By Reader Demand...

There has been some noise from the peanut gallery – apparently some persons do not want to read every nuanced detail of my various lingering illnesses, but hey, there’s no accounting for taste! – so this entry is dedicated to all of you out there who’ve made your voices heard; you know who you are…

Prologue: In order for you to appreciate the upcoming story, you need some material for comparison. Let us say this – last Saturday was typical of a weekend here for me. I spent the morning at the school on the internet, mostly catching up on email, g-chatting, and reading Gail Collins of the New York Times. After some serious internet gluttony, I rode my moped home where I was accosted by pleas to “come with me, I want you play with my ninjas” from Jimmy. Luckily it is possible to zone out and read your own book while occasionally emitting a “bwhaha” (don't make fun of my stock evil laugh) and pretending to attack his lego ninjagos – 3 year olds have amazingly self-centered personalities and therefore hardly pay attention to you, anyway. Finally, I took a distinctly tepid bath during which I promised myself yet again I would boil hot water to add to the tub next time and continued to re-read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the second time. Then I cursed the rain and sprinted down the road to a friend’s house where I was part of a lovely dinner party of four, ate delicious couscous and steak (and cows here are like agricultural gold, so it was a truly amazing treat!), discussed where it was possible to buy cheese, drank moderately copious amounts of beer, red wine, and finally aged rum, watched and almost died laughing at the movie Bridesmaids, and returned home by midnight. A stellar night! Throw in a little tennis and a little teaching (both awesome, by the way, but to be discussed at a later date) and you pretty much have a full picture of my life here…

The scene: An evening reception at the British Embassy, Havana. I have received an invitation originally intended for my father, who twisted someone’s arm (or, more likely, asked politely) to transfer the invite my way. Therefore, it says “Mrs. Elizabeth White and spouse” on the invitation, and when I RSVP that I shall be attending alone, the very nice gentleman on the line consoles me with, “what a shame” (to be fair, in Spanish “que lastima” sounds slightly less obnoxious than it does in English – but not much).

The attire: After stressing about what to wear to an event at the British Embassy, I decide on something classy and a tiny bit boring, with a sharp grey pencil skirt and a black, sleeveless silk shirt. The most exciting thing on me are my earrings, which are long and thin and made of grayish looking rhinestones (trust me, they are a lot prettier than they sound!), and possibly my eye makeup, which is pink and gold and calculated to bring out the green in my eyes (the school newspaper, of which I am co-advisor, ran an article on makeup tips I had to edit for this month’s edition, but again, more tales about school later).

The arrival: By taxi, ten minutes early. The guard outside the gate has the balls to tell me “It’s at 7:30” when I walk up and I have to ask coldly, “You’re seriously not going to let me in?” He opens up (but only after informing me I must stay in his sight) and I wait awkwardly by the fountain until the events coordinator, the very same “what a shame” utterer, waves me in. I walk in to a quite empty British embassy, where I find an elegant woman waiting with outstretched hand at the threshold. She looks at me quizzically and asks me to please tell her again my name, and I reassure her that she has never met me. When I explain how I have come to be here, she croons, “Oh, yes, William, of R****lic Bank.” Then she leads the way to a group of three men, one of whom, she informs me, is an ex-minister, Lord Wilson. When we arrive at the group of three, which includes one noticeable tall man in a business suit, they turn to each other, then back to me and excuse themselves for needing to finish their conversation about “a meeting earlier.” In fact, I am shooed away in that politely rude way that only the British have mastered! Turning back to the main hall, (why did she bother walking me out of the main hall in the first place?!)  I chat to the events coordinator for a while because, hey, at least he is willing to talk to me!

The night wears on: Two mojitos later, I’m having a grand old time. From these inauspicious beginnings, I talk to a random, sweet, and as it turns out slightly boring Cuban couple, in which we awkwardly avoid the subtext of communist regime in our effusions of how much we like Cuba; I see a few of my dad’s friends, one of whom I especially like and greet as a life-saving floatation device – but to my credit, I only greet and chat with him briefly before I move on; he turns out to be talking to the tall fellow (see above, “the arrival”) whom I tease mercilessly by recounting the tale of the polite English brush-off; I later meet a few Peruvian expats who promise to invite me to their monthly luncheons with the one Peruvian chef in Havana; I then find myself chatting to the ex-minister, whom I also tease, and only later realize how incredibly impudent this is (the guy was apparently good buddies with Fidel, plus being a Lord, plus being a minister… meanwhile, a part-time tennis-playing high school teacher is gleefully ripping him apart and probably laughing over-enthusiastically (as per usual). Best of all, afore mentioned favorite friend of dad’s offers me a ride home so no awkward waiting for taxi! Woohoo!

The aftermath: Although I have only consumed my three beverages and am home by half past nine (seriously, all weekday parties should be as whirlwind), I do not sleep well and wake up distinctly groggy. A stunning sky-wide rainbow – only my third ever – streaks through the clouds during tennis this morning and I work hard, sweating out my tiredness and any residual toxins. My tennis coach’s son, who’s taught me once before and who I considered really quiet, turns out to have a stutter. I talk nearly non-stop, laughing and joking, until he likely thinks I am a total ditz – but a warm, friendly ditz. He finally starts talking, despite the stutter, so the character assassination turns out to be worth it (besides, let’s face it – I sort of am a ditz with diarrhea of the mouth, anyway). 

Isn't turpentine a known carcinogen, or am I making that up??

