Hi Mom!

 The blog is back. Idc idc.

I've been upping my journaling game the last couple of months, but there's something about writing for an imagined someone out there. Typically I write on here like my mom is the person who's reading me. Now my mom is dead. 

When she was dying, I spent a lot of time laying (lying? She would known which was right.) in her bed with her.  And she spent a lot of time on her iPad. I learned that she had a habit of opening Instagram, going to my profile, and scrolling through my grid, stopping to (re-)read all the comments. I also learned that my blog was her homepage. She loved me so much and just delighted in the shit I put on the Internet. 

I don't know what happens when we die, but I do know that if it's at all possible for some essence of my mom to be reading this post, it's happening. Hi Mom! I'm going to start writing stuff here again. I am. Plz help if u can.

Delighting in the Jarlath Diaspora

A few years ago, I thought it was odd when a co-worker asked me about the St. Jarlath's t-shirt I was wearing -- Jarlath being a rarely-used Irish name, and me being related to four people who have it. Come to find out, there's a St. Jarlath's Catholic church and school in Oakland. 

This week I decided to find out why.

So I went to mass Sunday morning to see what I could see. I learned nothing about the reason for the Jarlath, but it was Palm Sunday, which I happen to love*. I left during the homily because I was bored and then to my utter delight, there was a vendor making bacon-wrapped hotdogs in the church parking lot. Not a total loss.

Later, I had a fruitless google of it while I texted with my cousin Jarlath about the failed mission -- "They are missing a trick there - the jarlaths of the world would buy some," he replied ruefully when I answered that no, they did not have any merch available. 

Undeterred (and since I'm on leave from work), I made myself an appointment at Oakland Public Library's Oakland History Center for the next afternoon. A research adventure!

--

Lately I'm more inclined than ever to follow threads that lead back to Ireland like this one. My mom is dying of colon cancer. She's receiving hospice care at home in Chicagoland, and I'm across the country in Oakland, making monthly trips back to spend time with her and processing the ocean of terror I feel about life on this planet without her. One wave that has come up is that in losing Mom, I'm somehow losing my connection to Ireland, my status as an Irish Irish-American (because American Irish-Americans are deeply embarrassing a lot of times). My little brother and I even sent in for our Irish passports; I think he senses this aspect of our loss, too.

Anticipatory grief is fun because you get this frantic and futile guilty urge to capture every bit of the utterly uncapturable. I'm on this quest to find out why a church in Oakland is called St. Jarlath's as if knowing why will save me losing Mom.

--

God smiles on librarians.

When I got to the spacious room on the second floor of the downtown branch, someone had already pulled a file of newspaper clippings related to the Catholic church in Oakland, including a photocopy of the article below which solves the mystery:

.  

 

St. Jarlath's parish opened as an offshoot of St. Anthony's, pastored by Father Peter C Yorke, proud alum of St. Jarlath's College in Tuam.

My granddad went to St. Jarlath's in Tuam, too. Father Yorke was "a labor activist and an Irish patriot," and though I don't know the family history back that far, I do know that our family home in Dunmore, just outside Tuam, had enough IRA pamphlets on guerrilla warfare in it for me to suspect that Yorke could have been a comrade of one of my great-great-greats. Mom was delighted by my findings. Me too.

---

So anyway, that's the answer: He said "it was the delight of the Catholic church to remember her glorious dead."





* On account of the props (sword-shaped palms) and a dramatic reading (with parts!) of Jesus' arrest, conviction, and execution. Palm Sunday mass is kinda like Catholic Rocky Horror Picture Show. I had dinner with friends that night, and when I told them about my providentially-timed visit, the other one who was raised Catholic gleefully raised his fist in the air and shouted "Barabas! Free Barabas!" which is from the crowd part that we get to play lolllll. Palm Sunday mass was my second favorite behind Good Friday mass because when I was a kid that's when the priest would lay face down sprawled out on the ground in the same shape as Jesus on the cross for three minutes of silent prayer at 3 pm, the scriptural hour of Jesus' death. The drama!

Advent again.

How I hate waiting. But how I love Advent.

A couple of days after Jess and I move in together years ago, she told me that I was moving too fast all the time and it was freaking her out. She was speaking quite literally: I wash the dishes fast, get the chips out of the cabinet fast, walk to the bathroom fast.

