it was a warm june summer day
on centennial drive in the berkley hills.
he’s just turned ten sitting shotgun
in the swerving messy honda hatchback
heading back from the lawrence hall of science.
it was a day execution with the canal community alliance.
he’s wearing parachute pants and a sleeveless
fishnet shirt, both black and phat laces on his shoes,
he’s seen breakin’ three times in the theater
and he feels he’s close to mastering the headspin.
trista, dianne and etoyia are singing in the back seat and he’s
sure michelle is taking the turns too fast.
the wind whips through the open windows,
the crappy tape deck is turned up as loud as it can go,
a sound unlike anything he has ever heard before
blares from the speaker by his feet,
i’m not a human, i’m a dove
i’m your conscience, i am love
they’re all singing as loud as they can,
i would die for you, yeah
darlin', if you want me to
you, i would die for you.
isn’t this great michelle asks, grinning from ear to ear.
he can’t understand how lucky he is to be with this women,
she’ll never know the impact she’ll have on these kids’ lives.
just as as soon as it started, the chaos has subsided.
the richmond oil refinery drums have opened to the bridge
and the sun is calmer now, golden and shimmering on the bay,
they roll the windows up and stop signing.
staring at the seagulls in silence, except for the song engulfing the car
i know times are changing
it's time we all reach out
for something new, that means you too.
Showing posts with label CCA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CCA. Show all posts
June 13, 2021
164/365
April 24, 2016
Electrifying
It is 1984? 85? I am in fifth grade. I think.
Because I went to school in the Canal, the “poor” part of Marin County (one of the wealthiest counties in the US of A) I attended an after school daycare program led by the Canal Community Alliance. This program for kids like me, Trista, Etoyia and Diane allowed us to do all the cool things that the kids with money in the rest of the county did on a fairly regular basis.
The CCA took us to Santa Cruz for camping, kayaking in the bay, horseback riding out at Tennessee Valley Road and even once on a river rafting trip on the American River. Basically every single cool thing I did as a kid, I did because of the CCA. And the “they” I am referring to were three women who ran our small part of the larger center. Michelle, Cindy and Martha.
Looking back, I realise that much of my understanding of how to treat women must have come from these three amazing people. They were young(ish) I have no idea how old they might have been. They were dedicated and taught us so much. They were filled with joy and passion and really seemed to love us. I would love to get in touch with them, so if anyone on FB can wave some magic wand, that would be priceless.
This in particular memory is set in Michelle’s car, a blue Honda hatchback if my memory serves me well, and if not, let’s pretend this is fiction. We were winding through the hills in Berkeley headed to The Lawrence Hall of Science for some weekly outing.
The music was loud and the windows were down. I seem to remember sitting shotgun, and I have no idea who else was in the car, but I remember Michelle singing at the top of her lungs; her face projecting a magnificent smile. And me…tiny, shy, skinny me, singing along with her.
“I’m not a woman.
I’m not a man.
I’m something that you’ll never understand….
I’m not a human.
I am a dove.
I’m your conscious.
I am love.
I would die for you.
Baby if you want me to.”
I could not have known what all the words meant, but I remember the music put me on the edge of something that felt forbidden. There was a sensuality in it that as a child I found dangerous and enticing. As a parent, the idea of a sexual awakening in your child is terrifying, but as a ten year old it was electrifying.
1984 was an intense year in many ways. The details are fuzzy of whether my parents were on or off in their on-and-off again relationship, but I know that grade five was a big year for me. I grew up a lot that year. And listening to Prince in the car with Michelle had a lot to do with it. I’m not sure when I first saw Purple Rain, but I know I had also recently somehow watched Flashdance. Like A Virgin was released that same year. It was an stimulating introduction to adolescences that had come early for me.
For as long as I can remember it is that sensual electricity that made Prince, Prince.
Years later at 1576 parties, we would spend the nights bouncing our bodies around the living room, creating tamer versions of mosh pits- Pearl Jam and NIN fueled testosterone displays, but late in the night when we had tired from that nonsense, I would often play Little Red Corvette and Purple Rain as a way to, well, be another kind of man. And that is what Prince has always allowed me to be.
