I'm Sorry, Again: Doing Right by Overdue Apologies...

I work at Emerson, a wonderful little middle school in Los Angeles. I've taught here for twenty years, and it's where I've gotten to know so many young people and learned so much about myself as a person, a teacher, and a writer. And it is at Emerson that I learned to forgive the Pilot Butte Junior High School girl from the second book in the Through Eyes Like Mine series: Overdue Apologies.

When this book first came out, there was no big release, no launch party, no readings. I wasn't ashamed of the book, no, I think I was still just a little unsure of the girl I was in middle school and of the choices I made. But I forgive my students every day, and I believe that is what makes a good middle school teacher: thick skin and short-term memory. But I'd spend years thinking about the girl I was in middle school, so my memories were raw.

But you know who loved that girl and this book? My students. They gave me feedback, created book projects, and talked with me about my book. They wrote summaries about reflected on how they saw themselves in the pages. They checked out my book, they read it, and passed it on to friends. They stole it. Through them, I learned to love and believe in my middle school memoir.

So here it is again, this time with a wonderful foreword from my oldest brother, Chet, who is living with his middle-school-aged daughter now.

Since publication, "Challenger" appeared in Specter and "Winter Ball" in Sky Island Journal.

If you've read Through Eyes Like Mine, but have been scared to read Overdue Apologies, I get it. Middle school is scary, but on its re-release, I hope you'll be brave enough to go back. Let me know if you need a copy of this or of the trilogy.

Tomorrow, I Tried.

Leaving it all behind

I'm a creature of habit. I love schedules and routines.
I thrive in them.
Maybe it's all of those years growing up Catholic: the repetition of mass: the sitting, kneeling, and standing, the prayers that became a chant, a childhood meditation.

Whatever the reason, it's tough for me to toss my everyday away.
Sometimes that is what life requires.
Sometimes you have to drop everything, buy a plane ticket, and leave it all behind.
Even when you want to stay, you have to leave.

I board my flight and the weightlessness makes me nauseous.
I wish I could be at school to end another year,
to share in the long goodbyes and the ceremony of graduation.
The Pomp and Circumstance.
The speeches and the reading of names.
The hugs and proud families and photos snapped
of girls dressed like young women and boys dressed like young men.
The huge smiles stuck on sweaty faces and the smear of makeup from a sloppy hug.

This year I'll miss all of it.

I am a creature of habit. I love schedules and routines,
but this year will end with my heart frayed by this awkward farewell.

Back to School Wishes for 2013

We started the second semester today and after a restful winter break it was good to be back. I really enjoy my job and my students. So, to start class today we wrote some of our wishes for the new year. My students wrote about superpowers, season tickets on Hawaiian Airlines, and dates with Justin Bieber.

I wrote along with them, as I always do, and during third period I wished an anonymous donor would make-over our school giving us a turf field, a new gym, and clean classrooms with working heat and air conditioning. I reread this and felt so sad. This was not a wish. These basics are things our school should have right now.

I also wished that Obama would say, "Forget all this testing. Let's make learning fun again." But I don't need Obama to do that. Despite the number of days we are required to spend taking district and state mandated tests (about three weeks) I know my students and I are having fun and we're learning.

There is so much talk about testing and achievement in our schools. There is even more talk about reform and how our schools have to change. I've been an educator for over 15 years and despite the bleak picture many paint of public education in the US, I know in classrooms and schools everywhere, despite all of the noise, teachers are teaching, students are learning, and it's going to be a good year.

You should read this book. Then again, maybe not.

It's ready! Overdue Apologies is now available @ Amazon and, well, I think you should read it. Then again, it's a middle school memoir and I do some things in this book I'm not so proud of. I wasn't the nicest middle schooler.

If you grew up in Bend, or were in middle school or junior high in the 80s, this will definitely take you back. I know, middle school might have been pretty awful. Maybe not the whole thing, but I bet everyone had their share of awkward adolescent moments. You might be scared to revisit that time, but don't be scared. You should read it. Everyone's reading it, so you should too. 

If you are raising a middle schooler, you'll recognize this world. It might make you think twice about letting your teenage daughter go to the movies this weekend, or force you to sit down and have that sex talk you've been putting off.

If you teach middle school, you might want to wait until summer. You live this book everyday, but this will remind you what your students are really thinking about in class (it's not US History or Algebra).

And finally, if you are a middle school student of mine, you should NOT read this book until you graduate and I'm no longer your teacher. Seriously. I will not discuss this book to you if you go to Emerson.

But other than that, yeah, you should totally go get this book.

