Where's Your Happy Place?

Mine is a collage of scenes from films, books, pictures, songs, and real places I been, seen, heard, and touched. 

 

The home is from A Love Song For Bobby Long.  It’s got a front porch with rocking chairs to sit in while it rains or snows.  It has windows from the floor to the ceiling that let in murky, milky light filled with dust motes.  The walls are weathered blue and melon, with yellowed posters of anatomy and ecology hanging over exposed brick and beam. 

 

The driveway is from Prodigal Summer, with old growth deciduous and coniferous trees bowing heavily over a gravel road.  The garden has an old pedestal sink with flowers spilling over the sides, weeds growing over hatched windows, and netting to keep the birds and rabbits away.

 

Our family vacations are from pictures of the Grand Tetons, Glacier, Jasper, and Yellowstone.  As we hike, ski, or snowshoe up wooded switch backs, through alpine meadows, and along stunning vistas, we pass amarillo yarrow, Indian paintbrush, hoarfrost and glittering rabbit tracks. 

 

My soundtrack is from Bon Iver and Sun Kil Moon – sad songs that remind me of snowy or rainy days, windows with lace curtains, and hot peppermint tea.

 

I’ve been spending a lot of time in my happy place recently.  Suffice it to say that New Orleans has precious little in common with the diaphanous, snowy fields of my dreams.

Successful by Drake

What does it mean when the only success you've ever seen is:

Money, money, cars, cars
Clothes, clothes, the hoes
I suppose, yeah

I. wears Louis Vuitton shoes and scarves, but her clothes are always dirty. Is she rich or poor? If you make a grand a week hustling, have you escaped your income bracket? Most of my students’ shoes are more expensive than a weeks’ worth of my outfits, but they live in section 8 housing.

I want the money, money and the cars, cars
And the clothes, the hoes I suppose
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful

If you ask my students the difference between “killed” and “dead,” it will take some time for them to ascertain the difference.

Drizzy, ah yeah, Trey, I fuckin' feel you
They be starin' at the money like it's unfamiliar
I get it, I live it, to me there's nothings realer
Just enough to solve your problems, too much will kill ya

A few weeks ago, I was speaking with some of my students. I told them that no one had been murdered in the town that I grew up in. When there were two homicides a few months ago, it was the first time in 32 years. They didn’t believe me.

And when I leave I always come right back here
The young spit'a that everybody in rap fear
A lot of y'all are still soundin' like last year
The game needs change and I'm the mofucking cashier

When you ask my students to write of their experiences, they stare blankly. They claim nothing has happened to them. For most, the only time they left New Orleans was for Katrina. The sum of their experiences are in these songs: rape, murder, hustling… There are no after-school sports. No prom. No Saturday night at the movies.

Nickels for my thoughts, dimes in my bed
Quarters of the kush shape the lines in my head
Take my verses too serious, ya hate me
'Cause I'm the one to paint a vivid picture no HD

I’ve had five students arrested for murder, five students murdered, and over ten pregnant girls cross the threshold of my classroom.

Yeah, I want it all, that's why I strive for it
Dis me and you'll never hear a reply for it
Any awards show or party I get fly for it
I know that it's comin' I just hope that I'm alive for it

I love this song, because I crave this. I crave having a student strive. I want them to want success. I want them to stay alive for it. Too many can’t even see what they want, much less strive for it.

I want the money, money and the cars, cars
And the clothes, the hoes I suppose
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful

C. carries wads of 100 dollar bills. R. lost 800 dollars in cash when the cops caught him and took his cash. T. got picked up in a Mustang.

Yeah, I want things to go my way
But as of late a lot of shit been goin' sideways
And my mother tried to runaway from home
But I left somethin' in the car and so I caught her in the driveway

I don’t have a single child who has both a mother and a father in the same home. Most live with an aunt, a sister, or a grandmother.

