Artist: Josie Wipff 2/5/14
“Seriously Mrs. Chang-Wipff, what DOES a fox say?”
Author: chungwipff
The Curse
It’s Friday afternoon.
Willey and I are beat from a week of work. On Thursdays, the girls have symphony practice from 4:30pm – 8:30pm. They are inundated with homework, practicing violin each night and then there’s the study sessions through Skype. At ages ten and a half and twelve, the girls’ hormones are starting to be characters in and of themselves. The activity level in our household grows exponentially each year.
We’re driving to dinner and Willey is uncharacteristically quiet, easily agitated with traffic….I gently prod, “Are you OK?” He sighs and says yes. But the females in the car know he’s grumpy. This is weird. Ava asks, “Dad, guess what?” To which he normally guesses, “Uh, let’s see…..an elephant walked in your class today. You won the lottery. You have the hiccups. Your sister hit you…” On and on until Ava says, “No! Just listen!” But this time, he merely grunts. Ava’s not confident she should continue speaking. “Never mind,” she says dejectedly. Willey realizes he’s created a situation. He lashes out, “Come on, Ava! Just tell me!”
Josie says, “Dad’s on his period.”
We all giggle, even the one with the curse.
Animal Report
I’ve asked her to do it over again, with a real animal.
Paradise
“I like a teacher who gives you something to take home to think about besides homework.” Lily Tomlin
I love teaching, educating, inspiring students through field trips. Students (especially low income ones) need to get out into the world and meet new people. They need to explore. However, I can’t stand being on the bus to and from our destination. The screaming, the singing and the physical jostling – ugh! I have learned a couple coping techniques from years of experience, but I still believe teachers should be chaperoned separately, in a quiet car with our beverage of choice. The adult chaperones on the bus with the kids should be those people who say teaching is easy and that class size doesn’t matter.
On our bus ride to Arizona State University for a science expo, I allowed my class to board the bus first and then I got on. I stood at the front, assessed the situation, rearranged a couple kids to help minimize noise and “issues” and then took a seat near the front. Fortunately, sixth graders do NOT believe it’s cool to sit next to the teacher. Ah, a seat to myself! The other sixth grade teacher, Mr. Ash was relatively new to teaching. I noted him sitting in the middle of the bus, between his class and mine, sharing a seat with a boy. Mr. Ash is a super nice, tall man with big brown doe eyes. Throughout our ten week stint together, he constantly reflected on his work, noting what was working and what wasn’t. I liked that.
As we rolled down the freeway, one of my students asked me to turn the music up. It was so loud with sixth grade chatter, I didn’t even know the radio was on. “Don’t you think it’s loud enough in here?” He begged and gave me the prayer hands. I asked the driver, “Do you think you could turn the radio up a little? You’re the driver, if you don’t want to, it’s totally up to you.” Safety first!
The driver complied with no expression on his face. His eyes never left the road as his chubby fingers dialed the volume up. Instantly, the entire busload of students was singing at the top of their lungs:
“Your sex takes me to paradise, yes your sex takes me to paradise and it shows, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!”
I was at once mortified and amused. I looked back at Mr. Ash, his face in his hands.
Whisper Words of Wisdom
When I arrived, the class was in chaos.
I had been warned by numerous staff (secretary, Title I Specialist, other teachers….) that this class had no classroom management from their previous teacher. They walked all over him. They jumped on desks (yes, sixth graders), fought (yes, physically), ran in and out of the classroom at will, and showed disrespect to all adults. This class was created six weeks after the start of school, they went from one teacher to Mr. R., and as a first year teacher, he did not know how to manage them. And now I would be their third teacher. Mr. R. quit two days before spring break and didn’t even say goodbye to them. On my first day, a teacher walked up to me and said, “I will pray for you.”
I thought I would come in and teach them at least some of the sixth grade curriculum. Having taught previously for six years in the MPS system, I was confident I could get them focused and prepared for junior high. Of course, the students I had taught previously were in the highest socioeconomic bracket. These kids were in the lowest. I didn’t know how challenging it would be and how much I would learn.
