January Book Report: Invisible Child by Andrea Elliot

 I read Invisible Child for the faculty book club at school.  I knew of the story from having read some of it in the New York Times, where Elliot worked as a reporter and first conceived of the story.

The book follows the life of a girl named Dasani, born in 2001, and 8 years old and living with her family in a homeless shelter in Brooklyn when the story begins.  We follow Dasani, her parents, and her seven siblings for 10 years.  Elliot’s account is both compassionate toward Dasani and her family and condemning of the discordant and failing maze of social services for homeless families in NYC and, I suspect, the nation.

Dasani and her family are Black and that clearly has an affect on them.  They are homeless and often hungry.  They rely on a social services network that is painfully bureaucratic even while it spends millions of dollars each year without securing safe housing for children and families.  There are more than 75,000 homeless children enrolled in NYC public schools and Elliot’s account of the schools - especially McKinney Middle School in Brooklyn - reveals that these institutions are staffed by teachers and administrators who truly care but who are also trying to provide  education as a balm and solution amidst a torrent of disasters that befall poor children.  It’s too great a task in far too many cases.

 Elliot’s account of ACS and NYC social services is less compassionate.  Though sometimes staffed by people who genuinely care they are just as likely to be overwhelmed by rules and bureaucracy.  Services and care are often dismal as a result.  Since we are talking about children and families, dismal is a disaster. 

At one point, Dasani and her siblings are in foster care - separated from their parents and one another - at a cost in excess of nearly $50,000 a month.  That kind of money would - of course - be better spent housing, clothing, and feeding the family than it would be balkanizing them.  The separation is disastrous for many of the children, not to mention their parents.  The children who do survive it, do so with social and emotional wounds that may haunt them for the rest of their lives.  The best outcome is for a member of the family to be limping along but never thriving.

It is well-known that I prefer a happy book.  This story is not happy.  But it was utterly compelling and revealed a family that had complicated needs and problems but always - always - had love.  In that, there is happiness of a sort.  Love is clearly not enough but it is a start and a social services network that keeps that knowledge at its core might be able to truly help.  It should never be acceptable in this rich nation for a child to be hungry or homeless.  The problems that result from that are assuredly complex.  But, as Elliot thoughtfully demonstrates, the cure need not be worse than the condition itself.  

Notes on January

 During the “flatten the curve” portion of the pandemic, when school was fully remote, we scrambled to find activities for the students to do together on line that weren’t video games.  One of those activities was a digital word game art project called Word Pack.  It was fun and I still play with it, using the app to celebrate the month or a season.  For me, it’s a way to mark the tiny pleasures of each month. As of Thursday, in my corner of the world, January is gaining light at both sunrise and sunset.  That seems reason enough to celebrate and share my January graphic, which was mostly about being cozy at home.

Gilmore Girls

In the last few weeks, I’ve taken to re-watching the Gilmore Girls series.  I started with episode #1 and I’m slipping in an episode here and there in the evenings when I have the time to watch. 

I had forgotten how much I love this show but damn, do I love this show. 

I first began watching when JT was born, the year the show began.  We lived in Nebraska and my little of family of three was in tact.  When I became a single mama in 2006, the show’s final season was a welcome companion as I navigated single parenthood.  Lorelai Gilmore and I don’t have a lot in common, but we did share the challenge of being a mama-on-our-own and Lorelei’s character was both a comfort and an inspiration as I navigated the waters of single parenting. 

Lorelei is the mother of a girl and I have a son, but there were many parallels in our world, among them the times when we came of age and the world of the 90s and early 2000s.  These days, more than 20 years after the show first aired, there is both nostalgia and comfort to be found in the quick-wit and delight in small-town New England living and I am reminded both of how much I love my little corner of New Jersey and  how far I’ve come in the last 20 years.  

Fire Woman

I like to joke that my walk-on music is “Fire Woman” by The Cult.  It’s a song which commands attention and in my rich imagination it would make Middle School students sit up and take notice if this song is blasted when I enter the room. 

Reality is that Middle Schoolers generally do listen to what I have to say and the most use I get out of “Fire Woman” is in the parking lot at Costco on a Saturday, when “Fire Woman” at high volume helps me to summon the courage I need to try and back out of my parking spot, amidst the carts that have been abandoned and the wandering shoppers strolling through the parking lot to the store, drunk on excitement about the 72 rolls of toilet paper they will soon bring home. 

Internet, this is what 55 looks like.

Cooking Journal - January

 I love to set a table for dining.  I like dishes and linens (and have more of them than is reasonable or necessary in my small home); I like the look of my antique farm table when it’s set for daily supper; I like sitting down to eat a homemade meal in the dining room.  I’m a good cook and over the years I’ve learned to make elaborate and time-consuming dishes for weekend dining.  But I’m just as likely to put a tasty supper on the table at the end of a busy work day.  I am grateful for both skills; cooking is one of the main ways that I care for myself and my family. 

