Merry Christmas, Dad!

I bet you thought I forgot about you. Instead of a tie or a pair of cuff links, you get....My 100th blog entry. I didn't even do that on purpose!

My dad is the most difficult person to buy for, for a number of reasons. First of all, if my dad really wants something, he simply goes out and gets it. He doesn't really mention it to anyone until it's already in his possession. Second of all, anything you could possibly think of as a reasonable option for a gift, someone else has already gotten it for him.

Par example: My dad loves food and wine. Cute wine stoppers? Got 'em. Wine stem charms? Hundreds. Garlic press? Check. Frank Stitt's latest cookbook? Two copies. Electric cheese grater? Yes. I could go on forever.

Thirdly, my dad has expensive taste. He's going to hate that I put that out there, but I guess it's not like it's some big secret. I have expensive taste too, I just suck it up because I can't afford to do anything about it. Case in point: I'm wearing leggings from Target with the Marc Jacobs earrings I begged for for Christmas. Also I carry my own beer to the bar in my purse so I can eat a decent dinner beforehand.

ANYWAYS. Dad. Hard to buy for.

The past few years I have written things for my dad in place of a gift. It works out pretty well because he enjoys that a lot more than anything I could buy him. I've written out memories from vacations and family memoirs--some funny, some sappy. The problem this year? I had no clue what to write. I felt like I'd exhausted the obvious topics and was stressed the entire week preceding Christmas trying to figure out what vignette would be the perfect gift for dad.

And there I had it: the perfect gift. My Dad gave me a perfect gift one time, and I think it reveals a lot about him, so that's what I'm going to write about this year.

It was February 21. I was turning eleven years old. Most eleven-year-old birthday parties consist of some combination of musty skates, cake with neon icing and noisy arcade games. Not mine. I spent my birthday at an antique auction in Asheville, North Carolina, listening to an old auctioneer drone...

"Collection of 19th-century charcoal sketches, we'll start the bidding at $125, do I hear $125?"

I had accompanied my dad on the premise that it would be a fun "father-daughter weekend, just the two of us;" a line that could convince me to go to Siberia in the middle of winter. I was definitely a daddy's girl, and as a new sister appeared like clockwork every two years I became increasingly resentful of the fact that I had to share him. Even if it meant skipping out on a birthday party, I'd willingly be his bidding buddy if it meant leaving my sisters behind.

I'm sure we did some fun things in between auctions, but that's not what sticks out in my mind when I look back at that weekend. What sticks out in my mind was being the youngest person in that huge, florescent-lit room by at least 20 years. Trying to figure out where in the world the bathroom was. Attempting to calculate how long it would take to auction off a thousand antiques if each one sold at an average of four minutes. I remember feeling a little sorry for myself as I sat still and silent in my folding chair.

What other kid spends their birthday watching a bunch of old people buy a bunch of old crap? Why can't they just buy it and get on with it? Why does it have to take soooo long??

I entertained myself by walking around and deciding what I'd buy if I had to choose only three things. I'd usually select the tacky stuff that no one else really wanted--a stuffed bird collection in a shadow box, a gaudy piece of costume jewelry, a framed monarch butterfly...

On the way home, I sat quietly in the passenger seat as we twisted through the mountains. "Kiley," my dad broke the silence. "Reach into the back and pick up the brown velvet box in that sack." I did as I was told. "I wanted to go ahead and give you your birthday present. Open it."

I opened the box and let out a little gasp. Inside was the most delicate, beautiful necklace I'd ever seen. Its chain was as fine as a strand of my hair, and at the bottom hung a silver teardrop with three diamonds in the middle, each one a little smaller than the one below. "This is for me?" I asked.

I lost everything when I was in middle school (some things never change). Homework, permission slips, shoes, glasses, jewelry. Definitely jewelry. And here was my dad, trusting me with a real necklace. Not just a real necklace, but the prettiest necklace in the world.

"Yes it's for you! Did you see it when I was bidding for it?"

I had been so busy with my framed monarch that I hadn't even noticed. I put the necklace on right there in the car and vowed that I would only wear it on special occasions and that I would never, ever lose it. I would be so careful with that necklace I'd never wonder where it was or what I'd done with it.

When we got home, I rushed inside to show my mom my present. My dad laughed while my mom protested, "That's not for her! Is that for me? That is NOT for her!!" I let her try it on, but not for long.

I pranced around to each of my sisters, "Look what Daddy got me for my birthday!" Unfortunately, they were too wrapped up in Spongebob Squarepants to give the wildly jealous reaction I'd been hoping for. That just goes to show they're not old enough for their tastes in fine jewelry to have developed like mine.

I sat in front of the mirror and stared at the precious stones sparkling against my crummy T-shirt. Even then I knew that it wasn't the beauty of the necklace that made it so special to me. It was the fact that my Daddy had picked it out for me. Though his hard work made it possible for us to get presents on our birthdays, he was never a part of the actual gift selection. But this one he had hand-chosen, just for me!

