5/30/2009
Seattle 25, or Quick Note
Hi everyone - I'm taking a weekend away from my cell phone. Don't worry, Grandmama, you're the exception - we'll still have our Sunday call. Everyone else, I'll talk to you Monday.
5/28/2009
Seattle 24, or Wednesday one-liner
Took 4th in tonight's slam, though it was partially my own fault - I decided to do the poem that would make me feel good in the final round, instead of a point-grabber. I left the stage with a smile on my face, and a good poet (who had never won before, and always gives me rides home after the slam) won.
5/25/2009
Seattle 23, or The Universe's Answer
I have acknowledged on this blog that I tend to be less prolific when I'm happy. This was, in fact, one of the reasons I moved to Seattle in the first place - it didn't seem like a place of blissful existence.
Well, it's been almost two weeks since I wrote an entry of substance. So much for that plan.
Work continues to be good, in its twisted way - I'm getting to know the kids, and definitely getting to know more of the staff. On the whole, not only do the other staff seem to be Decent People who are Dedicating Their Lives To Good And Impossible Work, they are also by and large friendly, supportive, cheerful, and have good senses of humor.
A quick story from this week: Many of the kids have their own bicycles, and each cottage has a communal bicycle, for the kids who don't have. Mikey just got his own bike a few weeks ago, courtesy of his Best Buddy (an adult volunteer who is paired one-on-one with a child to provide friendship, mentoring and positive adult role modeling), who picked it up for free from a relative who had outgrown it. Mikey is as happy with his bike as I'm sure my cousin Gili is with the long-term loan of my grandfather's car. It's got streamers from the handles, is bright pink, and full of sparkles.
The other day, I saw a staff come in with a few cans of green and blue spray paint. "Art project?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "Mikey's bike - I figured he might want to boy it up a little."
"Aww," I said, disappointed, "He wants to change the color?"
"Well, no," my coworker replied, "I just figured..."
"Let's make sure and ask him," I said.
Well, someone else had apparently beat us to the boy-with-a-pink-bike punch. When we asked Mikey if he liked the color of his bike, or if he wanted to change it, he looked up with huge eyes and said, "No! Don't! You'll cover up the magic sparkles, and they make me go extra fast!"
In other news, I'm living at the Ravenna Kibbutz (hereon referred to as the RavButz), and signed a lease today for the new house we're renting starting in June. It's a beautiful house, unlike any I've ever lived in before - it's very California. The floor plan is somewhat open, there's no basement or second floor, and the house design is circular - you can start in the kitchen and walk through every room in the house, and end up back in the kitchen without having to stop. It's unlike the typical Craftsman houses that line the rest of the street, with their crown moldings and compartmentalized layouts. This place was designed to capture light. (And the kitchen was clearly designed by people who love to cook - yes!) Once I move in to House Gimmel (as it is called), I'll become a full fledged Kibbutz member, and responsible for contributing to the many programs the kibbutz provides for the Jewish community around here.
I spent some time yesterday talking to a good friend from college back East about taking risks and trusting the universe. I think it can be widely assumed that I am not typically a universe-trusting sort of person, but moving here required an act of trust and surrender I've not ever achieved before. (Let's put aside, for a moment, the fact that some of the risks and anxiety were minimized by the fact that I was, and continue to be, somewhat financially comfortable during the process.) In less than two months, I feel like I've been rewarded for taking that risk with a job that I love, and a wonderful community to live, eat, and work with.
And poetry! How could I leave it for last? Not only am I doing well competitively, I have been more prolific here in two months than in the last eight combined! Right now, I'm working on a collection of short pieces, perhaps with a theme - we'll see. My goal is to finish it before the solstice, before my birthday. It even has a title.
Well, it's been almost two weeks since I wrote an entry of substance. So much for that plan.
Work continues to be good, in its twisted way - I'm getting to know the kids, and definitely getting to know more of the staff. On the whole, not only do the other staff seem to be Decent People who are Dedicating Their Lives To Good And Impossible Work, they are also by and large friendly, supportive, cheerful, and have good senses of humor.