And she cried to me so I cried too
And my stomach was soakin' wet, she only 5'2
And forty eight hours was all before I showed up
And brought a thousand dollars worth of drinks and got pulled up

R. dealt blow to pay for his mother’s chemo.

Damn, my reality just set in
And even when the Phantom's leased them hoes wanna get in
I do a lot of things hopin' I neva have to fit in
So tryin' to keep up with my progress is like a dead end

Last year, my school randomly “socially promoted” eighth graders to ninth grade. My best student is still an eighth grader, while a student who fought almost daily and attended school less than fifty percent of the time was promoted to ninth grade.

My girl love me but fuck it, my heart beat slow
And right now the tour bus is lookin' like a freak show
And life change for us every single week
So it's good but I know this ain't the peak though 'cause I want

Girls are named for their fathers. I can find no other reason for this phenomenon other than the utter absence of fathers in their childrens’ lives. Feltonesha is the daughter of the late Felton.

I want the money, money and the cars, cars
And the clothes, the hoes I suppose
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful

I haven’t had a single student tell me they want to be a lawyer, doctor, teacher, architect… They want to be rappers, basketball players, football players...

Wise words from a decent man
Back when I was tryin' to put a ring on Alicia Hand
This lost boy got fly without Peter Pan
And my delivery just got me buzzin' like the pizza man

One day, some of my girls asked me why, “all you people be havin’ good relationships.” After some confusion, they explained to me that the only people that they know that have monogamous relationships are white people. I’m pretty sure that I’m one of the only white people they know.

In person I am everything and more
I'm everywhere these other niggas never been before
But inside I'm treadin' waters steady tryin' to swim ashore
I'm on a shoppin' spree to get whateva is in store

We live approximately an hour and a half from the ocean. None of my students new what the tide is.

Yeah, just call me "Shop And Bag Drizzy"
And call me "Mr. Damn", he ain't copin' that is he
And fans of these freshman is about to get iffy
While this youngin' that you doubtin' is about to get busy

Last year, in the midst of state testing, one of the high schoolers walked into an out-of-control middle school testing room and gave them an impromptu speech on their “ridiculous behavior.” He was one of our worst behavior problems, and when asked why he didn’t heed his own admonitions, he said, “it’s too late for me.”

I'ma kill it, I promise this, I know you mad
I've always treated my city like some shoulder pads
To big homie use a flash if you must
And I swear I ain't askin' for much, all I want is

“I wanna die in New Orleans.”

-common tag on desks, notebooks, and folders

I want the money, money and the cars, cars
And the clothes, the hoes I suppose
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful
I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful

One day, when we were standing in line, D. commented that the last time he had seen this many ns. Standing so quietly in line was for FEMA checks.

It's like I know what I got to say
I just don't know how to say it to you

Most of my students read four to six grade levels behind.

Pardon the swag but bitches cartate
Long bread, I don't eat shortcake
How come I can't miss a woman
Like I can't miss court dates

Seventy percent of my students wear ankle bracelets. These are GPS trackers that tell their probation officers where they are at all times.

Cheese but she's not in this portrait
Life's fine but I do not portray
I'm on the other side but it is a sharp gate
I don't want the glow, I want the glo'ray

When I drew faces for my mural last year, many of my students joked that these portraits were their “tombstones.”

Alt. School Blues: A Four Act Play

Act I

Scene opens with stoic, large, and profusely sweating man holding a hysterical, screaming girl in a choke-hold. The girl is kicking and punching, but there is no adversary in sight.

Hysterical Girl: Man! Fuck! Let me fuckin’ go! Ima fuckin’ rip the weave off her fuckin’ head!

Stoic Man: (silence)

Hysterical Girl: Fuck! Shit! Fuck!

Stoic Man: (silence)

Scene fades.

Act II

Hysterical girl describes in detail how she will eviscerate the teacher.

Hysterical Girl: Yeah Ima real n. Ima thug, bitch, and Ima follow you out to your car. Ima take my blade and watch you bleed. Yeah. Ima cut that smirk right off yo’ face. You’re gonna die, bitch.