When T and I were together, she preferred to eat while watching television.  But for the occasional Friday night pizza and a movie, I found this habit appalling.  But I told myself that relationships are about compromise and I ate in front of the TV.  In the months since we parted, I am also able to recognize that it was easier to eat on a TV tray than deal with the passive aggression that would greet a meal served at the table. That is - perhaps - a story for another day.

Since T departed, meals are now served at the dining room table.  I’ve made quite a few new recipes as well, which is also a source of pleasure to me.  I gave myself Jen Hatmaker’s, “Feed These People” for my birthday and so far every recipe I’ve made from the cookbook has been a winner.  That is certainly the case for this pork banh mi sandwich that has become a delicious favorite. 

It’s easy to make and smells amazing.  It’s as good in leftover form as it is when served fresh, thanks to the pickled veg served on top.  Most of the work to make it comes together in the morning (or even the night before) and that is also pleasing, as it sets me up for a quick meal to be on the table on a busy night.  Home-cooked meals served on a nicely set table are one of the easiest pleasures in life and that’s happy, indeed.

In the Winter Woods

I can never get enough of being outside and in all seasons, I like to go for a walk in the gardens of Colonial Park.  The gardens stretch along the D&R Canal, with open fields and a trail that offers plenty to see.  There are lots of other places I like to go for a walk, but this place is my favorite and offers enough variety that I never seem to tire of it.

My favorite seasons are Spring and Fall, because everything is changing and because the weather is often mild enough for me to be outside for hours, walking and then reading and resting on one of the many benches in the gardens and lawns.  Winter is trickier because sitting outside is less comfortable but I am cold-hearty enough for a good long walk.  

This past weekend, I took my walks in the mid-afternoon, when the sun was high. 

 

In the Summer, the trail is mostly shaded and offers a cool respite from the heat.  But the weekend was cold and the sun was lovely on the trail, shining through the limbs of trees now bare of leaves.  

Though it’s just mid-January and there is plenty of Winter left on the calendar, I’m already turning my imagination toward the Spring, with its fresh blooms and hopeful promise. It’s nice to look forward.

Monthly Gratitude: Roxy Music's "More Than This"

This month’s gratitude is a shout out to my favorite song: “More Than This” by Roxy Music.  The song was first recorded in 1982 and released on the Avalon album.  I don’t remember where I first heard it - though it was probably on KROQ radio in LA - but I do remember that I liked it straight away.  Over the years, the song has become my very favorite.  I play it when I’m happy and when I’m sad; when I’m celebrating or feel especially grateful to the universe.  I play it just because. 

At first, the song served as a way to mark a particular moment of joy:  getting my first teaching job while in grad school; when I moved into my first house; finding out that I was pregnant; celebrating the birth of that baby; getting my job in New Jersey; moving into Sassafras House on Second Street; falling in love; doing something from my bucket list.  “More Than This” has been there for so many happy parts of my life. 

In the last few years, this song of which I never tire has become less about a particular celebration and more of a reminder to appreciate the here and now, imperfect though it may be.  I listen to “More Than This” a great deal; in some patches of time, I listen to it every day. *I know every chord of the song, the way it begins and closes, the way the notes rise and fall.  The long bridge of instrumental music at the end of the recording, a sound that reminds me of the grace I experience in this life.  I never tire of the song nor its reminder that life, as well as its trials and joys, are fleeting.  There is nothing to be gained from wishing time away and everything to be gained by embracing - and loving - what we do have.  After all, as the song reminds me, “there is nothing more than this.”

Reflections on a Trip to Costco

I go to Costco with an empty trunk, a list, a ponytail holder, clothing with pockets, and wearing comfortable shoes. 

In all fairness, I go everywhere this way.  But every trip I make to Costco reveals that this is not the approach of all shoppers.

Without fail, I roll into the Costco parking lot and see a shopper with an overflowing cart (or two!) that is now to be crammed into an already overflowing car.   You don’t just show up at Costco, so I find this choice perplexing.  It’s January and now you’re in a cold and windy parking lot trying to cram 150 rolls of toilet paper into your jam-packed car vehicle.  How does this happen?

The number of shoppers wandering around without a plan (and, as a consequence, now-overly full carts packed with cereal their children will never fully consume) astounds me.  It’s not the biggest problem in the giant store but it’s also not how I roll.

To the lady wearing leather pants and stiletto heels: I salute you.  I will admit that I am confused.  This is not a club, it’s a bulk-buy warehouse, but you do you. 