My internet silence these past few weeks is not to be taken as a sign either that I have been unusually happy and therefore too busy to write or that I have been unusually despondent and therefore too depressed to share any news. Rather, I have been unusually – even for me! – ill and too pathetic to stay out of a prone position long enough to make use of the internet, my verticality being preserved for essentials like teaching and playing tennis (actually, I only managed to play seven hours of tennis in the last three weeks compared to a typical fifteen, and three of those seven hours occurred on one blissfully, if temporarily, healthy day). 

Anyone who knows me well is probably not shocked, as I have a reputation for catching every cold and flu that even considers flitting past, but this time it’s ridonkulous. I mean, seriously – twenty two days of phlegm, cough drops, and mysterious pains in my elbows and knees… not to mention other unpleasant symptoms, like a splitting headache and tonsils the size of golf balls (tennis balls would have made for a more fitting, if hyperbolic, metaphor). As my Dad would say, I’ve been sick as a dog.

Putting aside both the weirdness of this idiom (if I had internet access at home I would so be googling that right now!) and the various folk wisdoms I’ve been told about how foreigners always catch this particularly virulent flu (I feel reverse kinship with the native Peruvians upon first contact with the germ-bringing Europeans), the change of seasons always makes people sick, and drinking pineapple juice is bad for the flu because it makes you cold (regardless of the temperature at which it is drunk) – and that’s a lot to put aside – let me make the profound statement that being sick really sucks. There were a few moments when I almost abandoned my anti-antibiotics stance in my desperation to feel better, especially for the five days when I was coughing about fifty percent of the time I was conscious and my lungs were tight little knots in my chest (just as I was about to break, my chest loosened at last and I could breathe, praise jesus). But don’t worry, all ye believers in the antibiotic, and especially my mother – the doctor came to see me today and he pronounced my lungs to be of sound health, free of pneumonia or bronchitis, and prescribed something to help open my bronchial tubes. I have never been so excited about taking deep breaths! 

Also they sell something called “Vapor Rub” here but one of the ingredients is turpentine… please tell me that Vick’s does not have paint thinner in it and that this is a sad third-world poisoning only. I slathered that stuff on and even dissolved it in hot water and inhaled the fumes, as per the directions, before it occurred to me to check the ingredients out of curiosity. Turpentine!

Anyway last week we were on vacation, although as I only enjoyed three days of good health it was not quite the song and dance it should have been. But I had a few moments of real joy – a healthy afternoon with teacher friends in Havana Vieja, drinking beer and sangria and having real conversations in Spanish (which only included minimal lapses into English on my part when I really did not know how to describe something any other way); teaching my sister to play pool and watching her beat my brother, who wins at nearly everything; kicking said brother’s butt at ping pong (ok, it was a two point win so “kicking his butt” might be an exaggeration. And I am ashamed to admit it but he is eight); re-reading Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince in four days; my brother Jimmy telling me in English “you a bad sister because you farts smell really bad” (add the little kid Cuban accent and the fact that he is three, and you can see how this shocking insult transforms into pure cuteness); actually winning a game of Spider Solitaire on the Medium difficulty setting!!

It’s the little things in life. 

In short, I am happy and well – or at least, I should be in three more days according to the doctor – and the only thing to dampen my spirits is the distinct lack of email from certain parties (emails that only say “tell me what you’re up to” don’t count – it’s a back and forth, people!). If I fall into that category myself, let me only say, “oops.” I’ll write soon, I promise.

I’m flying to Miami this Friday for a few days with my mother and brothers – cannot wait to see them! – with a list I have been compiling of “things I really really want to bring back to Havana from the non-embargoed world.” 

Top of my list is Nyquil – you would not believe how difficult it is to get your hands on a bottle of cough syrup! Ooh, and an electric tea kettle – a little piece of England in Havana…

My rational/irrational mind

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot about astrology – my natal chart, which planets were in which house, which angles were formed between which planets at the moment I was born. If you’ve known me for years, this won’t surprise you, because it’s an interest that goes back a few decades – I can remember going over my chart with my dad as a ten year old – and it’s not a secret. I mean, read the title of this blog.

Perhaps by now you are used to this quirk of mine, and put it in the same category as my dislike of ice cream and chocolate – weird, but not that important in real life. But yesterday I read something that made me stop and consider. I’m not generally thought to be irrational (at least, if so, you haven’t told me). I’m not superstitious about shoes on the bed or keeping wishes to yourself (I remember the bewilderment I felt when my drugged, post-appendectomied sister, who could barely sit up and say her name, mumbled a stern reproach at me for daring to rest her flip-flops on the hospital bed for a minute, as a sign not of poor hygiene but bad luck – and even more so, when I related her bizarre behavior to my mother and she responded with, “You never put shoes on the bed!” – I mean, did I grow up in the same family as these people? When did we learn that?). I have a perhaps too intense interest in evolution and am an agnostic because I see neither concrete evidence for nor against the existence of God. My mother once woke up in the middle of the night back when I was in high school, convinced my spirit had come to her as a sign I was in trouble. My predominant reaction was not gratitude or sympathy but excruciating embarrassment, since she had called all my friends' parents at one o’clock in the morning. I did not for one second believe that my “essence” had communicated with my mother (the fact that I was home watching TV in the basement while this happened didn’t help).

Having firmly established myself, then, as a rational and logical thinker, how do I explain my belief – or, more accurately, my absence of disbelief – that the location of the planets at the moment I was born can possibly reflect my sense of self, emotional temperament, and social maneuverings? I mean, logically looked at, that’s just crazy talk.