Teacher: Please sit down.

Hysterical Girl: Ima kill you! Ima hunt you down! Ima make you bleed!

Teacher: Shhh. Students are trying to learn.

Hysterical Girl: Man, fuck!

Scene fades.

Act III

Two girls are screaming at each other across the room. Both are thumping their chests in an invitation to fight.

Hysterical Girl: Watch me. Ima bat you in yo’ mouth. Ima knock yo’ teeth out! Ima smack you, bitch!

Adversary: Bring it, bitch. Lace up!

Officer intervenes and prevents Hysterical Girl from “smacking down.”

Hysterical Girl: Man, fuck! Let me at this bitch! Ima kill her! Let me at her!

Scene fades.

Act IV (Final Act)

Hysterical Girl is contained, for the moment. Teacher is at the board, breaking down chemical equations. Hysterical Girl surreptitiously checks her phone. A Behavioral Specialist walking by sees this and enters the classroom.

Behavioral Specialist: I’m going to ask you to give me that cell phone. You know the rules.

Hysterical Girl: Man, Fuck! I ain’t givin’ this muthafuckin’ phone to no one.

Behavioral Specialist: You’re coming with me.

Hysterical Girl: Man, Fuck! I ain’t goin’ no where with yo’ fat ass. Fall back!

Behavioral Specialists takes the phone by force, and Hysterical Girl goes in for the kill.

As the Behavioral Specialist forcefully escorts the Hysterical Girl, she flails and grabs at the fire extinguisher. Throwing it to the floor, the extinguisher discharges and fills the air with a thick, chalky smoke.

The fire alarm goes off.

Scene closes with a belligerent Hysterical Girl being escorted away by the police, still struggling.

Plot Summary

The contents of a fire extinguisher is a biological irritant. It may cause red, itching eyes, nausea, headaches, vomiting, and of course, explosive diarrhea. After a couple hours standing outside, we called the buses and called it a wrap.

We’ll try again tomorrow.

What Had Happened Was

In an effort not to spout a fountain of negativity, I will relay ten positive events from the week past:

I. can accurately identify the Gothic and Rococo periods. In fact, whenever she says, “Rococo,” she does a little shimmy/shake.
I. Told me today that the court tried to make her go to anger management, but that she told them that she would prefer to stay angry. Later, after I taught her how to embroider, she looked up and said with surprise, “man, this embroider shit be good for my nerves!”
All my students scored above an 80 percent on their Spanish quiz. Four out of the five scored above 96 percent. My Spanish class kicks ass.
R. was not expelled.
C. put an entire bag of batting on his head and fashioned a mustache. He told us he was the “Polyester Pimp.”
I ran 34 miles and swam 3000 meters.
When I woke up each morning, I could see sunlight.
I got to run with Joshua for 28 out of the 34 miles, and Oscar ran all 34 with me.
Tonight, I ate dinner with Joshua, Mitra, and Claire at Sukho Thai. We had a delicious meal of Panang, Pad Thai, and Pineapple Curry.
It was a four day week.

Story #1:

Last year, D. Followed me around everywhere. Technically, he didn’t even have one class with me, but somehow he managed to come to about three of my classes a day. D. Loves art. And while most of the time he’s causing people hell and destroying the classroom environment, when he’s making art he’s quiet. He’s focused. He loves it.

D. is not the most talented artist, but he was the most willing to try. He was always kind to me, and I honestly enjoyed his presence. One day, he even jokingly told me that he “was a wasted talent” before I discovered him, and that I shouldn’t worry because someday he was going to come back and get me “out this place.”

On the last day of school, I cried when D. left. I know how D. is. I know that he’s going to get into trouble. I know that he’s physically abusive to members of his family, and I know that he has a hot temper, and I don’t know if he can control it. I know he uses, and I know the other kids say he’s “a real thug, a real n. out on the street.”

So when he left, I knew I’d probably never see him again, and I knew that there was no way I could change the trajectory of his life, but it made me sad because I like him. I like him, and I want him to make the right choices, and I love that he loves art.