Overdue Apologies: Seventh Grade Mix Tape

Here's the second installment of my 80s memoir mix tape to get you in the mood to read all about the joy, intensity, and horror of middle school. Enjoy! Overdue Apologies release is coming soon!






Scene: My first tape from my brother Chet: Sting's The Dream of the Blue Turtle "Russians."



Scene: My music education continues even with Chet away at U of O: Midnight Oil's "Blue Sky Mine"




and U2's "Pride."



Scene: Every time Jamie and I hung out at her house we listened to Wham!



Scene: Best middle school fast dance song... Billy Idol's "Mony Mony."



Scene: From Spring Dance and the Top Gun Soundtrack: Berlin's "Take My Breath Away"



Scene: The last Jamie and Nori show in Ms. Wilson's class: Howard Jones' "No One Is To Blame."



Scene: The Oregon State Fair and my first concert... Crowded House. "Something So Strong"



and "Don't Dream it's Over."

Overdue Apologies: Sixth Grade Mix Tape

Music is a huge part of my middle school memoir, Overdue Apologies (coming March 10). The book is divided into three parts, sixth, seventh, and eighth grade. In the lead up to the release, here is a mix tape to go with the first part of the book. Enjoy a mid-80s flashback to go with my sixth grade year.

West End Girls and What Have I Done to Deserve This: scene... at Robin's house, we listened to The Pet Shop Boys and these two hits topped our playlist.





Don't You Want Me: Then it was Human League. We wore this album out after school at Robin's.



One More Night: scene... The Valentine's Day Dance at Cascade. My first slow dance...


Jamie and I saw Stand By Me that summer too, so the 50s songs on that soundtrack mingle in the musical memory for that time. Everyday: scene... getting ready for the first day of seventh grade.

Why Would Anyone Want to Go Back to Middle School?

Yep, that's me. A proud Pilot Butte Giant.

So, I started working on this memoir, Overdue Apologies, five years ago as I finished up my mfa at Antioch. And even after reading those early pages, the workshop leader asked, "Why? Why would anyone want to read this?" Maybe it was a plot problem, or maybe it was because very few people want to read about middle school. There are tons of YA novels for this age, but very few memoirs, and I think I know why. Most people don't want to spend a whole lot of time revisiting that teenage angst, let alone several years writing about it. 

Besides, middle school is awkward. Our bodies are changing, our hormones are raging, and our brains are not yet fully-developed. It is an emotionally charged time of all or nothing. I teach middle school, so I'm reminded of this on a daily basis. And although I teach in LA, at a middle school very different than the one I attended, many of the issues students face are the same: She likes him? He's going to ask her out? She said what about me? Ugh! I hate her!

Looking back at the diary I kept at the time, I either LOVED my family because they were the best, or I HATED them and couldn't wait to get away. Same thing with friends and boys. Love or hate. Best day ever or worst day of all time. There wasn't a whole lot of middle ground. But despite all the intensely awful times I survived in middle school, I also have some intensely wonderful memories as well, intimate friendships, adventures with friends at malls and movies, and many significant firsts.

So even if you hated middle school, even if you really don't want to go back to that time, I dare you to anyway. That's right, I've been playing a little truth or dare for the past five years or so, trying to tease out the truth of my middle school days, and now it's almost done. So I dare you to go back there with me.

I dare you to remember middle school.

Overdue Apologies: March 10, 2012.

Sneak Preview of Overdue Apologies

When #teenagememories trends on twitter, it's the twitterverse asking for a preview of Overdue Apologies, the middle school memoir that is my daily grind these days. Remember that middle school dance? The crush you had as a seventh grader on the cutest eighth grader? Yeah, this might take you back.

Getting Ready

            Daylight savings time ends so the sun is up when Robin, Bianca and I walk to school. Spring is close and as soon as the afternoon highs reach into the 50s we wear shorts to school and tank tops that reveal pale skin hidden all winter long behind knit sweaters and jeans.

            The Friday of the spring dance Kim and Jamie come over to get ready. We watch one another closely and check out what we've chosen to wear: surf company t-shirts, shorts and sandals. We thread together leis from the crabapple tree blossoms in the front yard. We brush our hair, curl, and spray. We apply deodorant, lotion and perfume and by the time we're ready to go we are three variations on the same look and smell: shoulder length hair, curled and sprayed, pink lip gloss, shorts, t-shirts, sandals and flower leis = perfect for Spring Dance.

Pilot Butte, Bend, Oregon.