This morning, I randomly picked up Malcolm Gladwell’s book Blink and started to read it. It’s about our “adaptive unconscious” – AKA our intuition – and how it makes accurate judgments before we have sorted and analyzed information to form a conclusion. This is the part of myself I am most uncomfortable with. Often, I ignore my intuition because I don’t want to face what it is telling me. I remember a few moments with Alex, for example, when I just knew that the emotions between us would not keep us together. Raising this point to him one night, he insisted I was wrong, and pointed to our many mutual interests in writing, language, travel, family, etc. as evidence that we had every reason to expect our paths to continue running together. And of course, less than a month later, we were as emotionally distant as I’ve ever been from an ex-partner. 

This is not to say that I think I can solve my problems through my birth chart. But maybe I can learn something about myself, even if the most important thing I learn is to accept myself both as a logical, rational thinker and as a feeling, sensitive, intuiter – someone who is interested in both fossils and the rising sign at the same time. Rather than seeing these things as oppositions within me, I can see them as existing side by side – maybe even harmoniously. That I can be emotional and irrational is uncomfortable for me. This whole weekend, in fact, I have felt in desperate flux, as if I were vibrating along an out of tune piano string. I didn’t feel “grounded” – my stomach was in knots – I felt “off.” These metaphors are difficult to analyze logically (How can a person feel or not feel grounded? What exactly does that mean?) and the disconnect between my prefrontal cortex and my hyperactive limbic system left me jittering like someone on a caffeine high. I am therefore attempting to breathe deeply, watch the ocean, and get out of the house today. Do regular, normal things that put you in contact with friendly strangers. I should really go play tennis, but I don’t own a racket myself (nor do I have a tennis partner, come to think of it) so the strenuous exercise therapy will have to continue tomorrow when Mr. Gelli sends me jogging around the court and tortures me with practicing my forehand (side-note: Learning to play tennis is just as difficult for me as learning to drive a manual car was. It is SO hard for someone with my lack of multi-tasking ability to concentrate on that many different things at once! Keep your elbow out! Finish the stroke! Keep your body side-ways! Keep the racket parallel to the net! Distance yourself from the ball! Don’t move your body forward! Do hit the ball with the racket forward! I mean, ahhhhhhhh!!!!! Fortunately, I have the experience of eventually becoming a proficient manual driver behind me to give me hope that one day it will all “come together” and I’ll be able to do all this crap automatically and just focus on hitting the damn ball!).

My point, I think, is that I am not an entirely rational person and rather than scorning that side of myself as contemptible (in my first year of college, I actually articulated a belief that needing others made you weak and pathetic . No wonder I was single that year!), I should try, instead, to understand it, accept it, and breathe through the psychic discomfort. 

In case you’re interested, below are a few of the passages from the book that made me start this rambling…

North Node in Cancer:

This lifetime is about your emotions and intuition. You’re here to discover what makes you feel secure and how to establish that base so that you can fulfill your potential. When you work from a centered place within your own feelings, your life unfolds right on track. Open your heart. You probably feel that it’s a sign of weakness to depend on other people or reveal too much about your feelings. But it’s to your advantage to look inward and tend to your inner life.

Sun Square Moon:

Your feelings and sense of identity pull in differing directions. This challenges the ego. It is difficult to feel good emotionally and achieve ego satisfaction simultaneously. What satisfies the emotions pulls at the ego, and vice versa. This may create inner restlessness… A big enough vision of life must be created to include satisfaction of all needs rather than alternatively choosing some needs and then others. 

Neptune in the 4^th House:

You have close emotional ties to family, coupled with an idealized picture of how family life should be. This is the way you see your own family – as better than or worse than they are, but not realistically. As a child, you may have been placed in a care-giving role. As an adult, you have a compelling sense of obligation. You are loving and nurturing towards family. A part of you feels the need to mother the world… Living by, or being near, the ocean can provide much needed tranquility.

Saturn in Libra:

Relationships are taken seriously, and you may have fears of relational loss or social disapproval. This can make setting appropriate boundaries with people difficult. The tendency is to either inappropriately go along with other people’s demands, or to set rigid standards of relational behavior. It is important to distinguish when compromise and acceptance represent the best course of action and when standing up for principles is more appropriate.

Moon in Taurus in the 9^th House:

You value harmony and dislike conflict. In most situations, you are easygoing and avoid disagreements. However, you are much more stubborn than you appear to be, and once you make up your mind you are unlikely to change it, even when you should… You are emotionally comfortable any place in the world. You have a yearning to experience different cultures and a desire to know what is around the next corner. Your worldview, including religious, ethical, moral, and philosophical beliefs, is influenced by your travels. Yet this worldview is also colored by your emotions.

Jupiter in Scorpio in the 3^rd House:

You value justice and admire truth. You are intense about your standards. There is an attraction to the mysteries of life, getting to the underlying meaning of situations, and uncovering the true motivations of people. Your thinking is expansive and your outlook broad. This placement conveys intelligence and expands your interest in intellectual horizons. Interests may lie in writing, publishing, and communicating. At the very least, you are a good talker.

A Day in the Life...

