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.