There’s a term for it, apparently. It’s called secondary trauma.
The trauma experienced by working around and hearing about trauma to those you are emotionally invested in.
I’ve had some hard weeks.
Made harder by the fact that the superiors in my organization have a distinctive tendency to respond in unhelpful ways. There’s another term for that too. It’s called condescension. Implying that I don’t know what I’m talking about, not listening to what I’m saying anyway, verbally patting me on the head to say “I know this must be hard for you sweetie, you look like a super emotional type. You must not understand your limits or know how or when to refer to others”. I’d say they can shove it, but it actually really gets to me, particularly when all I ever do is ask for help.
If I quit. It is because the second makes it impossible to feel supported when dealing with the first.
I experienced a lot of secondary trauma, particularly in a packed into a single week a few weeks back. The stress made it so I couldn’t really eat but now I can mostly keep food down which is awesome because it’s a preferred hobby of mine. I mean, it’s just that it’s all so sad-making. And very overwhelming. And very much like a flood. And, seriously, what on earth makes people think I am qualified to come to and tell all their saddest and serious-est and wisdom seeking things? I don’t just still like dinosaurs and dragons, I sort of wish I was a dragon. I bite shoulders to show my affection. As a child I thought that humming bird cake might actually contain humming bird… and I still ate it. Shouldn’t this tip you off to the fact that I am not the type of person who is all with it?
I was going to write about it, but then I looked through my recent posts and they are all SO SERIOUS and besides what if that’s exposing you to, I don’t know, tertiary trauma or something. Why keep spreading the sad? It’s not fair to you. It’s not really helpful for me, at least not in this forum. And there’s something weird and voyeuristic about it, no? Because there is nothing redemptive about that week. So it would never come around, there would never be a point. I feel like writing about it in detail would just be feeding into cynicism and, like I’ve said before, I feel like cynicism is a cop out. It takes no energy, no imagination. It also leaves no hope, and without hope we have nothing.
So in lieu of that, I am going to write the ideas for dealing with “trauma”
Unfortunately, after 3 weeks of working on this trying to make it funny all I came up with was this pathetic attempt at a post, which is not funny at all and more a list of what I actually do:
1) put the word “trauma” in quotes, mostly because I still think it’s weird and unfair that I get to claim trauma by being surrounded by other people experiencing legitimate trauma and I have yet to come to terms with the fact that I can’t necessarily handle everything with which I am faced.
I like this method because it delegitimizes the whole situation and amuses me into making it easier to deal with. I have decided to start using air quotes in more situations where they may not necessarily belong to add excitement and amusement to otherwise dull situations.
why yes officer this is my “valid” drivers license
That dress looks “great” on you
I think you two make a “great” couple, “of course” you should ask her to marry you.
2) Totally deflect : I’ve said it before, but my fight or flight mechanism is heavily weighted towards flight, and as such I tend to distract myself. This means that my days are filled with finding ways to avoid thinking about what is actually happening in my life. I have started looking at jobs in Australia because I figure as soon as the rest of my friends/siblings get married there will be nothing left for me here. I’ve also started learning to play soccer because there are some awesome people let me hang out with them sometimes. What up. Because if I can’t be sane, at least I can be awesome.
3) I think I’m going to start lying about my work. When I leave, I just don’t want to think about work anymore, In fact, I’m fairly certain it would be more healthy for me if I could somehow rest from work a little better by not having to think and talk about it for more than the 50 hours a week I do already. However, that’s often what people want to talk about. Why is that? I don’t know. I’m going to pick something insufferably dull so that they will not ask follow up questions.
` Ideas of insufferably boring jobs that do not lend themselves to follow up questions:
Private Middle School Librarian
Nighttime file alphabetizer
Spell Check Quality Assurance Specialist
Safety Card Artist
4) Cling to the good things. Say them out loud, as if they are real, as if I am real, more real than this feeling of falling. And hope to God there’s a point.
tl;dr verson: "Les temps sont durs pour les rêveurs." (times are hard for dreamers)
-amelie
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
a genuine question
There was a girl today that I was trying to get to read. She wouldn't, and I wouldn't let her have snack until she did. Finally, after much teeth pulling (of the metaphorical kind) she relented and together we read about the Civil Rights Movement, something she- as an 8 year old- is very interested in.
The torrents of cold water kept most of the people away today, allowing me to sit with her alone for a bit while she ate her snack after finishing reading. She was quiet, presumably because she was eating, but actually because she was pondering this question. She looked up:
"Miss Kirsten, I've been meaning to ask you. Did you used to do those things to black people?"
Hilarious. Adorable. Hilarious.
