Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

Category: Uncategorized

  • APT.

    Apata-pate. Apata-pate. Apata-pate. Uh! Uh-huh, uh-huh.

    Apata-pate. Apata-pate. Apata-pate. Uh! Uh-huh, uh-huh.

    The lyrics of ROSÉ and Bruno Mars’ “APT.” have been spinning like a merry-go-round through my head all afternoon.

    Apata-pate, as I wait for Korean takeout, bibimbap.

    Apata-pate, as I work on copywriting and feel myself fading.

    Apata-pate, as I try on some clothes at Lululemon.

    Uh! Uh-huh, uh-huh! I sing to my mom as we walk through the small Target’s aisles.

    “Emmie knows all the lyrics,” Tillie told me yesterday at the playground as Emmie sang “kissy-face, kissy-face,” but I didn’t recognize the song at the time. As we climbed aboard the M79 crosstown, I told her we could watch the music video when we got to my parents’.

    We watched it 3 times. I definitely recognized the song as soon as the first verse began. In fact, not only did I recognize the song — I knew most of the words! But I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it or how I’d learned it.

    As I sit typing this slice now, I wonder: Could it be on the “P.E. 5th grade!!!” playlist that M and V made?

    I open Spotify, tap on the playlist, and sure enough, 20 tracks down, there it is.

    A song that somehow wormed its way through my subconscious, the lyrics imprinting themselves in my hippocampus.

    Don’t you want me like I want you, baby?

    Don’t you need me like I need you now?

    Sleep tomorrow, but tonight go crazy,

    All you gotta do is just meet me at the—

    See, I’m a sucker for pop music. Always have been, always will be. During my teenage years, and most of college, I tried to play it “cool,” like I didn’t care for the pop hits on the radio, but the truth is, ever since my parents raised me on The Beatles, I’ve been a total sucker for that verse, pre-chorus, chorus, verse, pre-chorus, chorus, bridge, chorus anatomy of a pop song.

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m also a huge fan of plenty of other genres: folk, reggaeton, hip-hop, R&B, rap, rock, alternative, funk, disco, jazz. Give me a good beat, smart lyrics, or a catchy melody, and I’m all there.

    I remember a couple of years ago, a friend’s husband shook his head at me as I sang along to the Bad Bunny song playing in his car, after I’d just told them about the Taylor Swift concert I’d been to.

    But is it really so strange, or so surprising? Bad Bunny says it himself in NUEVAYoL: “¿Cómo Bad Bunny va a ser rey del pop, ey / Con reggaetón y dembow? Ey”

    Uh! Uh-huh, uh-huh.

  • A New York Slice

    While on vacation, it’s hard to find the time to slice. I snuck away after dinner while my mom gets ice cream for my niece and nephew, who are watching college wrestling with my dad on the iPad. Maybe I can get a slice done now?

    But our apartment is not very big; I’m in just the other room. I can hear my mom listing the flavors: “You can have mint chocolate chip, black raspberry chocolate chip…”

    “Black raspberry what?” Emmie asks.

    “Chocolate chip. Do you want to try it?”

    My brain is tired in that first-day-of-spring-break way and that full-time-aunt-duty way. It’s a good tired. I know I’ll sleep well tonight. Emmie and John Henry are having a sleepover here to give my sister and my brother-in-law a chance to hopefully get some rest — that is, if my newest niece, 5-week-old Lucy, gives them an easy night.

    I look back through my photos from today, thinking about the slices I drafted in my head. Can I get one done now before the kids come find me?

    Waiting for the M79 crosstown bus

    This could be a slice, I thought as I waited for the M79, thinking about how many times I’ve stood at that same corner in my life, watching for a glimpse of the blue bus come up over the hill.

    “Is Tía Amy asleep?” John Henry asks my mom.

    I flip to a video of Emmie kicking the soccer ball to me. Remember John Henry going over to some older boys from his school on the basketball courts as they argued about what game to play. I drafted the slice in my head:

    “Stop yapping,” one of the boys says, trying to mediate.

    One boy shoves another, then walks away.

    “It’s just a game,” the mediator says, throwing his hands up.

    “Baseball?” A fourth kid suggests.

    “Yeah! I’ve got a glove,” John Henry says, just happy to play anything.

    “Is Tía Amy trying to go?” He asks my mom again. “To sleep?”

    Emmie swinging in the park

    Next I see a photo of Emmie on the swings. A video of her counting to one hundred. Ever the teacher, I had her comparing numbers and ordering them, from greatest to “middlest” to least. She was loving it.

    “Where’s Tía Amy?” Emmie asks.