            Mom drops us off at school and we can't wait to dance to Prince's "U Got the Look" or Billy Idol's "Mony Mony." Our leis fall to pieces, white petals drifting to the floor, but we don't care. The eighth graders dance in their circle and we dance with the other seventh graders, but I keep an eye on Shawn. He and Caren finally broke up and maybe if I'm around on a slow song he'll ask me to dance. But when they play "Take My Breath Away" Shawn leaves so I head to the bathroom, hoping we might bump into one another. Yes. I time it perfectly and we almost collide at the door.

            "Cool sunglasses," I say as I pull them from his face. "Oooh. Varnets. Can I borrow?"

            "Uh," before he can answer I walk off with his glasses and I wear them for the rest of the night.

            It's almost 9:00 and the dance is almost over. U2's "With or Without You" comes on and Shawn comes up to me.

            Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

            He looks uncomfortable and won't look me in the eye.

            "Uh, hey Nori," he says, turning to look over his shoulder.

            I can't believe he's right there, standing right there in front of me. He reaches out a hand and I smile and look down at my feet.

            "Can I get my sunglasses back?"

GOT Teachers?

I attended one of the most disheartening of meetings today. My employer unveiled a new process for which I will not be evaluated. It's called, wait for it, G.O.T. or Growth Over Time. It's a way my value as a teacher will be not be judged based on how well my students bubble in answers on a flawed assessment. Well, I won't be evaluated or judged by it yet.

Awesome.

Now, I could go on, and on, and on... about how much this sucks but I thought instead I would write about something I love about teaching. And hey, it's NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month so I figured I would write a little something about my second job. It's a haiku. It's all I could muster.

When students mistook
Sasquatch for a vegetable
It made me chuckle

I dare you. It's April. Write a haiku comment. All the cool kids are doing it.

If you want to read more about GOT, here's a link to Emerson's PD Blog.

The Help: Nonfiction Problems in a Fictional Work

I devoured Kathryn Stockett's The Help this past weekend and while I liked it, (but didn't LOVE it) I loved all of the questions it brought up for me as both a reader and a writer. If you haven't read The Help I suggest you do and if you don't like to read novels, don't worry, the movie will be out this summer.

The Help is set in Jackson, Mississippi in the early 1960s and told through three first-person povs (plus one chapter in third person). The narrators are Skeeter, a young coed just home from Ole Miss, and two black maids: Aibileen, and Minny. Skeeter wants to be a writer and hopes that a book of interviews of Jackson's Black help will put her establish a literary career. The book chronicles much of that journey.

Stockett writes the two black maids' voices in dialect which bothered me a little (spelling Lord "Law" doesn't seem necessary) but what these voices made me ask was: whose story is this to tell? As Skeeter transcribes the stories of maids, changes their names and surely captures their dialect, does she question if this is her story to tell? If we could see some of that moral dilemma in Skeeter, we could assume that dilemma exists for Stockett as well. But Skeeter never asks, "Is it my place to tell these stories?" She wonders if maids will talk to her. She fears the danger the book will create for them. She worries that no one will read the book, but she never considers that it might not be her place to tell these stories at all.

Then I read about the lawsuit. Stockett's brother's maid, Ablene Cooper, is suing Stockett for using her likeness to inform Aibileen Clark. I wonder if Stockett asked Cooper to read the manuscript just to make sure her character was fictionalized enough for her comfort. What was the L-shaped crack that made Cooper feel taken advantage of by the author?

As I work on my next memoir I'm making a list of all my middle school friends who will need to read this manuscript before I publish. It is my book, but it is a story we all share. I want them to tell me if they want names changed or details removed. I want them to be able to read the book and say, yes, this is true to those years and to my experiences with Nori. 

I enjoyed The Help and appreciate that Stockett decided to "go big or go home" as my friend Amy put it, but I also think writers are required to respect the people they characterize in whatever story they choose tell.

NaNoWriMo: My Favorite Month of the School Year

NaNoWriMo:  National Novel Writing Month.  It's this insane idea that you can write a novel in a month.  I discovered NaNoWriMo in grad school (another Raymond Johnson contribution) and as a writer, or non-writer, or wanna-be-writer, it has always served me well.  But the past two years I incorporated NaNoWriMo into my eighth grade English narrative unit and it was been my favorite lesson/series of lessons ever.  The young writers program has great curriculum to help students or anyone who wants to try to write a novel.  The first time I saw the young writer's handbook, I wished I'd gotten something like it during my mfa program.  Last year I managed to draft a YA novel, and this year it's historical fiction, but what amazes me most are the stories, the sentences, the scenes from my students.  Here are a couple samples.

from Shattered Glass by Denise:   

At school it was like he wasn’t even there.  Teachers always skipped his name as if they were seeing right through him. 

