60 Years Are Too Many: Church

     9 August 2026

        This past week, I had drinks with friends, and somehow my departure from organized religion came up. We bonded over being forced to watch Left Behind at much too young of an age, and agreed that evangelicals are abusing children.

        My friends were churchy-churches as kids, as many of us were, but are not so much any more, as most of us. Christopher Durang put it best: "I know many children who are Catholic. I don't know any Catholic adults." This is not a direct quote, as I was sure it was from Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You, but I don't have the play. The point is that it fits my thoughts thematically, as few of us adults are still churchgoers. For a good reason.

        And we all have a story.

        And mine is coming, you've been warned.

        First: Not Catholic. I honestly would not have been able to handle church as a child if we were Catholic. Who can sit still that long with so much pagentry and smoke?

        We attended Berean Fundamental Church in Lakewood. It's on Jewell and for a minute was the River Of Life Church, but now the marqee is in Spanish. I think. I don't speak Spanish, but it looks Spanish.

        I attended that church until I was 12 or 13 (unsure which year). I was tasked with relentlessly inviting other kids to attend Wednesday nights, making me quite popular at school. Kids were constantly begging to be invited to attend church on a Wednesday night. It was relentless, I almost needed a bodyguard.

        NARF!

        In case you missed the sarcasm, I was treated like  a borderline pariah.

       I went to Sunday School on Sunday morning, regular church on Sunday night and AWANA on Wednesdays. There were Saturday things I have a vague recollection of doing, and I think my dad helped mow the church lawn.

        When kids would ask what kind of church I was aggressively pushing on them, I had no answer. My mom said we were "a bounce off of Baptist". But that seems incorrect, as the word "fundamental" was part of the name, but fundamental to what? If I look it up today, it's Fundamental Baptist...but I do not remember that word on the church sign. Maybe it was?

        Ok, went down a google rabbit hole...we were just Berean Fundamental and apparently they still have a summer camp in Lakewood. Eww.

        There were rules we did not follow because I guess we didn't want to. I have no idea why we didn't just go to another church. But my parents said church doctrine stated that we weren't supposed to attend movies, play cards,  listen to rock music or dance. 

        We went to the movies. Mom played Gin Rummy with friends. I liked music. My sisters and I danced like fiends to our records and the radio, largely in front of the box fan. For effect. You know. As one does.

        I imagine my mother saw us as the Partridge Family of the church. She stitched us matching outfits for the holidays, all reflecting her obsession with pioneers and bonnets--my God that woman loved Little House on the Prairie-- and we sang weekly. Mom played the guitar, and her three little well behaved girls would sing with her. We were very compliant. Mom also ran the games on Wednesday night for AWANA.

        I even attended the Pastor's Vacation Bible school at his house after I had outgrown it, because my mom said he needed the support. I would argue I attended that church most of my congnizant life until the age of 13.

        I attended Maranatha Bible Camp for a few summers. Enough that I started spouting that my career dream was to be a Maranatha Bible Camp Counselor. One year, counselors introduced me to Christian Rock. Not like Stryper-they were way later, and it was before Amy Grant and even softer than her. Literally, like soft do wop. I just looked up the album Andrus, Blackwood &Co,Following You, 1978. 

        So. The song "Jesus, You're So Wonderful" was the trigger. 

         I loved it. Mom loved it. Mom learned to play it on the guitar---it's a piano do wop and mom doesn't play piano. So. I assume Rockley's didn't have the sheet music, seems like it would have been a bit obscure. Maybe they did. Or maybe mom just listened to the album and figured it out. I seem to rememer sheet music, though. Whatever. Not relevent.

        I sang it on Sunday morning. I was so excited. I sang it so well. I was a young belt with no idea what a belt was. It felt so good! I sounded so good! 

        There were a few smiles in the congregation, and maybe a sway or two. The audience had enjoyed it, but something was wrong. I was being...judged. It was different than previous performances, where I was judged with smiles and joy. This was very different. Their eyes were cold. Some looked sad. I was a kid, all I knew was it was not the usual reception.

        By the evening service, we were iced out. Nobody would talk to us. I assumed I was not as good of a vocalist as I thought. Everything inside of me crashed. I assumed it was my voice. It never occured to me that it could be the song. It was a song praising Jesus. It was a song by a christian rock band. It had to be the way I sang it.

        By the following Sunday, the pastor's messages had changed to the question of whether or not rock and roll music was sacred.

        The printed pamphlet referred to the "perverted album" of Aqua Lung. 