I wore that necklace every picture day from 6th-12th grade. I wore it on my first date. I wore it to prom and I wore it to graduation. For every milestone event there's pictures of, if you look closely you'll see those diamonds gracing my neck. And true to my promise, every time I took it off I'd put it in the same cushioned box on the same spot on my dresser.

The summer before I went to college, I noticed one day that the necklace wasn't in its place. I shrugged it off initially; one of my sisters had borrowed it, or this once I'd put it somewhere else. However, after weeks of it not turning up, I began to worry. I would never just put it down somewhere reckless, so where WAS it? I finally told my mother, despite being terrified of her response. Together, we turned the entire house upside down. We lifted every piece of furniture and even emptied out and sorted through the vacuum bags. No necklace. In fact, I only discovered more of my jewelry missing. I thought of the look that would be on Dad's face when I told him.

"Mom, I know I lose things a lot. But not this necklace. You know I always took good care of it."

Mom had a funny look on her face. "No, no. I know you did."

Long story short, we later learned that a housekeeper had been taking jewelry from our house for weeks. Ours was one of several homes she had stolen from. Though I was able to get a ring back, the necklace was not returned. My mom even called the lady one day.

"Listen. I'm not trying to get you into any trouble. I just want to know where the necklace is. If you sold it to a pawn shop, I just want to know where. That necklace is worth far more in sentimental value than it could be sold for."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I was devastated. Even thinking about it now, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. So many times during college, I'd put on a dress for a formal and think how pretty that necklace would look with it.

The day I graduated from Alabama, my family came to our house after the ceremony. We ate cake and drank champagne and I tried to be happy. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why this was cause to celebrate. For me, it signified the worst day of my life thus far: the day my college career officially ended. I was on the verge of tears the entire day. My parents gave me a watch. My grandparents gave me some graduation money, my sisters gave me hugs. Then before they left, my dad came up to me with one more box. "Proud of you," he said as he kissed the top of my head. I unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was a necklace that looked very familiar. I looked up at my dad, unable to hold the tears back now. "We got someone to replicate it," he said. "We tried to remember what it looked like the best we could; does it look right?"

It looked perfect.

Dad likes to joke that he'll never be as sweet as his dad (my grandfather is hands-down the sweetest, most gentle man on earth). He'll say, "Oh, if I only end up half as sweet as my dad, I'll be good." We always joke back that there's not a shot in hell.

I'll say it now, Dad, because you probably don't hear it very often: If we're going to be completely honest, you're off to a pretty good start. Give it twenty years and I'll think you'll give Dada a run for his money!

I love you Dad. Merry Christmas.

Is this bad?

The highlight of my day:

Watching Devonte Jefferson take a lunch tray full of macaroni and cheese to the face.

He pissed off the wrong girl and paid for it. Apparently, he had thrown his bread on her tray to get on her nerves. It had worked. Now, noodles and cheese sauce poured down his glasses and cheeks and rested in the folds of his plump neck. If I could have seen his eyes, I'm they were wide with shock. I turned on my heel so no one could see me laugh.

All right, that sounds terrible. Does this make it better? Devonte is the biggest bully ever. He is so mean, especially to my Hispanic kids, my disabled kids and my gay kids. NOT OKAY. I've tried to turn him in to administration for months, but nothing he did was severe enough in their eyes. Until this "food fight." Apparently, we can make fun of people's race and call kids "faggots," but tossing a yeast roll across the table is a no-no.

Whatevs. Bye-bye, Devonte! See you in ten days! Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!!

Side note. I really love my boys, despite the tone of this post. I'm starting to realize how much I'm going to miss them when this is over. I think it is easier to love them this year because I don't get as frustrated with them. I already know the worst it can be, so I let things go more easily now. The ones that are still little and cute, I want to scoop them up and hug them to death. The ones that are big and bad and way too old for their age...well, I want to scoop them up and hug them to death too.

I watched their basketball game yesterday and screamed 'til I was hoarse; I was proud of them like they were my own boys. When someone would ask who just made the goal (shot? I'm not a basketball person?), I'd puff my chest and and answer, "Khalil. He's one of mine!" They'd make quick eye contact with me from the court, then act like they didn't see. But they did. I know because even though they are waaayyy too cool for school in that moment, the second they walk into my classroom the next day they are little kids again.

"Ms. M did you see that rebound??"

"Ms. M you saw me when I blocked that shot!?"

"You gon' be there again Thursday?"

I wish they'd keep that little kid face on all day instead of the grown face they assume most of the time. I like it much better.

Staff Christmas Party

"Umm, so what are you wearing to the staff Christmas party?" I asked Mrs. M after school on Friday.

