for years at The University of Utah and Salt Lake Community College, I made a switch to teaching middle schoolers in Baltimore. It was culture shock in a variety of ways, not the least of which was that I was a white woman from a heavily rural state in a city whose residents are primarily black. ALL of my middle school students were black. We shared our culture shock with each other.

During a class I was teaching in my first year at Booker T. Washington Middle School, two girls named Keisha got into a verbal argument. I heard one chair slide out from under a desk, then a second chair, and I knew what that meant: FIGHT! I managed to jump over a row of desks and land right between the Keisha’s before one of the Keisha’s fists almost hit the other Keisha’s face. My face was in the way of its trajectory, but the Kiesha with the fist was able to redirect her fist quickly enough that it barely grazed my ear. The other Kiesha said, “Dang! You old white coyote.” I knew enough to know it was not meant as a compliment. I had ruined what the two Keisha’s and the rest of the class thought would have been a bloody fight.

But I chose to take being named a white coyote as a compliment anyway. A coyote is swift. A coyote can leap. A coyote can sense danger. The class waited for me to respond to the almost-fight, and to what they called “being called out my name.” They were waiting for The White Coyote to dispense consequences. I ignored the whole fight stuff. The Keisha’s sat back down. I said, “I’ve killed coyotes. My dad showed me how. Have you ever heard of “calling in” a coyote?” And they paid attention to every word I said about coyotes, and how important coyote hunting was in my family. They asked questions. They were focused. They learned. It was a teacher’s dream: a teachable moment. I had them in the palm of my teaching hand until the bell rang.

The next morning, my assistant principal came to my room before school and said to me, “I was walking past your classroom yesterday, and I noticed you weren’t teaching punctuation. You’re supposed to be teaching your students punctuation this week.” So much for teachable moments.

Yeah, cuz punctuation is the most important thing in the world to learn about. Not.

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A Short Gangsta

Tie o’ the Day is spot-on for this post. I’m going to tell you about, Kavon, a drug dealer gangsta who occasionally showed up as a student in my class when I taught middle school in Baltimore. I don’t mean he sold a little pot and a few pills to the other middle schoolers. I mean, he was an upper-tier dealer.

Kavon was 16, and he was still in the 8th Grade. He dressed the same way every day: Tommy Hilfiger khakis; Timberland boots; and a NEW, pressed, white t-shirt. He wore gold bling: gold earrings; gold Rolex; and at least 3 herringbone gold chains around his neck at a time.

Kavon read well, and he was bright. He showed up in class just enough to barely pass. He told me he had better things to do with his time than sit in school, but his grandma was nagging him to “graduate” from the 8th Grade. He was determined to “walk across the stage” at the end of that year for his grandma to see, then school was over for him. When I asked him why he thought he didn’t need an education, he walked to the classroom window to show me something. “That’s mine,” he said as he pointed to a new creme-color Lexus with gold rims, parked at the foot of the stairs to the school entrance. It was the nicest car in miles. It was also in the best parking spot at the school.

I explained various ways getting an education might be a better long-term plan for him. I said, “Kavon, with your brain, you could be a doctor when you’re 25.” He didn’t skip a beat, and replied, “Ms. Wright, I’m not gonna live to be 25.” I told him that was exactly my point, but he couldn’t see it. That was one of the things that made me truly understand the lack of hope my students had, based simply on the neighborhood they were born into. By the neighborhood’s standards, Kavon was already the biggest man he would ever be. He was a success.

Kavon pointed out the window at his car again. “I bought my grandma a car for Christmas too— exactly like mine.” He was proud of himself. He told me he had paid cash for both cars.

I don’t know how, or if, things ended for Kavon in the 25 years since then. If I go by statistics, I’d have to say he probably went to prison a couple of times, and then got shot and killed during a drug deal, on a street corner by Booker T. Washington Middle School.

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Skitter’s Our Little Reindeer

In this photo, Skitter and I are modeling two versions of the same Tie o’ the Day theme: Christmas lights in reindeer antlers. Although she might appear to be, Skitter was not traumatized by posing in this photo with me. I promise. She’s always a good sport when I say to her, “Skitter, we need to do a TIE O’ THE DAY thing.” She doesn’t run away and hide or get extra-shaky when I get in TIE mode with her.

Six years ago this week, this little scaredy dog let our fam-damily adopt her. She’s a rescue dog, and she had been through a hellish puppyhood before we brought her into our home to be treated like the Queen o’ All Mutts. We are guessing she was about 1 when we got her, which makes her 7 now. We don’t know from what breed she hails. Our best guess is that she is part Chihuahua and part Whippet, so we say she is a Whippet-huahua. If you ever get the chance to watch her run, you will see all-out “Whippet woosh” in her speed.

I almost named her Bambi because she looked like a fawn when we first saw her at the rescue, especially when she curled up. But she was skittish to the core. Hence, her name had to be Skitter. I’ve written posts remarking that Skitter vibrates when she’s out in the world, and she honestly does. As time goes on, she vibrates at a lower level of vibration. Sometimes her vibration is invisible to anyone who isn’t me or Suzanne. I’ve been asked, “How can Skitter be happy if she’s always afraid of everything?” My reply: “Well, she only vibrates around people, places, things, and ideas. Other than that, she’s fearless.” Seriously, she is a happy dog. She knows she is loved and safe. She expresses a range of moods beyond fear. We do, however, realize her skittishness will never completely go away. Unfortunately, whatever abuse she suffered as a puppy is a part of who she is.

We think Skitter has adjusted relatively well. She loves to jump in the car when I say, “Let’s go for a ride,” but she shakes the entire time we drive anywhere— including to Delta. She loves visiting Mom. She hardly vibrates at all anymore when we spend time at Millard Care and Rehab. When Skitter’s sitting on Mom’s bed there, she doesn’t shake.

When we walk to the mailbox, Skitter doesn’t vibrate anymore, but she still keeps her tail between her legs. I’ve taught her how to howl when Suzanne gets home from work. Even though her own howling noises startle her, you can tell Skitter’s proud of herself for knowing how and when to do it.

I admire Skitter. She doesn’t let her fears keep her in her crate all day. Despite the abuse she suffered before we familied her, she’s still willing to trust that we’ve got her skinny canine back. She knows it’s a crazy world. She knows it can be a mean world. Still, she faces each day with oodles of hope and wonder. Sometimes I think she’s better at being a grown-up than I am.

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The Christmas Box

Suzanne gets the Billy Bob Thornton BAD SANTA Bow Tie o’ the Day Award today. A few years ago, I posted a photo of this same sealed box, on which Suzanne had so elegantly scribbled the “detailed” contents. I simply want you to know— in case you’ve wondered— Suzanne still has not yet opened the holiday box, let alone gone through its mysterious trinkets and decor. The sad box sits quietly on a top shelf in the garage, lonely, counting down the years until Suzanne finds time to set its contents free and determine their fate.