A quick story from this week: Many of the kids have their own bicycles, and each cottage has a communal bicycle, for the kids who don't have. Mikey just got his own bike a few weeks ago, courtesy of his Best Buddy (an adult volunteer who is paired one-on-one with a child to provide friendship, mentoring and positive adult role modeling), who picked it up for free from a relative who had outgrown it. Mikey is as happy with his bike as I'm sure my cousin Gili is with the long-term loan of my grandfather's car. It's got streamers from the handles, is bright pink, and full of sparkles.
The other day, I saw a staff come in with a few cans of green and blue spray paint. "Art project?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "Mikey's bike - I figured he might want to boy it up a little."
"Aww," I said, disappointed, "He wants to change the color?"
"Well, no," my coworker replied, "I just figured..."
"Let's make sure and ask him," I said.
Well, someone else had apparently beat us to the boy-with-a-pink-bike punch. When we asked Mikey if he liked the color of his bike, or if he wanted to change it, he looked up with huge eyes and said, "No! Don't! You'll cover up the magic sparkles, and they make me go extra fast!"
In other news, I'm living at the Ravenna Kibbutz (hereon referred to as the RavButz), and signed a lease today for the new house we're renting starting in June. It's a beautiful house, unlike any I've ever lived in before - it's very California. The floor plan is somewhat open, there's no basement or second floor, and the house design is circular - you can start in the kitchen and walk through every room in the house, and end up back in the kitchen without having to stop. It's unlike the typical Craftsman houses that line the rest of the street, with their crown moldings and compartmentalized layouts. This place was designed to capture light. (And the kitchen was clearly designed by people who love to cook - yes!) Once I move in to House Gimmel (as it is called), I'll become a full fledged Kibbutz member, and responsible for contributing to the many programs the kibbutz provides for the Jewish community around here.
I spent some time yesterday talking to a good friend from college back East about taking risks and trusting the universe. I think it can be widely assumed that I am not typically a universe-trusting sort of person, but moving here required an act of trust and surrender I've not ever achieved before. (Let's put aside, for a moment, the fact that some of the risks and anxiety were minimized by the fact that I was, and continue to be, somewhat financially comfortable during the process.) In less than two months, I feel like I've been rewarded for taking that risk with a job that I love, and a wonderful community to live, eat, and work with.
And poetry! How could I leave it for last? Not only am I doing well competitively, I have been more prolific here in two months than in the last eight combined! Right now, I'm working on a collection of short pieces, perhaps with a theme - we'll see. My goal is to finish it before the solstice, before my birthday. It even has a title.
5/21/2009
Seattle 22, or Wednesday One-Liner
Took second in tonight's slam to former Seattle Slam Team member Matt Gano! Andi got a hilarious picture of me, which will soon follow.
5/19/2009
Seattle 21, or Poem Draft 1
Memory lives under my shoulder blades.
She came to me with a backpack with a broken zipper
and a single quilt square.
At night, she wanders, restless and unsupervised,
looking for the rest of the pieces.
She sits on my foot and howls,
clinging to my skirt with sticky hands.
Memory thinks it's fun to hide
at the bottom of the stairs, in cupboards,
showers, car seats, behind couch cushions
and shout when I least expect it.
Memory dances a distraction
when I am trying to break habits
and other people's hearts.
She feeds me the names of my
great-grandmothers for lunch,
interrupts my conversations
with last summer's lovers
and questions about duck ponds.
When she runs out of my sight,
I am paralyzed. I bellow,
trying to sound more angry than afraid,
wait for some splinter of her
to come back into view.
I forgive her once she's in my arms again,
tired, a weight I carry on my hips.
She lets her nose run into my sleeve.
Wherever I go, I make her a place to rest,
to play. Make sure she's nourished,
alert, never left alone.
My family turns to me, her keeper,
like most people turn to librarians
or encyclopedias.
This happens at funerals, holidays,
near birthdays,
on Sunday afternoons.
I am also her translator.
She is more monkey than stone,
more smoke than wood,
more wail than speech.
But she’s also more home than my walls, my skin.
(looking for comments - especially on that ending. yech. tell me what works, what you like about it. and tell me how you think it can be fixed or futzed with.)
She came to me with a backpack with a broken zipper
and a single quilt square.
