Yep, it worked, but how do you pull a live trap with a skunk in it far enough out to release it—or shoot it, as Frankie was ready to do? I had called him again, and he enthusiastically showed up, with his gun, scratching his head.
“Let’s git us some balin’ wire and see if we can loop it through that cage and pull the varmit out a ways, then I’ll shoot it.”
The baling wire worked and, of course, so did Frankie’s gun. I was starting to lose some of the peace and quiet I had come here for, feeling like the cruel dictator over any creatures that impeded my peaceful tranquility. For what, a year?
The next time I tied a rope to the cage and laid it way out, so I could pull the skunk down the road if I wanted. I didn’t figure on how I would get the door to the trap open. But it didn’t matter. The following morning the captured skunk was hunkered down with the entire length of rope in its cage that it had simply pulled in with its dexterous little claws. Great. Frankie arrived, with his gun, retrieved the baling wire we had pitched over near the fence, and hauled the skunk out a ways for its execution.
After another restless night of creature commotion and spraying under my trailer, I set the trap again, but tied the rope to a tree. Sure enough I had another skunk, hopefully the last. I pulled it out, and only then did I again realize I couldn’t open the cage door without getting sprayed, nor could I just leave the skunk to die. Frankie to the rescue.
I spent that day poking at and chasing possums out wherever there was a hole in the skirting, then finding any scrap metal to cover up every blessed gap around that trailer. I had already duct taped all the vents inside, which meant I’d be using the wood stove come winter. Vents covered and skirting secure, I looked forward to regaining my sense of smell and getting a good night’s sleep.
Trapping skunks and possums is not how I imagined spending my sabbatical year. Maybe, I surmised, the clearing out of the ruckus below my trailer is symbolic of some kind of clearing out I need to do deep within. Time can be an unfamiliar friend to have on hand. It has left me spellbound and contemplating what to do with my hours. I thought my headaches and depression might ease with a divorce, but no luck. Here I am—a free place to stay, a cleared out reproductive system, childhood sexual abuse memories voiced, reconciled with my parents, no husband, stepson raised, beloved dog at my side, master’s completed, and a job waiting for me at the end of the year—yet I still have migraines and nagging depression. How do I get to that sadness inside of me, where that scared little girl resides—who had no idea she was living with trauma—and assure her that I know she is there, that I am choosing her, that I love her and will protect her, the very things I always wanted my mother to do for me?
What does one do with sexual abuse memories after they have surfaced? It has been over ten years now. I have undergone therapy, confided in friends, journaled, written poems, but I don’t know how to carry these memories with me day to day, and when yet another memory surfaces, whether to write or talk about it, or slam it back down in the box. I only see Gene on a rare trip to Houston. I am living close to my sisters now, and my parents—only two hours away—come for visits. How am I to interact with all of them while continuing to navigate these memories? I wish I could empty my brain and heart of their contents, much like I have my womb, and start anew.
I remember the magical evening during a visit to my parents’ years ago. Sharing a bottle of wine, I witnessed an ease between them I had never seen before—momentarily. I never experienced such an occurrence again with them. So fleeting, this window into their lives and their love that allowed me to grasp their humanity beyond what happened in our lives together. Nothing has changed for the three of us, except for a deepening of compassion I feel for us all.
I buy a new bow and set up an archery target just beyond my front porch. I haven’t practiced archery since my freshman year at the university. I leave my rocker and walk fifty to seventy-five feet from my target. Pookie lies still on her bed and watches my every move. I stand poised, moving the arrow from quiver to bow string, smooth the fletching, then remind myself to breathe deeply and not think, just be. Slowly my head turns to my target, I draw, aim, release. Hold the stance, breathe in, be still, suspend judgment. It’s not about where the arrow lands. It’s the practice of focus along with the willingness to let go and trust. Exhale, then repeat.
Give it time, I think. I will get better.
CHARTER CHALLENGES
2001-2002 (ages 49-50)—Denver, Colorado
“Just give me a baseball bat, and I’ll go knock some sense in their heads,” Barry bluffs. I have been rattling off my frustrations about my new job at a charter school here in Denver. I’m frustrated and feel like a failure in this experiential educational setting. Still, I can’t stand this repetitive nonsense from someone I’m dating when I recount a day’s experience. Nothing about a bat on my students’ heads makes me feel any better.
