227/365

this one started in the morning with the
sun already too hot before it was even
fully positioned in the sky. a father. a daughter.
one eager. the other lethargic before
they even began to run. not even a kilometre in
one stops and claims a cramp. they walk for most
of the rest. one finds it hard not to showcase
his despondency. the other mopes behind him
to avoid a lecture on pushing through challenges.
people preach unconditional
love as if it’s easy. but who can be satisfied
when things aren’t how we like. every parental
disappointment is a mirror of missed opportunities
to have taught more clearly. we are chain links in our parents
attempts to be better versions of themselves.

this one ended in the evening with the
a thunderstorm. a father. a daughter.
this time the younger one ready for the first day
of middle school. you know what I don’t get-
he says earnestly and rehearsed- why do think
girls tend to lose confidence as they enter middle school,
even though they are brilliant and boys tend to
gain confidence without much to back it up- silence-
i mean take you for example. you’re the girl who played a set
at hard rock cafe in fourth grade and sang in tent plaza
all by yourself. you are vibrant and smart and loved
and a certifiable bad ass- a smile- what do you have
to be nervous about? channel your inner rebel girl
and own that place tomorrow- i’d get suspended dad!-
not necessarily. just be yourself and have fun doing it-
lights out. tucked in. kiss on the forehead. every parental
win is a mirror of successful opportunities
to get it just right. we are chain links in our parents
attempts to be better versions of themselves.

219/365

we fill in the blank spaces
of who are parents are
when we don’t have enough
pieces to make up a complete picture.

a childhood of jumbled pieces
we force into a familiar mythology.
worn out memories, dreams and stories
woven together like a string
of christmas lights that refuse
to flash- because one or more bulbs
are burnt out or missing.

it’s remarkable how little we learn
in eighteen years, how parental and vapid
the conversations become.
compulsory wisdom hidden
in everyday chatter:
clean your room.
wash the dishes.
spend more time outside.

what do our children need from us
that we don’t seem to give them?

where are the empty spaces in this myth?
will i have time to explain myself?

214/365

that was a great movie. i could tell throughout
the film that she would feel good about the on screen
charity and colorblindness of the family.
my twelve year old had selected the film for the night
and she chose the one about an american football player
who overcomes an impoverished upbringing to play in the nfl
with the help of his adoptive (white) parents.

they’re such great people
she would say throughout the film,
as i cringed at the scenes depicting
the main character’s impoverished background.

but i held my tongue.
let her watch it and make meaning
on her own. wait to see what she might
recognise on her own. wanting her to
appreciate love and care of a family
looking out for someone in need,
but twelve years old or not
she needs to see beyond
the glimmer of charity in movies
designed to make
white people
feel good
about beng
good white
people.

have you ever heard of the term trope?
we discussed as a family, the fifteen year old now
involved: like a cliche? a stereotype?
it’s a reoccurring theme or idea.
they exist in film and a common one
is the white saviour trope.  

the white saviour trope is when
a white character rescues non-white characters
from unfortunate circumstances. when we see
the non-white characters as only victims,
needing the help of the white saviour.

These films don’t give us the full picture of the
black experience. they are not stories about
black people by black people.

she gets a bit defensive.
she’s not a big fan of feedback
or being told her choices aren’t great.
but it’s a true story, dad!

there are elements that are based
on real events and people, but the way
this story was told was to make white people
feel good about themselves instead of
looking at the complexity of race.
we can say it’s a good movie and still
criticise it for being a lazy trope.

i’m not sure how much of tonight’s lesson
will stick. i may have taken poetic licence
and wrote more here than what was actually
spoken, but we’re not gonna watch the blind side
and not mention the glaring elephant in the room.

critical viewing starts as soon as we consume media.
this was just the planting of a vernacular she will need
to make sense of the world and be powerful in it.  
words like trope and white saviour will bloom
into bigger words like
equity and justice. 

206/365

isolation and time
make dumplings from scratch,
liquored cherries and spicy pickles.
they clean the car,
encourage midday bloody mary’s
and early evening runs in crowded
parks with your daughter, listening
to true crime podcasts about one
of the worst series killers in history,
the sun bathes the small man-made lake,
as she struggles to keep up, but you listen
to the gruesome tales to bond and stay connected,
worrying that she may need more
joy and inspiration in her life,
later you watch a film about michelle obama,
holding back tears and rubbing away goosebumps,
hoping the daughters felt something akin to hope.
wonder what kinds of stories they’ll tell about you
when you are gone.

latent legacy-
everyday one less chance
to get it right.