At night, she wanders, restless and unsupervised,
looking for the rest of the pieces.
She sits on my foot and howls,
clinging to my skirt with sticky hands.
Memory thinks it's fun to hide
at the bottom of the stairs, in cupboards,
showers, car seats, behind couch cushions
and shout when I least expect it.
Memory dances a distraction
when I am trying to break habits
and other people's hearts.
She feeds me the names of my
great-grandmothers for lunch,
interrupts my conversations
with last summer's lovers
and questions about duck ponds.
When she runs out of my sight,
I am paralyzed. I bellow,
trying to sound more angry than afraid,
wait for some splinter of her
to come back into view.
I forgive her once she's in my arms again,
tired, a weight I carry on my hips.
She lets her nose run into my sleeve.
Wherever I go, I make her a place to rest,
to play. Make sure she's nourished,
alert, never left alone.
My family turns to me, her keeper,
like most people turn to librarians
or encyclopedias.
This happens at funerals, holidays,
near birthdays,
on Sunday afternoons.
I am also her translator.
She is more monkey than stone,
more smoke than wood,
more wail than speech.
But she’s also more home than my walls, my skin.
(looking for comments - especially on that ending. yech. tell me what works, what you like about it. and tell me how you think it can be fixed or futzed with.)
5/14/2009
Seattle 20, or Wednesday One-Liner
I won the slam this week. Fair and square. Did "Importance of Dialogue", "Bilingual" and a new piece. Am so, so tired. So, so happy.
Here's a picture of it, as always, by Andi Burk at the Seattle Slam Flikr Page:
Here's a picture of it, as always, by Andi Burk at the Seattle Slam Flikr Page:
5/11/2009
Seattle 19, or Stories from Work
I got a lot of responses to my post about work, so I thought I might share some stories from work here. I've changed everyone's names, of course, and also some identifying details - none of which impact the outcome or the spirit of the story, but just to be sure.
the old man
Danny is the old man of the house. He wears jeans held up by suspenders and his belly strains his button-down shirts. He frequently complains of having woken "on the wrong side of the bed" and backaches, for which we give him children's Tylenol. He chews it with diligence and dignity. His favorite activity is playing with his tackle box - a gift from his grandfather, who visits regularly. Danny has to be supervised when working with his hooks and lines, and I often volunteer for the job. He tells me about lures and different kinds of fishing line, and, when I can get him in a good enough mood, sings me Johnny Cash songs in a squeaky eight-year old version of his favorite singer. A few days ago, he was having a tantrum and screamed "I'm too old for this nonsense!" while he was inside the de-escalation room. He then referred to himself as being in "a bigger hell than the frog swamp! And that's hell, let me tell you!"
in which dane rides a bike
Most every day, now. To and from work. Makes me happy like nothing else. Even when it's raining and my brakes don't work so well and I'm borrowing a big-headed kid's helmet from work, I love that I can ride. Wish my hip flexors agreed with me on this point, but we're working on it.
the new kid
The new kid is having a rough time. She just got in a couple of days ago and is testing us, hard, trying to figure out where the boundaries are and exactly which end is up. She was sitting on the couch with Nathan, one of the youngest kids and biggest troublemakers. I often wonder if Nathan really understands the consequences of his actions, or why we send him to time-out so often. But Nathan, for once, is sitting quietly and waiting for directions. The new kid is fidgeting and climbing all over the couch. I tell her to sit calmly and correctly once, twice, three times. I warn her that my next direction will be to time-out, and she yells, "Why? I'm not in trouble! I'm not going to go to time-out because I'm not in trouble!" Nathan opens his mouth, and before I can jump in to tell him to focus on himself and not his peer, he bursts out, "It's not trouble; it's for calming down!!" I take a minute and let another staff finish handling the issue. I'm grinning too hard to follow through, and I dance around in private, punching the air in victory. He's got it. By George, he's got it.