I may not be familiar with his entire catalogue, but the songs of his I do know where instrumental in making me who I am. And it is the ten year old me, who mourns his death with the heaviest heart. At the tender age of ten, when I needed it most, Prince taught me what it means to be human, and I have been confused and excited about it everyday since.
…
Spent some quality time with just Kaia and I today and it is crazy what a cool little person she has become. There is so much less parenting involved when we are not all together as a family of four.
We just chatted, had a slushy, rode the luge and walked the beaches of Sentosa, while waiting for Skye to wrap up a birthday party.
Because I went to school in the Canal, the “poor” part of Marin County (one of the wealthiest counties in the US of A) I attended an after school daycare program led by the Canal Community Alliance. This program for kids like me, Trista, Etoyia and Diane allowed us to do all the cool things that the kids with money in the rest of the county did on a fairly regular basis.
The CCA took us to Santa Cruz for camping, kayaking in the bay, horseback riding out at Tennessee Valley Road and even once on a river rafting trip on the American River. Basically every single cool thing I did as a kid, I did because of the CCA. And the “they” I am referring to were three women who ran our small part of the larger center. Michelle, Cindy and Martha.
Looking back, I realise that much of my understanding of how to treat women must have come from these three amazing people. They were young(ish) I have no idea how old they might have been. They were dedicated and taught us so much. They were filled with joy and passion and really seemed to love us. I would love to get in touch with them, so if anyone on FB can wave some magic wand, that would be priceless.
This in particular memory is set in Michelle’s car, a blue Honda hatchback if my memory serves me well, and if not, let’s pretend this is fiction. We were winding through the hills in Berkeley headed to The Lawrence Hall of Science for some weekly outing.
The music was loud and the windows were down. I seem to remember sitting shotgun, and I have no idea who else was in the car, but I remember Michelle singing at the top of her lungs; her face projecting a magnificent smile. And me…tiny, shy, skinny me, singing along with her.
“I’m not a woman.
I’m not a man.
I’m something that you’ll never understand….
I’m not a human.
I am a dove.
I’m your conscious.
I am love.
I would die for you.
Baby if you want me to.”
I could not have known what all the words meant, but I remember the music put me on the edge of something that felt forbidden. There was a sensuality in it that as a child I found dangerous and enticing. As a parent, the idea of a sexual awakening in your child is terrifying, but as a ten year old it was electrifying.
1984 was an intense year in many ways. The details are fuzzy of whether my parents were on or off in their on-and-off again relationship, but I know that grade five was a big year for me. I grew up a lot that year. And listening to Prince in the car with Michelle had a lot to do with it. I’m not sure when I first saw Purple Rain, but I know I had also recently somehow watched Flashdance. Like A Virgin was released that same year. It was an stimulating introduction to adolescences that had come early for me.
For as long as I can remember it is that sensual electricity that made Prince, Prince.
Years later at 1576 parties, we would spend the nights bouncing our bodies around the living room, creating tamer versions of mosh pits- Pearl Jam and NIN fueled testosterone displays, but late in the night when we had tired from that nonsense, I would often play Little Red Corvette and Purple Rain as a way to, well, be another kind of man. And that is what Prince has always allowed me to be.
I may not be familiar with his entire catalogue, but the songs of his I do know where instrumental in making me who I am. And it is the ten year old me, who mourns his death with the heaviest heart. At the tender age of ten, when I needed it most, Prince taught me what it means to be human, and I have been confused and excited about it everyday since.
…
Spent some quality time with just Kaia and I today and it is crazy what a cool little person she has become. There is so much less parenting involved when we are not all together as a family of four.
We just chatted, had a slushy, rode the luge and walked the beaches of Sentosa, while waiting for Skye to wrap up a birthday party.
February 3, 2016
A Blur Of Green
When I was younger, probably in about grade five, I used to go horseback riding on a regular basis, about once a week, with the Canal Community Alliance, a group that helped those of us living in the Canal- the poorer part of the very wealthy Marin county, have fun and explore the world around us. The CCA gave us opportunities that we wouldn’t have had otherwise. Horseback riding once a week at Miwok Stables out passed Tennessee Valley road was one such opportunity.