I learn a great deal on my trips to Costco and I will note for the record that though I am often startled, I am never disappointed.

Style Journal: Believing in Myself

 I like silver jewelry and wear a few pieces on the regular.  A few years after I became a single parent, as my grief receded and I settled into a routine that I enjoyed, I bought myself a chunky silver ring that was inscribed “believe in yourself.”  It was a timely reminder both of how far I had come and the path ahead.  I wore it all the time, on whatever finger I wanted, but often on my left hand ring finger, as if to signal to the world that I belonged to someone.  

Over time, I grew more comfortable with an empty left hand ring finger and I moved the “believe in yourself” ring to my right hand.  I wear it always and feel half-dressed and unprepared to face the world if I somehow forget to slip it on my finger. 

A few years into my relationship with T, we picked out matching silver bands that we each wore on our left hand.  I never took my ring off and liked both the feel and the look of the glinting silver band.  It was a sign that I mattered to someone; that I was chosen.  I liked the feeling and signal of the ring, even as the relationship began to crumble and no longer offered a sense of unconditional love or being chosen.  It had become a symbol of what once was and what I hoped might return.  With a combination of sadness and relief, I took the ring off when we separated. 

My now-bare finger showed the groove of the ring I had worn for so long.  The empty finger was more than I could bear and I wondered what I should do next.  For my birthday,  I had bought myself a curated mystery box from GLDN.  It arrived on November 7, the day after the blow-up.  Among the surprises was a silver band stamped with bumble bees, the kind that pollinate the flowers that make life so glorious in the Spring and Summer.  Those bees and that band seemed like a sign from the universe.  Reasoning that all the fingers on my hands belong to me, I slipped the ring onto my left hand and I’ve worn it ever since. *On my left hand, the bees keep watch.  On my right hand, I am reminded to believe in myself.  What the rings symbolize to the world, I can’t say.  What they symbolize to me is that I am strong and worthy; that I deserve to exist and that I am enough.  

A Writing Habit

To ease the swirling thoughts in my mind, I have always written in a journal, a habit begun when I was in the fifth grade.  Over the years, some of those journal thoughts became this blog, which I have loved.  Postings fell off in the last two years, at first because in the early days of the Covid quarantine (remember when we hoped to flatten the curve?) I began a hand-written Covid journal.  I closed out the Covid journals in June of 2021 but never quite returned to the blog. 

I think that’s because my journal was filled with growing anxiety about my relationship with T and though I could identify and acknowledge that truth there, I was still hiding it from the world.  I never wanted the blog to be dishonest and so it was mostly neglected in 2021 and 2022. 

Since our breakup, I’ve made an effort to return to the blog, cultivating ideas to write about and share in this place that I consider a digital record of my life since 2006, when the blog first began.  For me, writing is like any other habit worth having: it needs to be intentional.  

One way I’ve organized that intention is by setting up regular monthly things to write about.  Since the blog began, the “About Me” section has been updated monthly, a habit that helped me to identify a list of the things that made me happy.  When the habit began, I was combatting an excruciating depression by looking for small sources of happiness.  That monthly list has paid me dividends over the years and I credit it with helping me through a very dark patch.  Early on, I used the 1st of the month to write a monthly post about something growing in my yard.  Later, the last day of the month became a book review.  Cooking and gardening became regular, if not always monthly features; so did postings about my front porch.  In 2023, I’ve made a plan for other monthly posts: Monthly Nature, Style, Gratitude, and Cooking posts will join the first and last of the month regulars.  In this way, I set myself up with things to write about as I once again manage life as a singleton.  I am a creature of habits; I take pleasure in the ways they structure my days, months, and years.  I expect these new habits to provide a framework for me as I search for peace and gratitude in this next chapter of my life.

The Ides of January 6

When the House of Representatives met earlier this week to select the new Speaker of the House, I kept my fingers crossed in the hopes that Republican Kevin McCarthy - of whom I am no fan - would have a rough ride.  Like every other observer, I figured there would be a few defectors - enough to keep the job from McCarthy in a few rounds of voting - before everything settled down and he became the Speaker.  I think that McCarthy thought the same thing but wow….KMc and I were wrong. 

I could not be more delighted. 

From the advent of the racist Tea Party to the Trump-or-die Freedom Party wing of the GOP, I have been waiting for the Republican party to finally blow up.  It’s clear that mainline Republicans have little in common with the Matt Gaetz crew but Republicans have always been good at coming together for the good of the order, if not the good of the nation.  I didn’t think that selecting a new Speaker of the House would bring about a fracture of this magnitude, though it’s a fracture I’ve been waiting to see.