204/365

growing a garden of weeds
just because it’s green.
saturday starts watering the porch.
skye blue. sun bright. day wideopen.

he asks her join him for a few errands.
he needs bar supplies in chinatown:
a mixing glass, coupe glasses, a fine citrus strainer.
one for three. they grab ice cream. they don’t argue.

in the car the music’s louder than mom likes,
but it’s just father and daughter.
first born. middle aged man.
nineties rock. each one gets a song.
she keeps up. listen to this trumpet part.
it kills me every time, he points out.
she waves her hands to the beat.

next stop guitar shop:
test out a new amp,
grab some picks and a guitar stand.
next stop the art store:
water color pens, new sketch pad, tiny notebooks.
she asks him why he doesn’t draw more often.
he fumbles with an excuse
and thinks he should draw more.

she asks where it hurts most to get tattooed
he draws her a map. where did she come from this
piece of him, unraveling into her own person?

at home they excavate a box of his
old journals, letters, photos,  
she’s old enough to probe
the pg-thirteen material.

what does she need to know
about who he’s been
to become who
she needs to be?

we are more than who
we are in the present.
he leaves a few journals
on a shelf, hoping the proximity
keeps parts of him alive for her.

growing a garden of weeds
just because it’s green.
water any life you see.
keep the soil moist.

189/365

the baby turned fifteen
today. she was in good spirits
as we lazed about. consuming junk
food and junk media. we laughed. how can
a poem be written to do any of this
justice. children become real people
like sun light unfurling at dawn. it happens
everyday. cyclical. aging. she unwrapped
her gifts and was gentle, graceful, grateful.
i remember a conversation with my mother
a few weeks ago, about how unfair it is- the
blame children lay at their parents feet.
all i can hope for is that we are doing no harm.
little damage. as we erect boundaries and expect
accountability. at school we discuss the impracticality
of teaching and assessing dispositions, virtues and values.
fifteen years into this process and it still feels like
we’re feeling our way around in the dark.

the baby turned fifteen
today. she was in good spirits. there is
still so much i need to tell her.

68/365

hey dad, “look what i learned.”
she strums a ukulele and sings a folk song.
the other one hones a riff she’s caught
like a melodic disease
on the lost guitar
i restrung over the weekend,
which is now her’s and lives in her room.

that’s six guitars and a ukulele in the house.

back to the first one,
playing an arpeggio on the keyboard.
we might need a mandolin or
an old french music box.
hard to imagine the sounds
one can make
without the instruments at hand
to make them.

“time for bed.”
“one more song please.”
“i want the lights off in five minutes.”
the last song takes the tiny stage of her bed.
i let her play it a few times,
because i do not underestimate
the weight of a quiet song
sang softly to oneself.

in the living room,
the day’s been long
tending to other people’s children.
i tend the ledger of my own parenting
hoping i’m in the black.

65/365

the lights fade
the currents reveal more screen
the previews start
the feeling of familiar nostalgia settles in

all those hours at the cinema
all the stories
in which i’ve been immersed
every time is a new promise
a journey into the self.

on this early saturday evenings
we sat as a family
in the flickering glow
of a projector.

connecting to a
korean farmer in arkansas,
reminded to my own past
as an immigrant child
with parents fighting
over money
and a visiting grand mother
and the need to stay connected
to a fading culture
as the wave of assimilation
threaten to crash over us all.

we are the same
all of us
in a theater
lost in the reverie of film.

“i’m proud of you.”
i tell my kids in the car
on the way home.

“watching a film paced
like that is not easy for
kids your age.”

they say nothing
as they lose themselves in their phones
again.

one them is the dj
playing a song for us
as the sun sets  
over singapore.