We would arrive at the stables after school and begin the process of our weekly lesson- lead the horse out of the stables and prepare them for the ride; we would saddle them up and put on the bit and bridle. Then we would usually have a riding lesson in the round pen on the grounds of the stables, followed by the break down of the gear and the cleaning of the horse. I can still smell the blanket and remember the froth of sweat and soap as we lathered and rinsed off the horses.
We usually were assigned the same horse and mine was named Chica. She was a slight golden Palomino, who as far I was concerned was made of gold. I loved her smaller frame, slightly neurotic nature and her not so subtle sense of flash, all of which reminded me of myself.
Some days, if Chica was out with another ride, I would get stuck riding Sade; she was a giant mare with zero personality. She was a horse that you would need to kick to death to get her to even raise her head and stop for a second from grazing on some shrub just outside her paddock.
But not Chica. She knew me and I knew her. Sometimes all it would take to get her going was a quick clicking on the inside of my cheek, and to be honest, sometimes even less than that, and we would be off.
I rode at Miwok for at least a year, maybe more. Perhaps Trista can help me fill in the details as she was there too. In our time riding, we learned how to move the horses from a walk, to a trot, to a cantor, to nearly a gallop.
I’ll never forgot one long ride, must have been a special weekend ride, when we rode our horses down to the Pelican Inn near Muir Beach. On the way down, we were allowed to break up our typical single file line of walking and trotting and let the horses run.
I remember getting Chica up to a full paced fluid cantor. It felt like we were alone in the wilderness- jumping over small creeks, the trees a blur of green, and ducking from the low hanging vines. It felt like hours as the two of us broke into a sweat as we traversed down the mountain to the beach.
Later that year, Chica and I entered a show and did quite well. I had the second, or was it first place, ribbon in a box of my stuff for years, but it has since disappeared. We were not meant for shows or ribbons. Chica and I were made to gallop through the west Marin forest. Tired and exhausted. Moving way too fast.
I loved that horse.
…
Dear XXXXX,
I am sorry I got a bit snappy with you today after you told me that you couldn’t come to our Daraja meeting o Thursday. I reacted to your excuse with anger and frustration, and as your teacher and mentor, this was childish of me. I understand that you are dealing with some stuff, and I can appreciate and understand how hard that can be at your age. I am sure you do not need someone like me barking at you in the hallway.
Sometimes, we adults, lose sight of how hard it can be to be twelve. I remember when I was your age, feeling like no one was ever listening and no one really cared about me. Teachers were always yelling out of anger and frustration and dealing with me like I was a problem and not a person. I swore I would never do that when I became a teacher, but there I was doing it today.
So again I am sorry.
It's just that I want you to learn the very important lessons of honouring your commitments, staying with things when they are hard, respecting the people who care for you...the listen goes on and on.
The only interaction we have had is through service, but I do see you in the halls. Who knows, maybe next year you might be in my class, or our paths might cross in a different way. I hope that when we do meet under different circumstance that we can find a way to get to know each other a bit better, and I might be able to help you sort out whatever it is that you are trotting to sort, and teach you some of those lessons in a different setting.
Best of luck, we will miss you on Thursdays. I am sorry that the GC was not what you were looking for. Who knows maybe one day you might change your mind, and I can take you to Kenya and show you why the work we are doing is important.
In the mean time, find something that gives you joy and feeds your passion. If you are not sure what makes you happy or keeps you going- relax. That is okay too. It has taken me nearly forty years to figure it out.
Be a kid. Be kind. Ask for help and you will find your way.
Apologetically yours,
Mr. R
…
Ted Cruz is gross and creepy and he makes me feel dirty every time I see his face. I don’t think I could physically handle his presidency. I am quite certain he is a criminal and a monster. I just wish he would go away from public life, and return to what ever backwoods Texan church parking lot he lurks in.
…
Observations:
...