2nd September, 2011 (Havana, Cuba)
06.45 -- Wake up, shower under pathetic water pressure, get dressed
07.05 -- Promise myself yet again that TONIGHT I really will unpack all my clothes and hang them up
07.25 -- Take breakfast orders from Johnny and Babi, but ignore Babi´s as too complicated. Make toast with grape jelly for Johnny and let someone else make Babi´s vanilla milk breakfast drink thing
07.30 -- Shove chunks of papaya (not to be called such here, where the word pretty much means ¨pussy¨, say fruita bomba instead) hurriedly into mouth. Savour the amazingness that is the ripe papaya...
07.35 -- Hop on mo-ped and speed off to ISH  (International School Havana)
07.38 -- Beam at self over how awesome my moped parking skills have gotten. Beam exceptionally brightly over ability to stand it up by myself (sounds easy but requires strange hefting motion to operate the stand -- sadly no kicking simplicity)
07.40 -- Fill mini-mug with super strong, super sweet Cuban coffee, available for all in the staff room. Mmmmm, just the way I like it!
08.15 -- Teach double period grade 8 English with 12 amazing little people. Do NOT teach lesson I planned, however, as co-teacher both hijacks the lesson AND leaves me to deliver it while she works on something she forgot to do on her computer (Do I sound bitter? I´m not, I swear, but co-teaching with a slight personality disorder -- excessive defensiveness, excessive show of submission coupled with frequent interrupting and passive aggressive behaviours -- is not easy. But working on patience and inner zen.
09.30 -- Reflect how amazing it is that even when basically Chalk-and-Talk -ed at for an hour amazing little ones still making clever jokes and behaving beautifully
10.45 -- Meet the two 12th graders with whom I am leading an independent study. LeLe and KK are sweet, thoughtful, and try their best. They choose to read Animal Farm first, which is technically banned here
13.00 -- Get invited on a day-trip to a river tomorrow. Have officially made new friends!
14.15 -- Wonder how the hell everyone here has the emotional self-discipline not to scream when the internet keeps flashing in and out of service or loads suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuppppppppppppeeeeeerrrrrr slowly. GGGGGAAAAAAKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
15.00 -- Put up bulletin board paper and staple my favourite quotes up to make ¨my¨classroom -- not really mine at all, the spare room -- cozier
16.40 -- How the fuck did the time go by so fast?!! Am in serious danger of being late to tennis lesson.
16.45 -- Arrive at home and change double time into exercise friendly clothes. Johnny reminds me how ridiculous I look in my tight cotton shorts, but it´s these or jean ones
16.58 -- By some miracle arrive on time!
17.35 -- Thank god have not smoked in 33 days. Would be dead otherwise.
18.00 -- Have made real progress in only 3 days of tennis lessons. Today I only hit three balls outside the fenced-in perimeter!! Can switch smoothly between forehand and backhand grip. Know the difference between the two!
18.30 -- Eat yummy dinner of thin steak, brown rice, and string beans. I pretty much eat string beans for every meal, maybe because they´re in season right now??
19.30 -- Play three games of Spider on the computer. Best score an eh score of 112 (Dad says a good score is under 100 moves. Bah!)
20.00 -- Log on to Gmail. No new messages!! Intend to post guilt-inducing status on Facebook about why friends never email...
20.10 -- Think kind thoughts about all my many loved ones, family and friends. Miss my little chunkster Willie in particular

All bark and no bite (no matter what the judge claims...)

My arrivals in Florida are usually marked by the spastic, desperate, uncontrolled ecstasy of my brother´s cast-off pitbull mix, Phantom. This dog has been obsessed with me for eight years after I spent a summer walking and feeding him, conferring me with "human being who makes the world go around" status and leading to baby talk and bacon bribes in failed attempts by my brother to win back the dog's affection.

Last night, however, when I opened the door to the house and braced myself, throwing myself on the ground behind my suitcase to avoid death by mauling, I knew something was wrong when, despite the customary noise of dog nails scrabbling madly on tile, I was barely even injured. Phantom had run one measly celebratory loop around the kitchen and back. He sounded like a donkey with bronchitis. His posture was decidedly stiff and his tail was not beating me senseless but agitating like an electric toothbrush with half dead batteries. On my knees, his face in my hands, I realized that his brown and white speckles were now gray and white and the faintest blue ghosts of the cataracts of the future shone in his eyes.

My mother looked at my visible distress, shrugged, and pointed out rather brutally "He's old."

Eleven months ago, last September, he wasn't old. I KNOW he wasn't. He scratched the shit out of me when I walked through the door last year.

Calculating the years, I realize that Phantom is now over 9 years old. It was nine years ago almost to the day when he first came padding in to our living room on too-big feet, sniffed around, and peed on the floor.

This was the dog who followed me around the house shadow-like and whose eyes widened accusingly when I so much as took a shower, much less went out to buy coffee. He slept with me, even on my twin-sized mattress, my body twisted in the shape of the number four to fit on the bed around him. It was my job to take him to the vet once a year, risking death by dog fight when he savagely tried to attack (slash was deathly afraid of) everything on four legs. I trained him to sit and to come here, instructions he followed in the house only, and then only if he was sure he was not in trouble. If he was worried he was being asked to come because he had done something wrong, he patheticaly scrabbled onto his back to show me his pink and naked belly skin, thus proving how utterly at my mercy he was. Or pretended to be to avoid getting in trouble.

This was the dog who ripped the leash out of my hand (back before I wised up and bought the indispensable Gentle Leader) one Christmas morning in a brave attempt to protect us from the elderly man fishing on the bank of the fake lake behind our house. Phantom scratched him with his teeth (ok, some people would call it a "bite" but that implies a depth to the injury that was not inflicted in this case) and circled him while barking menacingly. Unfortunately, the grandafther had just gotten out of surgery the day before and his son wasn't pleased by Phantom's vigilance. When he turned to me, pointed at the dog and boomed, "that dog needs to be put to sleep," I locked myself in my room with Phantom, reassuring him in whispered hysterics that I wouldn't let anyone touch him and planning wild escapes to New York involving the theft of my mother's car. Once there we would live in some desolate part of the south Bronx or in New Jersey so that we could afford a yard. My mother screamed impatiently at me through the door -- "You care more about that damn dog than the old man! He could have had a heart attack." But when I was still sobbing three hours later behind the locked door, she finally reassured me the police weren't there to take him away to die but only to photograph him and charge her a huge fine.

