“She quietly snuck in, not quite knowing her place. She found her secluded corner hoping to remain unnoticed. And, there she remained until she no longer did not.”

As most of you know by now, I actually passed my Para test. Still, in shock, I have no idea how this happened. The test consisted of 90 questions. Thirty for reading, thirty for writing and thirty for math. I was pretty confident I would ace the reading and writing. I missed two on each. However, I knew the math portion would screw me. I missed seven.

As I was taking the math portion, I was already preparing my “I failed the test speech” for everyone. Something along the lines of “Well, I need to pay more attention to my adopted 3rd-grade classroom because I failed.” I wanted to rip the band-aid off fast while trying hard to be funny and positive.

After the test, I was told to go to HR and wait for my score. Another fellow test taker was in there, waiting as well. Together, we waited. Together we waited for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the attractive lady behind the desk comes over and hands us each a piece of paper. The paper that has our scores.

My fellow test taker knew right away she passed. I, of course, had no idea how to read the scores. The attractive lady from behind the desk told me “You passed, do not worry, you can rest easy now.”

A part of me wanted to tell her “Are you sure? I mean you may want to go back and recheck my math.”

I passed. I still cannot believe I actually passed.

……

After picking up Vinnie and dropping him off, I made my way to the school. The school where seven years ago, this all began.

Gracie started first grade in this school. I actually had my choice between this school and one other. The district graciously allowed me to pick which school I wanted my daughter to attend since we were looking at some long-term learning delays. Naturally, I had to meet the teachers at both schools. This teacher would end up being a big part of Gracie’s education, of her development, I had to make sure the fit was perfect all the way around. As soon as I met “Mrs. Blake” I knew without a doubt that Gracie belonged in this school. I never even met the teacher at the other school. There was no need. Mrs. Blake and I had a bond from the moment we met. I owe her so so much.

Gracie started first grade. Sofia had one year before she would even start kindergarten. As Gracie quickly adapted to her new routine in her new classroom, with her new teacher, I would constantly annoy Mrs. Blake by asking her “What kindergarten teacher do you think would best fit Sofia?” “You know how I am, I am going to stress about this.” “Please, put in a good word for us!” I mean what can I say? I like to be prepared!

When Mrs. Blake had just about enough of me, she worked her magic. “Jennifer, come on in early tomorrow. I set up a meeting with all three kindergarten teachers. You can meet them, they will show you around their classrooms, and you can decide….even though we still have a year before Sofia starts.”

And that is exactly what I did. Gracie, Sofia, and I went in early the following morning. Mrs. Blake met us at the front doors and introduced us to the kindergarten teachers. Look, all three of them looked like they rather be any place else. I mean we were one year out and crazy me was trying to lock down Sofia’s kindergarten teacher.

It did not take long before I found Sofia’s “Mrs. Blake.” I knew the teacher I wanted for Sofia, and she lived up to my very high expectations.

Once Sofia started kindergarten, I was still a mess. I could not work outside of the home because Gracie had too many medical issues going on, yet I needed to do something. I needed to do something meaningful. This is when I joined the PTA. I felt I was both productive while being able to keep an eye on my girls from a safe distance. I would go to the school every Friday and help make cookies or popcorn. On occasion, I would do some cutting or make copies on the other days. It was a good system.

This worked well for me for two years.

Once Sofia was ready to enter 3rd grade, I found my crazy OCD come out. I did not know the 3rd-grade teachers. I was used to the primary hall. Third grade was all the way at the end of the intermediate hall. A hall that I like to refer to as “The Scary Hall.” I was now on a mission to find and secure Sofia’s incoming third-grade teacher, even though, that is not how it is supposed to work.

I picked up the position of PTA treasure, while still coming in every Friday to make cookies and popcorn. I made sure it was me who delivered the popcorn/cookies to each third-grade classroom. I was on a mission. I needed to see the teachers in their element. I wanted to see how they ran their classroom, even if it was just me delivering a box of cookies to their class. I needed that one teacher who would be the perfect fit for Sofia.

Mr. Connor. As soon as I walked into his 3rd-grade classroom, I knew. I just knew, without saying two words to him, I knew he was the one. His interaction with his students, the way he had his classroom set up, and my gut instinct, I knew without a doubt he was the one. Even knowing this, I said nothing other than “Mr. Connor, here are your cookies.”

I left his classroom and made an appointment with our principal, I spoke to Sofia’s speech therapist. I made it abundantly clear that THIS is the teacher Sofia will have.

……

Sofia started 3rd grade in Mr. Connor’s class, as I was in my second year as PTA treasurer. Over time, I got to know Mr. Connor, never doubting that Sofia was exactly where she needed to be. Gracie had moved on from Mrs. Blake. I found an odd yet peaceful sort of comfort with her new teacher, Mr. Vince, who happened to be on the spectrum himself. All was good.

Every morning, I would stand with Sofia and her class, outside. Whether it was a crisp Fall morning, chilly cold Winter or the hot humid days of Spring, I would stand outside with Sofia and her class waiting for Mr. Connor to open his door for the start of the school day. One time, I almost got hit with said door. Mr. Connor always made some grand gesture when he would open the door. He made the comment to Sofia “That would have been really bad if I hit your Mom with the door.” I will say my purse got hit by the door, that’s how close I was to being hit!

I always asked Mr. Connor if Gracie could take a shortcut through his classroom to her own. Usually, he would roll his eyes, because that was not allowed, but he would always allow Gracie to cut through his classroom to her own. You have to remember, this was also during a time when Gracie was not very vocal. We were all trying to get her out of her box. Every day, when Mr. Connor would begrudgingly allow Gracie to cut through his classroom, he would put out his hand “Good morning Gracie.” She would never shake it. Sometimes she would ignore him. Sometimes she would roll her eyes at him. Mr. Connor knew, he would say to me “Give it time, I can make her come around.”