I just want to repeat that so the magnitude of how awesome and hilarious a question it is to be asked out of the blue will sink in. Here I am, expecting something along the lines of "Do I have to read everyday?" or "Can we make necklaces" or "I like oranges" or "Have you seen that Sundrop commercial?" and this is what follows
"Miss Kirsten, I've been meaning to ask you." I've been meaning to ask you Brilliant. This is something she's thought about. Wondered. Looked for the appropriate moment. Felt comfortable bringing up.
"Did you used to do those things to black people?" Yes, yes I did. I was a raging racist who perpetrated both intentional and passive hate crimes decades before my birth and protested the change of establishment towards a more just and free society. And now I work with inner city youth. She wanted to know. It seemed like a reasonable question to ask, and I seemed like a reasonable person to ask it to, probably being the only white person she knows. Or at least the only one she can approach informally.
I love everything about this moment. No sarcasm.
As a separate thought, it's kind of a profound understanding of racism and social pressures. She likes me, so she thought that even good people were capable of great evil. I explained that I had not, nor had my parents. Then I asked her if she used to do those things to white people. I thought she would take it as a joke.
She paused and then answered seriously "No. I try not to be mean to white people just because they are white. I don't like it when I see people do that."
We talked about why things like that happen. She said it's just like bullying. Then, she gave a real life example at school, where SHE IS THE BULLY and doesn't stand up for the nose pickers because everyone else would think they are gross.
She idolizes Rosa Parks, not like most kids do (because she started a movement) but because she grasps the weight of Rosa's actions as being something so brave because Rosa had every reason to believe that the whole world disagreed with her and yet still chose to do what she thought was right. The craziest thing is that this girl gets it all from inside her own head. I mean, I know her family and see her homework and hear what they teach. She's not repeating rhetoric. She is just interested in civil rights and thinks these thoughts on her own.
The torrents of cold water kept most of the people away today, allowing me to sit with her alone for a bit while she ate her snack after finishing reading. She was quiet, presumably because she was eating, but actually because she was pondering this question. She looked up:
"Miss Kirsten, I've been meaning to ask you. Did you used to do those things to black people?"
Hilarious. Adorable. Hilarious.
I just want to repeat that so the magnitude of how awesome and hilarious a question it is to be asked out of the blue will sink in. Here I am, expecting something along the lines of "Do I have to read everyday?" or "Can we make necklaces" or "I like oranges" or "Have you seen that Sundrop commercial?" and this is what follows
"Miss Kirsten, I've been meaning to ask you." I've been meaning to ask you Brilliant. This is something she's thought about. Wondered. Looked for the appropriate moment. Felt comfortable bringing up.
"Did you used to do those things to black people?" Yes, yes I did. I was a raging racist who perpetrated both intentional and passive hate crimes decades before my birth and protested the change of establishment towards a more just and free society. And now I work with inner city youth. She wanted to know. It seemed like a reasonable question to ask, and I seemed like a reasonable person to ask it to, probably being the only white person she knows. Or at least the only one she can approach informally.
I love everything about this moment. No sarcasm.
As a separate thought, it's kind of a profound understanding of racism and social pressures. She likes me, so she thought that even good people were capable of great evil. I explained that I had not, nor had my parents. Then I asked her if she used to do those things to white people. I thought she would take it as a joke.
She paused and then answered seriously "No. I try not to be mean to white people just because they are white. I don't like it when I see people do that."
We talked about why things like that happen. She said it's just like bullying. Then, she gave a real life example at school, where SHE IS THE BULLY and doesn't stand up for the nose pickers because everyone else would think they are gross.
She idolizes Rosa Parks, not like most kids do (because she started a movement) but because she grasps the weight of Rosa's actions as being something so brave because Rosa had every reason to believe that the whole world disagreed with her and yet still chose to do what she thought was right. The craziest thing is that this girl gets it all from inside her own head. I mean, I know her family and see her homework and hear what they teach. She's not repeating rhetoric. She is just interested in civil rights and thinks these thoughts on her own.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Sundrop it.
For about a month, I was asked daily "Have you seen that sundrop commercial..."
this was inevitably followed by being told that I look EXACTLY like the girl in the commercial or that the commercial reminded them SO MUCH of me.
I have also noticed an increase in Sundrop consumption. Compliment? you decide.
this was inevitably followed by being told that I look EXACTLY like the girl in the commercial or that the commercial reminded them SO MUCH of me.
I have also noticed an increase in Sundrop consumption. Compliment? you decide.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Broken Record.
I'm only putting this back up because of Leslie.
I won’t let me kids use hurtful words to cut each other down.
I get the hypocrisy since outside of work I have a bit of a sarcastic sense of humor.
There's kind of a lot of hypocrisy between who I am outside of work. I like violent video games, play fighting, driving over the speed limit.