At the end of an incredible sabbatical year, I felt the promise of making some exciting changes. First, I was a finalist for a position at the Southern Poverty Law Center, working with their Teaching Tolerance magazine.14 Didn’t get it. Mired in disappointment, my friend Carolyn encouraged me to get off my butt and start interviewing if I wasn’t going to return to my job in Houston. Colorado’s beauty lured me more than the birds on Houston’s bayous. Plus, Carolyn lived in Denver, and Nancy in Durango. With two close friends in Colorado, I decided to focus my job hunt there.
At that point I discovered one of the consequences of changing states and school districts was limited credit for years of teaching experience, which meant a lower salary. Charter schools don’t always abide by the same rules. I had become friends with Karla, who was going to interview for the principal position soon at this charter school, and she encouraged me to check it out. I set up an interview with the outgoing principal.
The guy flipped through the carefully created lesson plan I had taught the day before. “You did well in the class. The kids liked you. But we don’t really do lesson plans to this extent around here.”
“I lean on the side of over-preparing and having something extra for later, or if I need to change course in a lesson,” I justified.
Someone opened the door and the principal left in a hurry. I stayed, and sat, and read anything available, and waited, for well over an hour. When he returned, he acted genuinely surprised to find me still sitting there, sat down, opened a drawer, and took out a contract.
“If you are this patient, this school could use you,” he said filling out the contract, in pencil, noting a salary comparable to my experience level. I was the first of a dozen teachers hired for the next school year amidst a significant reorganization.
Patient is not what I’m feeling these days. I will be an English teacher and advisor. The teacher I’m replacing is as funny and spontaneous as Robin Williams. He even looks like the comedian. I met this guy at the end-of-the year pool party I was invited to after being hired. When he was acknowledged with some kind of award, he acted overwhelmed, stood up, and purposefully walked right into the pool instead of going around it—with his watch on and billfold in his pocket—then sidled out to receive his award like nothing happened. He was hilarious, and apparently was like this in his classes and advisement as well, thus the disappointment I soon saw on a number of kids’ faces when they experienced me as his replacement. I was nervous, not funny, and they weren’t amused.
Among my many failings was that I stuck to due dates. Teaching four different curriculums and a variety of grade levels at this school has meant a huge amount of organization and grading. If students turn in work late, it becomes a chaotic mess to keep up with grading. My motto has been, “Your decision to procrastinate does not constitute an emergency on my part.”
So here at the start of the school year, I have been extremely unpopular.
There were so many complaints that Karla, the new principal, called an assembly. Before the meeting started, she told me to hold firm and assured me of her supp
ort. Then, a number of students stood and voiced their grievances: Patricia (we go by first names at this school) is too strict, requires us to rewrite our pieces, won’t let us turn work in late, and she can’t even speak proper English! I hadn’t expected that one. My Texas accent was even on the chopping block. The way I say “winda” for window, and “Colorada” for Colorado, and “tomata” for tomato” are all wrong. Damn that accent. I had worked on getting rid of it while teaching in California after undergraduate students broke out into laughter during a lecture one day when I said “he-il” instead of “hill.”
I had a doctor’s visit that day after school for migraine meds. The doctor decided to take my blood pressure again for some reason, even though a nurse had already done so. “I can’t let you leave the office,” the doc informed me. “Your blood pressure is exceedingly high.”
I assured her I felt fine, but it didn’t matter. I stayed per her orders and graded papers—those turned in on time—for over an hour and left the office with my first prescription for blood pressure medication. Maybe it’s the sea level to mile-high altitude change, I thought. Or, maybe it’s this job.
Ella was one of the students most vocal about how I was not the right fit for this school. She was bright, creative, and sometimes verged on being out of control. I liked her and felt sad that she despised me. One day I walked into my high school English class and she was standing on her head in the middle of the room, with clear support from her sniggling peers. It’s not easy to hold a headstand on a concrete floor, and I was impressed and wondered how long she could hold it. I strode to the front of the class and proceeded with the day’s lesson, even addressing Ella by holding my head to the side. When she finally came down, she went to her seat, took out a pen, and wrote a fabulous creative piece. I gave her feedback, and asked for another draft, and another, after giving more suggestions. She turned each one in on time, and subsequently became my most avid supporter.
Now it’s Halloween and our advisement is in charge of cleaning the bathrooms at our school. No fun for those of us in costumes, which is most of my advisees. Ella is an angel, and very distressed that other students have informed her that they can see through her angel dress as she forgot to wear a slip. Suddenly she is locked in the janitorial closet that we have the key for, so we can get supplies for our monthly school chore.
“Ta-da!” she swings the door open as I knock.
“Ella, what are you doing in there?” I ask, curious.