in which dane sings in a kitchen
Saturday morning, when I'm on duty, I always volunteer to cook breakfast. There's a perscribed menu for meals, but all the cottages are stocked with good spice cabinets, and if I happen to have leftover ingredients from other meals, I try to do something special. As staff, we spend so much time teaching and curbing and interfering, sometimes I think we forget to be creative when showing how much we love and care about the kids. So I do this breakfast thing, something small, something they'll smile about when they wake up, and remember all the way to bedtime. This week, I made apple cinnamon pancakes, with plenty of vanilla and nutmeg and fresh apples. I got the griddle at just the right heat for perfectly round golden cakes and cooked up a huge batch, trying to make the whole cottage smell good. One of my co-workers sat outside a child's door and plucked out a tune on his guitar, motivating the kid through room-cleaning. I made up a song to his tune, about how my dad always makes pancakes on Saturday. I stopped in the middle when I felt the tears coming. I don't even like pancakes as much as other breakfasts, but my dad's pancakes are the biggest sign that everything in the world is Okay. And I know that no amount of cinnamon-flavored mornings are going to reassure these kids that everything is really Okay, but, my co-worker reminds me - we do what we do. Whether it's guitar, or fixing bicycles or making up special nicknames and handshakes or even just the occasional pancake breakfast, we do whatever we can. And maybe, someday, we will be a piece of their story of how everything eventually became Okay.
the old man
Danny is the old man of the house. He wears jeans held up by suspenders and his belly strains his button-down shirts. He frequently complains of having woken "on the wrong side of the bed" and backaches, for which we give him children's Tylenol. He chews it with diligence and dignity. His favorite activity is playing with his tackle box - a gift from his grandfather, who visits regularly. Danny has to be supervised when working with his hooks and lines, and I often volunteer for the job. He tells me about lures and different kinds of fishing line, and, when I can get him in a good enough mood, sings me Johnny Cash songs in a squeaky eight-year old version of his favorite singer. A few days ago, he was having a tantrum and screamed "I'm too old for this nonsense!" while he was inside the de-escalation room. He then referred to himself as being in "a bigger hell than the frog swamp! And that's hell, let me tell you!"
in which dane rides a bike
Most every day, now. To and from work. Makes me happy like nothing else. Even when it's raining and my brakes don't work so well and I'm borrowing a big-headed kid's helmet from work, I love that I can ride. Wish my hip flexors agreed with me on this point, but we're working on it.
the new kid
The new kid is having a rough time. She just got in a couple of days ago and is testing us, hard, trying to figure out where the boundaries are and exactly which end is up. She was sitting on the couch with Nathan, one of the youngest kids and biggest troublemakers. I often wonder if Nathan really understands the consequences of his actions, or why we send him to time-out so often. But Nathan, for once, is sitting quietly and waiting for directions. The new kid is fidgeting and climbing all over the couch. I tell her to sit calmly and correctly once, twice, three times. I warn her that my next direction will be to time-out, and she yells, "Why? I'm not in trouble! I'm not going to go to time-out because I'm not in trouble!" Nathan opens his mouth, and before I can jump in to tell him to focus on himself and not his peer, he bursts out, "It's not trouble; it's for calming down!!" I take a minute and let another staff finish handling the issue. I'm grinning too hard to follow through, and I dance around in private, punching the air in victory. He's got it. By George, he's got it.
in which dane sings in a kitchen
Saturday morning, when I'm on duty, I always volunteer to cook breakfast. There's a perscribed menu for meals, but all the cottages are stocked with good spice cabinets, and if I happen to have leftover ingredients from other meals, I try to do something special. As staff, we spend so much time teaching and curbing and interfering, sometimes I think we forget to be creative when showing how much we love and care about the kids. So I do this breakfast thing, something small, something they'll smile about when they wake up, and remember all the way to bedtime. This week, I made apple cinnamon pancakes, with plenty of vanilla and nutmeg and fresh apples. I got the griddle at just the right heat for perfectly round golden cakes and cooked up a huge batch, trying to make the whole cottage smell good. One of my co-workers sat outside a child's door and plucked out a tune on his guitar, motivating the kid through room-cleaning. I made up a song to his tune, about how my dad always makes pancakes on Saturday. I stopped in the middle when I felt the tears coming. I don't even like pancakes as much as other breakfasts, but my dad's pancakes are the biggest sign that everything in the world is Okay. And I know that no amount of cinnamon-flavored mornings are going to reassure these kids that everything is really Okay, but, my co-worker reminds me - we do what we do. Whether it's guitar, or fixing bicycles or making up special nicknames and handshakes or even just the occasional pancake breakfast, we do whatever we can. And maybe, someday, we will be a piece of their story of how everything eventually became Okay.