I don't mind the dichotomy.
Do me a favor and don’t let them know.
This is a poem of explanation for why I don't let them break each others spirits, about how words are violent too, about how much I have to repeat it. It needs editing still.
You get so angry
so irritated
when I won’t let you use those words
those angry words
hate filled words
even playing around
bad words
so called because they serve no other purpose but to cut each other down
“That’s how we talk at home. That’s how we communicate.”
You argue.
But not here.
Not here
Not in here,
not like this
not those words
not us
we are not going to be that repetitive
that predictable
not going to continue those cycles of tearing each other down with words full of hate
hate and fricatives
fricatives and stops like k and g and t and f and s and j
making them fun to say,
but not so fun to hear
and horrific to watch as you laugh
lifting the words casually over your shoulder like a sledge hammer
saying check this out
watch this
and then you take that sledge hammer you made and
swing them down as they crash down against your five year old brother’s head
crush him with just one hit.
Are you proud?
And when you are young
Taking the words
trying them for the first time
with your friends, at night, behind the building
in the cover of darkness
you shred them and put them in paper
roll them
run your tongue along the edge,
secretly worried about paper cut
not sure if you’re supposed to spit out the bits that end up on your tongue
light them on fire
suck the burning shards into you
and the words make you crazy
but you use them to numb you out to the rest of the world
no one comes near you now
because they burn from your tongue every time you open your mouth
Man,
I wish I could tell you
Teach you
Explain that there are better highs
Better words
Good words
Not bad words
Don’t tear you down
Won’t numb you out
Enhance
Explain
Connect you to life and others and experience
And I’m not just talking about the maddening rush
of a perfectly formed piece of literature
the swirling high
of manipulating and controlling and
hunting down and grabbing hold of words
in such a way
that you have created art and significance
and then by juxtaposing incompatible images you have somehow managed to make yourself perfectly clear. To name your demons.
Sucked down and buoyed up, transported away.
No.
I’m talking about
bigger highs
better words
words with depth and meaning
words like
I love you
And you sat back there so your mother wouldn’t catch you
the thing is
Your mother wouldn’t care.
She uses them too
shaped into a knife
slitting her wrists every night with them
just so the worthlessness gets directly into her blood
remember crying when you were little
as she held your wrists
over the bathtub
less clean up
and slit them too
drops of blood on the floor
same knife you use to cut the chicken and vegetables
same knife you use to fight
and why not?
it’s the sharpest thing you own.
So that’s why I won’t let you use those words
bad words
Not here
Don’t bring them in here
We’ll learn new words
Words that we can stack
build on
stand on
build each other up with
Words we can plant in the ground
grow into trees
use like bricks
build a tower so tall
Stand on top,
Yell our words
God himself
Looks to see what you have done.
and then we will climb down set it on fire
not the kind that burns out tongues
or burns our lungs,
but the kind that burns like a signal
see us
we will choose words that create more
make be more
they are our tools, not our captors
and we will use them to create not destroy
and so when I tell you that those words,
those words
have no place here
it is not my method of control
it is not a plea
it is a statement of fact.
Those words have no place here
tl;dr version: I'm not particularly fond of this.
I won’t let me kids use hurtful words to cut each other down.
I get the hypocrisy since outside of work I have a bit of a sarcastic sense of humor.
There's kind of a lot of hypocrisy between who I am outside of work. I like violent video games, play fighting, driving over the speed limit.
I don't mind the dichotomy.
Do me a favor and don’t let them know.
This is a poem of explanation for why I don't let them break each others spirits, about how words are violent too, about how much I have to repeat it. It needs editing still.
You get so angry
so irritated
when I won’t let you use those words
those angry words
hate filled words
even playing around
bad words
so called because they serve no other purpose but to cut each other down
“That’s how we talk at home. That’s how we communicate.”
You argue.
But not here.
Not here
Not in here,
not like this
not those words
not us
we are not going to be that repetitive
that predictable
not going to continue those cycles of tearing each other down with words full of hate
hate and fricatives
fricatives and stops like k and g and t and f and s and j
making them fun to say,
but not so fun to hear
and horrific to watch as you laugh
lifting the words casually over your shoulder like a sledge hammer
saying check this out
watch this
and then you take that sledge hammer you made and
swing them down as they crash down against your five year old brother’s head
crush him with just one hit.
Are you proud?