"You're GOING to the staff Christmas party??" She responded.

"You're NOT!?!" In my mind, there was no question.

Fact: black people are way more fun than white people. I realized this in high school, where I was actually a minority student. Our core-study classes were pretty segregated, unfortunately, but I found myself much preferring the company in my elective classes. Who else had the balls to lock the ornery Mrs. W in her lab closet or offer Mrs. L weed in exchange for an A?

In college, I found myself missing that culture; I was surrounded by a pretty homogenous (learned that word last year when I was teaching Chemistry) group. Thankfully, God soon led me straight through the front doors of RMS, where I'm never at a loss. My co-workers are crazy and hilarious and probably some of the most fun people I know. I went to a mid-afternoon jewelry party hosted by Ms. L last year and had more fun than I'd had in months.

Which brings us up to date. I had been looking forward to this party since I got the invitation in my box a month ago and the thought hadn't even crossed my mind that anyone would consider not attending.

"Mrs. M," I said. "When else in your LIFE are you going to have an opportunity to attend a staff party like THIS? I mean, if our co-workers are as fun as they are at work, think about what they'd be like outside of RMS' walls!"

This assumption was confirmed when Mrs. D and Mrs. J stopped me in the hall about 5 minutes later. "Ms. M. We gon' get our husbands to drive us an' we gon' bring enough moonshine for you too, so you'd BETTER be there!! We gon' turn that place OUT!"

"Wouldn't miss it for anything," I said, and meant it. I was actually pissed that I had a tacky Christmas party hosted by TFA friends to attend later that night. I was NOT going to cut this one short.

Ms. D picked me up at 7, and we arrived at the home of Mr. O shortly after. I flung open the door. "The white girls are here!!"

The whole place burst into laughter. "SHE SAID, 'THE WHITE GIRLS ARE HERE!' HAHAHAHAH M, YOU A FOOL!"

"HAHA yeah, but she know she right, though."

As I'd carefully planned, I chose this moment to take out a Bud Light from my clutch and put a camouflage koozy around it. If I was going to represent 50% of the white population there, I was going to take it and run with it. Again, laughter flooded the room. I was a hit!! A novelty, even.

Mrs. J eyed my beer. "She even got a cover for it!! Looks like I came with the wrong folks!"

"Yeah, Mrs. J. You shoulda been rollin' with the white girls!"

"Yeah I shoulda been rollin' with the white girls!! HAHAHAHA!!"

Highlights of the night included but were not limited to:

1. teaching/performing of the Toot it and Boot it dance

2. the women talking about their husbands in ways I cannot repeat because my grandmother reads this blog

3. Mrs. A forcing me to play christmas carols on the piano while Mrs. J sang along

4. our rich, white, usually no-nonsense principal slapping herself on the rear end while the entire staff chanted "GHETTO BOOTY!"

5. a collaborative reciting of "white people rules" vs. "black people rules" (which deserve a post in and of themselves but begin with "I'm very sensitive, please don't make me cry," and "Don't touch my f***ing food," respectively).

I laughed so hard I cried and am still laughing as I sit here recounting it. Most people go to their office party out of obligation; mine was probably the best time I'll have all year.

The other party? Would have probably been fun if I hadn't set the bar so high early in the night. Let's face it, though. It never really stood a chance.

Cameron

Cameron is a mess.

A big, hot mess.

He is soo needy. He has to have my complete attention 100% of the time or he gets moody. He's like that with all teachers; I don't think he gets enough adult attention at home or something.

At the beginning of the school year, I had to pull Cameron aside and have a conversation with him about being appropriate. He liked to call me "sweetie," "baby," etc. and announce to the class what we had done the previous evening or how he had picked out the outfit I had on that day. He thinks he's smooth, but I've yet to see him with any girls on the 500 hall.

Today after school I was grading papers in my room. Cameron flung open the door and was at my desk in a matter of about 2.5 seconds. "Cameron. You're in my female-only zone," I said, holding up my palm and nodding toward the taped-off borders around my workspace. Cameron rolled his eyes and continued to approach me. "You have no conception of personal space. None at all. You're like a shadow, only worse because you talk!"

Cameron began to thumb through the papers on my desk and pick up all of my personal items. "QUIT BEING NOSY! Go back to tutoring. I've already put in my time with you today."

Cameron wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Ughhh. Go away." He picked up my scarf and wrapped it around his face.

"Ms. M dis smell good. You always be smellin' good when you first come in. You smell like the mall or sumthin." He fixed the scarf around his neck and began strutting around the classroom teaching the empty classroom in his best Ms. M voice.

"Oh my goodness. Put my scarf down. You are not funny." I said with an ill-disguised laugh. He was now studying my scissors.

"Ms. M can I have a lock of your hair?"

"Whaaatt??? What in the world do you need my hair for?"