I did see D. again. He’s been in my fourth block art class all semester, and he’s been difficult. He’s been rude to me, and there’s been days when he’s refused to do anything. He’s taken advantage of my patience, and he’s tried to manipulate me. I know this, and he knows that I know. He also knows that I care about him, and he still loves art.

Two Fridays ago, D. came to school “full” and hit one of our behavioral specialists in the mouth with an umbrella. He ran away, and when I saw him today, he was about to go in for a hearing. I told him to come and find me before he left, and he said he would.

When he came to my door, he told me that they were placing him back at S. Alternative School, and he started to cry. He said, “you cared about me so much, and I fucked up. I fucked up big time. I’m going to miss you so much.”

I rubbed his back and told him he was getting a second chance. I hope he takes it.

Story #2:

K. came back after 45 days in “big boy” prison. After a day of zero productivity, I placed him in a time chair, and explained, “this is my favorite class, K., and no one is going to come in here and ruin that. This class is the reason I come to work, and you’re not going to take that away from me. We’re a family, and there is no badness here. We work hard, and we learn Spanish. So you’re going to sit here in time out and do your work alone until you can show me that you belong in the family.”

Well, the other kids thought this was pretty funny, so whenever K. tried to speak to them, they said, “man, be quiet! You’re not part of the family!”

Now, this may sound extremely neglectful, but it is actually my single greatest achievement in terms of class management. K. was not harmed, and in fact he did more work in the next hour than he had done in the three weeks of class he had with me before his incarceration. He was definitely in on the joke, and he was not hurt.

The achievement is this: my students told each other to be quiet! They identified each other as part of a learning family! They want to learn Spanish!



In other news:

The kids drove me bat-shit crazy this week. In my happy place, I’ve quit and I’m snowshoeing in my expansive backyard or plucking succulent gords off the vine in my garden far, far, far… Away from here.

Some days I hate my students. I hate that I can’t trust them. I hate that they don’t want to learn. I hate that they’re lazy. I hate that they’re mean. I hate that teaching them is like pulling teeth. In fact most days, the many things that I hate are so loud and demanding that it’s hard to hear the good stuff.

For the past few days, I wrote nothing because I felt like there was nothing good to say (so don’t say anything at all). But now that I’ve forced myself to list the good things, I feel better because I didn’t make them up. They happened. It was good. Or not. But it DID happen.

My Budding Theologians

Today’s lecture was on “The Beginning of Western Art.”  Per usual, dates ending in the letters “B.C.” got my students in a philosophical state of mind.  Whether my students have never been exposed to classical and medieval history or they have simply chosen to ignore teachers in the past is irrelevant; the outcome is the same:  anything that pre-dates the 1700s is a black hole (actually, for most, anything that pre-dates the civil rights era is pretty mysterious).

Here’s the conundrum:  I’ve yet to discover an easy way to explain the phenomenon of descending and then ascending dates that does not in some way refer to the hot button issue of Christ.  And, no matter what it is I am trying to explain, I am almost always derailed by the inevitable religious debate that ensues. 

Today was no different, and yet. 

“In the second century B.C. – that’s before the time of Christ – the Romans conquered Greece.  Does anyone know where Rome is?”

Mad gestures towards Russia.

“Nope.  Not Russia.  Rome is actually a city in Italy.  Does anyone know where Italy is?”

Blank stares.

“Ok.  Italy is this little yellow country hanging out in the Mediterranean.  Anyway, the Roman Empire was actually much bigger than just Italy, and in the second century B.C. they took over Greece as well as quite a few other countries.  Does anyone remember who crucified Jesus?”

I. says with conviction:  “The Jews!”

“Um.  Not quite.  Does anyone remember the part of the story where he’s spit on and stabbed?  Who’s he spit on and stabbed by?  Who’s in charge of the crucifixtion?”

Now the whole class, this time with fervor:  “The Jews!”

“Well, actually, it was the Roman soldiers.  Is this ringing a bell?”