Sam hated his life he hated the way they treated him like a ghost, as if he was the one who died in the car crash.  

Sometimes he would wonder if he had died and his ghost was still lingering in the real world and he just didn’t realize it. 

from Sports Addict by Hunter:  

Yelling. That's the noise that I wake up to every morning. My parents fight non-stop like two wild dogs. Every time I make a mistake, in school or just “mis-using” my knife at the table all I can hear is my dad and mom yelling. “Clyde Little this and Clyde Little that.” It’s all thanks to my stupid choice and addiction.

These are only a few lines from two of 60 novels my English students worked on last year and there are 65 more in progress right now.   Best of luck to anyone doing NaNoWriMo this year; I really should get to work on mine. 

The First Day of School

A few years after I started teaching middle school, I walked across the south field on the first day of school.  It was early, before students arrived, but my principal was there and she asked me, "Are you nervous?"

I was still fairly green as a teacher and attempted to sound seasoned.  "Nervous, no, but I'm excited."

"Really?" My principal responded.  "Oh, I still get nervous and I promised myself if I ever wasn't nervous for the first day, I should retire."

Almost a decade later, that principal has retired, but I imagine she's still nervous for all of us heading back to school tomorrow.

So, am I nervous?  Yes, and I'm bracing for the year to come.  I glance at the names on my class rosters. These students are strangers to me, and that is what I'm nervous for.  That is the suspense that will keep my mind spinning with the preparations I still need to make to start the year.  Because by the end of the week, those names will reveal faces and slowly, those faces will share their stories.

As the first day bleeds into the first week, month and semester, many of my 100 students will share bits and pieces of their lives with me and it is these stories that will keep me from falling asleep in the nights to come.  We will make it through that first semester and we will work through to spring. Then these students will graduate and head off to high schools across the city.  These students will fade away and they will take their stories with them.

That's one of the hardest things about being a teacher.  I get this glimpse into so many lives but I so rarely get to hear how the stories end.  Fortunately, I've had the summer to rest up, to reflect on the stories I've heard this past year, and to make room for new ones.

Tomorrow is the first day of school and I'm nervous.  I'm nervous, excited, and anxious to hear the stories of this new school year.

To Test-Prep or Not to Test-Prep?

It happens around this time every school year. Testing looms just after spring break and instead of thinking about the experience my students have in my classroom, instead of caring about their love of reading and writing or what they hope for in the future, I start worrying about how well they will bubble. I get fed all of this test-prep garbage and because, "Noriko, accountability is important," I've swallowed it all.

This year I don't want to. I want to go old school. I want to trust that if I've taught my students how to think, if I've done my job and given my students reading and thinking strategies they should do just fine. Am I morally obligated to do our school's test prep program that feeds into an accountability system that year after year discredits our school system, my teaching and my students' learning? Or am I morally obligated not to do the test prep?

Will one year of Ms. Nakada make a difference? If my students do not review the process of elimination, proper bubbling technique and test-release questions this year, will it make a difference to students who know school as a testing factory? I'm not sure it matters in either direction, but would I be failing my students if they got the year off?

New LA Life: Chapter 6

A few other guys from the other teams joined C.J., Alan, Jose, Manny and me for lunch and as we walked out of the park I started to get a sense of these four friends. C.J. had a strong, quiet confidence and would talk to anyone. He'd brought a skateboard and rolled alongside us. He was closest to Manny while Alan and Jose seemed like best friends. I tried to pick up on the inside jokes the four of them tossed around constantly. We were almost out of the parking lot, walking toward a mini-mall with a Jamba Juice, Subway and a Chinese restaurant when and I noticed a three girls sitting at the bus stop watching us.

"Alan! Jose! Where you guys going for lunch?" Yelled a girl with a blonde pony-tail. She waved but the boys ignored her.

"Amber Johnston," C.J. said with a scowl.

"Don't even say the name, that..." Alan stopped himself.

"Uh, you’re the cat who played with that shit last spring," Manny said, shaking his head.

"Shut up, man. We all make mistakes."

"And at least you got some play," Jose piped in as we reached the intersection and waited for the light to change. "So, Erika, where you going? Perry with the homies? Manhattan with the fags?"

I tried to think of the name of the school Auntie Laine mentioned at dinner but neither of those sounded familiar. "Um, I think I'm going where C.J. goes."

"Yeah, my mom is helping her aunt get her into Emerson."

"Well, I guess that's somewheres in the middle," Jose said, "It's a little bit hood, a little bit Hollywood."

"Where do you go?"