59/365

my finger tips
still smelled like
pepper corns
coriander seeds
garlic and dill
thyme and vinegar,
as they drummed
the steering wheel
after I dropped her off
to go thrift shopping
with friends.

i was blasting
black flag
and bikini kill songs,
on my way home—
earlier i had made a batch
of pickles
and the scents were fresh
and vibrant on
my hands. 

what's a better noun for wild than wildness?

and not like wilderness as in like a place,

but wildness,

as in somehting you harbor and cherish

inside yourself.

parenting is about
finding the right distance
between the wildest version of your self
and the most domesticated.

too close to the former sets a bad example
and can cause serious damage.

too close to the latter and it’s hard
to earn respect and be seen as fully human.

41/365

we’re living in new york
at the turn of the century
doesn’t quiet yet feel like history

i feel smart with you,
cultured.  
watching french movies
at the theater
near lincoln center
walking all the way
down broadway-
our bed with satin sheets
the two kittens
still fit
in the palm of our hands.

tonight
a life time later,
we watched the same film—

set in paris
exploding with colors
reminding us to enjoy
the little things—

with our kids.
they no longer
fit in the palm of our hands.
the oldest on her first date.

feels impossible to fit
these lives into these words.

i wish i knew how to
write love poems for you,
or to say i’m sorry earlier
when i hold onto a grudge.

we went to the canals that
are in the movie
when we were in paris
the second time.

feels impossible to fit
these lives into these words.

4/365

the world would be better
if it were run by dolphins,

I mean they’re smarter than us
and I bet they would have better ideas-

she says holding my hand
as we cross the street,
the sky still grey
the year new,
young and fresh,
optimistic.

Did you hear
that a small boy fell into
a gorilla enclosure
and although it was trying to save the boy
the people shot it dead?

I am surprised that she still hugs me
at the street light and weaves her arms
into mine as well walk
like a chain link fence
a tapestry
a DNA coil.

If they can make robots
for doctors to practice CPR,
why can’t they make robots to test
perfume on instead of using animals?

They need flesh and blood,
I mumble,
to test their poisons
and our shampoos.

Although, I guess that’s better-
if they didn’t use animals,
they’d probably find
immigrants from poor countries.

We eat some prata
drink a soda,
enjoy MCDonald’s Sundaes
and walk back home.

It’s important to get off screens
and out of the house sometimes.

3/365

In the park
there’s a man kneeling
holding a tiny red and black bike
next to a small boy
crying.

His face is scared and tough
and trying to keep it together.

Shallow,
quick breaths
drying tears
balled fists.

Just the right balance between:
“Toughen up son,”
and “let me hold you,”
are crucial
for the future of society.

On the couch
I was poking, and
snuggling, and
pinching, and
hugging, and
lightly punching
my daughter:
exhibiting
tender affection
whilst we watched television.

Pulled her fingers too hard
cracking her knuckles,
“Ow dad!”

“Apologise to her.”
My wife’s tone
serious like a verdict.

Just the right balance between:
“Toughen up,”
and “I’m sorry,”
are crucial
for the future of society. 

Tender Act

Instilling confidence in a 12 year old girl is a tender, intricate and vital act. It is not easy, but everyday we work at it.

_________________________________________________________________________________

You were at your desk drawing tonight frustrated because the drawing wasn’t perfect, and you said, “if it wasn’t perfect nobody would like it,” and although you didn’t say it, I have been teaching long enough and alive long enough to know that your statement actually meant, “if I’m not perfect, no one will like me.”

I am not sure how to prove to you that this thinking is false. Maybe some part of it is is true, there will be people who will not like you. They’ll have a litany of reasons and few of them will have anything to do with you. I know what it’s like to be in seventh grade and want to be noticed, accepted, liked. The alternative feels so lonely. But what other people think matters much less than who you think about yourself.

Everyone else seems so much more beautiful and smart and talented and athletic and artistic. How do they do it? How does the world seem so well put together and you feel so raw and broken and unfinished?

You ready for the secret? The truth?

The answer beyond the cliche bullshit of 10,000 hours of practice and growth mindset?

The answer is that they are not.

The world is a mess and so is everyone in it. We are all riddled with anxiety and insecurity and feeling small and inadequate and imperfect. We all just have different ways of masking it.

The first step is not to care too much what everyone thinks. Then maybe you can move onto not caring what anyone thinks. You are in a state of flux, of growth, of change, of evolution. We all are. All the time. Forever.