"Now see you be axin' too many questions."

"CAMERON THAT IS THE WEIRDEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD. YOU ARE REALLY STARTING TO FREAK ME OUT AND I NEED YOU TO LEAVE NOW."

Cameron threw my scarf down and huffed toward the door. "Ugh Ms. M. You always be ruinin' things. See here I come tryna be nice to you and develop dat teacher-student relationship. You know where I be feelin' safe to come to you and axe questions and get help with science and axe you on dates!!"

"Ask me on dates?"

"Whoa Ms. M see now I didn't say that, you did. But we can talk about workin' sumthin' out if you want. What's that burnin' smell in here?"

"It's a student that crossed me one too many times. Got on my nerves, so I used him as a lab experiment."

"Ms. M you LITTLE. You can't even lift these lab tables. How you gon' get one of yo students into a beaker??"

"Now see, YOU'RE asking too many questions! Get out of here or you're next!!"

I heard his laughter fading all the way down the hall.

A Day of Hookie in Pictures

hookie.

because i need a break from children of the corn.

and my car wouldn't work yesterday.

and i burned myself during a lab.

and said a bad word in 3rd block.

whoops.

cinnamon rolls. coffees.

bucklies.

christmas-y aromas.

dips on decks.

overly dramatic tvs.

holiday crafts.

Erin was off of work today, and we had so much fun being bums. She was responsible for aforementioned crafts, I just watched and murmured approvingly. She was also responsible for that DANK breakfast spread I woke up to at 9:30. The only time I thought about school or students was when I was eating the corn dip (see paragraph 1, line 2).

Playing hookie wasn't nearly as fun when I was actually IN school! Hope your day was as lovely as mine.

Love, Ms. M

*Thanks, Mrs. S-K M for the wonderful advice!

Oh na na, what's my name?

You know the song.

If you don't, you should. It's my JAM. I was playing it during class ("Whatchu know 'bout some Drake, Ms. M??"), which got us into a discussion on names.

"What's your middle name, Ms. M?"

"Shaniqua."

"No it ain't."

"Yes it is."

"No it ain't."

"Why would I lie about something like that? And why is it so hard to believe?"

This is where my kids started to beat around the bush. They wanted to let me know Shaniqua was not a typical white girl name without bringing up race.

"Well...it just don't FIT you. You know?"

"Tell that to my Mom; she's the one who picked it out. In fact, before my sister was born, I went by Shaniqua."

The looked at each other. Smirked.

"Naww, that is NOT yo middle name. Look at you."

"I can't imagine being named anthing else. Guess I'm just used to it."

"Ms. M. Lemme break it down for you," Anthony offered. He motioned to my Asian kid, Chy Ching. "It'd be like if my name was Anthony 'Ching' Washington."

I shrugged my shoulders. "So? I think that would make for a good name. What's wrong with Anthony Ching?" Chy laughed.

"Ok," Raquon finally gave in. "Ms. M, 'Shaniqua' ain't just a black name. Shaniqua a GHETTO name. It jus' don't...GO."

"What are you talking about Raquon? I'm the original G."

At this point, the class was in hysterics.

"MS. MMMMMMM!!!! NO YOU NOT!!!! YOU LIKE THE WHITEST PERSON WE KNOW!!!!"

"I'm like the ONLY white person you know!" We are all laughing now.

"Whatchu gon' name yo kids?" They want to know. "I bet she gon' name them sumthin' like...sumthin' like 'HEIDI!'"

"Naw, naw she gon' name her son somethin' like 'Connor!'"

They continued with the whitest names they could come up with.

"Landon!"

"Carly!"

"Logan!"

We had seven minutes left of class. I had lost control, had no hope of getting it back and no desire to try. So I just laughed along with them.

TWO POSTS IN ONE AFTERNOON?!?!

I'm going crazy with these posts.

The long and short of it: I had a rough day today. As in, I had to walk outside of the classroom three times to get my composure. If one more child had yelled at me, disrespected me or even gave me a bad look, I MIGHT have done something to get myself fired. I found myself on the verge of tears for only about the 3rd time this year (see, haven't we come a long way!?). Not tears of sadness. Tears of anger and frustration.

Over it.

But then: As I'm standing at my outdoor duty post watching kids walk to the bus lot AKA herding cattle (really rude cattle with attitudes), I quickly realize I should have brought my coat. It is COLD! I clutch my sides and keep the lines moving with violent head nods. De'Queius pauses to tell me goodbye.

"Ms. M! You look freezing! You want my jacket?" He begins to take off his backpack and tug at his sleeves.

"De'Queius, stop! You're going home! You need your jacket!

He continues. "I can just get it tomorrow. You gon' freeze out here!"

I assured him that I was tougher than I looked, but that he was a true gentleman for offering. So sweet. Doesn't take much to make my day at that place!