        I did not sing Jethro Tull. I sang a Christian rock band's song that celebrated Jesus, not a socially relevent comment on the state of homelessness.

        What was going on?

        I sill do not know. All I can tell you is that we left the church. We tried a Baptist church with a strong youth program that did not appeal to me, and mom did not like the music ministry.

         I have not belonged to a "church" since.

        Theatre is my church.

        We can sing and dance, we respect history and all art and all people and we do not judge you for your beliefs, only your commitment to the show.

         Nobody is as judgey as zealous white church people.

          I hung out with one of the ...I guess he was like a "deacon"- right, he was A Big Deal...I hung out with his daughter. Praised as a jewel of Christian Values, she was.

         She taught me how to shoplift.

         And by "taught" I mean she showed me how she was shoplifting, but I couldn't do it. I tried. I lifted a lipstick at Walgreens that I hid in a drawer until we moved to Green Mountain and I threw it away. So Much Guilt.

        But I was the sinner for belting a song praising Jesus.

        I see you.

        I'm good. I do not need your judgment. 

        And I'm smart enough to know you were dangerous, and I'm not the only one you abused. I'm grateful my parents were smart enough to leave, and not stay and boot lick to be allowed back into the fold.  I love that, it taught me volumes about self respect and may have sowed the seeds that grew the mohawk.

        I have no idea why that church changed its name, I assume the pastor left---he was not terribly young--and nobody wanted to keep it going. I'm not mad at the brick and mortar building. It's sill there and I appreciate they've held on as a church and haven't been bulldozed for apartments.

        And I also do no belong to any church. I haven't since. 

        And I don't judge anyone who likes their church. Good for you, go to church.

        Just stop judging me because I don't adhere to your beliefs.

        I have good reason. 

        I see church as controlling; a demon wearing a blonde wig.

        I'm not interested in hearing your side of how great your church is. You heard my side. You have two valid response choices: to say "I'm sorry that happened" or "Me too". 

        "My church is nothing like that," is not a valid response. It's a defense.

       Scene.

        

        

        

60 Years Are Too Many: Postcards To My First And Only Work Wife

 

    3 August 2026

        We all know my application story and why I started teaching.

       Here's a story you don't know.

       Which is also a love letter to Stephanie Ortiz for her birthday.

       After I was soft hired at Littleton--- after the AP and theatre teacher "hired" me -- I had to meet the principal. 

        Dr. W had been the principal for many years, and I was scared to death of him. I had never taught before-only subbed-which is why I accepted the part time theatre position. My kids were in elementary school and I didn't want a full time job. Part time sounded perfect. I could learn to teach while teaching and still be a parent.

        I was sitting in Dr. W's office for my final "interview", which he seemed to take very seriously by putting his feet up on his desk and nodding off. I wore the same dress I had for the initial interview, one nobody ever saw again. I sat up, back straight, dropped the few ed vocab words I'd gleaned like "differentiate" and tried not to hyperventilate. His phone rang.

        He picked up as I was talking, as one does when one is highly engaged with another person. After a brief exchange, he hung up and put his feet back on the floor. He looked at me over a pencil he was twirling.

        "Do you want to be full time?"

        "Excuse me? I applied for the part time theatre position."

        "Yes, but a lang arts teacher just quit. It's part time, so you'd be half and half. Do you want to be full time?"

        No, I did not, and I was even more unqualified to teach lang arts than I was theatre, but I am easily bullied by older men so...I said yes.

        What I did not know is that the previous part time theatre teacher-for whose job I was hired- had not quit teaching or left the building. The PT Theatre job was open because she needed to work full time, so she switched to full time lang arts in the building.

        She had been teaching at Littleton for two years, waiting for exactly this opportunity.

        Which just landed in my lap.

        When I was at my induction in August, the AP gave me a gold LPS pin. He smiled and said "I hear you're the new Ms. Haight".

        What? You hate me? The kids will hate me? What are you saying, sir? I just met you, why so much hate? I'm new hate? There was old hate? Somebody please help me!

        I had no idea who this Haight person was. I do not remember meeting her for the first time. I heard about her from Jim and Don (music), the AP and the theatre teacher, who all called her "Steph" I remember meeting her at some point in the hall outside of 146--I think she came down to say hi to Jim and Don, and I happened to be in the hall. Probably because the door knob to 146 was sticky and I could only get in about half of the time. That tracks. The full time theatre teacher did not help me to figure out how the door worked, or attempt to fix it. He just berated me because I couldn't get the door open, so I spent a lot of time in the hall trying to figure it out.