You cannot be overly concerned with how you appear to be in the eyes of others, until you learn to love the person you are becoming when you look in the mirror. This is no easy task, but you need to dedicate your life to loving yourself.

I can tell you that you are beautiful and perfect and smart and wonderful and the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I can hope that you will believe me and trust me and love me for loving you, but the road forward can be a lonely one. You will need to find yourself by yourself. I am here to help you and guide you and share my wisdom and experience, and I will never leave you alone or abandon you, but there is only so much I can tell you or show you, before you need to face yourself and accept and love what you see.

You might not draw the way you want. Or look the way you want. Or be as popular as you want. Or have that one true friend, but this too shall all pass. I was a scrawny, lonely, miserable little dude when I was your age, but there was a fire in my belly. I’m not sure where that fire came from or who put it there, but once I felt it’s heat I fanned those flames to see me through the hard times. Even now, as an adult there are days when loving myself is not so easy, but despite my own constant evolution, I am here to help you find a way to recognise your flame and learn how to blow it into an inferno.

I think we both need to be patient. A few things that I hope you keep in mind- the advice that I give you is not nagging or judging or criticism of who you are.  My wisdom is born of experience and delivered from love. From the second you were born, all I have wanted was for you to be who you were meant to be. Lately, I feel that I am letting you down. Every parenting move feels like a misstep, but we are a team and this phase of your life shall blend into the next, and we will work through it together.

Here are a few things to keep in mind:

• Be kind and patient with yourself. 
• Becoming you takes time and can sometimes hurt. 
• Everyone carries a heavy load be nice to them. 
• As soon as you figure one thing out there are a million news things begging to be explored.  
• Music cures most things and what it doesn’t that’s what books are for.
• Most of confidence is just pretending to be confident. 
• No one knows what they’re doing and most people are terrified most of the time. 
• Envision who you want to be and walk toward that person. 
• It’s okay to feel anxious. 
• You are not alone.
• You can always talk to me. 
• I will never judge you. 
• I love you. 

Ramshackle Head

"I love you more than the world can contain

In its lonely and ramshackle head"

Sufan Stevens

Some days you come home from work leaden with the weight of another batch of students of concern, but you are not calling them that anymore, so instead you worry about their overall wellness. Your afternoons and evenings becoming only the time in between work, so much so that you forget that you are living a life, raising a family, tending your own needs, maintaining a marriage.

Is this all that life is meant to be? Noticing and appreciating the in between moments? The few hours after you overcome the exhaustion and the few minuets before you succumb to it and sleep?

You wash the lunch boxes and make the next day’s lunches on auto pilot, you watch the late shows make fun of Trump as a pathway to your sanity. Who has the energy to worry about the world beyond the children in your life? You check in on the homework, hoping it’s done, but not really caring because let’s face it homework is bullshit. You work on the speech therapy words with the little one, because you are paying a small fortune for improvement.

It’s Tuesday night so you and the girls take the bus to the local restaurant for pints and pies. The sun sets on your second IPA, illuminating the sky in a blanket of violent and pink. You and the girls are talking about music based on the post you wrote yesterday. They seem to understand your point, even though the older one argues for the sake of arguing. You wonder when she will calm down and let you love her. You imagine a time- the two of you, a trail, a campfire, a conversation that doesn’t end in an argument. You hope you are doing this right. The parenting The teaching, The being a man. How can you be?

It’s hard loving two hundred kids at work, but the two at home need your attention too.

You come home and play Sufjan Stevens, slightly buzzed as the kids get ready to sleep, wondering if this is what you dreamt peace meant when you were living in the Tenderloin.

At least you have the freedom of these words, the ability to scream your insecurity into the world and await a few likes to valiant your voice. It’s a bit sad that you need it, but what do the people who do not write to release their tension do, in the solitude of their own solitude and darkness.

At least these posts make it feel like someone might hear your angst and make you feel less alone.

Later you’ll watch some TV show, this week one about spiritual awakening and a cult in Oregon, wondering if what you have gathered in life is what you need. You think back to the Rainbow Gathering and the sign that said, “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience, we are spiritual beings have a human experience.” It feels so lame and cliche now at 43, but on that random Tuesday evening in Taos, New Mexico, it felt like a door way, a promise into something different. Something bigger.

