Memories and Possessions

Even though I moved here in May, I'm still dealing with a few boxes and things that haven't been touched, mostly because I knew they were mostly full of winter clothes. This morning, I tackled a box in our office, mostly because Pros begged me to clean up in there. Sure enough, there were plenty of skirts and tops for cooler weather, unfortunately mixed in with summer clothing I hadn't been able to find. I shook out the cat hair and dust as I arranged them into piles for hanging, storage and donation to the Salvation Army truck.

In this box were also two petit-pointe (like embroidery) angel wall hangings that had been given to me by my grandmother as well as two sweatshirts she had decorated with my sorority letters when I had first pledged. I had to laugh when I saw the sweatshirts. The letters were far larger than the standard ones worn, and I had initially been very peeved at their appearance. I wore the hot pink sweatshirt with the too-tall letters for our first Bid Day and stood out even more than I would have if I'd kept my bright purple hair, but I don't think I wore them again. Because they have the letters of my sorority, I couldn't throw them in the pile for donation.

Then I thought of how I'd also been upset when I had received the wall hangings. Two angels, in the act of carrying children to Heaven, wouldn't normally be something I would have wanted. They had been in my bedroom when I briefly lived with my grandparents, and I had been told they were made by my grandmother's grandmother. I had asked for them as a wedding gift. Instead, she gave them to me when I graduated from college. At that time, my unmarried state was a source of tension between us. My older cousin had married young and already had two sons, and I was not meant to settle down for another decade. To me, this early gifting was her way of telling me that I'd be a spinster. It took time before I placed these beautiful pieces of art on my wall.

My grandmother is still alive, but she isn't really with us anymore. Right before my 30th birthday, she asked me if my party was also an engagement party. Between our long-standing tension about my marital state and the unwillingness of my then boyfriend to commit, I had exploded and almost uninvited her to the gathering. That was when I found out that she wasn't being cruel, but that she was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's Disease. Within another year, she admitted that she knew I was a familiar face, but that she could not fathom that I was the adult daughter of her younger son. This week, my grandfather was faced with the painful prospect of placing her in a facility that can care for her now that he cannot.

Alice was a beautiful, vivacious redheaded woman. She was an expert with flowers, especially orchids, and could name any bloom placed before her. Her sense of humor was one that didn't surface often, but would strike out at the most perfectly timed moment. Her light blue eyes would sparkle over family dinners and bridge matches with her friends. She taught me that to truly love someone, "you must hold them with an open hand", even if you're terrified you might lose them.

Gramma, my hands are open, and I know you are slipping away. You'll never know what a wonderful husband-to-be I have found. With luck, he'll understand why I must hang my angels before today is done.

Anti-Bridezilla (I hope)

This weekend, I'm meeting my mother in the town where Pros and I are getting married in June. We're sitting down with the owner of the hall and getting tips on where to start looking for the little details (like a cake). This may be a painful experience, but at least Saturday night is at my favorite B&B I've experienced.

I also know my dear college roomate Cats is going to officiate, which makes everyone involved happy, which makes me incredibly relieved. Having a friend who can perform a wedding while still keeping your wild weekend secrets is a wonderful thing.

Once this weekend is over, it's back to my Work in Progress. I've made several changes to make Jess a middle school teacher, which makes sense now that I'm back in the classroom. It also makes the writing flow a little more smoothly now that I can use time with students as a segue into further plot. Let me know if you want a sneak peek!

Tagged again!

My college roommate cats has tagged me once more!

Here's what i was told to do:
1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the 5th sentence (or close to it.)
4. Post that, along with these rules, in your blog.
5. Tag 5 people.

However, cats changed the rules to look at your 5th post (her 23rd was a sermon she preached, most likely very well). Therefore, I checked my 5th post as well. The fourth and fifth sentences are impossible to disconnect from one another:

"Someone needs to protect / guide the class nerds and outcasts. Who better than someone who was driven to a nervous breakdown in 10th grade and then bounced back?"