        She introduced herself. She was Stephanie Haight. AHH!!! Good God, thank you for the connection. She told me --wihout any anger or spite---that I had been hired for the job she had vacated, and she had wanted to be half and half, an opportunity which had not emerged, so she opted to move down the hall and be full time lang arts.  

        And then they hired me and literally the opportunity was offered to me.

        And also, she loved theatre and would be happy to help out in any capacity. 

        The kids loved her. I heard many stories of how bad ass Ms. Haight was--she played pool at cast parties, fell off ladders and bounced, her laugh filled the shop during builds--the kind of stuff techies love. I can still hear her demanding to know the location of the push fish.

         Once we realized we would get along, she changed our badges to photos of Carl and Lenny from The Simpsons. She jumped in to do lights and sets, came down to tell jokes and stopped by my lang arts classroom---which I shared with the woman I regard as my true mentor, a seasoned lang arts teacher--to brighten my day. Her eyes were always the size of saucers, full of glee and love of life. She actually made her lang arts kids memorize the opening of Beowulf and was rabid about the difference between "Old English" and "Elizabethan English" because kids are idiots and think Shakes is Old English.

        Her willingness to help my slaggy inept ass created a smooth transition for students, but unfortunately it also built a "New Vs. Old" rift between us and the full time theatre teacher. We did nothing to feed it, we didn't have to. We just got along and liked the kids. To be fair, any time there's a change, kids get spikey. I did not know anything had happened until the full time theatre teacher accused me of creating a "Kmart camp". I was half theatre and half lang arts; I didn't have upper level theatre kids and only directed the spring shows, initially, then the fall show. He had the musicals, the upper level classes and IB. I did costumes. I literally had no idea what he was talking about, and had to ferret Steph out in her cubicle to be talked down. She knew the drill all too well. Part of why she decided to exit down the hall was this man's browbeating approach to everything. So we bonded even more deeply.

        We went to prom together.

        When I did Laramie Project, I was able to contact Moises Kaufman, who was roommates in college with one of our social studies teachers. I just did it, I called, I followed through. He connected me to Leigh Fondakowski, who happened to be "nearby" in Utah, and willing to come see a rehearsal and chat with the actors. She wasn't 'free' of course, Tectonic felt a donation would be appropriate and I agreed. Steph was all in, she couldn't believe our good fortune. The full time theatre teacher scolded me, said "We're a school, they should do it for free" and "Admin will never agree to a donation".

        So I walked down to admin and said "Can we?" and the Beautiful AP----who remembers the moment to this day----said "Of course!"

        Steph did lights and set with a former student, and we created something unique that teachers still talked about 15 years later. I remember sitting in the house looking at the stage and listening to her walk through the color changes in the light plot. I was so impressed, and again ashamed because in no way was I capable of this job. She was clearly better at tech from every angle. Full stop.

        At some point we started bullying the guys---Jim, Don and at first the theatre teacher, then just the four of us---into performing at the senior cabarets. We rarely had a clear idea for a piece. The first time, I just said Breakfast Club and then wandered down to her room, where they were watching Chicago. I looked at her, pointed to "He had it coming" happening on the screen and said "Why don't we do that?"

        She knew immediately what I meant and we built a base for the scene. The five of us would each be who we were in high school---the stereotype---each in detention. We'd each sing about how we got there, using the structure and chorus of Cellblock Tango.

        Because I'm the punk rocker, I was innocent. The intellect, Jock, theatre kid and band kid were all actually guilty. I sprayed bleach on my shirt to create an Anarchy symbol, Steph wore her trademark side ponytail---the character  Deb in Napoleon Dynamite is Steph---I choreographed something easy everyone could do-mostly stomping-and it killed.

    Steph's sprinkler dance move brought the house down. She can claim she's a techie all she wants. She's funny.

      My husband's standard response when I say Steph's name is "Stephanie is soooo funny." He said it once after a cabaret---I think it was when we did "Suddenly Seymour" as 
"Suddenly Stephanie"---and got smacked. So he says it all the time now.

        One year, after I became full time theatre, we switched classes so she could teach Intro. She missed teaching theatre, and I was bored with Intro, so I took her Comp World Lit Honors and she took Intro. Today I am amazed anyone let us do that. I'm also amazed nobody in Comp World Lit Honors complained to admin and that I still had a job teaching theatre. She clearly loved it and was much better at it than I was.

        Steph always wore heels or pointy toed shoes. She could be heard clicking down the hall. Very What Not To Wear, she always looked put together. Those first few years I tried my best to put together ensembles, but I never achieved the effortless fashion air she possessed. 