And when you are young
Taking the words
trying them for the first time
with your friends, at night, behind the building
in the cover of darkness
you shred them and put them in paper
roll them
run your tongue along the edge,
secretly worried about paper cut
not sure if you’re supposed to spit out the bits that end up on your tongue
light them on fire
suck the burning shards into you
and the words make you crazy
but you use them to numb you out to the rest of the world
no one comes near you now
because they burn from your tongue every time you open your mouth
Man,
I wish I could tell you
Teach you
Explain that there are better highs
Better words
Good words
Not bad words
Don’t tear you down
Won’t numb you out
Enhance
Explain
Connect you to life and others and experience
And I’m not just talking about the maddening rush
of a perfectly formed piece of literature
the swirling high
of manipulating and controlling and
hunting down and grabbing hold of words
in such a way
that you have created art and significance
and then by juxtaposing incompatible images you have somehow managed to make yourself perfectly clear. To name your demons.
Sucked down and buoyed up, transported away.
No.
I’m talking about
bigger highs
better words
words with depth and meaning
words like
I love you
And you sat back there so your mother wouldn’t catch you
the thing is
Your mother wouldn’t care.
She uses them too
shaped into a knife
slitting her wrists every night with them
just so the worthlessness gets directly into her blood
remember crying when you were little
as she held your wrists
over the bathtub
less clean up
and slit them too
drops of blood on the floor
same knife you use to cut the chicken and vegetables
same knife you use to fight
and why not?
it’s the sharpest thing you own.
So that’s why I won’t let you use those words
bad words
Not here
Don’t bring them in here
We’ll learn new words
Words that we can stack
build on
stand on
build each other up with
Words we can plant in the ground
grow into trees
use like bricks
build a tower so tall
Stand on top,
Yell our words
God himself
Looks to see what you have done.
and then we will climb down set it on fire
not the kind that burns out tongues
or burns our lungs,
but the kind that burns like a signal
see us
we will choose words that create more
make be more
they are our tools, not our captors
and we will use them to create not destroy
and so when I tell you that those words,
those words
have no place here
it is not my method of control
it is not a plea
it is a statement of fact.
Those words have no place here
tl;dr version: I'm not particularly fond of this.
Monday, March 21, 2011
The little one's story.
While I was sitting outside today, a six year old sat next to me on the bench facing me with his knees tucked up under his chin. He pulled his coat over his head and put his forehead against my arm until he was a tiny green ball.
Then from inside the tiny green ball a tiny green voice started telling this story, poking his head out to verify the details. This is as true to exactly what he said, as best as I can remember it:
There once was a red jacket with white stripes.
and there were jeans
and grey shoes.
There was the ground
and the bench
And a the red jacket was soft and I am leaning against it
Inside was a teacher
She has green eyes
blue eyes
grey eyes
Miss Kirsten, what color are your eyes?
and there was a shirt with whales
and hearts
and the hearts had colors
like a rainbow
I like rainbows
I like Miss Kirsten
I've never seen a whale
there are lots of colors on the shirt
and the grass is green.
those shoes are cool.
I like it here.
It's almost my turn to play curb ball
Do you ever get cold in just that red jacket?
Is this a jacket or a sweatshirt?
Did your eyes used to be brown?
Then from inside the tiny green ball a tiny green voice started telling this story, poking his head out to verify the details. This is as true to exactly what he said, as best as I can remember it:
There once was a red jacket with white stripes.
and there were jeans
and grey shoes.
There was the ground
and the bench
And a the red jacket was soft and I am leaning against it
Inside was a teacher
She has green eyes
blue eyes
grey eyes
Miss Kirsten, what color are your eyes?
and there was a shirt with whales
and hearts
and the hearts had colors
like a rainbow
I like rainbows
I like Miss Kirsten
I've never seen a whale
there are lots of colors on the shirt
and the grass is green.
those shoes are cool.
I like it here.
It's almost my turn to play curb ball
Do you ever get cold in just that red jacket?
Is this a jacket or a sweatshirt?
Did your eyes used to be brown?
Monday, March 14, 2011
baby gangsta
Happy St. Patricks Day!
I should mention that if I am ever working in a similar environment to this one, in the future I am making St Patty's a yearly vacation/mental health day. What sick person decided to tell kids to pinch each other? Do you have any idea what happens when kids who are taught they must unequivocally hit anytime they are touched by another human, whether on purpose or on accident, feel justified in pinching each other? Mayhem. Mayhem is what happens.
Onward!
There have been several surreal moments for me recently. Times when I think, really? I mean, SERIOUSLY? This is probably not happening.
I realize that this should happen to me almost every night because, and this may sound like I'm bragging so I hope you don't get too jealous but, I may be one of the world's awesomest dreamers. I'm just saying. Some of you have the unbelievable privileged of getting messages in the morning describing my dreams. Most of them tend to follow complex and fancy-filled story lines with a definitive beginning, middle, end plot. Last night I solved a murder mystery in my dream. That's a true story.