This dog cannot get old and die! I love him, and no one I love has ever died on me in my twenty nine years of life. He can't! He can't! He can't!

Trauma at Atlantic Terminal

Inspired by nagging from my lovely sister, I finally agreed to replace the pre-teen mono-boob style bras I purchased a couple of years ago from American Apparel. Granted, they were clearly meant to contain boobs of the minuscule proportions found on 12 year olds, but they were so comfortable. And you didn't need to try them on -- just buy the largest size on offer. I guess the people at AA didn't consider the possibility that actual grown up women would be so lazy.

So I walked in to the Victoria's Secret at Atlantic Terminal, determined to buy my first under-wire bra since I rejected these as hideously uncomfortable at age 15, when my bra size was a paltry 32 A. Upon being directed to the Bra Dressing room to be fitted, I was met so enthusiastically by a nineteen year old saleslady that I had a severe paranoid attack that I was about to have my boobs measured by a former student. Careful scrutiny of her face, however, reassured me that I had never taught her Kafka's the Metamorphosis, and therefore I could be completely honest about my lack of bra knowledge without feeling embarrassed. Sort of.

I rejected out of hand the "full coverage" option she first presented me with -- I'm 29, not 49 -- even though she warned me I would need a larger size if I wanted to go with the less-grandmotherly Demi bra option. I nodded in understanding, although this did not prepare me for the fact that I was being handed a bra sized 36 D and even more astoundingly, that it did indeed fit me perfectly. Cup size D?? My former mono-boob bra shrivelled in embarrassment that it had ever been forced to contend with such over-sized boobs.

All of which further served to confirm the dire need for ten pounds of weight loss on my five feet three inch frame. But then, will my newly purchased cotton-lingerie line bras no longer fit, effectively wasting an hour of effort and a hundred dollars (sale -- two for $49.99)?

Bah, I miss the sixties when a pair of swinging boobs barely incited a second glance...

Now would be the time for me to write profoundly obvious statements.

My last published post, according to Blogger, was 29th of March, over two months ago. And yet, until Sunday, I would say that very little had changed. I felt very much the metaphorical cow in my favorite movie, The Flower of My Secret, when the old woman tells her daughter that a woman away from home is like a cow without a bell. Lost. Wandering aimlessly.

What is the purpose of being in this world? (Oh, yes, I know what you would say, Eleanor Roosevelt, and I'm sick of you! Yes, yes, to live it -- but what does that mean?). As far as I can tell, it is to find a way to bear it. And how to bear it? To find inner peace. What brings inner peace? Besides avoiding question and answer passages like this one, I think it must be to have a sense of purpose. Shit!

There has to be something to ground me here... which is a phrase I love. Because otherwise we would float away from ourselves, as if floating was some bad thing. People are very afraid of being lost, I think. I am petrified of it. I am more petrified that I will never find someone who laughs awkwardly, just like I do, or worse, find someone who does and who doesn't care! How ridiculous to have so little control over the most important part of life.

If life is going with the flow, if life is vibrating energy particles, if life is nebulous and opaque, and if, in spite of all these things, you can't quite say 'Fuck it!' -- well, I guess I'll take the ocean, and the sun, and mangoes. Definitely mangoes. (Guavas are tastier but the name gets stuck in your mouth.)

There will be ghosts there, I am under no illusions about that. I can already imagine them, in fact, and worse, I can imagine new ones that have yet to manifest themselves. But I'll manage.

Yes, I'll manage.

sputter, sputter, cough, cough

Ups and downs, ups and downs! It's amazing how much a cup of coffee can swing you up! Good ole caffeine...

Here are some things that have brought me up lately:

• A visit from cousin Toby and his lovely sidekick Anna May, aged 8 years. Highlights include lovely baby clam pasta, a game of I Spy wherein "Tube" does not count for "something beginning with a T" as it apparently starts with a "TCH" (damn you, England!), a fox crossing the road, many good laughs and perhaps too many pints...
• A trip to the countryside, thanks to my surrogate family, the Meeks, complete with beautiful japanese influenced garden (good that something green rather than nuclear meltdown comes to mind when thinking of Japan, if only briefly), a stunning white horse, and a five hundred year old tree
• A haircut! Yes, my thick matted frizz is gone... quite a shock to see six inches of your hair felled in one swoop. But I feel so free! My hair is soft and healthy! I can wash and dry it in minutes! No more obsessively looking for split ends!

On the other hand, my room is a total tip, I still haven't purged my laptop of its raging virus, I haven't exercised outside of walking to work in months, I got rejected from Oxford, I was thoroughly bored by the last two men I tried to date, grad school in October 2012 feels miles away, I haven't gotten laid in more than half a year, I miss my friends and I really miss a decent IPA... GAK!

I am a tad worried that I am in the danger zone of a mild depression, but the Easter Holiday is coming up soon which should include exercise, family, and a few trips around the British Isles, including a week in Cork with my favourite branch of the White family, the Simmonds of Ireland... so I am hoping to recharge the sputtering batteries soon enough.