I had jokingly listed that among my reasons for wanting to be a teacher, but it truly continues to be one of the most serious goals I have in the front of the classroom. Last week, I saw three girls who were straight out of "Mean Girls", right down to the coordinated outfits, torturing each other and the less popular girls in the class. They were in shock when I leaned on them and demanded they sit in different parts of the room until the end of class, so they could do less damage. So what if they were the cheerleaders? Bullying is bullying, and that's what they were doing.

Let's face it, folks, if more teachers and parents put down their collective feet, more students could concentrate on being actual students. The only reason that verbal abuse is so rampant among teens is because those in authority let it continue. This same high school had two physical altercations earlier that week, and everyone from the teacher's aides to three police officers were in there within seconds.

Not that I'm the police, of course. I'm just a former nerd girl who is now in a position to see the signs of "female relational aggression", as sociologists call it (I might post my Linguistics paper on the subject later). Even better, I can act upon what I see and hear in a way that may help these kids avoid permanent damage.

Who better than someone who was driven to a nervous breakdown in 10th grade and then bounced back?

Work in Progress Part V

The shrill digital chirp of my phone returned me to the present with a rattle. It was too late for any further telemarketers, so I grabbed the receiver on the first ring and mumbled something in the way of a greeting.

“Hello Jessica, I’m assuming you got the invitation?”

I grinned. “Hi, Mom. Yes, it’s here.” Once I had gotten a normal hairstyle and attempted to wear an occasional color other than black, she and I became much more relaxed around one another. “I’m looking at it now. Very… purple, isn’t it?”

There was the flutter of paper on the other side of the phone. “At least it isn’t the awful shade of blue as the last time around. It looks like the reception is in a better location, too. They lucked out by getting Valentine’s Day on a weekend.” She paused for a moment. “Yes, Jessica, you are going. No, Jessica, you cannot bring the cat.”

The grin went to groan. Get out of my head, Mom. “Thanks. I was aware of that moral imperative, but you don’t have to remind me. Thinking about bringing a date makes my brain hurt. Face it, I should show up solo. And do NOT say anything about meeting someone there, I met Kevin’s friends last Labor Day and was completely underwhelmed.”

She chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of saying that, Sweetcheeks.” I rolled my eyes at the childhood nickname. “You know your tastes in men, bad as they may be sometimes. You know I’m kidding about that last part, Jess.”

“Uh-huh.” I did know, but I also knew she tended to be right.

Work in Progress Part IV

It had been fairly evident for some time that my eldest cousin was getting remarried. Her left shoulder had been rendered slightly lower than the other due to her hand being weighed down by the diamond boulder attached to it with very strong platinum. Fortunately, she had her hand in the grasp of so many of our admiring relatives that permanent damage may have been averted. This was the husband of which they approved.

Not that they didn’t shell out plenty for the first wedding, but it is now set aside as “that incident years ago” or something like that. It wasn’t exactly a wedding for the ages, but the hairdos were definitely from the 80s era. The march down the aisle had been rather hilarious in itself. It was a parade of mullets, hairspray and bright screaming royal blue cummerbunds goose-stepping to the altar, with George leading up the rear. Even my father commented that it resembled a funeral procession with his bachelorhood as the corpse. Screaming royal blue gowns followed, topped by faces that were nothing particularly special, so their uniforms did their job in shielding the identities of the bridesmaids.

Rachel had gained about 25 pounds between her initial dress fitting and the ceremony. Her intended made sure to let several people know it, although nobody had to tell the pastor as he kept looking down into the dangerously overfilled bodice of Rachel’s gown. Her cleavage later served as a final resting place for the piece of strawberry cake smashed into her face, creating a contrast to the lines of mascara quickly pooling from down her cheeks and neck.

I had been glad that I had gone with my initial instinct and worn black despite my mother’s protests that it was inappropriate for an afternoon wedding. It had gone with my mood and my purple hair, although I had been talked into wearing the latter down instead of the Mohawk I had so desperately wanted to sport. My parents had distanced themselves slightly, reminding everyone I was in college and going through a period of self-exploration. Everything would be fine as long as I kept bringing home nice and temporary boys but not girls, temporary or otherwise.