        We couldn't be trusted to sit together during staff meetings. We literally wrote notes and drew pictures and cackled like loonies in the back row.

        It was Steph who came into my lang arts classroom when the Virginia Tech shooting happened and whispered "There's been another one." I knew what she meant, but she didn't want to alarm the students. A few years later one of the kids who was in that class told me she remembered that day, and she said she knew there had been a shooting. Not social media, not text, not our whispers; she knew based on how we both looked.

        We went for manis and pedis once, and the salon tech thought we were mother and daughter. I am not that old, she's that short. 

        I said "Pagent wagon" to her once for A Company of Wayward Saints and she and her husband (who may have been a fiance at the time?) built a wooden wagon so durable it stayed until I left the building, to be used in choir pops concerts and as a prop table.

        One time I walked in on her backstage during an off period; she had a wooden broom stick and a bucket of glass. I watched as she added and subtracted glass and other found items to change the sound. She finally saw me and said "Breaking glass! Does this sound right?" We were doing Noises Off and she'd already designed and built an amazing set with students, and had moved on to creating practical sound for a window break. It was scripted but I didn't really care about that particular detail. She did. 

        I got it. She loved theatre. Done with one job, she started the next one. She did lights and sets and props with the same gusto every time. 

        One Halloween I had bags of candy on my desk. I hadn't opened them. As she walked out of the office, she grabbed one of the bags to get a treat, thinking it was open. It was sealed, so she just banged it on my desk a few times, hoping it would explode like a pinata. I laughed harder than I ever have, as she turned to me, indignant, and stated "I just want a piece of candy. I thought it was open," and slammed it on the desk again, hoping the final slam would pop the bag open. When it stayed closed, she threw it on the desk and pouted. Cackling like a witch, I picked it up and opened it for her. She grabbed a handful of mini candy bars and stomped out, heels clicking.

        God I love her.

        On Little Shop Of Horrors she recruited a student to build plant tendrils that would "grow" on the flower shop walls, and others that she wanted to use under the stair units below the apron. Those never quite made it, it was a great idea but I'm not a great director and that show overwhelmed me.  She would have made it work, but I didn't have the time to give her room to do it. I was an asshole. Honestly, I still am. 

        However, she did lights for that show and I still do not know how. The set designer was a retired theatre teacher from our sister school who was difficult to work with. Our locked grid was only 12' from the stage floor and he kept building trucks at 11'5", with no regard for lights. The plant, built by an LHS alum for a community theatre production and graciously loaned to us was 11' tall and 11,000 pounds. We had no fly, a locked grid and no wing space. How she lit that show is still a mystery to me. She had to strike all lights from center because of the plant.

        I went shopping for a wedding dress with her. I attended her wedding. I took the first family photo in the hospital when her oldest was born... who just graduated from high school this May. We sat on the patio of My Brother's Bar with beloved alumni many times.

        We had Carl and Lenny badges, and at some point I recall gettting something like a dog tag that said "Smelly Pirate Hooker", a phrase we love from Anchorman.

        Nobody has ever gotten me like she does. If I scream "Just buy me a walker, David. Buy a goddamned walker and put me it," she will respond with glee and "No more turbans for Miss Talbert."

        Yout get one of these people in your life if you're lucky.  

        I have not lived a good enough life to be this lucky.

    But I think the most fun we had was a mess of a summer production we created called O2V. It was an adapted/butchered Orlando by Virginia Woolf, and Steph played Virginia. She paced on the outside square of the inner circle we built, writing and creating and struggling with her own life as well as creating the story of trans Orlando. 

        It was A Lot.

        It was A Mess.

        It was Ours.

        We used the MK Ultra Warehouse by the Merc---lovingly referred to as The Tuff Shed-- LIDA Project's home. Brian was around and supportive, but LIDA's name wasn't on as producer. He just let us come play. We had my actor friends, another teacher, former, current and future students and my oldest child in the cast. My sister and I costumed. Steph and I wrote. It was hot. My friend Mel created original music that she performed during the show. We all learned how to say "I'm not wearing pants" in Russian. It rained on the tin roof during a performance. The LHS principal at the time attended. It was true community theatre, and I never would have done it without Steph.

        She schlepped to Confier to see me in Steel Magnolias. After the show she said "I have a screw gun, need help with strike?" She Schlepped again to Bailey to see me do a reading of Proof. 

        Her birthday is this week. I could never remember which day, so years ago I just started spamming her Happy Birthday memes beginning on August first. Last year I forgot. I just...forgot. I have no excuse. 