    Or maybe I’ll slice about these post-it nails we made?

    “I don’t know, go find her,” my mom says.

    No time. Cue the stomps. Here they come!

  • It’s Time to Check In

    Mar 20, 4:16PM

    Hi Amy,

    Your trip is almost here and we’re excited to see you on board.

    Check in to add your bags, choose your seats, and get your boarding pass. That way you’ll have everything ready for your trip.

    Finish packing what you can tonight.

    Make a list of all the things not to forget tomorrow (phone charger, house keys, eye mask, kindle, toothbrush, snacks, water bottle).

    Stay up a little too late talking to Patrick and snuggling Phoebe.

    Read some of your book.

    When your eyes get heavy, try to get some sleep.

    Mar 21, 5:48AM

    Wake up a bit earlier than your alarm and stretch.

    Wash your hair; you know you’ll have some time to slice later when you’re waiting at the airport.

    Eat breakfast.

    Say goodbye to Phoebe, who will freak out when she sees you leaving for work with your suitcase.

    Watch Phoebe on the Kasa camera as she barks and grabs the placemats and napkins off the table. That rascal!

    Get to school, fill your water bottle, take attendance as students come in.

    Teach a micro-lesson in Writer’s Workshop — it’s Drafting Day! The children won’t be silent, self-directed, or self-reliant today (it’s the day before spring break, after all), but that’s okay. They’re all typing away, getting things done, even if they are moving around and talking a lot more than usual!

    Break for snack and recess. Make sure you get as much venting out as possible with Kim to last a whole week.

    Gather the social scientists for their research block. Show them how to log onto Epic. You will need to repeat the class code about 6 different times. Read the book called “Making an App.”

    11:26AM – American 3307 to LGA: Departure time has changed to 4:43PM on Mar 21 from MIA gate D12, terminal D. Reply STOP to stop.

    Play a coding game with the students until 11:45. Usher them into the other room while the Spanish teacher pushes in until Ms. Gabby arrives to teach Sex Ed.

    Take your “prep” with Kim, but just click through different tabs on your computer. You’ve prepped enough. Vent a bit more with her.

    Talk on the phone with your mom about the dinner you probably won’t make it home for anyway. Text her afterward to apologize for your tone of voice. Wonder if all grownups are doomed to revert to their teenaged selves when they visit their parents.

    12:20PM – Gate change: Flight AA3307, from MIA to LGA departs at 4:43PM out of gate D10 in terminal D. Reply STOP to stop.

    Eat lunch at 12:30 with the EP teachers so you can see Patrick.

    Pick up the kids for their lunch at 1:20. Vent with Kim a bit longer.

    Say goodbye to the kids and soak up their hugs.

    Refill your water bottle.

    Run upstairs to give Patrick a big hug before you go.

    1:42PM – American 3307 to LGA: Departure time has changed to 5:20PM on Mar 21 from MIA gate D10, terminal D. Reply STOP to stop.

    Get your suitcase and call an Uber in the lobby.

    1:50PM – American 3307 to LGA: Departure time has changed to 6:27PM on Mar 21 from MIA gate D10, terminal D. See refund info at aa.com/refundfaq. Reply STOP to stop.

    Wonder if it’s worth checking for a flight that leaves in the morning.

    1:52PM – Gate change: Flight AA3307, from MIA to LGA departs at 6:27PM out of gate D5 in terminal D. Reply STOP to stop.

    Get in the Uber. Be very, very alarmed at how heavily the Uber driver is breathing. Text Patrick about it.

    2:11PM – Gate change: Flight AA3307, from MIA to LGA departs at 6:27PM out of gate D48 in terminal D. Reply STOP to stop.

    Arrive to the airport. Remember your water bottle is full. Chug the water.

    Go through the TSA pre-check line.

    Look at the departures list.

    Check gates D20 and D34 for the earlier flights, just in case they have any open seats. They won’t. The standby lines will be, as you would expect, very long already.

    Start walking the three-quarters of a mile to gate D48.

    Stop to pee.

    Pick up something you probably shouldn’t be eating, but screw it, is anything at the airport going to make you feel good?

    Fill up your water bottle.

    Stop to pee.

    Find a seat at the gate near a charging station.

    Plug in your phone.

    Eat the thing you probably shouldn’t be eating and revel in how damn good it tastes.

    Open your laptop. Work on copywriting.

    Get distracted when another woman arrives to the gate and claims her flight, AA2609, is supposed to be leaving there on time at 5:05PM.

    “We’re waiting for flight 3307,” the woman behind you will say. “It’s also at this gate.”