By the end of the year, Gracie was going to Mr. Connor’s class at the end of the day to try to “engage” in conversation. This was set up by Gracie’s 5th-grade teacher. We collectively chose Mr. Connor to be “THE” teacher, because, in Gracie’s own way, she already formed her own unique bond with him.

This is when I realized Mr. Connor, well, he is in a league all of his own.

……

At the beginning of Sofia’s fourth-grade year, I was now a “Room Mom” in Mr. Connor’s class, while taking on the role of PTA President. A shift was taking place. I was developing a bond with Mr. Connor’s students. They were both funny and brutal. On occasion, Mr. Connor would give me the liberty to do an art project with his class, or read a story.  There was a spark. A spark that I did not even know I needed until it was lit by Mr. Connor and his 3rd-grade class.

Actually, I have a funny story, one that Mr. Connor does not even know about unless he reads this blog…..which he better. One day, Mr. Connor had other obligations, so he had a sub. I knew this is in advanced, so I happened to schedule a chemical peel (for my face) on this day. Early in the morning, I went in to have my peel. I was assured that “no one would even notice.” They lied. I had my chemical peel, my face look liked I had been through a fire, but I also had obligations at the school. There was no hiding it. I had my dermatologist put makeup on me, but there was no hope. I was done.

I went to the school to finish up my own obligations, went into Mr. Connor’s class. As soon as the kids saw me, I heard “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?” I tried to bribe them to pipe down, no such luck. I remember I had to talk to the sub, who now is a permanent teacher at the school. I remember she looked at me with pity. The only thing I could think of was “Thank God Mr. Connor is not here to give me shit!”

I would consistently  have a group of 3rd graders come up to me every day, giving me hugs, asking “Are you going to be in our class today?” I felt needed. And, ironically enough, Sofia’s 4th-grade class was right next door. It was the perfect setup. Mr. Connor and his team of 3rd-grade teachers, it just all worked effortlessly. Many times Mr. Connor, his fellow 3rd-grade-teachers and I would all hang out in his classroom during lunch and just “be.” All three 3rd-grade teachers could not be more opposite, but there was a strong bond between them all, a bond that I feel privileged to have witnessed first hand.

As the school year comes to a close, two of the 3rd-grade teachers move on to other schools. It sucked. It sucked because I do not like change. The fact that I am merely a volunteer and this has no effect on me what-so-ever does not escape me.

……

I remember one day, Mr. Connor and I went to good ol social media to “check out” the new incoming 3rd-grade teachers. Immediately, my guard went up. “Nope. I do not like them! I want Ellen and Donna back!” Mr. Connor would look at me, roll his eyes, and accuse me of being too judgmental (I was) We would then continue to scroll through the pictures of the incoming 3rd-grade teachers.

We are now in another school year. Sofia is a 5th grader. Gracie has found her groove in middle school. I am in my second year of PTA President and “Room Mom” to Mr. Connor’s new third-grade class. I was there on “Back to School Night” I was there on the first day of school. It was odd for me, seeing a brand new group of 3rd graders when I was so used to the class before. Two of the girls in the prior class actually wrote me letters over the summer. We just all connected. Connected in our own way.

I remember, maybe it was the second week of school. I am still learning the names of Mr. Connor’s new class. I was sitting at my work table, while Mr. Connor was doing what he does best, teaching. As soon as his new class was working on an assignment, I asked him “Is it normal for me to feel weird about the new class?”

It was.

“It always takes an adjustment period.”

I know I am going to get the date wrong, I always do. Mr. Connor has been teaching for sixteen years. He knows the road like the back of his hand.

The 2017-2018 school year went on. As I was finding less fulfillment with the PTA, I was finding more fulfillment being in his class, working with the kids. I came to adore the new third-grade teachers. One, an up and coming comedian, one a Mormon. Oh, the laughs we would have on lunch.

As the days started to slowly dwindle down, Mr. Connor approached me about becoming a Para. Actually, he encouraged me to go to school to become a teacher, unfortunately, that was just not going to work now. Between Gracie and her medical issues and Joe and his work schedule, it was not the time. However, being a Para, well that seemed more realistic. That I could do. Assuming I could pass the test.

I studied hard. I ordered teaching books, I took the practice test online, I did it all. When Mr. Connor was teaching his class fractions, I sat right along with his fellow students taking notes. Many times I like to take the easy road, but not when it came to this. I wanted to become a Para, and I knew, it would not come easily, so I studied. I studied hard. Sitting in the school foyer, waiting for Sofia to get out, I would have my book and highlighter, taking notes, studying. Whatever little free time I had, I was studying.

The day of my test, Mr. Connor texted me. “Let me know the second you have your results.” Well, the text came in literally the moment I got my scores. I had passed the test. “I passed! Not sure how, but I passed!”

By the time I got back to the school, every staff member I saw congratulated me on passing the test. Mr. Connor sent out an all staff email to let everyone know I passed. I believe it went a little something like this “New Para in Da House!”

There was now an end of the road in sight.

Mr. Connor made the very tough decision to not return to the school. He would be moving on to another district.

On one of the last days when we all had lunch together in Mr. Connor’s classroom, Mr. Connor, The Comedian, The Mormon, and myself, I knew, I knew this was the last time the four of us would all be in his room, having lunch. As was par for the course, Mr. Connor and I were arguing about something. The Mormon and The Comedian look at each other “I am going to miss you guys arguing over lunch.”

I am going to miss it too.

Just to be clear. Mr. Connor has changed my life. Obviously, I used an alias, because I do not want to embarrass him, but let me tell you, keeping it real. Mr. Connor saw something in me that I had not yet seen in myself. Mr. Connor pushed me. He made me work outside of my comfort zone. He believed in me when I did not believe in myself. Mr. Connor saw my potential, and in his own perfectly “teacher” ways, he brought that mirror to my face and forced me to see myself in the same light that not only him, but his students as well saw me.