5/04/2009
Seattle 18, or Comfort Food
One of the nice things about my flexible schedule is the ability to take a sick day before I become totally miserable. This morning, after an interview with a school that's going to add me to their referral list for tutors, everything above my neck started to hurt. While I waited for the second of the three buses I needed to get home, I was drawn into the little Indian grocery store/restaurant next to the stop that seemed to be wafting delicious spicy smells straight into my aching head.
I grabbed two samosas - the Indian version of every culture's meal-wrapped-in-dough. The Jews have knishes, the Hungry Ghost Bakery has Savory Folds, the Italians have Stromboli, the Mediterraneans have falafel and schwarma, and many South Asian countries have these:
Packed with potatoes, peas, cumin, coriander seeds and other spices, when you can grab yourself a couple of fresh, hot samosas wrapped in a paper bag with a little mint chutney on the side and eat them furtively on the bus home...well, at least my headache was cured by the time I got back to the kibbutz. The long nap that followed seems to have gone a long way towards the rest of my symptoms. Let's just see if it holds.
Other comfort foods of mine: (in order of descent)homemade macaroni and cheese, avgolemono soup, all manner of Mediterranean food...
I grabbed two samosas - the Indian version of every culture's meal-wrapped-in-dough. The Jews have knishes, the Hungry Ghost Bakery has Savory Folds, the Italians have Stromboli, the Mediterraneans have falafel and schwarma, and many South Asian countries have these:
Packed with potatoes, peas, cumin, coriander seeds and other spices, when you can grab yourself a couple of fresh, hot samosas wrapped in a paper bag with a little mint chutney on the side and eat them furtively on the bus home...well, at least my headache was cured by the time I got back to the kibbutz. The long nap that followed seems to have gone a long way towards the rest of my symptoms. Let's just see if it holds.
Other comfort foods of mine: (in order of descent)homemade macaroni and cheese, avgolemono soup, all manner of Mediterranean food...
Your turn, readers: search for a picture of your favorite comfort foods and post them in the comments. (posting a link to said picture is acceptable, as long as the image is isolated from the website. If you require assistance, let me know and I'll show you how to do it.)
5/02/2009
Seattle 17, or In Which Dane Writes About Work on Shabbes
By now, most of you know what I do for work: I work at a residential center for kids who've been abused and neglected, and/or been removed from foster care for being too overwhelming or difficult for their foster parents to handle. (Usually, the difficult/overwhelming behavior stems from current or previous abuse.)
Talking about work without breaking strict confidentiality laws is kind of difficult, so don't expect me to say much here, in this public space. But some readers have been asking (backchannel) if I could say something about it, so here's what I've got:
I'm basically a parent in eight hour shifts. When I'm there from 7am-3pm, I get the kids (ages 6-12) up, dressed, brushed, washed, fed and walk them to school (school is on the campus), then go back to their house to wait for the inevitable phone calls saying they've been asked to leave school and take some time to calm down. These phone calls usually start about five minutes after the kids have been dropped off at school, and often don't let up until lunch, when they all come home for a two hour break. Then, back to school.
The 3pm-11pm shift is the hardest, in my opinion - pick up kids from school, snack, quiet time, homework time, activity time, dinner time, and then two full hours of bedtime routines.
11pm-7am is easy enough, activitywise - just do the day's laundry and keep track of which kids get up in the night for bathroom, or bedwetting, nightmares or whathaveyou. But on quiet nights, without much more than coffee, ramen noodles and a book to keep me awake, it's a long slog.
I was terrified of this job just before I started it - the staff did their best to scare me in the interview, make sure I knew what I was up against. But so far, they're just kids. Kids like the thousands I've cared for before. And yeah, they're crazy kids, who are sometimes totally detached from reality, who can be violent and agressive, and require lots and lots of structure, rules and consequences to keep them safe - but they're also kids who need their noses blown and their shoelaces tied and their hair brushed and all the love the world to make up for what the universe has denied them.