    Go back to working on copywriting.

    3:40PM – Gate change: Flight AA3307, from MIA to LGA departs at 6:27PM out of gate D43 in terminal D. Reply STOP to stop.

    “They changed the gate again,” the woman behind you will say.

    Tell her you’ll head there in 20 minutes or so.

    Finish your sixth caption for copywriting. Close your laptop. Pack it up.

    Stop to pee.

    Walk to gate D43.

    Find a seat.

    Hope the gate doesn’t change again.

    Open your laptop and write the slice you knew you’d have time for anyway.

  • Knitting Club

    In November, I started a knitting club on Mondays after school. Vero had been asking me since my first year at KLA, but I couldn’t bring myself to add something else to my to do list. At the time, my commute was also a lot farther.

    But this year, it felt like the right time. We set it up so that classes would begin in November and sent out the class details on a cute Canva flyer. I squealed as she told me 5 of my students had signed up.

    The first class was a doozy.

    “I don’t know if this is going to go so well,” I told Patrick that night.

    I had found all of these beginner how-to videos on YouTube that I thought were pretty easy. I knew to start with the basics: slip knot, cast on, knit stitch. I taught them the vocabulary they would need. I was ready to help them with the cast on like my mom did when I was first starting out, and even pivoted mid-class to show them an easier type of cast on.

    “But they struggled to even make a slip knot!”

    Luckily, the girls practiced that week at home, and by the second class, a few had mastered each of the new skills, and were helping the others to figure it out. Each week I watched their skills grow, the pride they took in their projects.

    One student’s chunky scarf!

    We’re in the fifth month of class, and now we have 8 knitting club members: 7 fifth graders and one of their sisters, who is in third.

    It’s a funny dynamic each week.

    “I don’t feel like knitting today,” E stated on our way to the classroom this past Monday.

    So she and other E decided to have a dance/karaoke party to music from Descendants.

    Three others sat at my table knitting along with me as I worked on my Eva cardigan by PetiteKnit. The rest sat at a different table, whispering about something as they knit up their squares, headbands, and scarves.

    “It’s like a bunch of old ladies getting together and knitting,” I’ve described it to others. “Half of them don’t even want to learn new stitches anymore. They just want to knit and gossip.”

    “What happens in knitting club stays in knitting club,” A mentioned one time. She cracks me up.

    This month, we’re working on a journalism unit in writer’s workshop and creating a KLA News Magazine. One of my students is writing about the knitting club and interviewed me to get perspective for her article.

    “Have you ever considered making a YouTube channel that teaches kids how to knit?” She asked me towards the end of the interview.

    “I haven’t,” I replied, a smile coming to my lips as I remembered those first videos that confused the heck out of them. “But I am now!”

  • Reading Ripple Effect

    I sit crosslegged on the bench, anchor charts behind me, the students before me on the rug, a book in my hands. I’m about 6 chapters into reading aloud one of my favorite middle grade books ever, one I’ve read to two other 5th grade classes before this one: Refugee by Alan Gratz.

    I first read the book when Ariel and I lived together in 2017. Her mom worked for Scholastic at the time, and she gave us an uncorrected proof. We both devoured it.

    I decided to try it as a read aloud for my fully-remote class during the pandemic. Read aloud was the only time of the day where I felt like the students were all engaged, even if their cameras were off.

    Whenever we’d get to an exciting or intense part, various cameras would flash on to show me their shocked faces. The chat would be blowing up with emojis and “whaaaat?!!”s.

    Refugee in particular got one of my students into reading. She thanked me for this in a card she gave me at her (luckily in-person) graduation. Knowing that I helped her to become motivated to read more filled my heart with all sorts of warm goop.

    These are the cards we save and cherish!

    The next year, I read it to a completely different group of students in my new home, Miami. It was a class of just 13. They loved being read to, and they forced me to do a read aloud marathon in the days before Thanksgiving break, because they refused to go off on vacation without finishing Refugee.

    They also liked to get REALLY close during said read aloud marathon. Hahaha.

    It was with that same group that we decided to put on a theatrical production of Isabel’s story from the book. I took the dialogue straight from the text, and Angie helped me adapt it to our stage. The kids knocked it out of the park.

    Now, as I read the lines of dialogue I’ve read so many times before, I can’t help hearing those students’ voices as the characters speak. So many rehearsals, so many times repeating those lines, getting them just right.

    They became their characters, just like this year’s students became the characters of Flying Solo.

    It’s a pretty magical thing the way my brain works, replaying that memory, and their voices, as I share the story with a new group for the first time, watching their eyes widen just like my students on Zoom’s did.