Occasionally they just involve things like me spending the better part of an hour holding onto the string of a blue helium-filled balloon, floating around kroger holding my legs up so I was about two feet off the ground, giggling uncontrollably. Also a true story.
I know it sounds odd or petty or like an exaggeration, but I would be legitimately heartbroken if this ever stopped. Maybe this is why instead of dreaming being difficult for me to believe, almost every morning I think "Where am I? What is happening? Wait...Seriously? Really? AGAIN? WHY IS IT MORNING AGAIN?"
and then I say NO real loud and thrown the covers over my head and stick out my arm and sort of feel around for my cell phone until I find it, then I bring it under the covers and hold it like I'm a squirrel while I look at it and I turn it on snooze and try to go back to sleep but because I pulled the covers up so fast my feet are in the air and they have decided to start wiggling. Silly feet.
But there have been other, much more surreal moments. Ones that cause me to pause and not believe for a moment what I heard or saw, and walk away not sure if I should tell someone because I feel I cannot be entirely certain that I did not make it up. Like if you've ever seen a UFO. Here are five surreal moments from the past two weeks during which I thought "Yeah, this is probably not real" in reverse order:
5) This conversation:
"Lady, you are always getting in people's business"
"You punched him"
"Yeah, and that's not your business."
4) My roommate said something about her housemate to someone who had met me once, the person said "Oh, the housemate with freckles and punk red hair?"
I mean, this can only refer to me but... punk red hair? Is the color punk red or is the cut punk and the color regular red or is it an overall impression of punk red hair? Also, this is awesome and I think I should feed into this image of me. I'm going punk. Unfortunately the only think I know about punk is the couple of people I was friends with in high school with gaged ears and safety pinned clothes and from watching the movie SLC punk and listening to the Sex Pistols and from my brief obsession with googling Steampunk. Since I don't have a lot of time to do more research, I'm going to have to combine my current knowledge and assume it's all an accurate depiction of punk culture. Anarchy. Safety Pins. Time Machines. Got it. That plus my punk red hair and I'm going to be queen of the punks. God save me.
3)Once, when I thought the kids were out of the building after a particularly stressful day, my coworker and I were cleaning up. She said "ARRRRRRGGGGGGGGG. Why are all these kids so demanding and entitled?" and I shrugged, laughed and responded "I guess they feel they deserve everything based solely on the fact that they were pushed out of their mother's vagina." Unfortunately, some of the older kids had snuck back inside the building (we have a problem with kids sneaking back in while we are locking up) and heard. Was it an ok thing to say? No, probably not. But they weren't concerned with the fact that I was complaining they were entitled. They go "OOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh SHE SAID THE V WORD" So I explained (and apologized) that while I used it in an inappropriate context, there is nothing wrong with the actual word blah blah blah they weren't listening. About a week later, in the sociology class I teach one of the girls asked me if I ever cussed. "Not here" I answered. And the girl who had been there a week before said, very seriously, in a whisper "Once, she said the word vagina" A cuss word? A CUSS WORD? This from a girl who drops the f bomb like it's crumbs to find her way home. I tilted my head and looked at her. Huh, because, I mean, here's the thing:
Vagina is not a cuss word.
And I understand a little better why they have friends their age getting pregnant
2)I was talking to some young teenagers and they started talking about domestic violence (they changed the subject, I went with it). And the conversation went something like this"
"Miss Kirsten, you ever been hit by a man?"
"No, have you?"
"Yeah, I had a boyfriend that hit me." They are 13 or 14 year olds.
"I've only had two boyfriend that hit me." Yeah, that's right only two.
"I watched my mom beat my dad with a hammer in the backyard, so I guess that's backwards from how it works most of the time." She said proudly.
"My mom beats me sometimes, but only when I'm bad."
"My mom beats me for no reason, that's why I live with my grandma."
So we talked about why do you think men hit women? Why do you think women hit men? What other kinds of abuse and violence are there? What can you do to help people who are in it? How can you stay out of them? Why do people stay in abusive relationships?
Then, why do you think people, particularly women, go back to partners even after being severely beaten or hospitalized?
"I don't know, why do you think Miss Kirsten?"
"I think it's probably because the other types of abuse run deeper, they've probably been emotionally abused for a lot longer. The person told them that they aren't worth anything, and they believed him, so they go back."
And then in the middle of our loud conversation one of the girls looked into the distance and got really sad and the others got quiet and she said softly "I just had a vision. I can see that. That is going to be me someday. I can see it happening just like that. Some guy is going to tell me I'm not worth shit, and I'm going to believe him, so he'll beat me and I'll just end up going back." And my heart broke, because she was being truthful about what she saw as her future. She could perceive and feel and imagine how it would all fit together. So we talked about supportive community networks.