And am getting hooked on Boardwalk Empire... always loved you, Steve Buscemi!

Not the most uplifting post in the world, but never mind!

On Saturday, I walked around London Zoo for a good five hours. I even enjoyed it, although the tiger was literally pacing back and forth in his enclosure, and the lions looked even more bored than they do on the Discovery Channel. I couldn't help feeling that these animals deserve a little hunting action. Aren't there too many deer in the suburbs, anyway?

But, although the baby gorilla was completely fascinating, I didn't really start writing this post to tell you about my adventures at the zoo, no matter how cute the Emperor Tamarinds are (they have mustaches! Great, big, long, droopy staches!). It was in fact my third date with A. By the end of the second date, I had already pretty much realized that I wasn't feeling it, but I was so desperate to avoid the "he seems like he likes me so therefore there must be something wrong with him" trap and it would have been so nice if I did like him that I went on one more date. But pretty quickly I realized that yes, he really is kind of boring, too ready to agree with everything I say (even if it contradicts what he had previously just said), and too desperate to fill any silence that even I could not handle the overload of bad jokes -- and I'll laugh at almost anything!

But for the last couple of weeks, the whole thing had made me so much more anxious than it warranted that I wondered what exactly was going on. Then on Saturday morning I woke up after an anxiety filled nightmare. I had dreamt that Alex and I were getting back together again, and then he was breaking up with me again. In this dream I screamed and pulled my hair and slapped him with that bottomless rage that I only ever experience in dreams -- that wild, desperate, I-know-I'm-making-this-worse-but-I-can't-stop-myself rage -- and I woke up sweaty and out of breath. And it all made sense, my reluctance to write off A and my simultaneous anxiety that he was a boring toad... Obviously, I am terrified of being hurt again. The fact that my subconscious had to give me night sweats for me to realize this is sad but telling... And, of course, it was too late then to back out of date number three, so I went anyway and tried to enjoy the Meet the Monkeys exhibit and shrug off the constant banter from the peanut gallery.

I'm being rather harsh but it feels so good to actually know what I feel, for sure, and to know that I'm not just over-reacting to a fear of intimacy but actually just not interested that I will allow myself this chance to be horrible.

I haven't been very kind to myself recently, looking in the mirror and frowning at the bulging over love handles and pot belly that I see... I have to remind myself that, no matter how much I really might need to lose ten (or even fifteen) pounds, I still need to be kind and gentle with myself, and not take every opportunity to look in the mirror and call myself fat. I had escaped this particular female pitfall for most of my life, partly because until five years ago I was always skinny and partly because I do genuinely love my body and the pleasures that it gives me -- the feeling of water on naked skin, the soft squishyness of plump boobs, the top of a foot rubbing against the back of a calf in a comforting repeated motion (it's like my version of sucking my thumb, I think!). I do love all those things, and going only on touch my pot belly is soft and comforting... but I can't help wanting to not bulge over my jeans in a bad case of muffin top. No more how feminist I may be, this is still true.

Sometimes I have to fight the paranoid feeling that someone is mad at me, or that I've disappointed in some way. But sometimes it's based on reality -- remember the friend who dumped me a few months ago? -- and that makes it hard not to be paranoid in all situations. I have another friend, whom I love dearly, and have done for almost fifteen years... she's been too busy to see me for the last two months. Is she really too busy? Or have I somehow mortally offended her? I try to check off all the usual friendship-ending acts a person can do and can't find any that apply (I haven't slept with her boyfriend, or brother, or father; I haven't tried to sabotage her job; I haven't spread malicious rumours or posted anything about her on the internet)... so what? Is she just bored of me? Have I somehow undermined our friendship with some selfish, unthinking, stupid act? A girl could go mad!!

Anyway, this has been rather a random assortment of not-very-cheerful thoughts! On the good news front, Paris was amazing, my friend Val at least is not mad at me, Noa is crawling already, I (yes, me!) taught a British person about the NBA, one of my little munchkins made some progress connecting vowel sounds with letters, and my head did not explode despite how stressful wednesday and thursday were... all very good things!

I miss many people, and of course my family very much, but today I miss my girls the most -- Maggie, Alyson, Ariella, Barbara, Erin, Rebecca (and her girls), Valentina, Mom -- I hope you are all well and smiling.

Love, E

Fairtrade is an emotional subject for year 8 girls

So. Where to begin?  On wednesdays, I teach every single period, so it's a pretty crazy day. I have a 25 minute tea break midmorning, and a thirty minute lunch. So regardless of how smooth the day is, it's hectic. The first three periods were quite nice, working on a summative assessment about the rainforest.

Anyway, aside from a continuous whiner who ran away from class at one point, the morning went fine. Then I moved on to my year 8 (7th grade) Geography lesson, which spans two periods with lunch in between. The first period, I kicked two kids out of class because I have a new "zero-tolerance-after-two-warnings" policy about insulting each other. Then at the beginning of the second period, I asked a kid to step outside for chasing another child and swatting her. I promptly forgot about her, however, because one of my students, who is five eleven and about twice my weight, started writing a note that said "I hate everyone in this school, I wish they would just leave me alone, why does everyone say I'm a bully cause I'm bigger than everyone else? I wish my mummy was home from hospital and my brother was out of prison..." (I stopped myself from saying, well and also you are really mean to everyone) and then she started crying. Then the girl sitting next to her started crying and I noticed that SHE had written a note that said "I love my mother even though I have never seen her, I talk to her on the phone but last time she said she didn't want to talk to me anymore. I hate my life and I hate that everyone else has a mum that they've seen..." and she was also crying... then three girls made themselves cry from reading those notes (before I could stop them)... then another girl who at first said "I want to cry too" later really was crying for reasons she would not disclose... all the while the three severely special needs students were being helped with their classwork on fairtrade by the TA.