        I've known her since I started teaching. And through three districts and three performing arts departments, she's been my only work wife. I've had colleagues, some better than others, only one villain. But nothing like Steph. Nothing compares to her relentless positivity and true passion for life.

        She left teaching to raise her kids. Luckiest kids in the world. I hope they know that.

        I will send this to her. I'll probably print and mail it. She has no social media, what she calls "Facey Spaces".

        Happy Birthday Beautiful. I miss the crap out of working with you. I wish I could be there to punch you right in the babymaker.

                                            O2V Steph in the foreground.

        

        

60 Years are X Many.

 26 July 2026

       So I spent Friday night chatting with my old friend who is visiting from Canada. He married a Canadian, smart guy, and so lives in a beautiful place with his beautiful wife. "Well...how did I get here?"

        Anyway,our conversation roamed freely and covered his job in tech that he hated for 30 years and has left...ish, Canadian healthcare,investing as a verb, The Real Cause Of Inflation, aging parents, friendships, aging parents redeux, American "health care", teaching and how much he hated his tech job.

        Primarily I wanted to write about the depth of friendships. I do not have a lot of friends, which is largely by design. I don't like people, and even if I do, I run out of spoons.*

        I will do anything for my children. But I can't think of a friend that I would do "anything" for, honestly. I have shown up and been supportive in different situations, but I don't cognitively suss out that I would do anything for whoever.

        My Canadian friends would do anything for me.

        I know this, because I've watched them do anything for other friends.

        They are not trauma free---they live in Halifax and lost much in the fire of 2023. 

        They live in Nova Scotia, not Ontario, which is currently on fire.  I have learned a lot about Canadian geography from them. Even though I've managed to never travel up to see them, which I cannot explain. I want to visit, very much, and it's not as expensive as traveling to Europe, and my friends live there, but I just...the only time I got serious and looked up flights and started to really think about it was right before the 2023 fires...so...now I think I'm a curse.

        As usual, it's about me.

        He is here from Canada to help his parents out as they navigate their new normal with early onset and health issues. As I am also opening the same map, we have something in common. We used to have more in common, as he used to be a performer before he joined the Hated Tech world. Now it's age and parents and how insane it is that his wife gets to make films about plants in Canada and I have to teach. Not that I could make films about plants, I'm just jealous that her country monetarily supports her art and she has universal healthcare and I will never retire.

        Anyway, this is strictly an American issue---paying for elder care. Canadian universal healthcare isn't perfect, but nobody dies because they can't afford their meds, or goes bankrupt over medical bills. 

         I feel like Gen X is named for a variety of reasons. X marks "the spot" I suppose, meaning treasure. So that's out. 

         Stupid Fuck Twat named his social media X and pissed us all off. So it's not cool any more, that's out.

         But it is a mark, it's a moment. You stop at X? What does "stop" mean? Are we the last fully grown generation of Americans? As in, this America right now? Does history stop with us?

         OR...it's a crossing, we're in unchartered territory. Our parents are living longer than their parents did, and medicine is keeping them alive longer but healthcare costs are outpacing their ability to pay to live longer. Or even to track it, too many platforms and websites to pay and submit receipts and receive referrals is tough on those north of 70. It's tough on me and I'm 60.

        And then there's Auntie Alzheimers and Cousin Dementia.

        We did not have to watch our parents deal with their parents' mental decline, so we don't have a road map. Sure, some did, of course, but in the greater game of numbers and data, most of us did not. So most of us are completely gobsmacked and shocked as we cannot ourselves retire and we have to care for our parents and we still have to work. And insurance only covers in home care if there is a medical diagnoses---so if  you're just sort of old and falling apart and in need of help with groceries or home tasks, you have to pay out of pocket. Out of pocket from your severely limited social security that won't even buy you groceries, let alone compensate a good soul whose job it is to help you. I learned on NPR about a retired teacher in Rochester, NY who receives a $1500 a month pension. She sold her car, rides a bike and relies on food banks and can't afford meds. 

        That sounds like the retirement plan I was promised! She is living the dream. What a dumb ass she was for choosing teaching, she should have had rich parents whose money she could lose frequently and declare bankruptcy repeatedly, then steal some else's ideas and exploit humans. Stupid woman.

        My dad did it right. He was having early onset issues, but refused to see a doctor. He had seen a doctor who had told him he had congestive heart failure, for which he refused to be treated (we found this out after he passed, but we knew he was unwell). He did not want to be a burden on anyone, and he was NOT going into assisted living. Even though there toward the end, we were able to talk him into at least discussing the possibility. I know we could not have afforded to do it, in reality he would have ended up living with us. But it sounds great---you get your own apartment, someone else cooks, you get new friends and scheduled activities and someone with a medical background makes sure you get up and move every day. Where do I sign? I want that! But alas, I will be a reitred teacher so...not in my future. See retired Rochester teacher above.

