Our new neighbors were expecting friends from France.
Mr. B. came to our door. “We are expecting friends from France. They have girls your ages. Do you think they could play together?” “Of course!” I replied. “They don’t speak any English,” Mr. B. stated. “No worries!” I replied. Ava added, “We can always communicate via Google Translate.” Brilliant!
The girls came. They were beautiful and shy. I had prompted Josie and Ava to be prepared with some ideas and games. Of course, when I suggested board games, they wrinkled their noses and chorused, “Boring!” So I allowed them to plan it on their own.
The girls started by opening a laptop with Google translate on. They typed and communicated what they were going to do. First thing: origami. Josie laughed as one of the girls accidentally ripped her paper, looked at Josie and then threw it over her shoulder!
The play date continued, communication largely facilitated by the translating program, but occasionally by means of facial expressions and key words.
The French girls then suggested that they play dodge ball. They all went to the park a few blocks away and played, sharing an iPhone to continue their dialogue. Upon their return, they played a game of billiards and then joined us for dinner. The night ended at 10pm – way past their bedtime. But all the girls had a fantastic time. “I wish they lived on this block! It would be so fun!” Josie lamented this morning. The guests depart for France on Tuesday.
Josie and Ava are composing a letter (with help from Google!) and are assembling a farewell gift.
This is their second year. The Symphony is made up of four divisions, with Division IV being the most junior, and Division I is made up primarily of 8th and 9th graders, the highest level of the Symphony. They hold chair auditions three times a year.
The girls jumped right up to Division III from the beginning and we were all amazed. Since then, with each audition for a new seat, they’ve moved up. I warned them that this is highly unusual, and that they should be prepared for moving down at some point. After all, they’ve observed this happening to many others in the group. This year, they made it to Division II, Violin I, and I told them that this is quite an accomplishment, that they ought to be proud and keep working hard.
The girls auditioned. When I asked how it went, Josie was quite confident that she did well. Ava was less sure, “I messed up on a few measures. But I think I did OK.” It turns out that Josie jumped many seats up. Ava moved down about 15 chairs. This was traumatic for her. This was her first “fail” (although I didn’t see it that way). For a week, she slumped and was sad. She mentioned a viola player who did the same thing: he was 2nd chair and fell to second to last. “Mom, I noticed this boy, he fell many seats and he used to sit really tall. He was proud and now, he has terrible posture. He is always frowning and he doesn’t look like he wants to be there.” I asked her, “And what do you think of that?” “I think it’s sad.” A few weeks passed. “Mom, remember that viola player I told you about?” “Yes.” “Well, I noticed he’s still slumped and depressed. I even wonder if he’ll quit.” I expected her to tell me how she was going to cheer him up. I thought she would share with me her plan.
“I’ve decided that I don’t deserve to sit where I’m sitting. I messed up in the audition, but I’m better than 22nd chair. I’ve decided that no matter what happens, no matter where I’m sitting, I will sit as if I am sitting where I DESERVE to sit.”
I was blown away. This is something I learned late in life: Disregard what others think of me and hold my head up high. She’s only ten years old. How did she know this?
“Wow Ava, I am very proud of you. That is amazing that you came up with that on your own.”
“Well, this boy, he’s very good too and he shouldn’t let it affect him this way.”
As long as I can remember, my daughters have been working at their “identities” in comparison to one another. I’m the “good student,” she’s the “artist…”
Growing up with a sister only 11 months younger than me, we were compared to each other incessantly. Are you twins? Who is funnier? Which is prettier? Who is thinner? Which one of you is going to Stanford? Julie, our babysitter, sat with us, coloring in coloring books. JoAnne was 4, I was 5. After we finished, she looked at our work. “Hm. JoAnne colors very neatly. Caroline, you need to stay within the lines.” (It’s not the first time I’ve heard that and I’m sure it won’t be the last)!
Racist taunts at school and a volatile home life bonded us close together. We shared a secret sense of humor sparked by a facial expression or a nonsense word only the two of us understood. We’d break into giggling fits until our stomach muscles cramped. The spell would only be broken when we were compared. One hurt, the other feeling sorry for her sister. This one is louder, this one is a better student, this one likes to clean and this one doesn’t. I was the one deemed by my parents to not be very intelligent (in fact, a veritable disappointment academically), but hella good at the cello and the piano. I readily labeled myself the “Artist” because of this “encouragement” and because I knew I couldn’t compete with my sister academically. This has been verified and observed in numerous studies: siblings work to differentiate themselves from one another.
My Sister (left) and Me
As my daughters grow, I try to instill a strong work ethic and constantly tout the importance of being true to oneself as the only barometer ofsuccess. Ava’s written declaration of herself as the poet and Josie as the graphic artist is sweet and telling, but even sweeter is Josie’s advice that it’s “your emotions that make your art a masterpiece.” Her insight is remarkable: your authentic voice, your true thoughts and feelings are what make you “great.” Both girls can be great artists, fantastic writers, violinists….both are amazing in their own way.
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!”
“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.
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.
“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.
Bunny!
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.
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.
After the Dirty Girl Mud Run in Phoenix
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.
Kismet 