"Alan's a Manhattan Beach snob and so am I, unfortunately. Manny's at Emerson too. I was actually trying to see if Mom would transfer me to Emerson but she says it's too far."

The light turned and we strolled slowly across the intersection for lunch. C.J. said he'd get me and gave me a smile that for the first time ever made me feel what it must be to have an older brother looking out for me.

On the way back to the park Amber Johnston and her two friends walked toward me. They wore make-up and street clothes and I felt ugly in my soccer gear. I was still pulling on my sweaty shin guards and a fresh pair of socks on while the boys were played keep away a few yards away.

"Hey," Amber said standing above me so that she was blocking the sun. When I looked up she had her hand stretched out to me.

"Hi," I said remembering what Alan had stopped himself from saying about her as I shook her limp palm.

"I hear you just moved here from Argon."

I smiled, still looking down. "You mean Oregon. It's Oregon."

"Oh, yeah, well, whatever."

One of her friends, a tall girl with brown hair cut into a short bob and a super-dark tan piped in next. "I see you already trying your game with all our guys."

I had to squint because Amber stepped to the side. "I'm not trying my game on anyone. I just moved and I'm just playing soccer." I thought back to Portland, to the complicated web of boyfriends and crushes that shaded every relationship. I was walking into this situation completely blind.

"Okay, well, just be careful." This was Amber again. "Because those boys are a bunch of players. They think going out is just like soccer, a game, and they will pass you from one to the next just like that." She snapped her fingers for emphasis. "Just warning you."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said and moved my focus back to my cleats. I thought they'd all gone away until I heard another voice chime in.

"Mentirosas," the voice said and when I looked up, it was Marisela. "Don't listen to that mess, girl," Mari said loudly enough so the three girls who were walking away could still hear her. "They just jealous you went to lunch with the cute boys." She reached her hand out to help me to my feet. "I know everyone thinks I'll hate you because I'm used to being the chica suprema out here. But I figure if we can both keep up with the boys we ought to stick together."

"Hey, thanks," I said as the whistle blew and we trotted back to practice.

"Entonces," she said, "I can see you have something sad in your heart. You don't need no more enemies."

I smiled, glad that Marisela was on my side. I had a good feeling about her but worried that she'd find out the truth: that I was the mentirosa, and I was my own worst enemy.

New LA Life: Chapter 5 continued

At the break I joined up with CJ and his three buddies again and tried to remember the new names: C.J., short for Curtis, tall, short hair, dark-skin. Alan, the cutest of the three with a Hapa baby-face like Uncle Kev, brown hair and eyes that were almost green. Jose, a spiky-haired Latino jokester, and Manny, the shortest one, was serious and sweet.

"Oh, for sures," Jose was saying. "Her and probably Mari. They're the only girls who can fuckin' hang."

I sat down next to my duffle bag and looked for my Gatorade.

"Well, E," Curtis said, sticking with the nickname, "You're auntie don't lie. Girl can play."

I tried to hide my smile and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I was still feeling good, still able to avoid thinking about why I was starting this new life here in the first place.

"So, this is how it works," Jose said sliding in next to me. "They do this little clinic on the first day of camp and then they make squads based on skills. I'm pretty sure you'll be in the top tier with us. Only one other girl ever plays with us and that's Marisela." Jose nodded in the direction of a skinny girl with her hair in a ponytail high on her head. Her hands were on her hips and she wore super long shorts that hung almost all the way to her shin guards. She was talking to this other kid who looked way older than us. His head was shaved and he wore long navy blue Dickies instead of soccer shorts. I learned the word later; he was a cholo. "That G's Ramiro," Jose continued. "They are on again, off again, all the time. Looks like right now they're on." I noticed the way Jose looked at Mari. There was a story there. Just like all of the history between friends in Portland, I had to learn a whole new scene. But as I watched Mari I wondered if maybe she could be a friend. She obviously loved soccer like I did, and I hoped we'd have other things in common.

The coach with the strong Irish accent blew a whistle calling us back to the shade and divided us into groups. They started calling names for the lowest group, placing players onto teams based on high schools in the area: Mira Costa, Avalon, Torrance and Redondo Union. I watched and waited as the younger kids in the group were placed and imagined Jem would have run circles around the kids here, that if he were here he definitely would have made the middle group which was who they called next. These all had college team names like UCLA, USC, Stanford and San Diego. The highest group, the one I knew I wanted was called next and our teams were based on the pros: Chivas, Barcelona, Arsenal and Manchester United. I ended up being called along with Alan and Mari for team Barcelona and Jose winked at me as he went to Chivas. He'd been right, after all. Marisela and I were the only two girls on the top teams.