I was trying to talk to my "big bully" who was in tears, because I have a soft spot for her... In the middle of that, a girl from the year above with whom my bully had had issues in the past came in to ask me something and before she could, my blubbering bully sucked her teeth and said, "what's she doing in here" to which the strange older girl flipped and starting screaming she would put my bully in the hospital. When I finally ushered the screaming child out, and returned to my crybaby, there was a crowd of five spectators. At that point, the two kids who I had kicked out the previous period were returned to class and apologised to me, as well as being quickly brought up to speed by classmates in answer to the question, "wait, why is everyone crying?" And finally another teacher brought me the student I had asked to step outside and forgotten about!!

I mean, wwwwwwwwwwwwwhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttttttttttttttttttttt????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I feel like laughing hysterically.

Moving day is Today! Yay!

Why does the demand for a title always come first? I'll let you know the title of this entry when I'm good and ready!!

Ok, so I try not to let my mom bully me into doing things too often (heck, sometimes I don't do things just to spite aforementioned bullying -- childish, I know), but she IS right that it's been a while and I should recommence communication. Even if she may be the only one who actually cares that it's been a while!

My left wrist is hurting, however, and since I'm trying to save myself for Power Yoga tomorrow, at which, because of all the Downward Dog they make you do (I know, I know, I smirked too), you're slightly fucked if your wrist isn't up to snuff. So, long, sexual-pun-filled story short, I won't be typing too much today. Sorry, mom!

By the way, just to reassure my eager readers on that front, there has been no front. Nada, zip, zilch.

I've been hard at work and Monday I finally get my just desserts! Yes, it is easier to be left alone and in charge of vulnerable children in the UK than to open a bank account so you can get paid for it! But I finally did it, with the help of a kind associate named Jennifer. Thank you, Jennifer!

My birthday was quiet, but profoundly content. I woke up with a buzzing in my toes and in my head that said, "Today is the first day of the last year you will ever be in your twenties." While this is a slightly terrifying thought, it wasn't a bad one. I had a conviction that I had to make it count, somehow. I also kept remembering the birthday three years ago when Max accidentally bought me the candle numbers 2 and 7 for my birthday, when I was so outraged he could think I was so old. I almost want to email him to apologize -- but not that much!

Recently, I reread Little Women (I was choosing books from the classroom library in my room, ok?). The memories came flooding back. Even though it doesn't happen in this book, but in one of the sequels, I spent the whole time hating 11 year old Amy because one day she was going to marry Laurie. I don't care if Jo turned him down! They were MEANT to be together! Just another indicator of how stupid love is. Even in books for fifth grade girls.

On a positive note, my principal agreed to spend the equivalent of $500 on ordering Hi-Lo books for my classroom. All I had to do was be a ballsy, impertinent freak and ask for them on my 8th day on the job! But any points I may have scored on that front were then countered by her catching me making a cup of tea during the first two minutes of my break duty. And, stupidly, rather than answering her comment of "Elizabeth, I think you're on break duty now" with "Oh, my goodness, am I??" I said "Oh, I know, I'll be there in a sec." DOH!

Ah, well, we can't bat a hundred all the time. I used to think that phrase referred to baseball, but now I'm fairly sure it must be cricket.

Oh my, almost forgot my most important bit of news! I'm going to be a real, live, honest to goodness American citizen in less than a week! Yes, folks, Uncle Sam is accepting me as one of the fold! My vote could be the definitive one in the next election when Obama miraculously wins again (lalalalalala I'm not listening to any haters out there).

Much love and miss you. Miss you doesn't capture the longing in my... heart? gut? well, somewhere intestinal to see my favorite people with a cold delicious glass of IPA (which for some freakish reason they don't drink here!!) and a game of scrabble. or settlers. or taboo!

Oh, wait, the REALLY important news is that I'm moving today! No more four hours a day of commuting to and fro! The pair I'll be sharing with seem really nice although you'll have to wait for a later entry to find out more, since that's all I know. Yes, mom, you're right, they could be drug dealers, but I still maintain they wouldn't tell me if I asked them, anyway!

A very lazy blog entry, filled with everything you'd want to know about my new employment

Ah, listening to Rubber Soul... soooo good.

Anyway, back to the million dollar question -- or questions -- pretty much everyone who emails me only does so to ask about my new job. Fair enough! Here is my I'm-too-lazy-to-write-this-out properly list:

