All The Feels Part 1

   It isn't enough that I am in Durango, dropping off my oldest at college.

   My youngest did not come with us.
   She has a new job, needed to work and,  ultimately, needed time "away" from us, I guess, which is funny 'cause she's never home, but whatever.
  
    We got up at 9 to have breakfast before the 10 a.m. check in time. Genoa is allergic to calendars or any distribution of information, so we were not sure if that was real. It was. We arrived and she checked herself in, which is when we discovered she didn't have a roommate. They put the kids' names on the dorm doors, and G's was the only name. After some debate she chose the bed with the tree blocking her view of the quad because it is next to the heat register. Since no roommate was imminent, we decided to spring for a fridge and a microwave.
  
    The Durango Walmart Has It Goin' On.
    We walked four steps and were faced with three different sizes of fridge choices. Three more steps and the microwaves appeared! $300.00 later we returned to Fort Lewis and schlepped the electronics up to Genoa's room. Which, by the way did I mention, is on the 2nd floor. I couldn't get a grip on the fridge box, so I put it down for a moment. Another passing parent asked if she could help. I answered "I don't think well, it's just, yes can you just load it on my arms?" That was the second time I realized I had lost my capacity for speech. It happened earlier in the dorm room, when G was unpacking and asked a question and I said "I um shma pants...uh.."  I saw that same parent later at orientation, and she said "I know you, you were almost strangled by a tree." I realized that from her perspective, my scarf had wound around my neck and arms and the box and it looked deadly. I was not, however, anywhere near the tree, I'm not sure where she got that.

    As we were leaving the parking lot for Walmart I noted a family saying good bye to their son. We hadn't even finished moving G in yet, and these people had already shown up, moved him in and moved on. Maybe he was a sophomore, but I doubted it based on the extended hug he was receiving. It never occurred to me to just drop G off. To slow down to 30 and push her out of the car.

   At the bookstore, Jim and I were purchasing the obligatory mugs and shirts, and Genoa and Rachel (her new friend) were walking toward us. I smiled, and Genoa waved books encased in plastic at me and proclaimed "Look what I did! I'm an adult! I bought my books!"

  When we crossed their path a few minutes later, she barely registered our presence. When we said "bye", she did not even notice we had left.
  
   Clearly, she's fine.


    I got a text from her about7 p m, she now has a roommate. She is native American from a res in Arizona, very shy and very sweet, and very unnerved that their suite mates already have boys over.


          She also texted me that she was at a party. Who tells their mom they are at a party? Genoa. Who else? All the feels.

       Clearly, she is going to be fine.