At first, the students were quiet and listened to me. I introduced myself, and let them know that I was a teacher with experience and that I loved teaching. I was there to teach them for the rest of the school year, and I was not going to leave or call in sick. I told them about my family (naturally, they were very curious!) and then I outlined my expectations. “We will line up in the hallway each morning. You will no longer just walk or run into or out of the classroom. I will shake each of your hands and you will look me in the eye and say good morning.” I heard snickers and the students looked at each other. Is she serious?
27 students. 45 days. State standardized testing would take place three weeks after my arrival. Where to start?
The classroom was filthy. The carpeting was soiled with food and other spills layered over time. Posters and student work were stapled haphazardly on the walls. Rules for the classroom were published using a lot of words and not enough action. A woman from District came to visit me. “Boy, you sure do have a lot of work to do. I hope you don’t spend all of your weekends cleaning and organizing in here.”
I got acquainted with the troublemakers quickly: Bruno* who entered the room shouting profanities and telling everyone to “shut up.” Samantha* who I was told by several adults was “strange, very strange, but not mean. Just can’t stop talking to people.” And about five or six other boys who ran around the classroom and spent their days as if they were on the World Wrestling Entertainment channel.
They chided each other, talked incessantly while I was teaching and brazenly spoke back at me when I doled out consequences for such behavior. They received cherry tomatoes for snack time and when I turned my back, they had food fights. I stopped allowing tomatoes in the classroom. Each time I sent a child to another classroom (many teachers made this offer upon meeting me) or to the Principal’s office (for hitting), the culprit would yell, “Great! Thank you, I WANTED TO LEAVE!” I learned that it was much more effective to have them lose their recess for 1:1 tutoring with me.
One day, when I had been there just long enough to gain their trust, but still new enough to be deemed naïve, I made a startling discovery. We were in the computer lab, about to start some math practice when Jake* asked, “Mrs. Chung-Wipff, wanna see a picture of my dad?” I thought, How nice, I’d love to see his father’s corporate bio page. I wonder what he does? On Jake’s screen was a mug shot of a man whose unkempt appearance rivaled Nick Nolte’s close up. “Oh my,” was all I could muster. Jake said, “I haven’t had a relationship with him for nine years, actually.”
The kids around Jake had already seen the photo, had already heard the stories. “Mrs. Chung-Wipff, want to see my dad?” Diego* asked. I looked at his screen and saw another mug shot. “Over here, Mrs. Chung, over here.” Another mug shot, Rodrigo* beckoned me. It was too much. “OK, everyone, let’s get to work.”
I learned through the next few weeks that their fathers were mostly incarcerated for DUIs or physical violence. Their dads beat their mothers, stepmoms, and strangers in bars or neighborhood parties. One of my students, Bruno*, had both his parents in prison for violence. Bruno was living with his three older brothers (all gang members) and his stepmother. There was something a little off about his face and I couldn’t place it until one of the other teachers told me that his brothers had tied him down and shaved his eyebrows off. They never grew back the same.
These students did not choose their parents or their home lives. They want to succeed like everyone else does. But no one is telling them to go to bed at a decent hour, to eat nutritious foods or to even care about their homework and what they have learned. They have dreams of becoming veterinarians, football players, video game producers and they are smart. Boy, are they smart! But how to reach them? How to connect? I learned that the most effective thing to do is be there. Model the importance of learning, the passion. Listen more, speak less.
Love unconditionally.
*all names have been changed
Taco Truck
“Mom, give me a noun….” Ava said.
“OK, taco.”
“Taco?”
“Taco truck.”
She sits at the large table, a small girl, a pad of paper and a pencil.
Taco Truck by Ava Wipff
I’m behind a taco truck.
I tasted a taco, but they really suck.
Too cheesy, too small, too bad.
The thought of a bad taco makes me sad.
A huff and puff of black smoke comes.
My stomach is queasy, and I can’t find my Tums.