……

A fellow friend and I helped Mr. Connor clean out his classroom last week. As my friend and I were loading my car with stuff Mr. Connor graciously gave us from his years of teaching. The plan was, I was going to drop my friend off, and we would meet back at the school to say our good-byes. Well, through the art of miscommunication, that never happened. I never got a chance to say my official “good-bye.”

The thing is, Mr. Connor is one of those people you never say goodbye to. Like it or not, he is not getting rid of me that easily. As my own kids continue on their own journey, he will be the first person I text when Sofia is doing a graduation speech or Gracie graduates Highschool. When Sofia joins the track team or Gracie made another milestone, I will text him. When Vinnie graduates college, yep, you guessed it, Mr. Connor will know all about it because he was there all along the way.

So, although this is my farewell blog to the school that I have been involved in for the last seven years, this is not a farewell to Mr. Connor, this is a “See ya later!”

My final thoughts….To the school, I have grown so much since I first walked through those double doors as a young, scared, insecure mother who just wanted to make sure Gracie would be okay. The journey I have experienced is kinda life changing, and although I know I am just another face in the sea of 500 plus students and staff, you guys have change my life.

To Mr. Connor, the best is yet to come.

“She took her belongings and left, without any goodbyes, without any regrets, she left, finding comfort in knowing, it is time.”

Jennifer.

One of my goals this summer is to get into some sort of good exercise routine. For me and my body, we are looking at squats, pushups and free weights. Yesterday, I started strong with 10 squats. I refer to them as “ballerina squats.” This goes back many many years when for a hot minute I took ballet class. So, really the squats are more like a plie. I used my bathroom counter as a makeshift ballet barre because let’s face it, I have no balance. With perfect form, I knocked out ten. I could feel the burn, felt I accomplished something, and on I went with my day.

This morning, I could not walk. I mean I could walk, much like an elderly woman would walk hunchbacked over her walker. This was me, all day. I mean just touching my upper thigh I could feel the muscle burn. So, I am assuming I did the “ballerina squats” perfectly unless you are Vinnie, his theory is “You jacked something up.”

Because I could barely walk, the girls and I had somewhat of a low key day. I had to take Vinnie to work, and let me tell you going down my apartment complex stairs was pure hell.

Aj and his girlfriend are going through a hard time right now. I wish I could tell you more about it, but AJ has spies who read my blog, and if it gets back to him that I talked about their problems, then, I am in trouble. Now, because of the hard time they are going through, he asked if I would be able to drop off some dog food for their dog. Well, Duh! I am not, will not let an animal suffer because of someone else’s mistakes. Off to the grocery store I went, walking in slow motion, like a hunchbacked elderly woman on her walker. You can imagine the looks I was getting. Anywhere from annoyance to pity. Whatever, come talk to me in September when my thighs are looking pretty good!

Slowly, I loaded up my car and decided to meet AJ at work to drop off the dog food. AJ is a groundskeeper/maintenance at a local apartment complex. I pull up, see him coming out, he is in his paint-stained work attire, looking pretty good. He is a hard worker. No one has ever disputed that.

AJ and I are outside talking. We are talking about the hard times him and his girlfriend are going through, hard times that he had nothing to do with it, but hard times that he will work to fix because at his core, he is a good guy.

He gets a phone call from the office. Apparently, he needs to go unlock one of the laundry rooms. As soon as he tells me that, a young gentleman exits the office. AJ looks at me, “Oh, I bet that’s him. Hold on Mom.”

“Excuse me, Sir, are you the one who needed a key to the laundry room?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

AJ takes out his work keys, pulls one off and hands it to the young gentleman.

“Here ya go.”

The young gentleman looks at him confused. “Thank you, I will bring it back in five minutes.”

“No, do not worry about it, keep that one, all residents are supposed to have one.”

The young gentleman thanked AJ and off he went with his new laundry room key.

It was at that exact moment that I realized I am either a young old person or an old young person. The fact that I could barely walk did not help.

Here I am watching my twenty-four year old son at work. He is in his element. He is a fixer, and even though he will have to work his ass off to fix this recent hardship, he will do it. Meanwhile, I have Vinnie who is in the very beginning of his college career, followed by my girls who are in their prime tween/teen years. You see what I mean, I am either a pretty cool, hip, young old person, or, a pretty cool, hip, old young person.

I suppose depending on the day, it could go either way.

However, I do enjoy this time. Each one of my kids are on different journeys. I am lucky enough to have a front seat to it all.

As for me, well, I am still trying to find my groove. I am waiting to hear back from jobs, wondering where it is I will be working in a few short months. It’s both stressful and, well, stressful. Today marks one week since school let out and summer vacation began. I have been working on a blog for about three weeks now. An important blog for me, probably not so much for others.

So much of my identity was caught up in this school, the people, my own children, the PTA, being a Room Mom, and now, it’s nothing. So, I try to sit and write my story. A story that spans the last seven years. I just cannot finish it, because once I know it is finished and I hit the “publish” button ,well, that is my final good-bye, and I am not good with good-byes, so I wait.

I wait because I am either an old young person or a young old person.

Christin

“Hi, my name is Nicole” she said, taking a drag off of her cigarette.

I don’t know why, but I always insisted on going out to sit with the smokers, even though I never did.

It was her first week on the job. She was nervous, I could tell.

“I’m Christin. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

She was a hard worker. Even though she was young, maybe 18 or 19, she worked just as hard, maybe harder than the rest of us. Like she had something to prove.