You wonder if there is anything bigger or different in your immediate future.

Tomorrow, you will work on mundane trivial administrative tasks, the equivalent of teaching kids how to jump through hoops, because that is what the system demands of them at this time. Weren’t you supposed to be showing them how to break the system down?

You’ve been sitting in the younger one’s room for a while now, because she’s sacred of her dreams. You wish you could crawl into them with her and show her the wonder beyond the fear, but there doesn’t seem to be any room for you in there. Who knows if you would even know the way.

Not for anything, but you are grateful every night that you are healthy and sleeping in a warm safe bed. You are aware enough to know that most people cannot say the same thing. You remind yourself to get over yourself and your navel gazing petty bourgeois ennui.

You’re not sure how you ended up here, but now that you are here, you will complete the final sentence and get ready for whatever comes next.

Bob and Shelly

When I was a kid I had a turtle.

I had several cats. An iguana. And a cage full of finches. At various stages of my development I took care of these animals. Changed tanks, litter boxes and newspaper covered in poop from the bottom of cages. I watched the finches lay eggs and raise families in the nests that I bought for them. I hand fed strawberries to the turtle while it “exercised” on the bathroom floor. I designed an elaborate atrium for the Iguana in the bird cage, only to find him back-broken one day after school as he tried to fit through the bars.

Looking back on these experiences, I saw them as positive. I learned responsibility while also making close bonds with nature. They came and went, died and were given away, but overall I feel I was better for having had them.

This was the attitude I had when, after weeks of begging, I relented and told Kaia and Skye that they could have two turtles a little over a year ago. They were tiny and cute and fit inside a relevantly small tank.

I figured that Kaia would also learn the lessons I learned and perhaps make that connection to these tiny animals. I admit that I did not think that our commitment to these terrapin would be eternal. I figured, we’d have them for a while and then we wouldn’t. I know, I know that pets aren’t temporary and if I ever forgot, Mairin was there to remind me. She never thought our foray into the world of reptiles was a good idea.

Last March, we brought the little guys home, and from the start I realised that the tank, when full of water was, way too heavy for Kaia to lift on her own, so every Sunday I would have to help her empty the water. I also quickly realised that she might not be able to really clean the filter to the level that it needed to be cleaned. So I ended up doing that too.

Since it turned out that I would basically clean the tank, we agreed that each Sunday while I did the heavy lifting, the girls would at least take Bob and Shelly downstairs and run them around the grass. I figured if they weren't learning the responsibility aspect of this little experiment, they could at least do with some bonding. They never seemed super excited about this, however, and so the turtles became a bit of a burden and a chore for everyone.

Fast forward to now- we have three big problems.

1. They are too big for their tank and need a bigger tank or some kind of outdoor pond. I have neither the desire, skill or time to run this type of habitat.

2. The kids are not really as connected to this experience as I had hoped and as a 43 year old man I am not loving having a turtle as much as I did when I was ten.

3. We no longer have a live-in helper and we don’t know what we would do with them this summer while we are in the US for seven to eight weeks.

The turtles had to go.

A few weeks ago, I started to prime the girls on what this might look like and how and why they should prepare themselves. They were upset, but seemed to get it.

Today after I cleaned the tank, I put an ad on Carousel, a classified app, and offered the tank, all the accoutrement and the turtles to what I hoped would be a responsible pet owner. Within minutes, I had a few bites and the guy promised to be at our place tomorrow.

I prepped the girls. Revisited the very logical reasons for giving them away and after a few tears, they seemed fine. That is until the dude sent a message saying he was downstairs. He had thought our rendezvous was for tonight. The kids were already in bed.

We had to get up, empty the tank, get the turtles ready for their departure.

Skye did not handle this well. There was crying and anger. Kaia was fine during preparation, but then after they were gone, she was a mess.

I am currently sitting in her dark room, as they whimper themselves to sleep feeling like a pretty shitty dad.

“I never liked this turtles,” has been Mairin’s mantra from the start, but I honestly thought that they would serve a purpose for our kids. Be some kind of reptilian memory, but now I am not sure the fond memories will outweigh the dramatic scar that might remain after I gave away Shelly and Bob in the middle of the night to a stranger.