I read the sign, it’s called “Taco Train.”
Well, it should be called Taco Pain.
May 2013
Starts with W, Rhymes with Furry
Driving to Phoenix for my oncologist appointment, I find myself trembling. My heart is beating faster and I think I really need to cut out the caffeine.
The waiting room fills me with the usual dread: elderly people with scarves wrapped around their bald heads, the walking canes, wheelchairs and bandages. I want to shout, I’m not sick! I don’t belong here. At the same time, I know it has not been that long since I was tightly wrapped with two drains coming out of my chest, and expanders under my chest muscles.
I can’t forget and I shouldn’t.
A woman in her late sixties with a silky Louis Vuitton scarf wrapped around her bare head walks slowly. Her husband holds her arm by the elbow with both of his hands. They walk to the restroom and then to the doctor’s office. They take each step carefully.
I’m called in for the draw.
The room is small and crowded with three chairs. The chairs have planks like small school desks for arms to rest on.
Did they take your lymph nodes?
Yes.
Which arm?
Both.
She raises both eyebrows.
I add, Not all of them, just a few…you know…for the biopsy. I am rambling.
Which arm shall I use?
I lay both arms out for us to assess.
She chooses my left arm.
The room is freezing and my trembling has turned to shaking.
“Are you OK?” She is concerned because I look away. I know what’s coming. They can never find a vein. They never find it without moving the needle all around.
She wiggles the needle. I take a peek. “See, I’m trying to get that one.” She points to a vague blue line. I nod.
After many apologies, her wiggling and my squeamishness pay off. Two vials fill quickly. The blood is a very deep red. I visualize only healthy cells in it.
Then comes the meeting with the RN.
She wants to hear how I have been doing. She wants to know how the Tamoxifen is working. I remind her I have been off of it for 9 months. I had told the doctor that it made me feel suicidal. He had given his blessing, proclaimed me cured anyway….but he didn’t put that in his notes. The RN appears embarrassed and adds that to my file. I sigh inwardly.
No cancer in your family? No.
So strange, you got it so young. I nod in agreement. It will always be a mystery.
She asks about any new developments. Concerns. I take advantage of this opportunity.
I’ve had what I’m sure is a hamstring injury. Or bone cancer, I laugh weakly.
Is the pain intermittent or progressing?
Intermittent.
Her shoulders go back, her eyes get wide and she says in a soothing and authoritative tone:
Bone cancer is extremely painful. The pain gets worse and worse. ALSO, it is extremely rare for breast cancer to spread below the groin. Extremely rare. It sounds like a hamstring injury.
She recommends a heating pad and a Styrofoam roller.
I am slightly relieved. Still…
She sees my concern.
If you want, I can order a bone scan. For your entire body. Not because I am worried, but because you are.
This is so generous of her!
This sounds thorough. This sounds like something I want. This will increase my chances of celebrating my 20th, 25th…heck, maybe even my 40th wedding anniversary. This will increase the chances of holding my grandchildren someday.
Wait.
If I am developing a cancer that is NOT bone cancer, would that show up?
No, not in the bone scan.
Hm. I realize how crazy I am getting. I want a full body MRI. I want a full body bone scan. I want someone – someone who is an expert with an immaculate record – to tell me the cancer is gone and will never come back. But there are no guarantees. I don’t want to obsess over every achy muscle…over every itchy mole. The testing could go on and on and in some cases, actually increase my chances of recurrent cancer.
The RN tilts her head and smiles. I exhale.
Tell you what, why don’t you try the Styrofoam roller and heating pad? If it doesn’t get better, call me. Call me any time.
This sounds reasonable. And generous.
I am to return in six months.
I walk into the sunshine. It’s not as hot as it has been. I’m excited about the new season as I get in my car.