Seriously? Really?
This. Is. Not. Real.
1)How do I describe this last occurrence in a way which will accurately depict it's surreality to me? I mean, it was the whole purpose of this blog post. I called like... 8 people to tell them. That is an exaggeration, I called like three. I may exaggerate a lot here because I get so excited and overwhelmed by what happened that my imagination keeps kicking in and taking over and make me tell it so that you get it how I FELT it, even if it wasn't strictly how it was. I'll try to stay honest if you promise to have some imagination and agree that this was SO crazy and SO hilarious and SO absurd. I cannot account for the overuse of superlatives.
I was getting into my car after work. It was a nice day outside and so a lot of people were out. As I looked out the front window of my car, I noticed a tiny boychild walking. I mean tiny. This kid was two, maybe three years old. Tiny. I think two because he didn't look old enough to form sentences yet. And he was completely alone. Ignoring for the rest of this post the calling child services aspect of that statement and consider my shock to see a tiny child walking around alone anyway, then imagine him dressed, as he was, as a gangsta. The baby was dressed like a straight up gangsta! Walking in his little baby hiphip toddle/gangsta walk. He was sagging his pants and had his tiny chain and a big coat over his long shirts. All clean and pressed with shiny white shoes, just like a real gangsta. Obviously someone had put a lot of effort and care into dressing baby gangsta, but the effect was that he was the worlds smallest hood. So he was swaggering towards me as I watched in shock. He walked his two foot self all the way up to my car and stopped. I rolled down my window and smiled "Hi! How are you?" He did a chin tilt. A. Chin. TILT. Wud up. "How old are you?" He stared. "Where do you live?" He pulled his pants up by the crotch, flicked me off and scurried away.
He didn't really flick me off.
But he did start scurrying across the street. I got out of the car to, I don't know, catch him or something? Make sure he doesn't pop a tiny cap in someone's ass? You can't have babies walking around unsupervised even if they are dressed surprisingly enough to have me in stunned silence for what was easily the first 5 minutes as I watch them walk towards me. Then react by hitting my window and waiving my arms like a mad woman to get my coworker's attention. She was texting in her car before leaving and did't hear or see me "LOOK AT THE BABY LOOK AT THE BABY HE'S GOT SWAG."
I don't know what I thought I would do with him when I got to him. Clearly he wasn't going to talk to me. And apparently you can't just grab children and take them with you. There's a name for that. Arson or something. Learned that lesson the hard way. Regardless I paused because a kid on a bike cut me off and when I looked up baby gangsta had dissipated into the mist.
There was no mist.
But there were cars in the parking lot and I couldn't see him.
It is my wish that all of you pick a stereotype and meticulously dress your children as them on alternating days. Make sure you teach them the appropriate matching walks and gestures. Thank you.
tl;dr version:
The truth lies in man's dreams... perhaps, in this unhappy world of ours where madness is better than foolish sanity.
-cervantes
I should mention that if I am ever working in a similar environment to this one, in the future I am making St Patty's a yearly vacation/mental health day. What sick person decided to tell kids to pinch each other? Do you have any idea what happens when kids who are taught they must unequivocally hit anytime they are touched by another human, whether on purpose or on accident, feel justified in pinching each other? Mayhem. Mayhem is what happens.
Onward!
There have been several surreal moments for me recently. Times when I think, really? I mean, SERIOUSLY? This is probably not happening.
I realize that this should happen to me almost every night because, and this may sound like I'm bragging so I hope you don't get too jealous but, I may be one of the world's awesomest dreamers. I'm just saying. Some of you have the unbelievable privileged of getting messages in the morning describing my dreams. Most of them tend to follow complex and fancy-filled story lines with a definitive beginning, middle, end plot. Last night I solved a murder mystery in my dream. That's a true story.
Occasionally they just involve things like me spending the better part of an hour holding onto the string of a blue helium-filled balloon, floating around kroger holding my legs up so I was about two feet off the ground, giggling uncontrollably. Also a true story.
I know it sounds odd or petty or like an exaggeration, but I would be legitimately heartbroken if this ever stopped. Maybe this is why instead of dreaming being difficult for me to believe, almost every morning I think "Where am I? What is happening? Wait...Seriously? Really? AGAIN? WHY IS IT MORNING AGAIN?"
and then I say NO real loud and thrown the covers over my head and stick out my arm and sort of feel around for my cell phone until I find it, then I bring it under the covers and hold it like I'm a squirrel while I look at it and I turn it on snooze and try to go back to sleep but because I pulled the covers up so fast my feet are in the air and they have decided to start wiggling. Silly feet.