By the time we finished a bunch of conditioning drills my legs ached. I hadn't played against boys in a while I knew I didn't just want to hang. I wanted to be one of the best. Alan and I partnered up even though I could tell the coach wanted Mari and I to practice together and through the whole session Mari and I kept our eyes on one another. She beat me in the flat out sprints but she and I were toward the front of the whole pack. In the side-to-side and back-pedaling we were pretty much neck-to-neck. Once coach threw a ball into play I noticed she seemed stronger with her left foot and although she was quick, she was also small. If I played a physical game I could always knock her off the ball.

"Nice work," Alan said as we walked back toward our bags for the lunch break.

"You too," I said with a smile, automatically feeling at ease with Alan who, with his height and strong build, would probably play striker.

"We have a mean squad, huh?"

"Yeah, well, we'll soon find out," he said taking a long sip at his water bottle. "After lunch we'll get to scrimmage."

New LA Life: Chapter 4

I woke up early the next morning and took a shower in what had been Auntie Laine's guest bathroom but now was the one Jem and I would share. At first I wasn't sure I liked the bathroom. The floor was this wood bamboo and the sink and stand-up shower were this beige stone. All of that was just fine. It was the shower doors that were all glass-enclosed and there was a big window with no covering so even though the outside wall faced the backyard and a wall of thin bamboo blocked out the view, some peeping tom could sneak into the backyard, part the bamboo and watch me bathe. That first morning I kept looking out the window, imagining what someone would see if they were watching me. I showered for those first few weeks as if I was in a shampoo commercial, lathering up and posing, closing my eyes and arching my back as I rinsed.

For some reason, I didn't feel scared, though. After the last night at our old house everyone kept expecting Jem and I to freak out, be nervous or jumpy, but I never was especially once I arrived in LA far away from anyone who knew Dad or his mistress. In Portland we always had to worry about running into someone Dad had prosecuted as a DA, but in LA no one knew my family, our history, or me.

I dried off with a thick white bath towel and wrapped it around me. When I opened the door to walk across the hall to my bedroom Auntie Lane was there.

"Morning, Honey. Find everything okay?"

"Um, yeah," I responded, my wet hair dripping down my back.

"Well, we're heading over to the Taylor's place in about half an hour. You should probably pack your soccer stuff too. Do you eat breakfast?"

"Um, sometimes," I lied again. I somehow couldn't stop myself. Mom always made us eat breakfast even if it was just a yogurt and a sports bar.

"Okay, well, there's some cereal on the counter and milk and juice in the fridge."

"Great. Thanks."

I closed the door behind me and shook my head. It wasn't a trick question or anything.

She just wanted to know about breakfast. What was my problem?

I skipped breakfast because all of the cereal was the super healthy kind and looked gross. Auntie Laine did have a stash of sports bars though so I grabbed a couple of those and threw them in my soccer bag which was packed with everything I needed to survive this first day: long soccer socks, cleats, shinguards, two bottles of Gatorade, headphones and my iPod loaded with my thinking mix (The Shins, Seawolf, Helio Sequence) and my hyper mix (Black Eyed Peas, Missy Elliot, Beyonce). I was wearing my short soccer shorts instead of the baggy ones, and an extra t-shirt in case I wanted to change. I had a sweatshirt on over my tank top and Auntie Laine told me I probably wouldn't need it but I decided to wear it anyway.

"Okay, so the Taylor's live just a couple of blocks," Auntie Lane said as she backed out of the driveway. "Audrey, or Mrs. Taylor, hired me last year to convert their garage into an office and she has a son about your age."

We passed by houses heading south on Harvard and then turned left on Redondo. The cul-de-sac we pulled into had five houses and the Taylor's house was one of them. It was painted a bright yellow except for the garage that Auntie Laine had helped them remodel. It was painted olive green and blended in with the trees and grass so that it almost disappeared. There was a black SUV parked in the driveway and I was suddenly nervous and hoped, maybe even prayed even that I'd get along will this Taylor kid. Maybe he'd even but hot.

New LA Life: Chapter 3 continued

Auntie Laine was on the phone in the kitchen making some popcorn and I wondered if that was some kind of Yamanaka tradition, to make popcorn and watch tv because Mom used to do that just about every night too. A show was on pause on the tv and Auntie Laine must have been talking with someone from work because she was complaining about being asked to finish some project that shouldn't have officially been her job. Auntie Laine is Elaine Yamanaka at work, an interior designer at a firm in Century City where she caters to people who like that clean, modern, minimal look in their homes.