Of course, that love has to be shown in the appropriate ways - can you imagine being in charge of a six year old child who is crying her eyes out because her mother promised to come visit her today and didn't show up, and you are absolutely forbidden to offer her more than verbal condolences and a quick one-armed side hug? Or maybe, an offer to brush her hair, since that's the most prolonged contact you're allowed to have with a child.
Or the heartbreak of listening to a child being restrained by three adults, as his screams turn from "I hate you!" to "Why are you being so nice to me? Why? I'm bad, and you're being nice, why?" and the pain and confusion in his voice is palpable, because you know, deep down, he's expecting to get hit or hurt and it isn't going to happen. Not here. And recognizing his own safety is as terrifying as it is a relief.
And you readers who are parents - you know the rewards of this job. You know how it feels when a child decides to say "I'm angry!" instead of having a massive meltdown, or the first time a kids says "I love you," and means it. You know why all the kids' doors are decorated in their artwork, the pride in their voices when they show me and boast "I made that." You know how it feels to be successful teachers, those small scattered moments when, for just one second - you feel like you're doing something right.
For me, it's watching them play ball in the yard, or on their skateboards, or jump ropes, and some small bird or butterfly catches their eye, those tiny silver moments when they look, perhaps for the first time, like children.
Talking about work without breaking strict confidentiality laws is kind of difficult, so don't expect me to say much here, in this public space. But some readers have been asking (backchannel) if I could say something about it, so here's what I've got:
I'm basically a parent in eight hour shifts. When I'm there from 7am-3pm, I get the kids (ages 6-12) up, dressed, brushed, washed, fed and walk them to school (school is on the campus), then go back to their house to wait for the inevitable phone calls saying they've been asked to leave school and take some time to calm down. These phone calls usually start about five minutes after the kids have been dropped off at school, and often don't let up until lunch, when they all come home for a two hour break. Then, back to school.
The 3pm-11pm shift is the hardest, in my opinion - pick up kids from school, snack, quiet time, homework time, activity time, dinner time, and then two full hours of bedtime routines.
11pm-7am is easy enough, activitywise - just do the day's laundry and keep track of which kids get up in the night for bathroom, or bedwetting, nightmares or whathaveyou. But on quiet nights, without much more than coffee, ramen noodles and a book to keep me awake, it's a long slog.
I was terrified of this job just before I started it - the staff did their best to scare me in the interview, make sure I knew what I was up against. But so far, they're just kids. Kids like the thousands I've cared for before. And yeah, they're crazy kids, who are sometimes totally detached from reality, who can be violent and agressive, and require lots and lots of structure, rules and consequences to keep them safe - but they're also kids who need their noses blown and their shoelaces tied and their hair brushed and all the love the world to make up for what the universe has denied them.
Of course, that love has to be shown in the appropriate ways - can you imagine being in charge of a six year old child who is crying her eyes out because her mother promised to come visit her today and didn't show up, and you are absolutely forbidden to offer her more than verbal condolences and a quick one-armed side hug? Or maybe, an offer to brush her hair, since that's the most prolonged contact you're allowed to have with a child.
Or the heartbreak of listening to a child being restrained by three adults, as his screams turn from "I hate you!" to "Why are you being so nice to me? Why? I'm bad, and you're being nice, why?" and the pain and confusion in his voice is palpable, because you know, deep down, he's expecting to get hit or hurt and it isn't going to happen. Not here. And recognizing his own safety is as terrifying as it is a relief.
And you readers who are parents - you know the rewards of this job. You know how it feels when a child decides to say "I'm angry!" instead of having a massive meltdown, or the first time a kids says "I love you," and means it. You know why all the kids' doors are decorated in their artwork, the pride in their voices when they show me and boast "I made that." You know how it feels to be successful teachers, those small scattered moments when, for just one second - you feel like you're doing something right.
For me, it's watching them play ball in the yard, or on their skateboards, or jump ropes, and some small bird or butterfly catches their eye, those tiny silver moments when they look, perhaps for the first time, like children.
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