        Dad said nope, refused to be treated and just wore down until he was too tired to get out of bed. So he laid back down and died. Just like his dad did. Just like I will.

        It was what he wanted. No muss, no fuss, no burden.

        So we traded thoughts and blended stories of others who have been here, and drank.

        He really hated working in tech. I always knew he hated it but never why. Now I know why and it's not the tech, it's Other People. Which is hilarious, because most people who are in tech are there to avoid other people, but his particular job requires working with others on projects. I can see that. I hate people too. So he's taking some time to explore other things---like investing. Which does not require working with other people-yet. He's still learning how to do it.

        I've always been fascinated by investing. Largely because I have nothing to invest, so it's like a secret society to me. My cousin has investments, and she can speak a language I can only pretend to understand. But my Canadian friend confirmed what my cousin has said: invest in commodities. I sort of know what that means now. So when I win the lottery, I will invest in commodities. Although I guess, as a theatre teacher, I could invest in AI before the bubble pops, take all the money and reinvest it in commodities before it pops, taking advantage monetarily of an industry that I utterly hate. That doesn't seem very moral...Oh Right! We're talking about investing. Isn't this entire concept immoral?

        What else...inflation. Who cares, as long as the rich run everything and gold no longer backs our money we're screwed.

        I wish X was a mark on a treasure map. That somehow We Mark The Spot where treasure will be unearthed. If you continue that metaphor, then the treasure unearthed would be our children. So we're fighting so our kids can have the treasure. Or they are the treasure? 

        Which in my dreams is true freedom; unified health care, a reasonable economy run by real people-not oligarchs, no wars because we are able to just ignore the warmongers who are fewer because they have healthcare and education based on science and history and creative outlets so they aren't unstable rich entitled babies, parents who are able to raise hopeful and respectful children who are able to receive all free education afforded them, encouraging choices in higher ed, liberal arts, science, math, plumbing, electricity, architecture, puppet making, voice overs, crocheting---whatever makes them happy because the pressure to monetize every moment of their existence is gone...

        As long as I'm dreaming, I'd like to retire please. And be able to pay my mortgage and have healthcare and still buy groceries.  

         * It was pointed out to me this weekend that not everyone knows this saying. It comes from Special Needs, referring to how "many spoons" --their capability to deal with their day measured by spoons---a student arrives with in the morning. It can be gauged throughout the day, so the teacher can see when they are on their last spoon and navigate accordingly. When they are out of spoons, they shut down or meltdown. It's a phrase I have adopted for myself, and this weekend I am out of spoons.

(FB)60 Years Are Too Many: Looks Like We Made It!

     23 July

        Because I am 60 I hear Barry Manilow when I write that phrase.

       Ok. I'm on the other side of it.

        And some of this is repeat since I'm posting on FB for those who only read when I do that.

        The director asked my co-teacher if she'd like to come back full time in the fall. She's really good at this, it's clear she'd be a great asset. Also she's 20 and currently works in a bakery. I warned her that this is how we get you! It's all fun and games until you have to submit your lesson plans and sit through faculty meetings hearing deliverables teaching ecosphere classrooms authentic engagment post secondary readiness put your sticky note in the parking lot for the gallery walk and remember your why and all seven thousand acronyms.

        She will be great. And if she stays in a private pony preschool she can avoid the above rigor and equity driven solutions. Pretty sure private schools have their own problems, but I don't know what they are. Ok, I kinda do. So does she.

        My feet are swollen, my knee is swollen, my ankles are cankles and my brain is guacamole.

        I got the vacuum out of the closet today, and as I was unwrapping the cord, one of the permanent teachers who skulks around as the camp science teacher, walked past the door and yelled "KRYSSI!"

        I jumped.

        "Sorry, that's broken- the vacuum- it died. I wrote a note."

        I surveyed the circumference of the vacuum.

        "No, I mean I was going to write a note. I will. I will write 'Broken. I don't suck'."

        "No, write 'I'm fixed, I no longer suck'," because I'm FUNNIER than she is.

        She walked away and as I left she said "I compromised. The sign says 'Kryssi Broke Me'."

        She also told me "I think they're going to move you back to the older kids next year."

        Completely unaware of what she was saying, I thought they were turning the preschool into an elementary school. See above: guacamole brain.