General murmurs of disbelief and chaos stirring.

Trying to respond to this somewhat alarming misconception, I back track, “ok.  So Jesus was a Jew.  Is that what you’re thinking of?”

I. looks apoplectic.  “Oh no,” she says, “you did not just say that about my lord and savior.  Who you callin’ a Jew?!”

            I look out at my semi-mutinous and almost certainly anti-semetic crowd and re-think my stance.  “Um.  Ok.  So I think there may be a few misunderstandings here, but if you go home tonight and read your bible, you’ll discover that Jesus was a Jew and he was crucified by Roman soldiers.  However, more importantly – and really, where all this got started – is the fact that the Romans took over much of western civilization during the time of Christ.”

            I. raises her hand.

            “Yes I.?”

            “Are you one of those people who believes in three Jesuses?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “You heard what I said.  Three Jesuses!”

            I feel as though I’m about to be burned at the stake.  “Um.  Well.  I., the last time I checked, there’s pretty much a general consensus that there’s only one Jesus.  Perhaps you’re talking about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit?”  I say, crossing myself for emphasis.

            I. eyes bulge as though she’s just seen a papist (which, of course, she has).  “Yeah!  Three Jesuses!  Don’t you know there’s only one?”

            “Actually, ‘the Father’ is referring to God, ‘the Son’ is referring to Jesus, and ‘the Holy Ghost’ is referring to the Holy Spirit.  So really, that’s a misconception as well.”

            I. looks at me skeptically.  “Well, all I know is that we’re all Jesus’ chirun.”

            E. pipes in, “oh no, baby.  We’s all chirun of Adam and Eve!”

            “Yeah!  And that’s how come all our kin be killin’ each other and gettin’ put in jail.  ‘Cuz Eve ate that apple!” R. says.

            “Damn, that bitch be cold, cold.  That’s how come us women be havin’ it hard, what with the monthly flow and all.  I feel played!”

            “And with all those veggies in the garden.  Why didn’t she just have some corn?  You know those veggies be good for you.”

They all pause for a moment, giving credence to this profound thought.  After a moment, I. asks, "Ms. Kuhne, where's God buried?"

In other news, Joshua and I stayed home this weekend.  After a few debates whether or not we should go to Lafayette and see the Black Pot festival, the forecast and our other friends' illnesses won out.  

On Saturday, Joshua conducted what he likes to call "a deep clean."  This is the sort of cleaning where it gets messier before it gets cleaner, so I generally have to leave the house.  My mission?  To find a costume.  

That night, we walked the streets as conjoined twins.  I sewed two sweaters and scrub pants together, and we wrapped our legs together with an ace bandage.  We walked a mile and a half like this and are now paying the consequences.

On Sunday, we ran 10 miles along Ponchartrain.  

All Hallow's Eve

“I been fixin’ to finish my pillow, love. I dead gone dreamt about it! That bitch be cold, cold,” D. says by way of greeting. It’s fourth block on the Friday before Halloween, and today we’re finishing our sewing unit. Those who finish early can work on their Dia del Muerto skulls, but most of my male students are still “poppin’ that needle.”

You might ask me, “Ms. Andert how did you get thug life boys to sew?”

And I’ll say: “Investment, children.”

Investment Strategy Part I:

Start a chant. In particular, my students enjoy a little call and response (i.e. What do real men do? Sew!)

Encourage the men to grunt whilst sewing. (i.e. Why, T., you’re looking quite manly there, can I hear a grunt please?)

Investment Strategy Part II:

Invite male members of the community to testify their mad sewing skillz (i.e. Hell yeah, I be poppin’ that needle!)

During second block, we headed down to the cafeteria to listen to a local jazz band. The teenage students sat uncomfortably in their seats while the teachers wiggled and popped. One teacher took out her umbrella and began a second line. I joined in on what appeared to be the electric slide but actually turned out to be the “BUS STOP.” We waved hankies in the air and grooved when the saints came marching in.