Sometimes as a kid I would lay in bed in the morning planning out my route around my room, the bathroom, the kitchen from the time I stepped out of bed to the time I walked out the door for school. I liked figuring out the most efficient way to get it all done. A lot of times, I would even sleep in my uniform polo, tights, and boxer shorts, so that all I had to do in the morning to get dressed was step into my skirt and slip into clogs. Is that weird?

I love doing things fast. I come by it honestly. My mom and I once decorated my entire apartment within two days of moving in, wallpapering included. I woke up pre-dawn and couldn't go back to sleep, so visceral was my desire to finish painting my room.

trying

Under Drumpf’s administration, I have forgotten what I have to say. It’s like, he makes it too easy:

“Dumb fuck.”

There. Now I feel like I’ve adequately critiqued his foul ass.

I’m also feeling writerly paralyzation because so many other folks are already writing fantastic pieces about what’s going on, and I’ve been feeling like, the best contribution I can make is just to Like and Share.

So I’m sitting down tonight to come up with something because I like how I feel about myself when I’m writing. I like the feeling of trying to wrangle the right words onto the page.

At least a dozen people have told me that I should be writing about the work we’re doing at SQ, but it’s hard for me to get outside of it and see the threads of narratives available for the telling.

In the last year, I’ve edited books for two different friends. They make it look so easy. Five- or six-page Word document? Chapter. Ten chapters in a book. They just do it.

And I’m sitting here feeling like I’ve got nothing to say when I’m pretty sure do.

I’d like to start publishing some stuff online maybe.

There have been several instances in the last few months where I think I’ve smelt a tiny whiff of what it’s like to have my depression lifted off of me. For a long time I’ve been fine, but not able to get excited about anything. The first moment came when I was seeing Hamilton with my Mom in March. As I watched, I kept thinking about a clip from a PBS special about the show where you see Lin-Manuel Miranda bringing his draft to a two other guys, and they’re going through it to edit and build. And I’d get so excited and want to do that.

In no particular order, I want to write about

: How white people need to find a way out of their blind rage at reverse racism without losing face. White people need to figure out ways that help white people better understand historical context and systemic oppression without emasculating them. If that makes sense. White people can get so defensive, and then the conversation feels hopeless because they’re not going to back down because white supremacy intersects powerfully with misogyny and hypermasculinity! We gotta do something about our people for real.

: The implicit pedagogy of Creativity Explored. Our former director called it “non-confrontational advocacy.” We do what we can to bring attention to work created by artists with developmental disabilities and know that when folks experience the beauty of the artwork, they a teensy-bit unlearn ableist and patronizing ideas about folks with developmental disabilities. Sentence too long.

But I think it’s much more interesting to think about the pedagogy of the studio, the teachers’ approach to the artists they work with. The lack of curriculum. The variance between giving artists direct guidance, images to draw or paint, and giving artists the paint they need to create basically the exact same piece that they’ve been making for thirty years. Artists are encouraged as they develop their practice, and artists are supported if they decide not to “get better.” Teachers do what they can to make sure that artists can make informed choices and then follow the artists’ lead.  

Makes me think about how my Mom would always say that they needed to stop plotting to make Conor smarter in his annual IEP meetings. Like, he’s fine the way he is. Let’s just make sure he’s experiencing pleasure – delicious food, sunny days, loud music.

: I’m teaching a class at Mills, Introduction to the Humanities, and we just read Whiteness as Property and the first chapter of Pedagogy of the Oppressed. We’ve been talking about what it means to be human (and the students, graciously, are not rolling their eyes the way I kind of am at myself.) What struck me most this time around was the question of whether our humanity is innately individual or innately connected. I’m just now realizing that I think it’s the latter.

And for some silly reason, I’ve been thinking about how much I like the word “folks,” and how there’s not really such thing as a singular folk. Maybe there is, but it’s a horrible word.

Okay now, I’m going to go watch a few episodes of Insecure.

the cruelty of the vague no

While most likely obvious to many many people, in my recent learnings about setting up boundaries, I've come to an epiphany:

If the answer is "no," just say so.  Hedging the no-ness of the answer theoretically makes it "nicer," but really it just extends my anxiety and extends the waiting and/or confusion and/or humiliation of the receiver of the "no."

---

Exhibit A:
There was this woman who started working at the bridal shop months ago now.  After a few weeks, the folks in charge determined that she wasn't going to be a good fit.  No one was assigned responsibility for firing her, though, so no one let her know that she was fired.  She kept calling to ask when she was supposed to come in, and we kept telling her that she needed to talk to this person, to that person, to this other person, to that other person.  Finally, she was told, "There's not going to be a full-time job here for you," which was even then a vague firing since there was still the specter of a part-time job, a specter everyone knew wouldn't come alive since she had been clear from the beginning that she needed full-time work.