        "No- camp, if you come back, put you back with the older kids. The Mustangs. That seems to be more your jam."

        They're talking about me?

        They think I'm coming back next year?

        And...they're talking about me?

        Leaning my swollen self on the counter I looked at her. I had to hold my head rigidly to avoid having guac run out of my ears.

        "Are you coming back? I mean...." she trailed off, looking at me.

         "This summer sucked. It was way off."

        "Ya, it did. Next summer is a whole year away," she said in that flat, uncommitted way all trapped teachers do when looking into the future.

        "Unless the democrats stop screwing up the weather, I can't do this again."

        Clearly she's One Of Us so she smiled and got it.

        I continued, as she was still looking at me. "I'm not good at preschool. I don't like not being good at something."

        She shrugged. "You don't suck at it."

        And that's about the highest praise I would expect from this person. I am a broken vacuum. Perfect.

        ___

        Remember there is now a barn cat? Inexplicably, a farm preschool needed a barn cat. So my co-teacher was at the barn with a kid while the rest of us walked to the field. She trailed behind, looking more pale that usual. Which is saying something, as she's one of those beautiful porcelain petite waifish girls who don't wear any eyeshadow but have blue hair. 

        She sat next to me, her big eyes wide. "Ummm....so I think the barn cat is beheading birds."

        I shrugged. I am an experienced cat owner. They're beheaders. "And...?"

        "I saw the bird on the ground, and it didn't have a head...and then "L" stepped on it and all the guts squished out...." she trailed off. Oh man, did she ralph in the barn?  Great. I am not cleaning that up. I just stared at her shocked face. She took a breath. 

        "Wait, where's L?"

        "She didn't even notice, she's over there by the jumpropes. She just kept running." She took another breath and I decided she may not have barfed in the barn, but she may barf on me. I waited. She spoke again, swallowing hard.

        "Should we tell somebody?"

        Now I wanted very much to say "No, let someone else figure it out," but that seemed like a poor choice. How funny would that have been to tell her to let a preschooler discover it by accident and let her believe I was serious.

        However, she was clearly distraught and I was sitting in 96 degree heat and could not think clearly. So I pushed the talk button on my walkie and said clearly "There's a beheaded bird in the barn. Thanks."

        I looked at her and smiled. "See? Above our pay grade." I stood up, and she made her way to her feet wonkily, and we headed toward the field.

        It was above our pay grade for exactly the amount of time it took for us to stand and see the office matron coming through the gate.

        The office matron,who is somehow also the Barn Bitch---she feeds the barn cat and relocated the baby bunny nest--- arrived needing to know the exact location of the corpse so she could clean it up. Poor Tori had to schlep over and show her the location. While there, they discovered an equally headless bunny.

        I have no idea why this story is so hilarious to me. Maybe I'm telling it wrong. 

        It was the way Tori asked if we should tell somebody. Because it's clearly above her pay grade and was a valid question, but it struck me funny. 

        I realized I started using her name, and I'll keep doing it. It's a shorter version and no last name and who cares? She's a good kid.

        And not just because that when we left today, she stopped to tell me "You are the coolest person I have ever known, and I mean that with my whole heart."

        Aweeee....shucks.

        All of my students know this across three buildings; if you hang in my office on my territory, you're going to be subjected to my monologues. Politics, religion, connecting what's happening currently to history, my color choosing conflicts, past students---it's my office. You're here, and for all you know I just talk to myself when I'm alone and you're just there to witness the soliloquy.

        So it's no surprise that when Tori and I were setting up craft in the morning, she learned a bit about me. The difference is, it's not my office, so I adhered to the social rule of listening equally. So her assessment of "coolest person" was not based soley on my lame ass preschool teaching skills. I was also an adult who both listened and shared. 

____________

        I told you about the three year old klepto. She'd been taking one or two toys at a time and her dad was bringing them back the next camp day. We were keeping an eye and couldn't catch her in the act. On her second to last day, her dad opened her backpack at pick up and there were ten match box cars, three monster trucks, swim goggles, two small hand held drums, a few wooden puzzle pieces and leggos. It was stuffed full!

        Tori and I were gobsmacked. We didn't see her take any of it.

        So yesterday, her last day, we put her backpack up on the cubby shelf where she couldn't reach it.

         And then watched as she loaded items over to the cubby, looked for her backpack, couldn't find it and started crying "daddy". We were able to watch as there was a third teenager in the class with us, and we realized she was doing it while we were helping with craft and cleanup. Twice we stopped her before she got to the cubby and made her return the toy or sticker. We were very proud of ourselves, as here on the last day we could finally track when she was doing it. 