• It's a comprehensive academy (for Americans: a 6-12 charter school), with a total of 750 students, very few of whom are in 6th form (for Americans: non-mandatory post-age 16 school)
• I teach mostly the "nurture groups" (i.e. special ed groups) in years 7 and 8 (grades 6/7 and 7/8). I teach them English and Social Studies... If I want to modify curriculum, the lessons are all online, but I'm allowed to make up my own lessons if I think it will be better for the kids 
• My "nurture groups" have between 8 and 14 kids in them, depending on the day and who's getting pulled out for extra support, and there is always at least one teaching aide, usually two, in the room with me...
• Imagine every good idea anyone ever had at SDL but with all the funding and staff to make it happen
• Imagine an IC with a teacher in there all day and cubicles separating desks so that kids can't see each other!! Also imagine that teacher never being you!! 
• There's a room called "Fresh Start" for long-term in-house suspensions, with desks, books, computers, etc.There is obviously a teacher who mans this little miracle. And let me repeat, that teacher will never be me!
• Imagine, me, enjoying teaching middle school!! Ok, so if you knew me when I worked at North Star Academy in Prospect Heights, this wouldn't be so shocking. But imagine how much better it is now after having taught at SDL for four years! 
• Imagine kids from all over Africa, Caribbean, Middle East. Throw in a few white Londoners and a few Europeans... 
• Ok, so now for the downers: I also teach a few random periods a week, like year 11 "Life skills." I'm turning this two hour waste of space into a Pearson project, because I can and because it's more fun...
• There is no one my age in the Special Ed department. The teaching aide who most works with me has been there for 25 years, knows everything about how to get supplies, complains almost nonstop, and clearly doesn't always approve of how I do things. She sometimes yells, and I just cringe and pretend I'm not there...
• One kid said to me, "You're tough, Ms. White." Another kid said, "no you're not, you're a pushover. You don't even yell." I gave her a lecture on how allowing yourself to get angry and yell gives other people power over you. She stared at me blankly and said, "ok, Ms. White." !!!
• I am training my kids to actually call me "Ms. White" by not responding to "Miss." Partly this is my being perverse and stubborn and wanting them to have to do something different for me alone. Partly this is practical as there are always at least two adult women in the class and it's confusing. But it's hard, because even other adults call you Miss. I mean, learn my fucking name, already! You WORK with me!
• The school lunch isn't half bad, and it's only $3.50... for you Brits, that's one pound ninety...
• My current commute is fucking killer... A subway to a train to a bus... almost two hours each way. I've been getting up between five and five thirty (depending on how badly I want that shower) -- it's been so so so awful! I've been so tired all this week! Imagine me making a frowny face right now...
• Hence why I NEED to find a room in a houseshare ASAP. Have emailed a ton of places, hopefully won't be rejected from all of them!

Have moved on to different Beatles now... Mr. Postman! You gotta wait a minute, wait a minute, oh yeah...

Miss you all. Miss having time to pester you on facebook and gchat. Miss getting more than six to seven hours of sleep a night... 

Blogger should invest in the long dash. This little thing - is pathetic

Trying to figure out your place in the world is no easy task... who you are, what you should do, and how you relate to others... I've had my eyes opened so wide in the last five months... i guess that will make me a wiser person, and i'll try not to let it make me a jaded one.


It's true that looking back on myself even six months ago, never mind a year ago, I had no definite sense of what I wanted. A year ago, I was perhaps the most distraught I've ever been - deeply depressed and on the wrong medication, which made me both unable to keep my eyes open and full of restless anxiety at the same time - there's even a name for that kind of anxiety, akathisia. Here's what the Innsbruck University Clinic says about akathisia:

Akathisia is a frequent and common adverse effect of treatment with antipsychotic drugs. This syndrome consists of subjective (feeling of inner restlessness and the urge to move) as well as objective components (rocking while standing or sitting, lifting feet as if marching on the spot and crossing and uncrossing the legs while sitting).

Sounds like fun, right?


Anyway, a year ago I could barely make it through the day. Six months ago, I was in a much better place - immeasurably better - but I absolutely knew I needed some time out from teaching to figure out what it was I needed to be doing with myself. Did I want to write? travel? study? teach? I thought I could just take the little money I had saved, put all my stuff on the sidewalk next to a sign that said "Free" and get on a plane. 


Well, it turns out that life isn't that simple, folks. I mean, DUH, but there you have it... you can call it naive, you can call it retarded (in the sense of delayed, as in held back; come on people, you know me better than that) - either way I had no idea that real life was about to hit me, and hard. You can't just move in with family you barely know... DUH! You can't go travelling and gallivanting about when you don't know what you're going to be doing - or, as it turned out, where you'll be sleeping, but that's another story - in January. And you sure as fuck can't count on other people to be nice and supportive in light of all these mistakes you keep making. DUH.


I often have moments where I feel that I'm part of an interconnected human web (go ahead, you can swallow the little bit of throw up you just experienced from reading that), and then I have moments where I'm convinced I'm floating in a great, universe-sized mound of aspic, completely separate from all other living creatures. Yes, alone. Family is supposed to make you feel connected, friends are supposed to make you feel connected, but life's a bitch and you never know when she might stab you in the big toe. She won't kill you, but she'll make you wonder what the fuck you were thinking...


If I were a rational, intelligent human being, I would have saved enough money to move to London, rent a room for six months, and then fuck around deciding where to live or work or study or travel. Then, at the end of six months, I would have reevaluated the options and moved on. My parents would have cooed approvingly at my every move, and encouraged me to find myself before marriage and offspring and a bad back forced me to stop looking. My friends would have written me email updates regularly, and I would have responded with long, slightly show-off responses about what a good time I was having.


I am clearly not that human being. Maybe no one is, but that's small comfort at six pm when it's dark outside already and your dad just made you cry like a baby for twenty minutes. I mean, I am barely more than a year away from being 30. That kind of behavior is clearly unacceptable! 


On the good news front, I have a few interviews lined up for next week. Also, I have finally discovered the great American author Elmore Leonard, of whose books I have read maybe ten in the last week alone. The one I'm reading now, Bandits, is pretty damn good, combining an ex-cat-burglar and an ex-nun and an interest in Nicaraguan politics. But the Western I read a week ago (yes, he has a wide range of stylistic and literary expression), Valdez is Coming, was fucking outstanding. Seriously, if you bothered to read all this, you should go read it.