Our job wasn’t easy. Providing care to those that were incapable of caring for themselves was both mentally and physically hard. The turn over rate was high, the ones that stuck around were the ones that really cared.

My guess is she wouldn’t last more than a month, after all, most didn’t.

A few weeks later, Nicole was still around. We ended up working the same shift one Friday night.

“I think my girlfriend cheated on me,” she said, with her back to me while she flipped the burgers.

I looked up from cleaning up the latest juice spill off the floor, “ Why, what happened?”

“I don’t know. She is being real shady and not returning my phone calls.”

I was never good in these situations.

“Sorry to hear that. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Over the next few months, Nicole and I began to hang out more. We joined a gym and began working out together. Mostly, we would sit on the bike machines and gossip about the latest drama at work.

“Did you know Pedro and Analisa are seeing each other?”

“What? When did that happen?”

And that’s what we did. We talked about everything. Work, life, my failing relationship, her failing relationship. Nothing was off-limits.

Overtime she became a good friend and confidant. Our friendship grew and so did my feelings for her. I would lay in bed at night, trying to sort out my conflicting thoughts. I have had flings with women before in my younger years, but none ever felt like this. Yet, I was still in a relationship with a man, but it just wasn’t working.

 How can you deny what you feel?

I couldn’t.

One night after leaving work, I knew I had to do something.

After almost a year of denying my feelings, I literally could do it no longer.

“Would you go to the movies with me?” I texted, my hands shaking as I sat in my car.

“Sure, I would love to,” she replied quickly.

My heart raced as I felt my face grow hot.

What was coming over me? I hadn’t felt like this in a very long time.

I felt alive.

And that’s how it all began.

I wish I could tell you it ended just as nicely as it began but it didn’t.

We stuck it out for a few years, had some really great times together but in the end we went our separate ways.

This was a particularly hard piece to write because I have never acknowledged my bisexuality in a public forum such as this. Sure, my close friends know, a few family members, but that is where it stops. It’s not that I am ashamed but it is very difficult to explain an attraction to both men and women. Some people think it’s a ploy to “have your cake and eat it too.” Which is absolutely not the case. For me, it is seeing beyond the gender and loving the person.

 So, today, I take the other foot “out of the closet” in hopes that someone might need to see that it is okay for them to live their best life, with both feet out of that stuffy old closet, in the light, and with their head held high.

 “One day we won’t have to come out of the closet.

 We’ll just say we are in love and that will be all that matters.”

Ellen Degeneres

Here is a little historical background on pride month.  For those of you that don’t know what pride month is, it started in 1969. The Stonewall riots in Manhattan, which occurred in June of ’69, were a tipping point for the Gay Liberation Movement in the United States. Since then, LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Transgender, Queer) pride month is celebrated, with parades and events to recognize the community as a whole. It is a symbol that everyone should be able to be who they are and to love who they want.

Jennifer

I do not remember the exact date Christin came out to me. It was back in the early days of Apartment B-303 where this seventeen-year friendship began. We were staying in for the night, having some drinks and food. Alphonso was going to invite a few people over, nothing too fancy. Christin and I were both off from work. We were just hanging out, watching t.v pretending to clean so when Alphonso came home he would not throw a fit.

An episode of Sex and the City came on. Pretty typical in Apartment B-303. I forget the exact episode, but it prompted  the conversation of “Have you ever been with a woman?” While turning the pages of Alphonso’s fashion magazines, I laughed and told Christin “Please, I cannot even find a guy, plus, I do not think it’s my thing.”

Christin was in the kitchen, my back towards her, still flipping through Alphonso’s ten dollars an issue fashion magazine. Christin was trying her hand at some new appetizer, but since there was no chicken or baking involved, I had high hopes! “What about you, have you ever been with a woman?”

There was a bit too long of a pause.

I turned around, looking at Christin, “OMG YOU HAVE BEEN WITH A WOMAN?!”

She gave a nervous kind of laughter. A laugh that I know today means “yes” but back then, we were still getting to know each other.

Quickly, I threw the overpriced fashion magazine across the room, turned off the t.v and got up to join Christin in the kitchen.

“Tell me! I need details!!

As Christin was musing up some sort of concoction that would resemble some sort of dip, she both honestly and bravely told me about her past. I listened with intent and curiosity, then, felt the need to ask “Well how come you have never tried anything with me?”

As she covered the “dip” with plastic wrap, she looked at me, laughing, “It does not work that way Jen!”

2007

When Christin and I left Apartment B-303, things changed. Gone were the days when we would stay up late into the early morning hours. Lunch at our local diner and pool at our local dive bar were safely secure in the past. Life brought us new sets of responsibilities. Christin and I lost contact for a while, then through the magic of social media, specifically Myspace, we were brought together again.

As soon as we became “Myspace Friends” we picked up where we left off and have never looked back. I was in the middle of planning my wedding. Christin and I would spend hours on the phone talking about wedding decor and new babies.

This is when I first heard about Nicole. Christin met Nicole at work, and they were pretty inseparable. At this point, Christin and Nicole were living together, and although not always easy, Christin was happy. That’s all that mattered.

Christin and I had come full circle from the days of Apartment B-303, and although change is never good, this type of change needed to happen for us.

2018

Life once again took us in different directions. Christin is no longer with Nicole, and well, you guys already know my story.

However, Christin’s story is just beginning. You see, in light of June being Pride month, Christin once again has made the honest and brave decision to write about her story. This is Christin’s first time writing about her bisexuality. It was not easy for her, she was hesitant, she is prepared for the judgements. But, that is where I come in, I will shut them down real fast.

Coming Out takes courage. Coming out take bravery. Unfortunately in these days and times, Coming Out takes strength, so we, every single one of you reading this, we are going to support Christin. We are going to cheer her on when all she wants to do is hide in the corners of Facebook. We are going to show her support, we are just going to be.