Ah, but THIS fiancé was different. Kevin was definitely the one, in the opinion of the family. He was the right religion so we wouldn’t be stuck squirming through an interfaith church service. Right background so he could afford to keep Rachel in the way she deserved to be kept. Much less likely to make passes at other members of his future wife’s family was the unspoken thought. Only Rachel’s sister Melissa was less surprised than I was when George was caught with his pants around his ankles and his dental assistant on his desk. That was because Melissa was his office manager, and she had avoided his advances by threatening him with a drawer filled with dangerous looking hooks and picks.

My personal hurricane relief

I've been worried about an old friend of mine. He and his wife are both rabbis, and they moved to New Orleans to head the Conservative synogogue there. After Katrina hit, I didn't hear from him, which is unusual. When they narrowly missed being at Hebrew Union College when it was targeted for violence, he made sure to send out a mass email. Not this time.

However, I just heard on NPR that he is well and in Houston with the majority of his congregation. I also found this open letter online:

A huge thank you to all of you who have called, and emailed in support and with offers of help for my family and my community. It's great to know how much everyone cares about hesed. My synagogue has opened up a "Shir Chadash Katrina Fund" For those interested in contributing, I will pass on the address to mail checks to when I have it. I apologize if I cannot thank all of you for your support individually, but know that my kehillah and I truly appreciate it.

Luckily, it seems that the roof of Shir Chadash is intact and there were only a few inches of water taken in. No doubt there will be many expenses, but thank God our building is quite reparable. Many of my congregants have lost their homes. Our home sustained maybe a foot of water and undoubtedly a lot is damaged, but we are still luckier than many.

Thanks and Shabbat Shalom

Shir Chadash Katrina Fund
c/o Bank One
2800 Post Oak Blvd.
Houston, TX 77056

Work in Progress Part III

Miss Jessica Bronstein and Guest.

“Which do you think one is worse,” I asked Dinah, “the ‘Miss’ part or that I don’t have a designated guest with a name?” Dinah half opened her eyes and then went back to sleep. I turned over the envelope to look at the embossed return address. “Oh, no. Please let this turn into a bar mitzvah invitation...”

Somewhere in the childish make-believe part of my mind, I clung to the hope that if I stared at the letter long enough it would magically transform into that bar mitzvah invitation after all. Those could be entertaining events if you kept score for things like how often the kid’s voice cracks, the price spent on that perfect Mother of the Bar Mitzvah boy dress, and how many underage guests got caught sneaking alcohol from the open bar. However, even the most overbearing mother would have been in big trouble with her son if she sent invitations in purple envelopes with lace trim.

I opened the envelope. The contents remained what I knew they would be all along.

How beautiful is the day that is touched by love.
Mr. and Mrs. William Schwartz request the honor of your presence
At the marriage of their daughter Rachel Deborah to Kevin …

“Rats!” I groaned loudly enough that Dinah’s ears perked up and she raced over to the chair where I was slumped. She may have been trying to distract me, offer consolation, or just get attention while I was seated was up in the air, but she managed all three as her face shoved under the card and she stared up at me with big green eyes. What a shame about Rachel’s allergy to Dinah, or I could bring her as my guest and be left alone as The Crazy Cat Lady.

School daze

Teaching season has finally begun for me! I'm currently substituting in three school districts, which is a fantastic way to get to see the range of schools around here. Each district has their own distinct characteristics.

One of them is extremely focused on optimum academic achievement. They rotate class periods in the middle school so that students don't get one subject at their worst time of the day all the time. It's an interesting concept.

Another district is so strapped for space that students attend in three shifts. The taxpayers refuse to vote for a bond issue that would pay for new buildings, so these poor kids may get stuck in school until 6:30 at night. The worst part is that the late session of students is treated like they are less worthy than the others, so they act accordingly. It's a shame.

Still getting a feel for the third district, but I'll be there more this upcoming week. So far they're the most like where I was a student teacher, and I was very comfortable. I'll be working with 9th grade English students on Monday, which will be a treat!

It's wonderful to be back in a classroom, but disorienting to be in so many!