But there have been other, much more surreal moments. Ones that cause me to pause and not believe for a moment what I heard or saw, and walk away not sure if I should tell someone because I feel I cannot be entirely certain that I did not make it up. Like if you've ever seen a UFO. Here are five surreal moments from the past two weeks during which I thought "Yeah, this is probably not real" in reverse order:
5) This conversation:
"Lady, you are always getting in people's business"
"You punched him"
"Yeah, and that's not your business."
4) My roommate said something about her housemate to someone who had met me once, the person said "Oh, the housemate with freckles and punk red hair?"
I mean, this can only refer to me but... punk red hair? Is the color punk red or is the cut punk and the color regular red or is it an overall impression of punk red hair? Also, this is awesome and I think I should feed into this image of me. I'm going punk. Unfortunately the only think I know about punk is the couple of people I was friends with in high school with gaged ears and safety pinned clothes and from watching the movie SLC punk and listening to the Sex Pistols and from my brief obsession with googling Steampunk. Since I don't have a lot of time to do more research, I'm going to have to combine my current knowledge and assume it's all an accurate depiction of punk culture. Anarchy. Safety Pins. Time Machines. Got it. That plus my punk red hair and I'm going to be queen of the punks. God save me.
3)Once, when I thought the kids were out of the building after a particularly stressful day, my coworker and I were cleaning up. She said "ARRRRRRGGGGGGGGG. Why are all these kids so demanding and entitled?" and I shrugged, laughed and responded "I guess they feel they deserve everything based solely on the fact that they were pushed out of their mother's vagina." Unfortunately, some of the older kids had snuck back inside the building (we have a problem with kids sneaking back in while we are locking up) and heard. Was it an ok thing to say? No, probably not. But they weren't concerned with the fact that I was complaining they were entitled. They go "OOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh SHE SAID THE V WORD" So I explained (and apologized) that while I used it in an inappropriate context, there is nothing wrong with the actual word blah blah blah they weren't listening. About a week later, in the sociology class I teach one of the girls asked me if I ever cussed. "Not here" I answered. And the girl who had been there a week before said, very seriously, in a whisper "Once, she said the word vagina" A cuss word? A CUSS WORD? This from a girl who drops the f bomb like it's crumbs to find her way home. I tilted my head and looked at her. Huh, because, I mean, here's the thing:
Vagina is not a cuss word.
And I understand a little better why they have friends their age getting pregnant
2)I was talking to some young teenagers and they started talking about domestic violence (they changed the subject, I went with it). And the conversation went something like this"
"Miss Kirsten, you ever been hit by a man?"
"No, have you?"
"Yeah, I had a boyfriend that hit me." They are 13 or 14 year olds.
"I've only had two boyfriend that hit me." Yeah, that's right only two.
"I watched my mom beat my dad with a hammer in the backyard, so I guess that's backwards from how it works most of the time." She said proudly.
"My mom beats me sometimes, but only when I'm bad."
"My mom beats me for no reason, that's why I live with my grandma."
So we talked about why do you think men hit women? Why do you think women hit men? What other kinds of abuse and violence are there? What can you do to help people who are in it? How can you stay out of them? Why do people stay in abusive relationships?
Then, why do you think people, particularly women, go back to partners even after being severely beaten or hospitalized?
"I don't know, why do you think Miss Kirsten?"
"I think it's probably because the other types of abuse run deeper, they've probably been emotionally abused for a lot longer. The person told them that they aren't worth anything, and they believed him, so they go back."
And then in the middle of our loud conversation one of the girls looked into the distance and got really sad and the others got quiet and she said softly "I just had a vision. I can see that. That is going to be me someday. I can see it happening just like that. Some guy is going to tell me I'm not worth shit, and I'm going to believe him, so he'll beat me and I'll just end up going back." And my heart broke, because she was being truthful about what she saw as her future. She could perceive and feel and imagine how it would all fit together. So we talked about supportive community networks.
Seriously? Really?
This. Is. Not. Real.
1)How do I describe this last occurrence in a way which will accurately depict it's surreality to me? I mean, it was the whole purpose of this blog post. I called like... 8 people to tell them. That is an exaggeration, I called like three. I may exaggerate a lot here because I get so excited and overwhelmed by what happened that my imagination keeps kicking in and taking over and make me tell it so that you get it how I FELT it, even if it wasn't strictly how it was. I'll try to stay honest if you promise to have some imagination and agree that this was SO crazy and SO hilarious and SO absurd. I cannot account for the overuse of superlatives.