Thank you Christin, thank you for being Brave.

“You’re fat.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“I do not want her on my team.”
“No, you can’t sit here.”

Pretty powerful words that have stuck with me for a long time. It began in Kindergarten and never left until I became homeschooled.

This bloody road remains a mystery
This sudden darkness fills the air

“If you just lost a little bit of weight I would like you.”
“You’re so ugly you have to wear all that makeup.”
“You can try, but you can never hide your fat.”

Words are kinda a thing with me. Perhaps that is why I enjoy writing so much?

What are we waiting for?
Won’t anybody help us?
What are we waiting for?

“You whore!”
“Slut”
“Your opinion means nothing here.”

Assholes. Every last one of them. Assholes.

We can’t afford to be innocent
Stand up and face the enemy
It’s a do or die situation
We will be invincible

“How many partners have you had?
“Are you sure you did not drink?”
“How about drugs, any drug use during pregnancy?”

Will this ever end? What is it about me that makes people think they can talk to me like they do?

This shattered dream you cannot justify
We’re gonna scream until we’re satisfied
What are we running for?
We’ve got the right to be angry
What are we running for?
When there’s no where we can run to anymore

“Low carb is ridiculous, that won’t help.”
“You have to be careful of what you read online.”
“Let us do our job, and you do yours.”

No. I am trying low carb. You know nothing about my daughter. This is how it will be. I am in control.

We can’t afford to be innocent
Stand up and face the enemy
It’s a do or die situation
We will be invincible

“You are illogical”
“You need to educate yourself”
“You are just posting stuff to get under your conservative family’s skin.”

Not today Honey, not today.

And with the power of conviction
There is no sacrifice
It’s a do or die situation
We will be invincible

“Gracie, your Mom is so smart for doing her research. We will back her up until we have no other options.”

“I just wanted to let you know that I applaud your efforts to post truthful stories about what is going on with these children”

“Mom, will it be okay? Do I have anything to worry about? I am scared.”

Yes, you will be okay. It is my job to make sure you are okay. I come from strong and so do you. Together, we are Invincible.

It was an interesting, bitter-sweet, frustrating day today.

Last day of school. A pretty easy day to say the least. The two and a half hour day ended with an all-school assembly. The gym is packed with close to 500 hundred students. This is not counting the staff or parents. It was hot. My little suburb of Seattle hit about 85 degrees today. Inside the gym, it felt like 105. Gracie was with me, as her last day was yesterday. I have to be careful that Gracie does not get too hot, sometimes that can trigger seizures. Not just in her, in many people. Gracie and I are standing off to the side, just in case I needed to make a quick exit, which I did, thankfully, not seizure related.

As Gracie and I are standing there, I am mindful that she does not do well in crowds, while trying to take in the last assembly of the school year. I scan the gym for Sofia. I spot her. She does not see me, yet I have a pretty good view of her. I hope she’s taking it all in as well. This is it for her. Good-bye elementary hello middle-school. She is sitting with the one friend she probably has, and by the look on her face, she is indeed taking it in. This is Sofia.

Scanning the section where most of the parents are sitting, I see Mia. You may remember her from a previous post. “Mia” Prior to us all meeting in the gym, Mia and I had a pretty intense conversation. You see, Mia’s husband is Undocumented. He came here with his grandfather when he was 17. He works hard, provides for his family. They are on no assistance at all. I know some of you may be shocked by that, but it happens. The thing is, in order for Mia’s husband to get his papers, he has to go back to Mexico for an unspecified amount of time. It could be six months, it could be a year. One year away from his children.

Sitting next to Mia is Renata. Last year I was volunteering in a classroom where Renata’s daughter attended. I did not officially meet Renata until this year. You see, Renata spent a full year in Mexico getting her papers. A full year where she was not with her kids. There has to be an easier way.

The separating of families at the border is a passionate issue of mine. To put it simply, I believe families should be kept together. Do not let the children pay for their parents screw-ups. Do not let the children pay for everyone else’s’ screw-ups. Keep them together. I mean isn’t it all about the children? Or shouldn’t it be? Your own party lines do not even matter, the common denominator should be the children, but it is not.

A quick look on Facebook will show you that. Early this morning I posted a very thorough post, links included, that backs up what I believe to be true. You can read it HERE

You guys, I seriously had comments on my own personal page that went a little something like this.

“You are spreading false information.”
“It’s too long I am not reading it”
“People write long post to be “showy””

Okay, fine. Do not read the post. However, perhaps in the middle of your judgment, the best thing to do is just scroll on by?

Anyway, back to the gym. I have one daughter next to me, the other daughter in the sea of students. Dripping in sweat, annoyed at the dynamics of this assembly and it’s sound system, it hits me. How many children are right in front of me whose parent’s are still in Mexico? How many children have undocumented family members? I can assure you the number is higher than what you may think. I see it every day.

Look, this is all I know. I am not very well versed in politics as a whole, I am not well versed in party lines. I consider myself Independent, leaning more towards conservative. I am however well versed in children and their struggles. I have seen first hand how any sort of traumatic event can hinder a child.

We have a problem. There has to be a better way. I do not have much but I have my voice, and I will continue to use my voice no matter how many judgmental condescending people I come across my own Facebook feed. I will use my voice for children.

You do not have to agree with me, hell, you do not even have to like me. What you do have to do though, is be respectful.

As the assembly is coming to a close, these kids will soon welcome Summer Vacation. Some of these kids, the kids who I see daily are not going to have a summer. They will be left to their own devices while their parents work, trying to make enough money to support their family. Some of these kids do not have parents, some have parents who just do not care, and then some, some have struggles we cannot even comprehend. It is those children who I want to use my voice for.