I’m Right Here
My mom was here again, for another lovely visit. Although most of her visits are always quite pleasant, there is one time I dread: dinner. I have to be patient with my husband and my mom during dinner because she cannot shake the nasty habit of speaking to me ABOUT Willey in front of him. It is rooted in the depths of her Korean soul to speak as indirectly to him as possible. In so doing, she uses me as a communication vessel. It’s almost as if she feels the need for a translator, and it annoys Willey to no end. It’s like a scene from Groundhog Day: we just live it over and over and over again.
We were sitting down to a meal of sujehbee, my favorite dish of dumplings in spicy broth.
“Caroline, does he really like sujehbee?” My mother asks. I look at him. He is sitting directly across from my mom. I know what his line will be:
“Yooni, why don’t you just ask me? I’m right here.” He asks exasperatedly. My blood pressure rises. The girls look from halmoni to their father back to halmoni. She covers her face with her hands. She used to just cover her mouth, but lately, she covers her entire face, and giggles.
“Do you like it, Willeeee?” She leans forward and asks with a renewed sparkle in her eyes.
“I LOVE sujehbee!” He exclaims. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m Willey, remember?”
She laughs some more.
Such a brazen display of flirtation!
↹↹↹
Preparing for bed, mom pulls the covers down and holds the TV remote. I am in the doorway of her guest room, saying good night.
“Caroline, have you seen this show?”
I look at the screen. There is an angry black woman with enormous gold hoop earrings yelling at a man. I don’t recognize this program.
“Hardcore Porn, they call.” She slips her legs under the cover.
I take another look. What? Why is she watching porn?! I don’t see any nudity and realize after a few more seconds, that she is not watching porn.
“Mom, Hardcore PAWN, not PORN.”
“Ohhhhh!” Again with the face hiding and laughter.
↹↹↹
I love dogs. I miss my dog Maggie. Even though I notified my mother by phone when Maggie died – despite knowing Maggie was gone – the first time my mother walked into our home following Maggie’s death, she looked around like a little kid and with tears streaming down her face, and asked in Korean, “Where is Maggie?” They were best buddies. They reminded me of each other: kind and meek to a fault. My mom walked Maggie every morning and sometimes in the afternoons, too. And even though she swears up and down that she didn’t feed her table scraps, I know she did.
We had hugged each other and cried, missing that dog. Now we have Sadie, who is an oversized lap dog with a strong personality. We think she’s part Labrador and part Pit Bull. I talk to this dog for the benefit of the family. After I pet her, she always shakes her whole body and I say things like, “Sadie, don’t shake my love off!” And now I hear the girls say the same thing to her. In the guest room, the windows face the street and Sadie loves looking out and barking at rabbits, birds and leaves on the tree. Seriously, this dog is out of control. When she’s not barking, she’s whining. Compared to her, Maggie was a mute. I tease, “Sadie, look at the mess you are making on the windows!” And my mother echoes my fake consternation, “Sadie, look what you did with your lips!”
Maggie
Self-pity. You can be there in a matter of seconds. Grieving is feeling sorry for yourself, because your dog is no longer around to show you unfiltered, undiluted affection. You still expect her to come running to you when you return home from work…shopping….a night out at a restaurant. You miss her quiet presence next to you while you type on your computer or read in bed.
Your dog is fine, she is no longer in pain. The cancerous tumor growing under her tongue and in her gums, pushing her tongue out the right side of her mouth can no longer hurt her. But you, you are left with loneliness and guilt. Why didn’t you stay home with her more? You should have walked her more often. You never took her to the dog park. Remember, you didn’t want her to catch any diseases, that’s why. Maggie was always the Beta dog. Cats were Alpha dogs compared to her. She quickly acquiesced to others. She hung her head low, shoulders cowered. She never harmed a thing. She could have been attacked at the dog park. You meant well.
When the kids were 3 months and 19 months old you took them and the dog for a walk to the post office on Mission Street. It was a daring undertaking with the infant in the Baby Bjorn, the toddler in the stroller and the frisky pup on a busy street, but you were going stir crazy with the diapers, the fog, and the boredom. You tied the puppy to a street sign post with a cement base. Just a few minutes in line and someone yelled, “There’s a dog running down the street with a post attached to her leash!” You looked outside and your dog was gone. You rushed home with two girls, not three. You cringe, expecting to hear screeching tires, screams. But they never come. You fight back the tears. You can’t lose her. When you get home, she is there, she took a different route, but somehow found your house. You are relieved and furious.
