Vying for Mom's Blessing

Nine years ago, I sat in a coffee shop and wrestled words into their final form in Through Eyes Like Mine. I believed in the work. It’s a non-traditional memoir. It exists even though I’m not famous and haven’t survived a cult or unspeakable tragedy. I’m not a recovering addict or childhood star. It is a quiet book, a child’s story, told by a not-so-old writer. I shared it with my mom and the rest of my family, and with a few corrections and clarifications, they all stood behind it.

Christmas: 1981

When Overdue Apologies came out two years later, I tried to hold my middle school memoir to the same standard, but it is a different book. It is about a time most people would rather forget. I teach middle school, so I know it’s cringy because adolescence is cringe-worthy. My family laughed awkwardly throughout Overdue Apologies, but along with my middle school friends, they helped shape the work. My mom wondered what she was up to during my middle school adventure, but she supported its release. It came out just as I was about to have a baby, so I didn’t give it the launch it deserved. I was expecting, but I also wasn’t sure the world wanted a middle school memoir.

Now, as I ready I Tried for publication, the process feels the same but different. I am still pouring over the words, attempting to make it as perfect as possible. I have to steal time, just like before, but now there are two kids vying for my attention. The world is a different place with widening gaps between the haves and have nots, rural and urban, white and other, but these differences make these books feel more important. I shared the manuscript with family and friends who again influenced it, but the biggest difference this time is my mom isn’t here.

Summer: 1991

My mom was my first reader. She was my first ask about memory accuracy. She helped clarify my recollections. She framed the events in my early books, but with I Tried, I couldn’t ask what she remembered about my sixteenth birthday or Dad’s fall off the roof. She would have hated reading about the limits of white feminism, but I still think she would support this book. She would correct a few facts, tell me which parts were hard for her to read; which ones made her laugh or cry. She would love the snapshots of our family from the porch in Bend, and question the choices she made along the way.

I hope Mom can help me find a few last typos. I hope she will fact check my memory like she always has. I hope in some dream tonight or in the nights to come, she will look up from the rushing white water of the Deschutes and forgive the white feminist she was and the flawed feminist I am. I hope she will somehow give this last book her blessing and know: I tried.

Celebrating Sue and John's Birthdays

Some love stories change the world; their story made mine. 

Today is my mom's birthday. We lost her four years ago, and some days it feels like she's still here. I can still have conversations with her, still imagine what she'd have to say to me about politics, movies, and current events.

She wasn't thrilled that I chose to be a teacher, but she grew to respect my work and the profession. That's what's hard about the conversations I have with Mom in my head. She would have evolved and changed over these last four years, so by now, on the night before her daughter goes on strike, she would support me unconditionally. She would tell me to go to bed, and to take care of the kids, and of David, but mostly, to take care of myself.

Tomorrow is my Dad's birthday. He's turning 88. In Japanese culture 88 is a beiju year, extra-special. 88 is rice age, and for my father, whose middle name, Hachiro, means eighth born son, I hope this year is particularly auspicious. I hope it means fading clarity comes into focus and confusion cuts to sharpness. But until that clarity and sharpness returns, I've started imagining conversations I would have with the Dad of ten years ago about what's happening right now.

Back when their words came through more clearly...

If my Dad's memories were still clear and his wit was still sharp, he would remind me that standing up and speaking out for what is right holds the upmost importance. He would tell me about his time in Japanese internment camp and wonder why people didn't stand up, didn't do something to help. He'd say we have to do something about the terrible things that are happening right now.

I will be walking the line tomorrow with these words from my parents on my mind. I will check in with myself more than usual. Instead of thinking shikataganai, or it can't be helped as many said about the Japanese incarceration, I will be standing up and speaking out about my large classes, and the lack of a full-time nurse, and that our library is closed and outdated because we haven't had a teacher librarian in a decade. I will insist that the hedge-fund manager who is unfathomably at the helm in our district resign, and that we find someone who can truly lead our district and serve our schools, our communities, our students.

For my mom, I will take breaks and make sure my daughter has snacks and dry clothes, and I will make sure I take care of myself too.

For my dad, I will stand up and speak up for what is right.

These two days mark the beginning of the lives of two people who made me, and living my life in the their wisdom is how I honor them.

12 Days of Blog Posts: A Conversation with Mom

Mom has been gone for a year and a half now, and I wish I could pick up the phone and talk to her about my daily challenges and then listen to her advice, her praise, and her take on current events. I knew her well, though, so I can almost imagine what she would say to me. She would most definitely tell me I'm working too much, that I'm a wonderful mother, and that she just can't believe these Republican candidates.

