Layers

Today, when they pass, people see a middle age woman and an old dog. They weren't there the day the Los Angeles Pound had an adoption fair and that lady saw the little puppy stumbling around on short legs. In an instant, she was smitten. There is no way to know how these moments of falling in love arise so instantaneously, but arise they do. It might have been the sad eyes, or the ridiculous motion of a little body on uncertain legs, or perhaps the long ears. Whatever it was, within seconds of their connection, little did they know they would be with each other for the next 15 years. Today, when they pass, people see a geriatric dog, they don't see an athlete who could run hard and fast for miles, and leap across creek beds. They don't see the goofy girl who would for years entertain those around her by showboating her chase and throw skills, all by herself, responding with open mouth and cocked head at the laughter. They miss the dog that loved to look at you through the mirror and then back at you in person, wagging her tail furiously, as if she was discovering both you and the mirror for the first time. That trick would go on countless times, ceasing to get old. Today, when they pass, people see a dog that is remote in her advanced years. They weren't there in the truck with her and the lady, moving from house to house, from Los Angeles to Sacramento, Sacramento to South Dakota and South Dakota to San Diego singing songs, heads in the wind and holding onto each other. They don't see the dog who loved the lady's mom, staring longingly at her and putting her head in her lap for the soft pets. They don't see the pup that was ever watchful and knew exactly how to handle it when this mom died. She was a blanket for her lady that day, never leaving her side, head buried deep in folded arms. Today, when they pass, what people see is a middle age woman and an old dog, and what they see is true. Over the years, from young adulthood and puppyhood to middle age and the golden years, they have stayed together. They are a part of each other now. They are family, made of one strand. Sisters, mothers, and best friends. Woven together by time and experience and love. Today, when they pass, what people see is a middle age woman and a geriatric dog but what they might not know is that these are two souls who rescued each other.

Me and Bella circa 2011

"A" Begging

"I want an A", he stares at her with a kind of unstable urgency, unblinking, pupils wide. "I really like your class, I'll do anything." It's a week before the end of the semester, and suddenly it's dawned on him that he has likely killed off any possibility for an "A". "I think you are a great teacher. What can I do to get an "A"? He breathes these sentences together like he is walking a tightrope of thread, his desperation dangles precipitously over a yawning hollow inside of him.

"Well, you are getting a "C" for participation, as we've talked about, because of your daily and incessant cellphone use, throughout the semester, despite having both addressed this problem both to the class generally, and to you personally and..."

"I'm so sorry!!" he strains toward the instructor waving her off with his hand, her explanation like a noisome fly he has no time for. "What can I do to get an A? I work really hard."

Students mill around after class collecting their personal luggage for the day: keys, phones, backpacks, and even their thoughts. She can hear the final reckoning with class topics filtering back to her through the end-of-class noise. "My dad and I kind of have an either/or power relationship." "Did you hear about the study that said gender differences in power are structural, not natural?" They bustle out of the door into the teeming hallway beyond. New students are already arriving, unpacking their daily luggage or, rather, dumping it into piles on the floor, or on their desks, or both.

Stuffing her leather shoulder bag with her teaching paraphernalia, and nodding goodbyes to the other students, she manages the moment. Turning her attention to Nate, she privileges his ears with the classic, perhaps cliche refrain, "I don't give "A's", you earn them." She stares directly at him and says with as much clarity as she can muster, "You still have 2 assignments left to turn in, and those assignments will impact your grade. I can't predict what you will get on those assignments, but focus your energy on them"

Nate begs, "Can we talk?" His book bag and books lie in disarray around him, and his open notebook, hanging limply off to one side of the desk, is filled with doodling. The pages look slightly damp.

He has stepped closer and she can now smell his unwashed privacy. She can't see the pores in his face, but given his physical trajectory, it isn't out of the realm of possibility that she will eventually, be given this insight as well.

"What can I do to get an "A"?"

She now had managed her bag onto her shoulder, the thin strap cutting into her jacket. It was uncomfortable to carry, but its weight triggered her movement out of the classroom. "Nate, you'll just have to finish your work. You have 3 classes left in the semester. Finish the work." The 3 other students who had wanted to talk to her trailed behind. "Listen, I have to talk to these other students now, so email me if you have any questions about the assignments."

"OK, OK, OK. Bye! I'll see you next class! Thank you for your help! I'll do my best!! Have a good day!"

He melted into the background almost as quickly as he materialized at the front of the classroom at the end of every class. An anxious cloud of solid underachievement nursed by years of somebody (or bodies) doing his work for him, supporting him in his belief that he was not capable on his own. He leaned on that belief as he skirted the water fountain and shedded the conversation with his teacher. It landed somewhere on the floor behind him, propelling him forward as he careened into the next classroom. Just as he settled into the blue seat he usually occupied by the window, his English teacher walked in. He'd try a different tactic this time. He'd talk to him now, instead of after class like he had Professor Weber. That way, if he thought of anything else to tell Mr. Trujillo, he could re-visit the topic with him at the end of the class period as well.

