Believe me, don't be afraid

There is a boy in the third grade.  He shakes. Not all the time, the radius is about five feet I think. I come within five feet from him and he will put his eyes down and it's like someone is singing just the right pitch to rattle his glass bones.  I asked my coteacher and she says he does the same with her so it isn't because I am exotic.

Last night I was coming home on the subway and the old woman sitting beside me, (I stood), poked me in the back.  She bradished a religius leaflet and spoke Korean.  The only words she said in English were 'heavenly mother'.  I said "I'm sorry, I only speak only a little Korean." More truthfully, and more telling, I actually said "I feel shame, Korean little." She went on regardless and I, polite, followed along. The woman beside her said she felt sorry for me with her eyes.

The old woman was so sure of her heavenly mother. What did language matter. The spirit of this would certainly sink into me. She motioned several times for me to phone a number   a number on the back of the pamphlet.  I am certain there would have been no English on the end of that ine either.

This is how I feel about the boy though. I am desperate to take him aside and assure him that I beyond anyone should not shake him. Certainly my good intentions will shine through the awkward gape in language.

Of course not.

 I wish you could see this kid though. He shakes like a roll on a snare drum.

25th time

Saturday I woke up and it was the day I was born, only twenty-five years later.  That's not what struck me first though.  What struck me first was the thud-thud-thud-and-so-on of construction.  Brittney ran into the room like a kid who's just slammed the door in the face of the weird neighbors' angry dog that go out and chased them down the block.

"Ohmygodthere's a guy with a badmintonracket."

So it wasn't construction, it was an angry person.

Brittney thought it was the man who was angry, hitting something with the badminton racket.  The sound was too deep though.  I didn't believe it.  We phoned Whitney, who lives in 306.

"It's some girl kicking the door," she said, and I could hear the screams now.  Maybe the man had gone to investigate with the racket for protection.  Probably though he is just a sportsm'n.

I am not about to waste an opportunity like this.  I am getting suitably dressed and investigating.  By the time I get up there she's gone.  There is a pillow on the stairs, pink, with two dirty shoe prints stamped in it.  The number pad, (we don't have keys), for the door in question is heavily askew.  I am heading back down the stairs and I pass a girl heading up.  I believed she was a curious neighbor like me, and so I give her the appropriate "search me what's going on" type of shrug.  She says something, I don't remember what but it gives her away clearly as the jackhammer.

"What's the problem?" I ask her.  She's past me at this point, walking up the stairs as I walk down.

"What is your fucking problem," she says through a sob and a thick accent.

There was a bit more pounding, but shortly there after she was admitted entry into the apartment.  Whitney said that she only ever saw an old woman go in there before that morning.  The woman's screaming carried out, but now out of the hallway she was muffled by all the walls between us.  I didn't pay too much attention though.  I was too busy thinking about how I'd woken up twenty-five.  I was so busy with this that I went back to bed.  It was only 8 am.  I would have a long good day.

K.I.S.S.E.S.

My cold feet tell me I should have turned on the heat

I'm finally the owner of a FULL DRIVER'S LICENCE.  It came in the mail all the way from Canada.  But why did customs feel the need to open it?  I mean, they only opened it a little.  You can not in any way see inside the envelope.  I guess they hold it upside down and see if a white power falls out?  Don't send your home made baking powder by mail.  At least my picture looks good.  I needed a hair cut and now my driver's licence will suggest to anyone who is required by law to ask me for it that I am the handsome bassist for an Oasis cover band.

The kids at school all have box cutters.  Have I mentioned this before?  I have been wondering a lot about what that means.  A lot of people would tell you that if you give over a thousand kids knives, pack them 35 a room and leave them unattended several times a day there would be at least one set of stiches in a year.  So far so good though.  Do we think too poorly of kids, treat them as though their heads are held on by string and teach them to act accordingly?  Or is this a master stroke, hiding what every boy in the seventh grade really wants right in front of his face so he doesn't even realize how much stupid fun he could be having with it?...

Today was the first day of my 'beginner' after school speaking class.  Things were going alright and I got a little ambitious near the end.  You can't explain to a kid who doesn't understand you at all that you've made a mistake and your time is nearly up so you'll be brainstorming and coming at this lesson from a different and more 'you-don't-speak-English' angle.  You can't explain this to 9 kids either.  And so you don't.  You just tell them, "O.K.  Go.  Leave." and you smile and you hope their parents' are ambivilent enough not to ask them, "what did you learn in your special after school class today?"