College Is A Thing

       Last night, G and I attended a Ft. Lewis freshmen and parent "mixer" in Bow Mar, thrown by a FLC alum who just likes to do things like this. He opened his home to incoming FLC freshmen from the Denver/ Boulder area so they could meet one another before moving to school, and the parents could also mingle. There was Vanilla Cream Soda and Ginger Ale from a Durango brewery. The BBQ was also Durango based. There were admissions counselors, the school President and alumni mixed in to answer questions and chat. What a generous offering.
       First: Mingling. This is a trait you are either born with or you are not. I fall under the "not" column. Like most theatre people, I'm authentically withdrawn and socially awkward. We are good at our craft because we know how to watch and listen. That guy who's always the life of the party? Not a theatre guy. Watch Jim Carey interviews, he'll back me up. Anyway, in social settings like this Genoa is also socially retarded. We make a great pair. I went with her knowing that if I did not, she would not have gone by herself. By the time we got into the beautiful back yard, which opened onto the lake, Genoa had found a girl from T.J. who is a theatre techie majoring in bio and chem.
      And I was left with the T.J. girl's mom, struggling for conversation. Once I covered "Where did she go to high school?" and "What's her major" I was out. I don't like group settings. I Hate Group Settings. I hate reunions. Family ones are different. But I've never been to a high school reunion because I know I'll hate it. I will offend someone, somehow, or laugh too loudly or judge my weight and get depressed.  Thanks, but no thanks.
      One of the reasons I loved my giant colleges (remember, I attended three) was that I could disappear. I like big classes, a big campus, a big student union where I can disappear into an overstuffed chair. I love being anonymous.
      Genoa deliberately chose a small school due to her social anxiety. In her mind, too big is overwhelming. She wants to be on a small campus with small classes so she knows everybody and feels comfortable. It is weird to me.
      And it was eye opening last night, when Genoa freely chatted with people she's never seen before, excited to make new friends at her new school, and I had to force myself away from her.
      Because I don't want to talk to adults. I wanted to talk to the kids.
      But I did. I mingled. I met 7 parents, the college President and a few alumni. I flipped the "performance" switch on my back so I could function. It lasted about fifteen minutes before I had to walk away and stand at the edge of the lake alone. Then I turned and returned to the parents, chatted up another pair, returned to the lake. Took a picture of the lake. Sent it to a friend who lives in the neighborhood. Texted back and forth with her. Tried to return to the parents but just could not make myself, so I sat with Dene, the President of FLC. I like her. Everybody associated with this school is crazy nice.
      Second: Conversation. Here's the thing. I will listen for weeks. I like listening. But if you won't talk, I will fall silent. (Clearly I am not speaking of meetings with friends, only strangers.) And if you, too, are silent, then I will bow to the pressure of performance and start chatting. And talking. And Babbling. And unchecked, I will say something rude or offensive or judgmental. I will not even know that I'm doing it. Because I am Conversationally Challenged. It is a sub-issue of "Mingling". I'm a director, an actor, a writer, a teacher. I don't Conversation, I Lecture. I Monologue. Please do not force me into these scenarios. It is a bad day for everyone. Thankfully, at 48 I know how to trick people into talking by asking questions that require more than a one word answer. So I know a lot about the kids G is going to college with.
       Third: Genoa is going to college. She has chosen to double major in Theatre and Political Science with a minor in Forensic Science. She is not sure if it's law school or a lab she's headed for.  It was truly wonderful to watch her chat with her new friends last night. She is thrilled to get a fresh start. She learned some great lessons in high school, and between theatre and LHS teachers and Betty Buckley there is barely a trace left of the angry little pink haired troll that started at LHS four years ago. She was genuinely excited about chatting. On the drive home she was bubbling with tales she had heard of Pet Disasters and College Anxiety. She knows kids in her hall, and kids in the other halls. She exchanged phone numbers and spent last night texting a girl she'd just met who graduated from Bear Creek. They are making plans to see each other before they leave for school, maybe do some shopping.
      Fourth: Genoa is going to college. I had the most vivid, heartbreaking Zombie dream last night, and ultimately it was about Genoa leaving for college. I have enough anxiety over her making friends, getting sick, not eating, getting snowed in over a break...she actually made it worse by seeming to adapt quickly and easily to the gathering. When we first arrived she froze up. Her "Go To" is "To Attack" whenever she is uncomfortable. We drove by the house once because there were only a few cars parked outside and she did not want to be the first to arrive. But the moment we were walking up the driveway, Delaney from T.J. and her mom were also arriving. I stepped back and within seconds G had made her first new friend. And How Fortuitous that Delaney is also a theatre techie who is majoring in Biology and minoring in Forensic Science? 

     So, if it's meant to be. I suppose it's meant to be. On 27 August we will drive her to Durango. And leave her there until Thanksgiving break.

     College is a thing.

        
     

The Struggle Is Real.

       "The struggle is real."
       One of Harp's friends is on food stamps.
       Another was just evicted.
       A student of mine may be homeless by the end of August.
    
       None of this is shocking or solitary. These are struggles that have crossed my path regularly over the last two years. Not occasionally. Not "one kid in two years." Consistently. Regularly. Methodically. Routinely. Pick a word.

       I hear the phrase "the struggle is real" bandied about with sass and in reference to everything from paying attention to losing weight. But when I hear it, I think of all the kids in my periphery who have truly, legitimately struggled.
       And then I get depressed.
  
      Because I neither work in a "low income" school, nor do I live in a "low income" neighborhood. These are troubles that are supposed to plague other kids.  Not the ones I teach or who live nearby.