He promised that he has a bigger tank and he wants the smaller tank for some fish. I asked that he send a picture, so the girls can see that they are fine, and he promised he would.

I experienced so much loss as a kid that I became used to it. I guess that I saw dealing with loss as my ladder to adulthood.

But to hold Skye in my arms tonight and feel her shaking, made me realise that maybe my kids are still a bit too sheltered. And the ripping off this band aid may have been too much.

We will have to wait to see the repercussions of this experiment, but I can see all of us sitting around some table when they are adults, still cursing me for the night I packed up Shelly and Bob under the cover night.

I hope I will have done a few things to make up for this. Man parenting is hard work.

Benefit of Doubt

For some reason, our natural inclination as parents and teachers, might be that seventh graders are: lazy, irresponsible, easily distracted, immature, ungrateful, spoiled, addicted to screens, unkind, unthoughtful, disinterested, selfish and even mean.

And let me tell you as someone who spends a large amount of time with them, some of these traits can be true, but not any more true than it might be for people of any age.

But what if we gave them the benefit of doubt more often than we do. What if we assumed that they are open minded, insightful, empowered, engaged, and kind. What if before we began every interaction, every conversation, we let them know that we respect their thoughts and feelings, that we see them as whole human beings who deserve our love and attention? We didn’t just see them as empty vessels that need teaching or parenting, but we let them know that we understand that they are stars spreading their light too, and that we could learn from them just as much as they learn from us. What if we gave them responsibility and independence, and when they failed we didn’t bury them in disappointment and shame, but rather helped them up and let them try it again?

Earlier this week, as I sat in various classes talking to kids about the effects of social media on self-esteem and body image, or working with kids on creating a literary magazine, or just chatting with individual kids about the things that might be bothering them, I couldn’t help think about what a truly remarkable age they are.

It’s easy to be frustrated and fed up, trust me I am no stranger to the roller coaster that is grade seven, but this post is a reminder to me and their teachers, as well as you parents, to remember that these kids are changing in radical ways every single day. We must remember to engage with them in new and authentic ways. You might be surprised and amazed at what wonderful beautiful people they are. But then again you probably already know.

Here We Go Again

I am a pendulum that swings widely, damaging everything in my path. My own boredom with self and need for constant change forces me to make rash decisions, that I can only maintain by my own stubbornness and commitments to promises made. And now after my year off social media, I am like a waking coma patient, unsure who to be or how to act. What matters? Who is cares? Will they still listen?

I am sure that some people are expecting at least some small epiphanies, from a year-long social media cleanse, and a better person, or a more thoughtful writer, or documenter of such things, might have spent the year chronicling such lessons, but to be honest, I only allowed myself the luxury of a downward spiral into the boredom.

Although, I wanted to use my time away from Facebook and Twitter as a chance to finish my novel, create more art and really connect with friends and family, instead I got pretty fat (which is unusual from a really skinny guy), played video games (a pathetic 6-10 campaign on Madden) and watched way too much Youtube (mostly late shows making fun of Trump, which gave me the right amount of dopamine to carry through.)

My nights were spent not doing much of anything. I didn’t write anything of worth and as the months went by, I had a hard and harder time looking at myself in the mirror. Not only did my hiatus, not motivated me to be my better self, it actually uncovered a slovenly person, I didn’t know was there and whom I didn’t really appreciate getting to know.

So what will this year look like?

Will I write a post everyday like a year ago? Will I finally finish this damn Young Adult Novel. Will I get back to running? Will these push-up continue to make me feel better about myself? Will I stop eating cheese again and get back on the Vegan horse? Will anyone care?

I think, I will try and stop the pendulum and just take things as they come. There doesn’t seem an urgency to make any big proclamations at this time. I’ve spent 43 years trying to figure out what the hell makes me tick and I suspect this year will be no different.

I know that I am excited about properly growing a beard.

Yeah, you read that right. I’ve been watching Youtube videos and I bought a beard comb along with beard oil and mustache wax. Turns out I have been shaving my neck wrong all these years,

I look forward to running again, not to train for races like I was doing, but just to get back in the habit of putting one foot in front of the other on a regular basis.