I remember a song I heard the other night for the first time. Christin and I were talking about songs we were going to do for our Songs of Summer series. I heard “Dear Me” by Nicole Nordeman. You can listen to it Here.

I glance at Gracie, I spot Sofia, and I hear the lyrics.

And hold all the mothers, whose babies bleed from bullet holes
And feel all the hunger, the bellies and the bones
Shout for the prisoner, cry for justice, loud and long
And march with the victims, as Jesus marches on
And sit at all the tables, ’cause Jesus eats with everyone
And dance to the music, if you can’t sing its native tongue
And cry for the wombs, the mothers and the empty arms
And hold high the warriors, fighting now for freedoms’ song.

Yes. I am going to use what little voice I have. I will fight in my own way. I will use my voice, I will use it loud and strong, I will use it for “When the Children Cry.”

Summer Vacation is just around the corner. Both my kids and Christin’s are in the home stretch. Five days and counting! A shift is taking place. Late nights and lazy mornings will be here before you know it. Trips to the beach, the zoo, and for the one week in Summer when we hit 90 degrees, this is when we hit the mall basking in the glory of air condition. Breakfast at 10:00 am over coffee, juice, and bacon. Late night dinners because no one has to be up early. Each kid hoping that THIS will be a summer to remember. As Christin and I think back to our own Summers, some, not that long ago, we decided what better way to welcome Summer than with our very own playlist. The only rule, there is none. Over the course of the next ten days, we will each share a song with you that envokes a special summer memory. A song that when Christin and I hear it in the middle of October, we start counting down the days to Summer, remembering days long gone. We hope you enjoy this series as much as we enjoyed writing about it.

Christin

Sofia was in the third grade. I was an active parent volunteer at her school. It was the last day of school. While the students were in their respective classrooms, doing final clean up touches on empty desks and bare walls, you could hear their excitement. Summer vacation was finally here.

Some fellow parent volunteers and I were in the school workroom cleaning it up, making sure everything was in place for when we all returned in September. Cookie ovens unplugged, a clean bulletin board waiting to see what next year’s theme will be, a coffee pot along with stale creamer packed up for the summer.

One of the parent volunteers had some “music” playing on her phone. I use the word “music” very loosely. It was not music. It was fingernails on a chalkboard kind of music, and she was singing along to every cringe-worthy lyric.

I opened the back door to the workroom to get some fresh air in there. There was a burst of cool breeze that kinda pushed the door out further than I had originally intended. A storm was coming. The sky was turning a deep shade of blue, you could hear thunder in the distance, and smell the rain that would probably be here at any moment. It was a nice change. Not your typical “Welcome to Summer vacation” weather, but my kind of weather.

As the three of us we standing there, chilly from the quick change of a mild muggy heat to a chilly fall breeze, the song changed on her phone. As soon as I heard the very first line, the other’s made their way to the phone to switch it.

“Don’t you dare change it, this is a classic!”

Here comes the jesters, one, two three
It’s all part of my fantasy
I love the music and I love to see the crowd
Dancin’ In the aisles and singin’ out loud

Both of them looked at me, then at each other. “What song is this? I don’t think I know it?”

I was dumbfounded.

Ignoring them, I walked outside, just as it was starting to sprinkle. I could still hear the music playing.

I opened up my arms, welcoming the rain. Standing there, on the playground of a school that has at least five hundred students and staff,  I had not a care in the world. This was the last day of school. With open arms, I welcomed the rain. This was a perfect start to my summer.

Only when the song finished, did I make my way back inside. Hair damp with the first rain of the season, makeup borderline smudged, clothes, slightly wet. Perhaps I did not think this out fully. There was still the end of the year assembly to attend, and I looked like a wet skunk, but I will tell you, standing on the empty playground, taking in the rain as a sign from up above “You’re going to have a hot summer, but I will give you this.” it just set the mood. “Let’s go summer, show me whatcha got!”

And to this day, every time I hear Bad Company’s “Rock N Roll Fantasy” it takes me back to that day in the rain. And no matter where I am, I will be..

Dancin’ In the aisles and singin’ out loud

So, it’s me again, Christin. Two blogs in two days, I must be on a roll. Jen is working on a speech which I am sure she will tell you more about later. So tonight, you guys are stuck with me.

This last year has been so crazy. Mostly a good crazy. As most of you know, I got accepted into the human services program at WWU where I am pursuing my Bachelor’s Degree. If you would’ve told me 10 years ago I would be in college at almost 40, I would have punched you in the face.

 The truth is, 10 years ago my kids were 5 and 3. I was a single mom, working full-time, struggling to make ends meet. I felt a tremendous amount of pressure and guilt because my babies were in daycare while I was working hard to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Occasionally, mostly at night when they were fast asleep, I would think about how my life would be if I had stuck to the ole’ college thing.

 I had always wanted to go to college since I was a kid. Although not the best in academics, I pulled decent grades and graduated with an average GPA. I just didn’t have the understanding of what to do after high school to get into college. No one in my family had a college degree, so it’s not like I could go ask them. I did enroll in a community college a couple of times, but life always just got in the way. It wasn’t until I had a real reason- my kids- that I decided that when they were just a little older, I would pursue my dreams.

In 2014 that time came. I almost puked my first day of classes. I was nervous about not being able to catch on, being the “oldest” one, but mostly about failing. I didn’t even know what degree I wanted to pursue, I just knew that I had to do it.

3 years later, I graduated with an AA Degree.

Last year I walked across that stage, the first college graduate in my family. I will never forget my grandpa, a 2^nd generation Mexican immigrant, sitting in the crowd, proud that his oldest granddaughter had an accomplishment that he himself, dreamt of when he was a little boy.

With doubt and reservation, I didn’t know what to do next.

And then I remembered my own humble beginnings.