You miss her so much. The white snout, those sad eyes, even the stench of her infection. You miss those silky ears, the low growl of contentment she gave when you rubbed them. She jumped a foot off the ground when you came home. When you were recovering from your radical mastectomy, she napped next to you, choosing you over the rest of the family. Somehow, she knew you needed to rest. And while you worried about recurrent cancer, hers grew silently.
She loved bulgoki. Tennis balls. Hikes in the desert. She hated water. She would fetch when the mood fit. She was infinitely patient with children and other dogs. She was awesome.
You knew the end was near when she couldn’t eat. She loved to eat. And then she couldn’t drink water. Blood oozed from her infection, the antibiotics didn’t seem to have any effect. She drooled a thick, bloody mucous and you wiped her gently, frequently, sadly. How do you know when the time has come?
She was on the table, injected with a sedative. She looked so peaceful, striking her usual pose with one paw over the other, her eyes getting sleepy. You were grateful to see her comfortable. You told her you love her over and over again. Her eyes never left you. You bawled. The lethal injection worked quickly. You heard your husband say, “It’s OK, Maggie, you can go.”
And she’s gone.
Security
Tonight, I tucked Ava into bed and whispered, “How about tonight you don’t suck your thumb?” She replied in her snotty pre-pre-teen way, “Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”
She reemerged from her room to whine and half-cry that she has a canker sore. Willey jumped from his chair to give her a swig of Listerine, coaching her to swish for as long as possible. She whimpered in pain. Then he swept her up in his arms and flipped the light switch off with her fanny. “You can turn the light off with your butt.” She giggled as he carried her to her bed.
I’m sitting in bed, typing, with an ice pack on my chest. I had my fifth (and final, I swear!) surgery Monday. It’s been almost one week. I felt a swelling and bruising start today and basically freaked out because the last thing I need right now is an infection and to go back to Dr. Parson’s office for drains. That would be a major bummer. This surgery was to correct some positioning and to give me “nipples.” It went well as far as I can tell. It will be a resounding success if I keep infection at bay!
During this summer break, we took a vacation to Legoland. It was just what we needed: mindless fun. Ava had her first roller coaster ride and Josie rode mini-cars with her sister, both earning “drivers’ licenses.”
In addition to this fun, I worked all of June, teaching remedial English to incoming 7th graders and training for my new Ed Tech job. The teaching was challenging. How do you work with 12 year old students who can’t spell “dirt?” How do you impress upon these kids that they need to do their best ALL of the 15 days of summer school, not just two or three? How do you retain your cool factor while admonishing them for eating Doritos and candy for breakfast?
I’ve also taken this time to address dental and medical appointments for the girls. Ava is starting to show an overbite as well as what orthodontists call “overjet,” which is caused by her night time thumb-sucking. I want to do the right thing. I want to purchase an appliance if that is what is necessary. I know she will stop sucking her thumb if her thumb is met by a row of metal on the roof of her mouth. But I am mourning for her at the same time. She has always sucked her thumb and it brings great comfort to her. Her thumb is her best friend. It’s time for her to find security in something else, but what? Peaceful thoughts? I wish I had her equivalent of the thumb…something that brings me instant calm and repose.
Security is a state of mind. Sometimes, in the deepest, darkest corners of my mind, I wonder if I still have some residual cancer. Did they get it all? How will I know whether it’s back? I want a 100% guarantee that I will remain cancer free forever. I want to know that Josie and Ava will always be safe and happy and employed. I want to know that Willey will always be healthy, too. There are no guarantees. There is only the opportunity to shed light on the dark corners of my mind with the joy of the present moment. When we are fully present in the moment, there is no room for fear or worry.
Kismet 