I received mixed reviews on my moves. C. said, “I ain’t gonna lie, Ms. Andert cut that shit up,” but L. said, “girl, you looked like you was about to fall out. Law, you ain’t got no rhythm.” I told her she was just jealous. She said, no, she’s just pregnant, and we ain’t about to make her miscarry.

Fifth period, we gathered downstairs and split into four groups. The objective? Pumpkin carving. With strict instructions to never let the blade out of my hands, I led fifteen unruly students into a class room. We designed a two-sided pumpkin with a scary maw on one side and a spider’s web on the other. We added two lightening bolts for good measure.

Removing the seeds and pulp proved a novel process for most. Disgusted by the stink and gore of a gutted pumpkin, some elected to wear latex gloves. I appalled them by dramatically licking my fingers after scooping out a generous handful barehanded. “Girl,” T. said, “that’s just nasty.”

Despite my “fire” carving skills, we were voted runners up. I could have kissed the judges for their rare display of common sense. I’m afraid the controversy over me being the art teacher may have started a riot among the students and staff alike. Nevertheless, my team took a loud stand for our cause. “You be down bad! Man, fuck you! Fuck ya’ll. That pumpkin be hit!”

C. declared that he would no longer be listening to any of us except for Ms. Andert. This won’t be a huge change for anyone except for me.

In the end, T. begged me to let him take home the pumpkin, and I gave him strict instructions to light a candle, put it inside, and set it out on his front stoop. He walked away with the pumpkin cradled in his sweatshirt.

Taos, New Mexico

We woke up early, but light had already leaked through the leaves and spread its pretty patina over the thin nylon of our tent roof.  Oscar sat upright at our feet, silently pleading his case.  We let him out, listening as he ran a tight circle around our camp.  His morning routine requires a stiff regimen of sniffing and peeing on most vertical surfaces.

Once dressed and fed, we hopped in the car and headed up.  

Our little red Hyundai isn't built for mountain travel, but she's done surprising well, under the circumstances.  Since Sunday, she's traversed the Cascades, the Steens, Zion, and the Grand Canyon.  Right now, we're headed up the southern tip of the Rockies, and this is the first time I've been worried.  Twenty miles from Taos, New Mexico, Ski Village is perched on precariously steep gravel roads.  Our little red Hyundai takes on another switchback.

We've heard that the hike up Mount Wheeler is an easy six mile jaunt; however, we don't have a map.  We stopped at what appeared to be a parking lot, but could just as easily have been an open field of snow.  We hiked up what appeared to be a trail, but could just as easily have been a divot in the snow.  After a few miles, the spotty trail leads us to an alpine lake in a cirque below sister mountains.  We head up.

After forty-five minutes of snow-covered scree, I begin to worry.  I can go up, but I'm worried about the climb back down.  I'm worried Oscar will come barreling down this mountain side ala the baby polar bear in the Coca Cola commercial.  He's not nearly fluffy enough for this.  

But anyone who's ever climbed a mountain - or at least climbed a mountain with us knows that the peak provides an undeniable allure.  Each false summit urges you fifteen minutes forward, and once you've discovered its pretense, you're fifteen minutes further - and closer.

Above the tree line, I watch for marmots.  Their high-pitched squeals set off a game of call and response, and pretty soon the whole mountainside is alive with rodent song and merriment.

Near the top, we follow a path of mountain goat dung and lichen that may or may not be a trail; nevertheless, our climb ends just over the next ridge.  The ground is littered with tottering cairns, and a USGS plaque hails our arrival.

From the top of Mount Wheeler, I can see the snow capped line of the Rocky Mountains.  Far below us, the piedmont rolls out into the open desert, and above us, the blue sky arcs and fades into the horizon.

I’m in a snow globe.  It’s June, and I’ve got white powder at my feet.  The panorama bows at the edges of my vision, and I have this sense that if I’m shaken, all the pieces will fall back in place.  In fact, I want it.  Shake me.  Turn my world upside down.  Watch me make it right again.