 I was standing in line at the grocery store and wondering why my mom was paying for our food with weird looking money. Food stamps. Even at age 8, I knew that we were different. We were poor, even though I had the luxury of having grandparents that spoiled me, I knew that our food and apartment were solely provisional on HUD Housing and Food stamps. There were times I was ashamed that instead of the good cereal, I had to eat the nasty (no sugar) kind because that is all we could get with our Food stamps. “Government cheese,” well we had that too. If you don’t what that is, google it. It’s a cross between rubber and Velveeta, it tasted more like rubber.

At 22, I found myself in the office of a DSHS. I had just found out I was pregnant and needed medical for my unborn baby because she tested positive for Spina Bifida. I had to go to a specialist, which I couldn’t afford with my basic insurance. I had to ask for help, even though my pride was telling me to run the other way. Thankfully, the tests were wrong, and she was born healthy. At 24, I needed help with childcare assistance, because being a single parent with two kids in daycare, isn’t cheap or viable, at least on my barely above minimum wage income.

My point is that everyone needs help at some time in their lives. Some circumstances are unforeseen and maybe even unavoidable, such is life.

That is when I knew I wanted, maybe even needed, to give back in some way. I wanted to tell that single mom that it was going to be okay. Even if for now, she needed a little help, that eventually life would get better. I wanted to be a light in a dark tunnel when a family was needing some basic food help or housing assistance because they were living in their car.

I worked for weeks perfecting my essays to get into the Human Services Program. Without Jen’s editing skills and encouragement, I may have just thrown in the towel.

But I didn’t.

I sent those essays in and I waited. And waited. I got the letter that I was 1 of 25 accepted into the program. I probably cried for about an hour straight. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was capable of doing something important. Something important for other people. I had to do it for them.

Here we are a year later. I just finished my first year in the program and my internship. Both of which have been wonderful opportunities that are stepping stones to my ending goals.

I am taking the summer off to decompress and have a few adventures. I will be working with a pilot program in my community to provide lunches to low-income children. I am super excited about working with these kids because not too long ago, I was one of those kids. I know what they are dealing with and I know some of the hardships they are facing. I also know that they are resilient and that they will thrive.  They will rise up out of their circumstances.

Just like I did.

Christin: I know it’s been a minute since I have done any writing. Correction…writing for the blog. Let me recap the last 9 months.

·School

·Internship

·Kids

·Cat

I barely have time to do what I need to do. But after 4 years of college, I am done. Well, not done yet, I have another year to go, but done for now. Hello summer! After a particularly hard week of finals and finishing up projects at work, I was all too happy to see Friday come.

“Jen, I’m done! Finally!”

“Thank-God, now you can write more blogs!”

Is that all she thinks about? I won’t answer that.

It was Friday night, I was devouring a chocolate bar and she was (I suspect) doing the same to a glass of coke and vodka.

“So, I had a weird dream last night.”

“What? Is it that same one where you dye your hair and the next day it all falls out?”

“Umm no. It was about “Sid”.

I have changed the name to protect the innocent.

“Sid? I haven’t heard about him in a long time. Tell me about your dream”

I won’t go into the boring details of the dream with Sid but I will say we were in the kitchen cooking together, which was weird for three reasons:

1.       I don’t know how to cook.

2.       I have been banned from my own kitchen because of a recent incident involving oil and fire.

3.       I haven’t dated or seen Sid in 18 years.

That is all I am going to say about that.

The conversation ended with Jen having to do her nightly facial routine and with me Netflixing and Chocolating.

I had forgotten about the conversation by this morning.

Apparently, Jen had not.

I get a call this morning from Jen, which is somewhat unusual because I know Jen sleeps in on the weekends and I am not usually functional until after 10 AM.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I am trying to figure out how to use my new coffee maker.”

“Oh God, did you read the directions? Maybe let Joe or Vinnie, or Gracie put that thing together. You know how you are with assembling things…”

“No, I can figure this out. Trust me. So, I need to tell you something.”

Oh God. What did she do now?

Instantly, I am taken back to about 10 years ago where she did the unthinkable.

“Christin, I have to tell you something.”

“What?!”

“I set up an online dating profile for you…two days ago.”

“Two days ago? You did what???”

“I don’t even remember doing it (enter vodka) and a few days later I checked my email. I saw the email from the dating profile I set-up for you. Don’t be mad.”

I eventually got over the shock of having an online dating profile set-up WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE. I even left it up in hopes of maybe, finding a date. Didn’t happen.

Fast forward 10 years later, here we are again.

“I friend requested Sid on Facebook!” Jen said with a little too much enthusiasm.

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

“Well I thought maybe since you had a dream about him, it was a sign that maybe you guys should reconnect. You know, see what he has been up to.”

I thought about hatching a revenge plan. Maybe dig up some of her old boyfriends. Friend request them and see what she says.

Right now, I am contemplating a new best friend and staging an intervention for Jen.

Jesus take the wheel and the vodka.

Jen: Okay, now let me tell you what really happened!

1. My coffeemaker was a defective piece of crap. It had nothing to do with me. I switched it out with the best coffeemaker ever!

2. Old boyfriends? What old boyfriends?? It’s cute and a little complimentary how Christin thinks I have old boyfriends out there that she can stalk on Facebook. It’s like she does not know me.

3. The online dating profile, fine, I will give her that one. Totally vodka induced. Although in my defense this was many many years ago and Christin was working her way through Seattle’s best losers!

4. I friend requested Sid while I was on the phone with Christin and no vodka in hand. She just did not know it.

Sid. I feel like I know the guy. I feel like if I happened to find myself in California, and saw him in the local coffee shop, I would be like “Sid! What’s up, how have you been?!”

Sid would not reciprocate because he does not know me.

Let me put it in perspective for you. I have known Christin for seventeen years. We have a seventeen-year friendship and Sid has been there every second of it.

