dapple-dawn-drawn (minus god)
Swishy swishy silk pants moving like Tweedle Dee, around impossible tiny legs tapered from impossibly bulky torso, precarious! We don't say dumb here but if this mother was mine I would be a doorknob. I'm not but no efficacy even though Sam says I have the power to produce an effect, to mobilize available resources to solve problems and promote development. I can't stop the pain on the right side of my head and the smell of meatloaf overwhelms, how should I implement your educational paradigm, sir? I am a product of, slave to the innate ability model, but I have proficiency and isn't that enough? Who am I to fixate on sadness when I have quantifiable proficiency to hold? Share it, Lilia. I want to shake you, man with the puckered face, for being a mathematician and questioning his chart- though I agree with your point that counting the houses before counting the windows would be more logical, aren't you forgetting the children inside, sitting to your left? One hundred and eighteen minutes of waiting before you finish reading off the fiftyeighth slide; we're not there yet, redundancies and the angst is parental for once. Teach our children through video games, and they laugh but move quickly back to MCAS, to being in the red reading group instead of blue, to being misunderstood. (I was in blue, four kids in the hall, but when my kindergarten teacher told me I couldn't write my name in cursive I felt demoted.) Pete gets fat when he goes to France and drinks wine from each town, but maybe I forget aging. Ruddy BC boy is stonefaced, one loafer infringing on my footwiggling room, let me run. Girl with Cleopatra eye makeup makes a sympathetic face to the table and I reciprocate because she doesn't know that I'm a judgmental bitch. There is a Gauguin right behind her, hanging, concave and flimsy from the tan door- a calm African woman in a purple dress, yellow sky, holds a mango, flutters when the silk pants, swish swish, walk by. I am too young to be here, too unqualified. These mothers in the room, the woman in the pink headscarf who assembled a space shuttle- I fear all futures, though the dad with his t-shirt ad for new rims looks rather satisfied. We break, navigate plastic folding maze, stuff more envelopes, I tell Jheykeel's mother that her son is wonderful. Her response has a lovely accent. I don't tell her about this sentence (a favorite): "her legs were smooth like flan right out of the fridge" nor the hopeless context in which it was written. The middle-school tutoring room is hopeless context, but that's not what I'm talking about. I leave, in a Volvo with two amateur PTA types, and we talk about education in Lexington and in Roxbury, still, it always comes back to that. I get a babysitting job. I am home.
Tutoring can be hard, too hard sometimes- and I didn't even tutor today, just sat and thought for 2.5 hours about what I am really trying to do, suburbanite me who panics about college.
New Frenchies tomorrow- has it really been this long? I think of Blue Man Group night, of being held by the same in different halls, then and now.
Hypnagogic myoclonic twitch!
Wait for it.
Tutoring can be hard, too hard sometimes- and I didn't even tutor today, just sat and thought for 2.5 hours about what I am really trying to do, suburbanite me who panics about college.
New Frenchies tomorrow- has it really been this long? I think of Blue Man Group night, of being held by the same in different halls, then and now.
Hypnagogic myoclonic twitch!
Wait for it.