      I don't have any more to say about it, I suppose. I just wanted to get it off of my mind an onto a page.

      
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Things I Cannot Do Well

              I changed my blog look, and I think it's harder to read. So. Put that on the list. "Cannot change blog look." That is a sub-issue under "Cannot art".
              #17  I cannot teach Pre K.
              I never thought that I could, I wish to be clear. I never said "Lemme at those three and four year olds, Imma teach 'em!" I simply, foolishly said "I'll help where I'm needed."
              So I drew Pre K last week at camp.
              And that topic can now be added to the list of "Things kryssi Cannot Do: Plus Things She Should Not Do."
              I cannot teach Pre K, at least in the camp milieu because camp is "fun". And "fun" apparently translates not telling kids no, or stop, or no, or using my Ice Teacher voice. Apparently camp Pre K means speaking calmly and quietly, calling them "friends" and suggesting that maybe they need to go sit for a moment because they just clocked another kid in the nose, and allowing them to decide when they are ready to return.
              Fuck That Shit.
              (Also I like to cuss. You cannot cuss at a 3.5 year old. Well, you can, but then it's not "fun" anymore, now is it?)
              The answer is "No", no you may not hit, no you may not run around, no you may not scream. No You Will Not Ignore Instructions. NO, you do not decide when you are ready to rejoin the group, I decide that.
               The Hell, people? When did this happen?
               When did we decide that the kids are running the joint?
               So. "Cannot teach Pre K" is now on my list. God Bless Those Who Do, I'm out.

               Along those lines, I believe I am also incapable of teaching mime to kindergarteners, #16. In this case it is not discipline, it's simply translating the art form to something they understand and are capable of implementing. And the only way to do that that I found, after stumbling around for three days, is to have imaginary tea parties, which they already do at home, so I failed there as well. If I had another talent, like juggling, I could add it to keep their attention. But I don't. All I can do is lock myself in a glass box and "walk" past "trees". I asked other teachers, I dug up my training, I looked on the internet. None of it worked. The last day with them I spent 20 minutes just changing the location and weather patterns as they walked around.  So. Lesson learned.
               Good thing I am a high school teacher, huh?

                           

Postcard 3 August 2014

           Sundays are nice. Genoa gets up to go to work. Today Harper got up to go to WARPED. Jim's still snoozing. I am considering a nice walk. Trying not to be cranky that we are out of coffee.
           As I rise, I go to the sliding door to let the dog out, cats in/out.
           My back patio looks like a Quentin Tarantino movie.
           Beginning dead center, there is a mound of internal organs that have become external. And alone. Just the internal organs. Externally placed on my patio. In a pool of blood.
            To the right, the kitten is snacking on what appears to be the hind quarters of a large rat. I assume rat as the thick tail is larger than anything I've seen on a mouse. Where the rest of the rat has gone is beyond me, but I do suspect the innards belonged to him.
             Closer to me is a small, dead bird.
             I open the door for the animal indoor/outdoor exchange, and then close it and walk away. It is too early to deal with this mayhem and I haven't had my coffee.
             After chatting with Genoa as she's waking up, I decide someone should hose off the patio. I don't want to do it, but there is no coffee and I don't want to go out and buy any. So. Someone should hose off the patio. Someone needs to deal with this.
             I look around and realize "someone" is me.
             I gingerly make my way to the garden hose. I do not like untangling the garden hose, as past mass murder scenes have proven that occasionally there is a tiny corpse tangled in the tubing. Once I turn it on and start hosing off the crime scene like a poor grocery vendor after a mob shoot out, I discover a small, dismembered leg on the left side of the patio.
              As grossed out as you are reading this, I have to tell you this is not the first time I have performed this ritual this summer. In addition to the rabbits, we have had numerous birds, mice and a few rats torn to pieces at our doorstep.  We have  not used our backyard for any proper backyard things since Genoa's graduation party, because circling the patio and the deck is a ring of decaying vermin. At first we tried to scoop them up into open space, but after two days it seemed easier to just hose them off and not walk on the grass.
              And that, dear friends, is Sunday.
              So I got that going for me.