Trump’s nomination in 2016 left me convinced that a GOP breakup was imminent.  I could not believe that the decent Republicans still in the party could make their way forward with the Trumpers.  I was wrong and as the decent folks began to defect from politics all together rather than confront the elephant in the room, the remaining Republicans adjusted quite nicely to the lunacy, even holding on after January 6 when they temporarily had the power to cast Trump out.  I confess that I didn’t see the 2023 Speaker’s election as the point that the party would finally erupt into a circular firing squad.  Yet here we are and, while it lasts, I plan to enjoy it.

I know that it’s not good for the nation; I recognize that it’s a potentially significant fracture in democracy’s skeleton.  I think that if McCarthy does finally get the Speaker’s position, he’s already given away much of the power of the position and he will fail.  His defenders keep repeating that McCarthy is a “good leader.”  The week’s events - and the 11 failed votes to select the Speaker - suggest otherwise and, honestly, point out the real problem of the GOP.  All these years with no faction willing to stand up to the Tea Party, then Trump, and now the Freedom Caucus have left them rudderless and without the ability to lead.  This week’s events are a preview of the dysfunctional House we are about the experience with a Republican majority.  That’s not good for the GOP and it isn’t good for the nation.  At this point, I think the demise of the Republican party is the only thing that can save us.  It seems fitting that we arrive at this moment on January 6.

Saturday, 1/7 update: McCarthy was elected Speaker on the 15th vote but it's looking to be a title in name only, as he negotiated away much of the authority of the position to have the title.  Time will tell how regrettable that decision will prove to be.  I am still convinced that the GOP is fractured beyond recovery and cannot survive in its current incantation.

Among the Trees: Winter Sunsets

Lately, I’ve been reading about stargazing and I came across an article that explained why Winter sunsets are so beautiful.  It has to do with the arc of the sunset as compared to the position of North America relative to the sun in Winter months.  There was plenty more science in the explanation but the real take-away for me was a reminder to check out the sky at twilight.  We’ve had some lovely sunsets of late and pictures hardly do it justice, though this one will have to do. 

As I wait for the sunlight in our days to truly lengthen, the daily sunset is my welcome companion for the Winter.  It isn’t always be lovely to behold but that’s okay, because the daily sunset is a reminder to stop and look for the beauty around me.  That’s happy at any time of year.

Back in the Swing of Things

We’ve a half day of professional development today and classes resume tomorrow.  I am ready to return to my routines and see my students.  In the coming weeks, we’ll be exploring the place of the U.S. in the world and American participation in WWI.  From there, we’ll move on to the 1920s and it’s a fun decade to teach, so the next few months will feature some very enjoyable history for students and me to explore as we weather the cold.  

I am recognizing that one side effect of the breakup with T is that I no longer feel guilty for loving my job.  She hated hers and I always felt sad about that, not only because it’s hard to help someone whose days are often miserable but because work is a pleasure for me and always has been.  It provides structure and meaning in my days and I value that.  Even when I am frustrated - and that invariably happens - I still feel grateful that I get to teach something that I love to students whom I value at a school that works effectively.  That’s not a bad way to spend my days and it's a nice thing to acknowledge as I move into 2023.

January 1: Taking Root

In December, I began to think again about this blog, which has been neglected in the last couple of years.  For a long time, I was grateful for this place to record my thoughts and mark the passage of time.  I’m not the sort to make resolutions, but I’ve enjoyed writing of late and the blog is back for now.  I’m looking forward to posting more often this year.   

As has been my custom, I’ll start each month with a post about something in the natural world.  This year, that’s going to be the houseplants that bring me happiness on a daily basis.  I’ve a bit of a green thumb and I love houseplants.  More than two dozen flourish in my care and they are all over the house and my office at school.  Some go outside for the summer; all of them bring me joy and help me to feel grounded. 

Like any good mama, I don’t have a favorite plant.  Each is valued on their own terms and each is meaningful to me for a different reason.  For January, I pick this little pothos, which currently has a spot on the radiator in the dining room. 

I have many a pothos plant; they are easy to care for and they grow in abundance.  Some of mine have variegated leaves; others are a verdant green  This plant was started from clippings from the plant that lives on the top of my living room bookshelf.  It had begun to trail the floor and, loathe to throw out the trimmings, I showed JT how to transplant them.  We did that in the midst of our hard summer and I can remember telling him that life was sometimes like a plant waiting to take root; not always much to look at but always with potential.  I told him that the tiny transplant was an investment in hope for the future.  Privately, I crossed my fingers that the plant would take root and begin to thrive and that when it did, JT would also be better situated. 

This little plant is in a better place today, as is the son who helped me to grow it.  I start 2023 with gratitude for this growth, and that feels like the right note for a new year.