        At the end of the last day of camp, as we walked through the hallway for pick up, I was the caboose and Klepto was at the front of the line. As we filed past the office matron, she said loudly "Klepto, give me my keys back please." I looked at her and said "How? How? We were on her all morning."

        There were plastic keys by the chicken chair *, and as she walked past, Klepto just picked them up and kept going. Literally didn't break her stride or let on she'd done anything wrong. In fact, she was holding the keys in her hand--she was not even trying to hide them.

        She's three years old. God Speed mom and dad.

        * The Chicken Chair is a wide, blue chair surrounded by toys for those who struggle to separate from their parent. One of the teenage boys who float/pony wrangle told me that he and his brother call it the "Chicken Chair". I love it.

_______________

         Here's why preschool is great and every human should have to teach for a month before getting their human membership card.

        * Every poor behavior in adulthood shows up first in preschool. I promise a parent saw it and chose not to address it. Greed, selfishness, stealing, unwillingness to learn social skills. I'm not talking about the spectrum kids---not gonna lie, they frequently want to fit in and will learn the social rules if they are taught. I mean regular gen ed kids whose parents are allowing them to run the house. Preschool teachers are now overwhelmed by these issues. The less parenting happens the more raising your child falls on teachers. They're doing their level best, but if you do not teach your child a baseline of respect, like stealing is wrong, all I can do is put their backback on a shelf and check it at the end of school, both are things that are difficult in a class with 17 kids. The source is you--the parent. Somewhere we lost the baseline of being kind and patient with other kids. Don't hit. Don't grab. Don't exclude. Be kind. Share. Include. It seems so simple, right? 

        *Allergies are not preferences. Preschools ask for allergies because they provide snack and sometimes lunch to your child and we do not want to make them sick. Please do not list the things your child does not like. We are not adjusting the menu for their enjoyment, we're just fueling them. In general a kid knows they are gluten intolerant or allergic to peas (that was a new one for me) or dairy. If that's the case, the child will have their own 'special snack' in their backpack that you provided, or you've left his gluten free Cheez-Its with us. Which we label and put on a shelf and inevitably there will be 16 kids who want to know why they can't have the Cheez-Its. You can also just say "egg allergy" without listing every product that contains egg. But weird stuff like "sugar free cocoa" and "lolipops" had me scratching my head. Why only lolipops, but cupcakes are OK? Now I have to ask you if it's a sugar allergy, only to discover that they don't like lolipops, and here is time I've spent tracking down what you mean instead of...well, anything else productive. Now, if it's the gelatin or the way lolipops are processed that they are allergic to, then I want to hear that story which I hope ends with "So we had to go to the hospital and they called Dr. House". Because who else could figure that one out?

        All in all to sum up, unless it's going to be a cool story ending with Dr. House, we don't have time to research what you listed.

       * Teaching preschool is Godly. Honestly. People tell me they have no idea how I teach high school, it's foreign to them. Preschool is more important IE Godly because you're getting them when there is still hope. Preschool is not unlike high school, except that by the time you get them in high school, there is no hope. They are teenagers who are rude, disrespectful, greedy, selfish, unkind and have no hope for their own future. Yet my tools are the same as in preschool: Dear god sit down, be still, stop talking. Go play, stop hitting, don't be a bully, advocate for yourself but remain kind. Accept consequences. If you scream at everyone for not sharing, instead of asking if they will share, you will sit alone and think about how to approach the topic differently. Sharing is sharing---I get a turn, then you get a turn. Sharing is not Give It To Me Forever. And where are your parents? Who is raising you? Why do you not grasp that your behavior is rude and not serving your future? How are you 14 and already given up?

        The biggest difference is I get to cuss at high schoolers. I have to sing silly songs and say rando shit in preschool. Like my favorite hit from this summer: "My teeth are not white enough. I quit". A top ten hit with the four year old set.

        The largest similarity is how frequently I repeat myself. Age is no different. "Sit down sit downsitdownsitdownsitdown". Or repeating their name while standing behind them with their backpack waiting for them to listen. Or repeating what I just said because even though they were looking right at me, they weren't listening. "What are we doing?" will get you a withering look and the answer "I have no idea, ask a friend".

       The similarities are striking, and surprising to no teacher anywhere in the field.

       And so, all in all, in conclusion, I have two weeks of summer until I'm back in a high school, figuring out how to teach theatre without a theatre because it's being renovated

        Thank you for reading.

           Scene