We would arrive at the stables after school and begin the process of our weekly lesson- lead the horse out of the stables and prepare them for the ride; we would saddle them up and put on the bit and bridle. Then we would usually have a riding lesson in the round pen on the grounds of the stables, followed by the break down of the gear and the cleaning of the horse. I can still smell the blanket and remember the froth of sweat and soap as we lathered and rinsed off the horses.
We usually were assigned the same horse and mine was named Chica. She was a slight golden Palomino, who as far I was concerned was made of gold. I loved her smaller frame, slightly neurotic nature and her not so subtle sense of flash, all of which reminded me of myself.
Some days, if Chica was out with another ride, I would get stuck riding Sade; she was a giant mare with zero personality. She was a horse that you would need to kick to death to get her to even raise her head and stop for a second from grazing on some shrub just outside her paddock.
But not Chica. She knew me and I knew her. Sometimes all it would take to get her going was a quick clicking on the inside of my cheek, and to be honest, sometimes even less than that, and we would be off.
I rode at Miwok for at least a year, maybe more. Perhaps Trista can help me fill in the details as she was there too. In our time riding, we learned how to move the horses from a walk, to a trot, to a cantor, to nearly a gallop.
I’ll never forgot one long ride, must have been a special weekend ride, when we rode our horses down to the Pelican Inn near Muir Beach. On the way down, we were allowed to break up our typical single file line of walking and trotting and let the horses run.
I remember getting Chica up to a full paced fluid cantor. It felt like we were alone in the wilderness- jumping over small creeks, the trees a blur of green, and ducking from the low hanging vines. It felt like hours as the two of us broke into a sweat as we traversed down the mountain to the beach.
Later that year, Chica and I entered a show and did quite well. I had the second, or was it first place, ribbon in a box of my stuff for years, but it has since disappeared. We were not meant for shows or ribbons. Chica and I were made to gallop through the west Marin forest. Tired and exhausted. Moving way too fast.
I loved that horse.
…
Dear XXXXX,
I am sorry I got a bit snappy with you today after you told me that you couldn’t come to our Daraja meeting o Thursday. I reacted to your excuse with anger and frustration, and as your teacher and mentor, this was childish of me. I understand that you are dealing with some stuff, and I can appreciate and understand how hard that can be at your age. I am sure you do not need someone like me barking at you in the hallway.
Sometimes, we adults, lose sight of how hard it can be to be twelve. I remember when I was your age, feeling like no one was ever listening and no one really cared about me. Teachers were always yelling out of anger and frustration and dealing with me like I was a problem and not a person. I swore I would never do that when I became a teacher, but there I was doing it today.
So again I am sorry.
It's just that I want you to learn the very important lessons of honouring your commitments, staying with things when they are hard, respecting the people who care for you...the listen goes on and on.
The only interaction we have had is through service, but I do see you in the halls. Who knows, maybe next year you might be in my class, or our paths might cross in a different way. I hope that when we do meet under different circumstance that we can find a way to get to know each other a bit better, and I might be able to help you sort out whatever it is that you are trotting to sort, and teach you some of those lessons in a different setting.
Best of luck, we will miss you on Thursdays. I am sorry that the GC was not what you were looking for. Who knows maybe one day you might change your mind, and I can take you to Kenya and show you why the work we are doing is important.
In the mean time, find something that gives you joy and feeds your passion. If you are not sure what makes you happy or keeps you going- relax. That is okay too. It has taken me nearly forty years to figure it out.
Be a kid. Be kind. Ask for help and you will find your way.
Apologetically yours,
Mr. R
…
Ted Cruz is gross and creepy and he makes me feel dirty every time I see his face. I don’t think I could physically handle his presidency. I am quite certain he is a criminal and a monster. I just wish he would go away from public life, and return to what ever backwoods Texan church parking lot he lurks in.
…
Observations:
- Our memories sit half-baked in our minds waiting to be thrown back into the kiln, but they will not look the same now as they did back then.
- Apologizing to a child is one of a teacher’s most important skills. We should do it way more often than we do.
- I've never seen a Republican I like.
...
- Share a childhood memory that brings you joy.
- Tell us about an apology that you should have made but for some reason didn’t.
- Which current candidate gets under your skin the most and why?
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