I remember when I was very young, Mom told me she was so happy when I finally started walking. She used to fear something catastrophic happening and she would have to leave me behind because she just couldn't carry me. I never knew how to respond to this, but this year, as the refugee crisis made its way across the ocean and onto our screens, I understood what she meant.

When I held Baby Gabe in my arms, or loaded him into a carrier, I couldn't get the image out of my mind, of a toddler boy's body washed onto the shore. The images of families torn apart as they flee violence and oppression haunt me. I can't imagine what I would do if we had to run away from our lives, what we would take, and then comes the guilt of the privilege I have in this peaceful, stable life. I begin to understand Mom's worry and now, I can't wait for Gabe to start walking.

I recently started rereading Toni Morrison's Beloved. It's one of the books I took from Mom's shelves. I turn the pages she once turned and we continue conversations through the books we both love. I remember us talking about Beloved when we were both college students. She told me I'd have to re-read it once I was a mom. "Then," she told me, "You'll understand." I'm starting to understand.

And if I take the time to listen, I can hear Mom tell me to keep things at work in perspective and to consider saying no a little more often. I can hear her tell me that Gabe is just teething and will get back to sleeping through the night; that Kiara will figure out how to get our attention without whining and feigning injury. I hear her complain about Trump and ask if I'm voting for Hillary or Bernie; to remind me that she has been fighting against war and guns and misogyny and we just have to keep fighting. Then she tells me she loves me and can't wait to see all of us for Christmas.

I hope she's listening too, so she can hear me say I love her too, and that she will most definitely be with us for the holidays. And maybe by Christmas, Gabe will be walking.

2014 Year In Review

Well, I was feeling pretty ambitious last year when I set the goal to post here once a week. It's what all the successful bloggers say: you have to post quality content regularly.

Last year I was able to do it. I posted over 50 times but most were part of the 52 poems project I was doing.

Mom... 

But I'm not beating myself up about only posting 20 times. It was a tough year full of change and new understandings of family and life and death.

Thanks to all of you for still reading along. I know I haven't been the most reliable, but your readership and feedback has helped me through some tough times this year.

So, here are the top three posts for 2014...

3: It has been a rough year to be an educator. Public education continues to be assaulted by a "reform movement" attempting to discredit and privatize our public schools. It's not all that different than it has been over the past ten years. But this year, with the rollout of national "Common Core" standards and their assessments, I have had to make more concessions than I'm comfortable with. Fortunately, many parents are beginning to voice their concerns over testing and standards. This post about opting out of testing was my third most popular this year. 

2: This post, Summer Stock, captures the time I'll remember most about 2014, even though I hoped fall would help me forget. This post captures the end of the school year, the loss of my mom, and the summer that followed.

1. This year I turned forty and rather than the huge challenge I first considered (a solo run at the Pole, Pedal, Paddle) I set out to celebrate least forty times. Happy birthday to me and a huge thanks to all who helped me ring in #40, and for making it my most-read post this year so I get to feel the birthday love all over again. Forty is fine and fabulous and lots of other f words my baby-brain is currently withholding from me. Here is my top post of the year: Forty is Starting to Look Pretty Amazing...

Summer Stock

Kiara contemplates summer and fall. 

Summer begins that first week of June with a farewell.

The school year comes to an abrupt end when a phone call from my sister indicates things are not going well. I need to get home. I leave my classroom a mess. There is no last day of school, no yearbook signings, no hugs from students. There is no gleeful send-off into summer.

There are ten days in Portland. Every day is trips to the hospital, hours in a critical care unit watching machines that track each heartbeat, each breath.

There are breakfasts with Dad, lunches with my brothers and sister. There are lonely trips for coffee or ice cream with the hipsters of Portland.

There is a positive pregnancy test that feels like some sort of trick life is playing on my forty-year-old body.

Things with Mom get worse, or they just don't get better. We must think about what Mom would want. Then we must advocate for her. There are decisions to make, and every conversation is a challenge. There is prayer and song, tears and silence.

We finally let go, and our family of six is brought to five.

On Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, we hold Mom's Memorial. There is family and friends, tears and laughter. There are long moments when grief and loss overwhelm. There are
stretches of nothing.

I come home to LA and Mom is there. She is with me when I wake up Kiara in the morning. She is with me every time I sit down to the page. She is with me at the beach and in the car. She is here.

There is rain in LA this summer, but mostly beautiful days of sunshine.

The pregnancy that once felt like a trick has been confirmed and the doctor calls it a miracle. David and I watch this new life squirm on a grainy, black-and-white screen with awe.

I head back to work even though summer still shines strong and will for another couple of months. I will continue to soak in the sun, and breath in the beach air. I will cling to the memory of easy summer days.

I will hold onto summer until fall makes me forget.