Cherry and Coco

On a dog day last summer, I hung by the pool chatting with another mom. Her child was going into fifth grade, the final year of elementary. My oldest was headed to secondary.

She asked, “What do you think of our neighborhood middle school?”

“Does anybody ever want to send their kid to sixth grade?”

My quip gave her an opening. She confided that one of my daughter’s classmates would be headed across town to a school with a more desirable student body.

“Why?”

“She thinks it’s full of gangs and drugs.” And fewer white kids.

“I love our neighborhood. It’s diverse.”

“Yes. Diversity is good. Up to a point. I’ll be interested to hear how you feel about it later.”

Through the wavy heat, I watched Cherry bounce a perfect dive off the board. Her golden skin glistening before she disappeared into the water. I turned back to the mom, still debating the merits of School A over School B. Racism disguised as polite conversation. Had my daughter faded in the sun? Did she assume that since I was white, I wouldn’t take offense? Didn’t my Chinese children count? I stared into the deep end of the pool waiting for Cherry to surface. She did. And I said nothing.

Six months later, I picked up my youngest from elementary school. She climbed into the mini van, head low. ”What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Coco, I know you’re upset.”

“Those boys.” The same three that had taunted her all year. “They made fun of me. And T__ did the eye thing.”

I walked around to her side and opened the door. “Get out of the car.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You’re going to tell your teacher.” Ten minutes later, Coco was healed, simply by standing up for herself.

The next day, her teacher assembled a line-up of fourth and fifth graders, all of Asian descent except for one. She said to the boy, “When you put down one person for who they are, you’re making fun of everyone. Now, you have to apologize to the whole group.”

It was a tough moment, but he wasn’t likely to be a repeat offender. I wish I’d said the same thing to that mom. Diversity is good, always. Not up to a point.

I know the answer, and I don’t like it.

In the summer of my discontent, brought on by global warming–you deniers out there should check the thermometer–and the unemployment rate, I find myself as rebellious as my dog on a leash. She resists, even when she wants to walk. For the dog I found a solution, a nifty device called the Gentle Leader. It’s a head collar that points a schnauzer’s nose in the right direction. I slip the loop over her muzzle, and she follows me everywhere.

For me, the solution is painful. I succumb to a schedule. From 7 to 8, coffee. From 8 to 9, exercise. From 9 to 10, journal and blog. At 10, the alarm on the laptop will tell me to work on the book.

It’s 9:55. Time to point my nose the right direction.

]]> http://elisabethcrisp.com/2011/08/04/at-the-sound-of-the-bell/feed/ 0 Elisabeth Crisp http://elisabethcrisp.com/2011/04/24/badwill/ http://elisabethcrisp.com/2011/04/24/badwill/#comments Sun, 24 Apr 2011 23:18:39 +0000 Elisabeth Crisp / @crisplyspoken http://elisabethcrisp.com/?p=3439 ]]> I wonder if this Michigan politician will forgo his paycheck to cut spending? I wonder where he buys his suits? Goodwill? The Salvation Army? Garage sales? This story is fodder for Little Orphan Annie or Lemony Snicket. Too bad he’s serious. Read here.

On the way home I stopped for a train to pass. When I looked down, the buttons on my Henley weren’t visible. At first, I didn’t get it. Then, I laughed. People must think I’m crazy. My hair was wild–long and gray. My glasses were perched on my head. My clothes were inside out.

We are not meant to be nocturnal. Man is not a skunk wandering for miles in the dark. We need to see where we’re going. I don’t know the future, but it’s not building cars in a factory at night.

I survived ABBA the first time. When I taught high school, I had to ban it from the audio cassette player on trips in the school mini-van. They had cassette players then, before iPods. The music isn’t offensive–the first time you hear it. The problem is you keep hearing it. Dancing Queen is a carcinogenic ear worm.

This morning Cherry came into my room before school. ”Mom, make it stop. Please make it stop. It’s been seven days.”

I applied the only known cure for Mama Mia, Bob Dylan. I hope he works.

With a few exceptions, it’s an eclectic assortment of places I don’t want to go produced by automated drones sent to infiltrate my world. Every morning, I check the stats page, and there’s a new one. Part of me wants to click and peak, but as a grown-up, I know that some places are best left alone.