I ordered a book to help me re-write my book. It is still at around 35,000 words, but I hope to get it to 50K before summer and start the process of re-writing it to include a plot etc…

2017 was a year of rest and laziness. I hope that 2018 things pick up a little. As for lessons I learned when I was gone?

Here are a few in no particular order:

• Our social media connections connect us and are valuable, but are paper thin and it doesn’t take long to be forgotten. I felt like I disappeared in a few weeks.

• Out thoughts and opinions are not as important as we think and no one really cares about them. And if we don’t articulate them, they simply disappear and come back in other forms at a later time.

• There are plenty of ways to waste time and be lazy that have nothing to do with Facebook or Twitter.

• Change is hard. Changing habits. Changing who you are into who you want to be, takes work and never happens on its own.

• The Oakland Raiders will always let me down, even when it appears they might not.

• Parenting a middle school kid is harder than it looks.

I guess that’s it for now. We have time to get reacquainted. A few people have reached out and said they missed my voice, and in 2018 as a forty three year old man trying to make sense of this world, that is worth something. Thank you. I missed you too. Nice to be back.

It Was Hard Not To Cry, So I Did

It was hard to get out of bed today and live with the reality of what has happened. I skimmed a few articles and tweets and Facebook updates and tried to be present for my kids, but they can see that my mind is elsewhere and that my heart beats weakly.


I played guitar at breakfast, almost broke down in tears playing Give A Man A Home by Ben Harper...


have you ever worn thin
have you ever never known where to begin
have you ever lost your belief
watching your faith turn to grief


...so I put the sad songs away and donned a fake smile. We ate in silence. Got ready for the day. I lingered in the shower, watching the cold water swirl down the drain and disappear, my thoughts scattered and unapproachable.


At school, I covered a mentor class and we decided to take a break and do something fun. Let off some steam, so we did a #mannequinchallenge and after we decided to vent our feelings about the election.


The kids needed to talk and be heard and give voice to their anger and confusion. One boy came from a Clinton Trump family and said things are weird at his house, while another girl felt genuine dread for woman around the world. I didn’t say much. I just let them say whatever it was they were feeling or hearing.


Next, I had a lot of busy things to do: Discuss students of concern, send emails, write parent newsletters, plan lessons- necessary tasks and welcome distractions. I tried to stay of twitter, not read the articles. Let my brain rest and focus on the work.


At lunch we had a Daraja Academy meeting, and this venue felt right to talk about gender, rights, justice and peace. The kids in this group seemed shell shocked and upset. We had a lot of work to do, but I spoke about the power of activism and the resilience that we earn from set backs and how the work we do is endless and reward-less, but for the sake of peace, love and justice we get up and keep working. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We assigned committees and selected leadership roles. We carried on the work toward gender equality.


I taught two classes about latitude lines and climate zones. We spoke about globes and seasons. We laughed a lot. I put on a show, the grade sixes ate it up. The classroom is my stage and I like having fun. We left the election outside, didn’t feel necessary.


After school we had our lit magazine meeting. These kids looked like they needed to talk, so I spoke about the power of writing as a healing agent and as an activist tool. I showed them the Michael Franti video and told them to be strong and fight for what they believe in. To use the power of words to heal and mend and educate.


They wrote some short piece and poems. We shared them and their innocence was something spectacular and raw. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We got to work to publishing our next issue.


They worked hard and laughed and ate candy. I wrote this. I know it’s garbage:


Dear Trump Voter,


I am really trying to understand you right now. I should probably wait until my anger and disbelief die now, it is never good to write with such a heavy sense of sadness and rage. There are times throughout the day when I feel nauseous, just thinking about where we are headed as nation, as a planet. I wonder if you would have felt the same had Hillary been elected President.


Are you excited? Are you celebrating? If so I really want to know why? What has you excited? I am not here to be antagonistic. This election has hollowed me out and left me exhausted and confused. I am teacher and a father and I think about the lesson I teach the children I see everyday. For me, the lessons worth remembering are the simple ones we learn as children.


Don’t be a bully. Be kind. Love your neighbour; I am pretty sure those lessons are written in a religious book somewhere. I think about my classroom and watching my own children playing on a playground. I would want them to treat everyone with respect, if not with outright love. I would hope that they would not force some kids off the playground, but rather invite everyone to come play. I would hope that any walls would be used for climbing and playing not for exclusion.