    It’s like a ripple or an echo, reverberating through time. Reminding me of all the ways teachers, and books, can touch hearts and minds.

  • Giggle Incontinence

    At the start of every year, we hold interviews with our new students’ parents to find out their hopes, goals, and concerns about their child. It’s always informative, and my favorite part is watching their eyes light up as we say: “Tell us about your child.”

    “She’s just, the best kid,” I remember one mom said, her voice breaking and her eyes starting to water. “I don’t know why I’m crying!!” And we all laughed.

    At one of our interviews this year, a student’s mom told us in a thick French accent that her daughter has “giggle incontinence.” At first, we thought she meant that her daughter sometimes just laughed uncontrollably, but then she mentioned the change of clothes her daughter would be bringing to school in case it happened.

    “Wait, that has a name?” Kim blurted.

    “Oh my god, I have that, too!” I exclaimed.

    It hasn’t happened in a while, but it’s something that I’ve experienced since I was a little girl. It usually occurs amidst uncontrollable and nervous laughter — a sudden need to pee, the loss of the ability to hold it in as I continue laughing, and then a heat in my face and pure terror as it rushes out.

    I always just thought I was someone who “peed her pants” at the most inopportune moments. But I much prefer the term “giggle incontinence.”

    Yesterday (or I guess, two days ago, since I am writing my slices and scheduling them for the following morning), I almost had an episode of said giggle incontinence.

    We were on the school bus, getting ready to head off on a field trip with fourth grade, when screams erupted from the back: “Ms. Amy!! There’s a cockroach!”

    I’ll let you read the full story in Gianna’s slice, while I zoom into a small moment.

    After I returned to my seat, thinking said roach was done and dealt with, Gi sanitized my hands and we sat down.

    “Qué asco,” Gi said in that way she does that I love so much. Then she turned to the window, and we watched a small roach crawl up the wall and under the sill.

    She immediately squealed and stood up, her hand covering her face to try to hide her fear as the students around us shouted “What? What??”

    “Nononono,” she started repeating as she made to, what? Leave the bus??

    Because that was the problem. We were stuck on this bus, and our journey had barely even begun.

    I looked at her and I looked back at my students with their huge eyes filled with pure horror, and I lost it. I started cracking up.

    Gi started laughing too. Tears streamed from our eyes. The teachers at the front looked confused, screams were ricocheting from all sides, Gi was up against me as though I could save her from the roaches, and that’s when I felt it — the moment of the giggle incontinence threatening.

    Oh shit.

    I took a deep breath in, crossed my legs, and willed myself not to freaking piss my pants while on a school bus full of my preteen students, the fourth graders, and 5 other teachers!!! PLEASE, bladder, don’t do this to me. Haven’t you embarrassed me enough? Wasn’t Lara’s birthday torture enough? The Great Gatsby skit in 8th grade, Ms. Mansell’s knowing look? The bar in Madrid where my coworker bit into a too-hot croqueta and turned bright red as he went “Haa! Haa! Haa!”? PLEASE, BLADDER, NOT TODAY!!

    By some miracle, I was able to calm myself enough that my bladder backed off in retreat. The moment passed. My face cooled off and I could breathe again.

    I continued to laugh-cry for the rest of the wild ride, even shouted to the students at one point, “This is a small moment story!! You can write about this!”

    Mostly I was glad that I was sharing this crazy experience with one of my best friends, because I knew that even if I had experienced an episode of giggle incontinence, somehow, she would have helped make it okay.

  • This Body of Mine

    “Can you tell me all the things you like about my body?” I ask softly. After an afternoon of shopping and feeling like nothing I tried on looked good on me, my self-esteem has fallen and I am trapped in the upward comparison loop.

    “What do you like about your body?” He flips the question on its head, knowing the reclaimed confidence will have to come from me. I love this man.

    What do I like about my body?

    My body that has carried me on this Earth for 33 years and five months.

    My body that is a bit achey this morning (Do I need a new pillow? Do I just need to exercise? Are teachers destined to hold all their stress in their necks?).

    What do I like about this body of mine?

    I like my hands — their ability to type fast, write neatly, knit complicated patterns to create clothes and accessories my loved ones and I can wear.

    I like my legs — they’ve always been strong — their ability to run half marathons, walk 20,000 steps in a day of sightseeing, squat and sit and lunge with proper form.

    I like my feet and ankles — they’re a bit bony, and my sister has always hated my longer toes, but I like them, and my feet take me everywhere. How different life would be without my feet!