Sid and Christin have this history. Although not high school sweethearts, very close to being so. They go that far back. A history that I cannot relate to. I met Joe in my late 20’s, we created our history together. The only other person from my past who would come close to Sid and Christin’s history would be Ralph Macchio, but being that this was a one-sided relationship, we cannot exactly count that.

Christin and Sid, at one time, were each other’s “person.” They had intended on a life together, until, well life happened. There was no cheating, there was no argument, it was just life, life got in the way and they went their own separate ways.

Christin and I have spent many conversations talking about Sid. I know all about the letters, the ring, the box. I know the stories. I know how Sid always called Christin his Queen, and although life took them in different directions, Sid has never left Christin’s memories.

Christin and I have spent much time trying to look Sid up on Facebook. She just wanted to know that Sid is happy, much in the same way I wanted to know Sebastian Bach was okay when he got kicked out of the 80’s hairband group Skid Row. There is a puzzle piece to Sid and Christin, one last puzzle piece that has gotten lost in life.

Christin needs to find this puzzle piece.

As many of you know, Christin and I are pretty bad-ass when it comes to detective work. We are social media pro’s.

We found Sid on Facebook. A bit disappointing because his page is locked down like Fort Knox. Christin was never really able to find out if life had been good to him or not. Was he happy? Did he ever think about Christin? I am telling you guys, Sid and Christin’s story is a mix between a Lifetime/Hallmark movie.

The other night, Christin and I are on the phone. We are talking about Sid and of lost memories. While on the phone with Christin, I looked him up on my own personal page. It’s important to note, there was no vodka.

Now, I need you guys to picture this. I am at my desk, I have my desktop open while talking to Christin. I decided to throw caution to the wind and friend request Sid. He would either accept my friend request or not. I would then decide on if I would tell Christin or not.

Well, Sid accepted my friend request. He may have remembered me from “back in the day” when Sid, Christin and I had a not so good Facebook exchange, or he may not. Either way, he accepted my friend request. I felt a very small victory. We were in. We now had access to Sid’s pictures, Facebook post, and answers. I did not force him to accept my request. He did all on his own. No harm no foul.

Christin and I called it a night, and I decided to just sit on this information for awhile.

In the morning, I could not wait to tell Christin. I honest to God thought she would be happy. I was expecting “You’re in? Damn, we are good!”

Christin did not give me the reaction I was expecting.

After many many many conversations, I still do not quite understand why Christin is not happy. I mean with me being a Facebook friend of Sid’s, that means no more detective work. Everything is right there! In a way, a very unusual way, I found myself rooting for Christin and Sid.

As I am scrolling through his page, I just get a vibe, a good vibe, like okay, this is a good guy. He made some mistakes, he openly asks for help and guidance, and well, I now find myself rooting for him.

HOWEVER, Chrsitin did not see it the same. So, I did what any good friend would do, and deleted him.

Now we are back to square one.

I know, one day, Christin will have her answers,

and just between you and I have a feeling she will be happy with them all.

Friday.

I am at the school with Mia, baking cookies. Our tiny workspace does not offer much room. It’s hot and stuffy thanks to our two cookie ovens in which we will bake about 400 cookies.

I open the back door that leads out to the large, welcoming playground. Seattle is being generous by gifting us a nice cool rain. Rain or shine, these kids have recess. Rain is a staple here, learning how to play in it, even more so.

Mia is busy cleaning and counting cookies. I stand in the open doorway, waiting for the influx of kids that will soon be on the playground. Some will play on the monkey bars, some will play tetherball. Some of the girls will take cover under the archway, making sure not to get their hair wet.

A few teachers will come into our tiny working space, asking if it is too late to buy cookies. Mia and I never turn them away.

The overly high pitched recess bell is just about to ring. A couple of teachers allow their students to exit the very doors that will lead them to fifteen minutes of recess time. In a matter of seconds, it will be a madhouse.

Standing in the doorway, oblivious to the fact that Mia is doing all of the work, I take my jacket and wrap it tight around me. It’s colder than I thought, yet, it feels good. You can smell the Seattle rain mixed in with the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

In the distance, I see one class is already out.

A boy and girl are racing. You can tell they are racing. The girl who is in the lead keeps turning around to see if the boy is catching up to her. They are both running, running so fast, with their end goal in sight.

The basketball court.

This faceless girl, she has amazing form. Even from my faraway vantage point, I can tell she not only has the making of a track star in her, but the confidence to go along with it. I cannot take my eyes off of her.

The girl and boy both reach the basketball court. The girl won the race. There does not seem to be any hard feelings.

If you listen close enough, close enough with your eyes, you can hear their laughter.

Seconds later, they are greeted by fellow classmates. A group of eight are sharing the ball, making baskets and missing. Throwing the ball without a care in the world. I am still watching the girl, the only girl. She is making these boys look bad, bad in a good way.

Mia comes out.

“What are you doing?”

I take a step away from my own archway that was protecting me from the Seattle drizzle.

“Look at those kids, the ones playing basketball. That girl, she is pretty badass.”

Mia comes by side. She is holding a pan of freshly baked cookies while looking in the direction my eyes are telling her to.

Mia and I stand there is brief silence, watching this group of eight play basketball. None of them have a care in the world.

Mia, ready to head back inside to get the cookies bagged up, she looks at me.

“I told you so.”

The girl just made another basket. I can tell by the high fives the boys are giving her.

“What??”

Mia looks at me, laughing.

“I told you if you just let Sofia be, she will show you who she really is.”

I am, confused.

I look closer at the group of kids playing basketball.

Slowly, I take about ten steps towards the basketball court, trying hard to make out the face.

Mia was right

Sofia.

It was Sofia.

And, just like Mia said,

it had been Sofia all along.