She held out the bowl of popcorn and motioned for me to sit on the couch. The room was still spotless and there were a bunch of pillows on the couch. I sunk into the leather and I had a sweatshirt on even though it was still hot outside because Auntie Laine liked to keep the air conditioner cranking all night. I pulled my legs up beneath me and soon Auntie Laine was pointing the remote at the tv, "Did your parents let you watch this crazy reality stuff?"

I recognized The Amazing Race and nodded. It was the first time Auntie Laine had really mentioned Mom and Dad. "Yeah, they let us watch this, but not The Bachelor or the reality shows on BET or MTV."

"Oh, yeah, huh. Well, I guess we'll keep that same policy going here." She grabbed a handful of popcorn. "Are there any other little rules your mom and dad had that I should know about?"

I thought about Mom and Dad's no computers in our bedrooms rule even though I'd already broken that one and checked my email on my laptop earlier. But what Auntie Laine didn't know about that one it wouldn't kill her. Mom and Dad had tons of rules, about meeting friends' parent before we could hang out with them and no tv during the week but I didn't want to tell Auntie Laine about any of those rules. Mom and Dad were way too strict anyway.

And there was no way I would be able to tell Auntie Laine how Mom and I had stopped getting along after sixth grade, how we hardly talked anymore, how the house had been dominated by silence, how I'd cried at the funeral but no one knew the real reason because I felt too awful about it. What kind of daughter feels relief when her mom is gone?

But that night I had to think of at least a few things I could tell Auntie Laine so I thought about my phone. "Well, I can't go over my minute limit and I only have 500 texts a month. I'm not allowed to download ring tones or movies or anything like that." I stopped. I didn't think she needed to know that they checked my phone every week to see who I had in my contacts or who I was calling the most. Besides, I was pretty much a good kid so she didn't need to be all up in my business like Mom had been. Besides, living in LA now, I didn't know anyone to call.

"Okay, phone rules. And what about boys? Any rules about dating or makeup?"
I hadn't really gotten into make-up but yes, there were rules Mom and Dad had about boys. I could go out with groups of people but never anywhere with just one boy. And again, they had to meet his parents. I definitely didn't want Auntie Laine to know any of that so I just shook my head and pretended to watch the people on tv getting ready to climb part of the Great Wall of China. "I guess I'm not all that into that stuff yet," I lied even though I sometimes messed around with make-up at Sephora with Nat and I had my first real kiss this past year.

As I sat there pretending to watch tv, words from my mom echoed through my mind. "Erika, there's nothing I hate more than a liar." Maybe that's why I'd felt relief when Mom was gone. I knew I'd let Mom down, that she hated the girl was becoming. But how was I supposed to know how things would end?

"I'm heading to bed," I told Auntie Laine before the end of the show and in my room I buried my head in the foreign smelling sheets of my new bed. Tonight I was a liar and as I lay there, face down on the bed I hated myself. I used to lash out at Mom, had told her more than once that I hated her but now she was gone and there was no one to hate but myself.

New LA Life: Chapter 3

That night at dinner Auntie Laine took me to this little Mexican restaurant and asked me what I wanted to do for the last few weeks of summer while she was at work. I shrugged, but I guess she'd already thought about this so she gave me some suggestions.

"Well, there's a surf camp or junior lifeguard classes at the beach. There is a beach volleyball camp or an all-day sports camp where I guess you can play a bunch of different sports."

I picked at the chips served with my burrito at The Burnt Tortilla.

"Then there is this arts and crafts center where you could hang out,"

I shook my head at the sound of that.

"And then there's a soccer camp."

I looked up. "Yeah, soccer camp." I'd just finished up camp in Portland and loved the idea of another couple weeks of soccer.

"Okay, so I'm going to take tomorrow morning off so I can introduce you to the family where you'll hang out while I'm at work. Then we'll get you signed up for soccer and I'll head off to work."

"Okay," I said and thought about how different this soccer camp would be. Every summer since second grade I'd gone to camp and known every girl and every boy, knew who the best strikers and defenders were, knew which club teams everyone played for and where they went to school. My best friend, Natalie (Nat for short) and I had played together since first grade. Her dad was a coach at University of Portland and we used to go to games together and dream of playing in the soccer final four, winning an NCAA championship together. We both still had that dream even though I now lived a thousand miles away and when I got home from dinner I called her to tell her about camp.

"That's awesome," Nat said.

"I wish you could come with me. I'm not going to know anyone. Who knows who my partner will be or if any of them will be any good." Nat and I had a high standard for soccer and I wondered if the girls here in LA would be as good as we were.