I was getting into my car after work. It was a nice day outside and so a lot of people were out. As I looked out the front window of my car, I noticed a tiny boychild walking. I mean tiny. This kid was two, maybe three years old. Tiny. I think two because he didn't look old enough to form sentences yet. And he was completely alone. Ignoring for the rest of this post the calling child services aspect of that statement and consider my shock to see a tiny child walking around alone anyway, then imagine him dressed, as he was, as a gangsta. The baby was dressed like a straight up gangsta! Walking in his little baby hiphip toddle/gangsta walk. He was sagging his pants and had his tiny chain and a big coat over his long shirts. All clean and pressed with shiny white shoes, just like a real gangsta. Obviously someone had put a lot of effort and care into dressing baby gangsta, but the effect was that he was the worlds smallest hood. So he was swaggering towards me as I watched in shock. He walked his two foot self all the way up to my car and stopped. I rolled down my window and smiled "Hi! How are you?" He did a chin tilt. A. Chin. TILT. Wud up. "How old are you?" He stared. "Where do you live?" He pulled his pants up by the crotch, flicked me off and scurried away.
He didn't really flick me off.
But he did start scurrying across the street. I got out of the car to, I don't know, catch him or something? Make sure he doesn't pop a tiny cap in someone's ass? You can't have babies walking around unsupervised even if they are dressed surprisingly enough to have me in stunned silence for what was easily the first 5 minutes as I watch them walk towards me. Then react by hitting my window and waiving my arms like a mad woman to get my coworker's attention. She was texting in her car before leaving and did't hear or see me "LOOK AT THE BABY LOOK AT THE BABY HE'S GOT SWAG."
I don't know what I thought I would do with him when I got to him. Clearly he wasn't going to talk to me. And apparently you can't just grab children and take them with you. There's a name for that. Arson or something. Learned that lesson the hard way. Regardless I paused because a kid on a bike cut me off and when I looked up baby gangsta had dissipated into the mist.
There was no mist.
But there were cars in the parking lot and I couldn't see him.
It is my wish that all of you pick a stereotype and meticulously dress your children as them on alternating days. Make sure you teach them the appropriate matching walks and gestures. Thank you.
tl;dr version:
The truth lies in man's dreams... perhaps, in this unhappy world of ours where madness is better than foolish sanity.
-cervantes
Monday, March 7, 2011
acts of worth
We had a dance party. After the Thai food that left us full to the brink (Kim, how did you make that food taste so good? Was it sorcery?), we put on music and did the dishes. Warm sake and good music turned the laughter that shook our shoulders into dancing that shook our hips and we belly danced with scarves on our waists and bangles on our ankles for hours, twirling into exhaustion. When we finally collapsed onto the couches, we talked of our great hopes and our great convictions. And as the night wore on we asked things the things that you ask in the cover of darkness: where did you come from and who are you?
And, in whispered tones, do you think- if there is no heaven and no hell- if you died today, has your life been worthwhile?
I answered this question in light of that first psychotic and overwhelming work week.
So that night, after the dancing, after the collapse onto the couches, when they turned to me, for my answer- have I been worthwhile- this is what I said:
I don’t know. Maybe I have, in the butterfly effect sense. I mean, I haven’t had any great achievements. I haven’t done anything that I think anyone will remember. I don’t think my death will cause anyone or anything to collapse inward on his or her or itself. But Mother Theresa has this quote “Every time we smile at someone, it’s an act of love, a gift we give to that person.” This week at work I just kept repeating that to myself over and over and over, trying to convince myself that even if I wasn’t doing anything else I was making it better just by smiling at people. Just to have someone who smiled instead of bitched, to have someone at least tried to appear like they wanted to be there, wanted to see them, that it was making it just a little bit better. So no, I don’t think I’ve made a huge difference, but at the same time I guess… I’ve tried to smile at people. So, yeah.
Yeah.
I really really hope so.
And, in whispered tones, do you think- if there is no heaven and no hell- if you died today, has your life been worthwhile?
I answered this question in light of that first psychotic and overwhelming work week.
So that night, after the dancing, after the collapse onto the couches, when they turned to me, for my answer- have I been worthwhile- this is what I said:
I don’t know. Maybe I have, in the butterfly effect sense. I mean, I haven’t had any great achievements. I haven’t done anything that I think anyone will remember. I don’t think my death will cause anyone or anything to collapse inward on his or her or itself. But Mother Theresa has this quote “Every time we smile at someone, it’s an act of love, a gift we give to that person.” This week at work I just kept repeating that to myself over and over and over, trying to convince myself that even if I wasn’t doing anything else I was making it better just by smiling at people. Just to have someone who smiled instead of bitched, to have someone at least tried to appear like they wanted to be there, wanted to see them, that it was making it just a little bit better. So no, I don’t think I’ve made a huge difference, but at the same time I guess… I’ve tried to smile at people. So, yeah.
Yeah.
I really really hope so.
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