So what is it about this president, this party, this future that fills your heart with joy? What is that when you look your children in the eye fills you with hope. I hope to try and move away from the propaganda talking points, but based on his own words how are you explaining his attitude toward women to your daughters, your wives, you mothers, your sisters, and if you are a woman to yourself?


...


Back home, my kids were tired and sluggish. Kaia had homework, Skye played with her dolls. I wanted to do something with her, but I skimmed articles on my phone instead, wallowing in guilt and anger.


Dinner was quiet.


“Daddy, is it true that Donald Trump raped somebody?”
What do you say to a ten year old?
“He was accused of it, but the trial has been dropped.”
“How can someone who raped somebody be president?”
“Well it was never proven in a court, so we cannot assume he did it.”


I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was twelve and there were others.


“Why would someone rape another person?”
Really? On this night?
“Hard to say. They could be mentally ill, they want to show their power, they hate women.”


She quietly scooped up a spoonful of peas. The idea that some men hate women had never occurred to her before.


We talked a bit more about how she heard that Trump gave a speech and that his okay and normal now.


We discussed his policies, his cabinet and how we cannot normalise the things he has said and the things he has championed and how it is the work of all us to keep him honest and push back against his actions when they are oppositional to what we value: peace, love, diversity, understanding.


They went to sleep. I did a bit of work for tomorrow. It all feels pretty incoherent.


Tomorrow I am off to Jakarta for a literacy exchange. I will see some friends. I am giving a short talk to kick things off. I am excited to tell some stories. I don’t intend them to be, but I am sure they will be tinged with anger and sadness, like most things these days.

Baller

The was a fierceness in her eyes.


A fire has been lit.


I watched her eyes scan the court, while she dribbled with more confidence than I have ever seen, looking for a lane to drive or an open player for the pass.


Her shorts fit right. Her shoes, although a bit big, felt less clunky. A tight black sport’s bar and her number eleven jersey hung from her sinewy shoulders like a baller. A small tight pony tail.


She ran back on defense. Covered her girl. Jumped for rebounds. Fought for balls. Recognized the assists and took the shots. They played two games and for the first time in two years they won both games. She played well. Her team looked like a real team. She scored a few baskets. She drove the lane. Made lay-ups. Ran one coast-to-coast.


A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about her disappointment about being on the B-team, but today as we hugged after the game, drove home and had a celebratory dinner, she seemed to understand the slow progress of learning and hard work.


Unfortunately this was the last few games of the season, but she will continue to play every week at Fast Break. Big thanks to Steven for working with the girls and getting them ready and jazzed for the season. I really hope that basketball is something that Kaia loves and enjoys. It was very fun watching her run the court.


…


I had five meetings today and am pretty spent. Full Frontal, Halloween candy, a glass of wine, reading and a new day tomorrow.

Mellow Day

It was a mellow morning. A mellow lunch. A mellow afternoon. A mellow evening. A mellow dinner and not it is a quarter to ten and I am listening to a random Patti Griffin album I have never heard before. Most of my work is done and we might watch a bit of TV before bed, either way I hope to clock about 50 pages of my book.


The kids were tired today, seeing that they stayed up till passed eleven last night. They were testy and mean. So was I. Despite the chill out mood, I snapped a few times and it actually felt pretty good to let them know how annoying they were being.


We started the day with basketball and it was so great seeing Kaia and her teammates really picking up the pace of their game. Kaia was pivoting, running, rebounding and taking a healthy amount of shots and sinking them. It was the first time where it felt like we were watching a real basketball game. There is nothing more satisfying that watching your kid gain confidence.


Later...lunch at Bergs and home for downtime and some “play-by-yourself-no-you-can’t-have-screentime-leave-mommy-and-daddy-alone-we-need-naps,” kind of day.


I got some work done and prepared for Monday and off to a haircut and shave with Shawn. Full hot towel experience, chilling with the dudes at DeepCuts Barber's, listening to some great tunes and then we grabbed a burger and a beer (portobello for me) at Burger Joint.


Now home. Rested. Tired. Ready for some Halloween candy and November around the corner.