How shitty of us -- and I'm very much rolled in to that "us."  It must have been so maddening to not really know whether or not she should/could look for or accept another job.  And I imagine I'd be like, "Listen, I don't give a fuck either way.  Just tell me so I know."

We were too cowardly to fire her, so we let her wait around by the phone for weeks.  Shitty.

Exhibit B:
I know this dude who I find fairly attractive and cool and could be interested in dating.  And whenever we spent time together, I got the sense that he was interested, too, since he was real touchy-feely all the time.  Finally (after a few beers), I got the courage to ask him what was going on between us, and his eyes got wide while he nodded his head back and forth, "Umm... I don't know what you're talking about."

I call bullshit.

A few days later, we talked, and I told him that if he wasn't interested, he needed to stop touching me because it was very confusing and even kinda hurtful.  He went into a long-winded explanation of his interest/non-interest with lots of tangents and illustrations.  I left so confused, and a little humiliated, but mostly proud of myself for voicing my "what the fuck" and setting a clear boundary in the midst of his hazy talk talk talk.

---

In the first example, I was participating in the "I feel bad firing her" thing that kinda made me feel better than I thought being direct would have, but actually just made it so that my anxiety flared up a few times a week whenever she called.

In the second example, though it took me a while to realize, he wanted to be nice and not say outright that he's not interested, but really it just made me feel kinda skeezy.  In the end, it really wasn't that serious to me whether or not he was interested, and it was kind of embarrassing for him to so obviously tread so softly on my poor little feelings.

---

My mom told me this new thing she's doing wherein when someone asks her to do something or if she wants to go somewhere, and she doesn't, she just sorta tilts her head to the side and says, "Uh, no that doesn't work for me."  And that's it.  No explanation.  Just nope.

When someone says "nope" to me -- in all kinds of contexts -- it doesn't usually hurt.  Mostly it feels like, "K. Got it."  And then I don't really think about it again.  Because whatever.

That's the way to do it.

the axe-murderer

One of the pastors held a creative writing group at church this morning that was so cool.  Pitched, he told us, as something akin to a drop-in yoga class -- an hour of exercising (maybe exorcising).  Writing as a practice.

You've got Marvin to thank for this vomiting of posts this evening (and by "you," I mean, you, Mom, my only reader).  I've been noting things I've wanted to write about over the last couple of weeks, but I have not been making time for my practice.

In the group, I got to writing about Conor.  Marvin asked us to think about sensory details, to include colors, smells, and tastes.  Nothing like that struck me at the time, but as I laid (lie?) down for a nap this afternoon, it suddenly occurred to me to try to write what's below.

---

It had to have been a summer day because I remember light streaming in, and I remember feeling like I richly deserved this Nachos Bell Grande I was about to eat, having survived another day of unending boredom at her office.  I used to make so many things -- stories, crafts, games, role-playing games -- out of that office paper they had with the tear off edges with the little holes.  I'd sit on the floor behind her desk bopping my head to the music of the dot matrix printer.  Florescent lighting.

So it had to be summer, because I remember that the natural lighting was such a relief. I could not wait to squeeze a few packets of that Mild Border Sauce onto those nachos.

Mom went up to order and sent me, Neil, and Conor to sit and wait at the table.  I'm remembering now that there was always the unspoken expectation to try to keep Conor relatively quiet.

I held his hands down, gently, with great disgust at their drooly-sliminess, resigned to tolerating it until I could wash my hands.  Let him rub all his cold, wet fingers all up and down my wrists and forearms as I tried to keep him from slamming his hand down on the formica table.

There wasn't anything special about the shouting he did in Taco Bell that day.  I mean, it was loud.  Puberty had started to deepen his voice.  So so loud.  Make you wince a little loud.  And, (presumably) pissed about the (as I said, gentle) restraining I was doing, he'd finish his few seconds of screaming by slamming himself backward in his shoulder and forcefully pulling his hand back up into his mouth for a little gnawing (and to recoat it with that good stuff).

Put that on repeat, cycled through every thirty seconds or so.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

Mom came over with the tray, and we all shared our amusement that he was doing the axe-murderer, as we called it (as we still call it).  A soft taco and some Coke exorcised him of that demon for the time being.