"Mr. Trujillo, I was wondering, do you think I am getting an "A" in the class?"

Tired, the 30 year teaching veteran, looked up over his spectacles. He brushed his hand through his stiff curls. "I think so."

"Oh that's great!! Thank you. I love your class so much. You are a great teacher. I learn so much in your class, and I work really hard."

Mr. Trujillo nodded absently. Nate eagerly plucked his phone from his back pocket. He was a good student. He worked so hard. He had to tell his girlfriend.

Guns, guns and more guns

For the record, I am a gun owner. Not sure why I feel the need to front this information, but somehow I feel it is a fact that might enhance my credibility among the gun lovers out there. I will say, however, that I am not a gun lover. I am merely somebody who likes to be a well-rounded human, and that includes knowing how to hold, load and shoot, specifically, a bolt action rifle. I don't know why, but like driving a stick shift and starting a fire, it seems like one of those life skills I ought to have. Maybe it is being raised in the apocalyptic US culture that teaches me such preparedness means I could, in the event of a major catastrophe, drive a range of vehicles useful in survival situations and keep myself warm, fed and protected. At the end of the day, I see it as a tool. A tool I appreciate, but nonetheless, a tool. That aside, I do have dreams about my gun. Dreams of going hunting with my big brother someday. Bonding with him over the hunt and roasted deer after hours of crouching in some shelter. Maybe we shouldn't call them dreams, but more like daydreams. Those ephemeral thoughts couched in shadow and vague detail. But there is one place I never dream of bringing my gun, or dream of others bringing their guns, and that is in my classroom. Such "dreams" would, obviously, count as nightmares. And yet there seems to be a driving desire by politicians, and Trump most recently, to get rid of gun-free zones in school.

Let me start with this suggestion to Trump and those like him. Start with your events instead of in the schools where myself and my friends teach. If you are willing to allow guns into all Trump hotels, into your press briefings and frankly into any event that you host, then maybe we'll talk. But as far as I understand such events, the Inaugural celebration included, do not allow for guns. Political events that feature important political figures are often "gun free zones" are they not? I wonder why? I mean, if guns make us all safer why don't they start allowing firearms in the Capitol? It is interesting that those proposing gun free zones work at the Capitol, where security measures are tighter than ever for the average, ordinary unarmed visitor. Gun-free zones are for everywhere but where they work. "Open carry - but not here!" - that is the message from Republican lawmakers.

There are those who claim I would be safer, that my students would be safer, if there was an open carry policy in public schools. Let's, for arguments sake, agree. Indeed, having a ton of armed people in American classrooms makes students and teachers safer! Safer than what? This is where we have truly reached crazy land. How many Western, democratic nations, with a healthy public, need an armed citizenry to keep public schools safe? Is that the landscape we live in? Where our society is so dysfunctional that the only answer to violence in society at this point is that everybody takes up arms alongside their books? Our police are not enough? Americans are so awful that they cannot be trusted to to shoot up an unarmed classroom? That is the country we live in? This sounds more like the landscape of a failed state. Yes, in a failed state, I reckon guns are an imperative for keeping students and teachers safe. Images coming out of Rwanda in the 1990s come to mind. Or Syria today. Open carry in schools in a functioning state however is loony toons and clearly nobody is consulting teachers en masse.

I do not want to teach an armed student population. I have enough on my mind. The chances for a mass shooting in my classrooms are small. In fact according to the Psych Law Journal (http://www.psychlawjournal.com/2012/12/school-shootings-what-are-odds.html) there are about 2.46 such shootings a year. Granted the article accounts for K-12 and not community college, but I'll take the whole aggregate, even though on average there are less community college shootings in comparison. I have a higher chance of dealing with a person who is terrified of writing, than I do with dealing with a live shooter. I would rather focus on what I've been trained to focus on. I am not saying mass shootings are not a problem. They are. And there should be a concerted effort to dialogue with educators, mental health professionals and campus security to create a system that can identify a student in trouble, intervene before there is a threat and when there is a threat, have an updated policy on how to respond.

This is not a rant against gun owners, this is a plea for sensible and rational policy and gun rhetoric. Arming students and teachers is not a solution, it is madness wrapped in a nostalgic political ideology for the Wild West. There is a reason gun laws were enacted to begin with. I don't think most sane people are looking to prove themselves at another Hyde Park Gunfight or its more well-known but less deadly cousin, the OK Corral in Tombstone, Arizona.