    I like my belly button — how, when I was a kid, it used to look more like an “innie-outie,” I called it, and now is a bit more of an “innie.”

    I like my smaller chest — I can run without it hurting, go bra-less whenever, and wear a lot of different types of tops.

    I like my hair — it’s thick and curly and it always air dries well. I have natural highlights, blonds and reds, and not many gray hairs yet.

    I like my eyes — the blue-gray-green of them, how they change based on what I’m wearing. I love how they take in so many details as they observe this world I live in.

    So why, when I look in the mirror at a shop, try on an article of clothing not made for this unique body of mine, do I blame my body instead of the store? The store who only designs for one type of female body? (Juxtapose this with Gi and I accompanying Jason to Suit Supply, where he explains how he’ll try on a suit, they’ll fit him, and then they’ll make it to his exact measurements.)

    I don’t have the answers, and the ending of this slice got interrupted in real time by my dog throwing up (I think she swallowed a hairball, ha!), so it will have to end here.

    And when that little voice inevitably makes herself heard, I’ll try to remember all the things I love about this body of mine.

  • The Sanderling

    The bird scurries so quickly, it looks like he’s ice skating across the sand. One leg moving as the other hover-floats, skiing between the seaweed slopes.

    He speeds back and forth, drawing loop-de-loops, but remains ever ahead of me at my easy pace. I walk along the shoreline, sun beaming on my face, wind strong. The bird guides me, flitting along in search of something to eat.

    As we walk, me behind him, I people watch.

    A young girl sits in the sand, her legs beside her like a mermaid. She lets the water rush across them, her head hanging back, her long braids waving.

    The bird scurries on.

    A toddler explores with his hands, stands up holding a shell, looking for Mommy.

    The bird speeds ahead.

    A boy and his dad have built an excellent shelter and moat. The boy cheers as a wave crashes against their strong wall. The dad smiles and says hello as I pass.

    The bird zips back and forth.

    What kind of bird is this? I wonder. Smaller than a child’s shoe. White with grey flecks on his back. A long black beak.

    A quick internet search yields sanderling, the name deriving from the Old English sand-yrðling, meaning “sand-ploughman.”

    He flits ahead, faster now, joins in with a friend, the two seesawing as they plow the sands. I stretch up and shield my eyes from the sun, look out at the sea, then turn around.

  • Surrender

    “Are you a religious person?” she asks me.

    “No, but I’m spiritual, I think,” I tell her.

    “Do you believe there is some sort of higher power?”

    “I guess so, yes,” I say, “though I don’t think there’s a God, per se.”

    “For me, the highest power is divine love,” she shares. “Your sensitivity is a super power. You have the power to feel others’ feelings. And you’re a healer. But you don’t heal by taking on others’ feelings. You heal by being a conduit, a tube, through which divine love can flow. Love passes through you to heal others.”

    I imagine myself as a macaroni or cavatappi noodle, divine love coming in through the top, and shooting out the other side.

    “What you need to remember is that you have no control — none of us do. Most of the time, you just have to surrender to the greater power of divine love.”

    I nod.

    “Prayer is powerful, you know. There have been studies on it.”

    I recreate this conversation with sentences I’ve logged in my Notes app, trying to capture her wisdom before I forget it.

    ***

    I think of all the people in my life I want to surrender to divine love today. My heart sends out love in color to their hearts. I pray, even though I’m not religious, that divine love will cradle them as they wade through grief, anger, fear, make the landing softer, allow them to find even a small moment of peace amidst the chaos.

    I visualize them in violet light, soft green light, pink light, white golden light. I let the light envelop them, protecting them like a flame, where anything that comes towards them burns up with a sizzle.

    I surrender, knowing I have no control but this: to have faith that they will be okay.

  • The Last Time

    There’s something bubbling beneath every day lately at work. A thread weaving between the seams, a whispered undercurrent.

    “This might be the last time you…” it says.

    I try to shake it off — it jars me.

    But it’s a persistent little f***er.

    “This might be your last chapter book read aloud,” it whispers to me as I put post-its to mark each day in Refugee.

    “This might be your last field trip,” it sings as I send the confirmation email to Bowlero.

    “This might be the last time you hear that,” it taunts me when I read a Valentine’s card from a student that ends with “I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

    “F off,” I will it to leave in my mind.

    But I know it will linger. Because the truth is, many of these moments will be the last.

    I guess what I’m trying to say is, just because I made the choice to leave the classroom, doesn’t mean it’s easy.

    I’m reminded of Vicky’s slice as I think: Why does choosing myself sometimes feel like I’m breaking my heart?