I remember noticing that other people were looking, and I remember genuinely not giving much of a shit.  

chemical imbalance

This weekend, my Mom and I were talking about the stigma attached to mental illness.  How it sucks. Co-captains Obvious.

candor. ha.

I have a vivid memory of being at an IEP meeting for Conor years ago, can’t remember when.  I was a little kid, not sitting at the table with my Mom and his teachers, but I was listening.  As a goal for that year, the teachers were suggesting that Conor be able to do the grocery shopping for our family.

(In those days, I very often did the grocery shopping with my Mom.  Doing the grocery shopping for our big-ass family meant two overflowing carts at Aldi and one at Jewel.  It took hours.)

The idea was that Mom would drive Conor to the grocery store and wheel him in with an envelope in his lap containing the list and some money. The grocery store staff would then wheel him around and get all the stuff.  Then, they’d bring him up to the front where the cashier would ring up his cart and take the money from the envelope.  Finally, they’d call my Mom to pick him up.  This was supposed to be a way that Conor could contribute to the family, that he could take on a chore.

Okay, for those of you who haven’t gotten to spend any time with our little man, check it:

My Mom lost her shit at that meeting. 

A couple of weeks ago, at another such meeting, she was thanked for her “candor” in response to another ridiculous goal set for Conor.  This time, the goal is: “With no more than three verbal prompts, Conor will independently eat at least twice per month with 50% accuracy for three consecutive months by January 13, 2016.”   What a serious crock of shit.

I don’t think I blame the staff at his day care center.  He’s able to go to this center (despite Illinois being the worst state in the Union in terms of services for adults with disabilities) because he’s got state funding to do so.  In order to keep the state funding, he’s got to prove that he’s working toward and meeting goals.  Always improving. 

HOLY FUCK, WHY?

He should get the services he needs because he needs them, and they cost what they cost. 

The header of the goals sheet they provided reads, “These goals help me to achieve my dreams and assist me to be as independent as possible.  They are what matters most to me and have been decided by myself with the assistance of those who are closest to me.  My support team will help me in achieving these goals by making sure I have all of the necessary supports and materials to make my dreams into a reality.”  I can see how such a statement might apply well in the cases of people whose ability profiles include more communicative capacity than Conor’s.  But in the case of Conor, how seriously disingenuous.

Conor’s experiences with this kind of “goal-setting” brings into focus for me the broader fixation that education policy-makers and professionals have with fixing people.  When I think, “Holy shit, just let him be,” I must also wonder who else (and how else) is also being done so heinously wrong by the way we approach education.  Onward and upward!

another list

I'm really slogging through this day.

I have a list SO LONG of shitty things I have to take care of, and it seems like every time I do one, it sprouts more shitty things for me to sort out.

Here's a list of things that I noticed didn't suck today:

1.  I talked to Willard on the phone.  About a former student of his, he told me, "She's a Republican, but she's a good person."  And then we both laughed so hard.

2.  I brought these two mugs to the laundromat.  For Christmas, Moe got me the one with a meerkat on it that says clit. "It's a meerkat!" she said.  Tammy gave me the Moscow mule mug; she had put it in her purse for me after I had admired it while drinking out of it at the bar by my parents' house.

3.  I listened to "Try A Little Tenderness" while I ate a sandwich.

4.  Rachel and Margaret both agreed that they've had enough of teaching White boy American lit at their respective teaching posts, and that they're just gonna "go quietly rogue."  (Rachel's always turning phrases that make you wanna stand up like, "go quietly rogue.") Also, resonating with Suzanne.  And a peek at Katie's kids' badass YPAR project on sexism at their school.  I really have some serious teacher-friends.  Thank goodness.

5.  My Mom.

6.  I like this sign at the Post Office.

Mom's a little peeved

that I would suggest that I like sensible women because of how many times I watched Mary Poppins and read Malory Towers and not because I grew up with a sensible, shit-getting-done woman for a Mom. This lady right here:


Okay, probably a combination of both. After all, it was Mom who introduced me to Enid Blyton.

Attention adoring fans! (i.e. Mom)

For anyone interested, Cross Country Co-Teach, is back in action after a long hiatus due to the mid-winter slump.

I'm still a hardass, but

I'm with my Mom on this one. I think this music video for Boyzone's new single "Better" is just lovely, and I don't care who knows it.



I also think the song's catchy and likable. Let me reiterate, though, I am not sappy.