"Well, you'll get the chance to scout out the competition that will end probably end up at UCLA."

"True that, " I said and then it was quite for a second.

"So, how are things with your aunt? Is she cool?"

"Yeah, I mean it's all right. She's okay. She wants me to talk all the time and hang out and she seems a little like she isn't sure what she's doing. She's never had kids or anything so, whatever. I have to wait and see how things go. Have you seen Derrick or Jason?"

"Uh, no. Paris and I went to the mall and the movies yesterday but we didn't see anyone."

I imagined Nat and Paris going on with their lives without me and suddenly felt every single mile that separated us. "Oh well. Maybe you should call him and then they could meet you guys instead of trying to guess where they'll be."

"Oh, yeah, I guess I could do that."

I shook my head at my best friend because I knew she just liked the drama of possibility, possibly seeing her crush or possibly bumping into her enemies.

"Okay, well, I better go," I said, thinking I should see what Auntie Laine was up to before I went to bed and as I hung up the phone I knew more that just soccer camp was going to be completely different. I was leaving Portland, Oregon, the only world I'd known before far, far behind and entering something completely unknown.

Graffiti or What I Wish For the World

I learn more than I teach at the middle school where I work in Los Angeles. I don't think I'm a bad teacher. It's just that so many of my students aren't all that enthusiastic about English Language Arts, while I find their lives fascinating.

This year I teach about one hundred students, and my school serves teenagers from all over the city. They are a microcosm of LA experiences: recent immigrants, Los Angeles natives, UCLA professor's kids and aspiring gang members. My classes are the "regular" kids, not honors or advanced classes, so my percentage of aspiring cholos to scholars is a little off. But they are middle schoolers, so even if they look like punks, and often act like punks, even the toughest kids are nice, deep down and trying to make sense of the world and find a space where they might fit.

My students recently participated in the Doodle 4 Google competition that the Google people sponsor where they ask kids to redesign the Google logo.

I explained the contest to my students and then let them get creative. In these days of high-stakes testing and strict instructional pacing plans, I don't do this very often and students react to this freedom in a variety of ways. Some just want to color, others draft and redraft striving for perfection. Some scrawl quickly and then chat about how they will spend the $15,000 prize. Ten of my students enter the school competition. I take the entries to the computer lab where the technology coordinator, several other teachers and I are meeting to choose winners.

I set my students' artwork on the table and take in the competition. One entry, "Helping Hands" transforms each letter into a good deed. Nice. Another depicts an environmental utopia with doves flying artfully above the Google landscape. A third shows the first three Google letters as monsters, then the last three an economic utopia. All are rendered carefully, but one of my own student's pieces can definitely hang: a group of environmental activist penguins holding signs that say "Go green" using the Go from Google. I can imagine any one of these four Doodles winning in the regional competition.

But Google allows us to send six entries, so we get to pick another couple for competition. We select another one of my student's renderings of a good v. evil city sprouting from the letters and growing from light to dark.

With one more to choose, four drawings remain in the running. Two are my students' work, and both carry the careful styling of graffiti artists. I want one of them to win. I think of the winners from last year: blue-prints for castles, rainbows, flowers, and animals. None of those designs capture the urban landscape where so many of my students live.

Several teachers are uncomfortable sending up a "tag," but I really want one of these two boys to win. I stop and think about why it is important that Google receive an entry from my school, an urban LAUSD public school that captures a different reality, a reality that isn't about classic art or architecture. This is the art that holds power in my students' lives and maybe it isn't beautiful to everyone, but what art is? And maybe it's more than a rendering of their urban existence because it's art they understand, art that reminds them of the tough and beautiful place they're from.

"I want one of these two to go," I say pointing to my graffiti artists.

While we discuss these last two entries, the artistic style is not in question but whether or not we are comfortable promoting gang-related illegal activity.

We don't choose Daniel's melting Google tag partly because the "l" looks like a melting penis.

In the end the committee leaves the decision to me and I choose to send the drawing of a brick wall with a Google tag and the sidewalk littered with images from local gangs. I know he won't win, but I'm proud that I can advocate for him and his art.

I draw my own Google with my students this year. The G is an ear, the "oo" a boom box, the "le" a microphone and cord. My wish for the world is that everyone would have a voice and that those with power would listen.

As I look at all of the student Google winners displayed in the hallway, "Our Economy," "Go Green," "Helping One Another in Friendship," "Stop Graffiti," and "Beautiful World" I'm proud of the voices from Emerson expressing not only our students' wishes for the world, but the realities of the world we wish we could ignore.