“I made a slip out of a white plastic bag. See?” She had made a hole in the end of the bag for her head and at the sides for her arms.
“Ingenious, just like you,” I tweak an angel wing and straighten her halo. This gal is something else. I have become extremely fond of her. Mrs. Ellard, my French teacher from high school who once took me for a drive to help me calm down, comes to mind. It never occurred to me that my teacher could have been as fond of me as I was of her.
Several months later, Ella and another advisee of mine are in an argument about something I have yet to hear about, but we have scheduled a meeting after school in efforts to resolve the dispute. Ella and Adam are on opposite sides of a table and I’m at the head, between them. Adam wants Ella to understand his view, and is being careful and patient, but she is too angry, and finally stands up, pushes the table over onto him, and runs out of the room. After checking that Adam is okay, I walk over to Karla’s office to tell her what just happened.
“Call her parents,” Karla wisely advises, which I do, and I tell them I’m going to walk around the downtown Denver area where our school is located to see if I can find Ella. I know her car is in a repair shop because she had asked me to take her to pick it up later that afternoon.
I walk for almost two hours, starting to feel pissed at Ella for this drama, especially when I have so much to grade and plan that evening. I call her dad back, and Karla, and let them know I haven’t found her. I go home but can’t get Ella out of my head.
Two nights later, seventeen-year-old Ella is found dead after taking her own life. Beside her is a tiny new journal that has “I’m a little angel” on one side, and “I’m a little devil” on the other.
I think about Barry’s insensitive and careless comment about bringing a bat to my school and whacking a few kids on the heads. It doesn’t reflect how I have ever felt. I am aware of my own story, and how often we know so little about the stories others have lived or are living. Right now my heart is breaking for the loss of all Ella had to offer the world; as it broke for my redhead, freckled-face sixth grader who came home to find her parents had moved out and left her; my Mississippi student killed in a drive-by; another killed in a car accident; my timid Houston student who went into a witness protection program after accidentally being on the scene of a gang murder; a sweet female student who hid behind silence and shyness because, I later learned, her body was that of a boy’s; numerous high school students who ran away and became homeless and lived on the streets; a gay student who overdosed on Tylenol after his parents sent him to a conversion therapy school; and another shot dead in the street by a gang member when he was mistaken for someone else.
I pick up the latest paper Ella wrote in my class and reread my comments, comments she’ll never see. I sit down at my desk and gaze at where a stubborn, yet remarkable student stood on her head in the middle of my classroom.
PARIS RENDEZ-VOUZ
2003 (age 51)—Denver, Colorado and Paris, France
At the moment, it simply feels like the only thing to do. I don’t know any more than when I sat down thirty minutes earlier to meditate and pray in earnest for guidance. Frustrated and clueless, I finally get up, walk into the next room, and without further thought, book a flight to France for Saturday, two days from now.
I’m certainly not feeling romance, nor that love prevails. Love doesn’t seem to have much to do with my actions or decisions. It feels more like I am giving in and getting out of the way. Life is on a course, and I am stepping into the flow and moving along with it.
Bill and I separated, then divorced, over ten years ago. I had been deceitful with him while we were married, even as he questioned if something were wrong. I did not confirm his perceptions. Now, after discovering that someone I have been in a relationship with in Denver has been dishonest with me, I’m learning firsthand how harmful it can be to deceive your partner to the point that he or she discounts, or even ignores, his or her intuitions.
Bill has long been overdue an apology from me, so I recently sent him one in an email. Turns out Bill has been installing printing presses in France for the last several months. Knowing my love for the country and fluency in French, he called and invited me over.
“What will that look like?” I quizzed him nervously, wondering where I would sleep and what it might feel like to be together after all these years apart. At least here, at fifty, I have finally begun to be more discerning about when I sleep with someone.
“Well … I guess I don’t know,” Bill answered with a matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t have it all figured out. I just felt like invitin’ you over.”
Yep, that’s Bill. Still putting things out there with no pretense or fanfare.
I couldn’t make a decision on the phone, and we agreed to talk later. After flopping around in bed that night, in the wee hours of morning I decided to get up and meditate. That’ll give me an answer, surely. Bereft of a snippet of guidance in my head despite keeping my butt on the cushion, I got up, walked Zombie-like into the next room, stared blankly at the computer, and after a couple of clicks had a seat on Air France in two days, right after fall break would begin at the charter school where I’m teaching.
Then I waited for Bill to call.
I mention to a few colleagues at my school that I am heading to France the day after tomorrow. “France? Now explain again who you are going to see?” No one has met Bill before. My work colleagues don’t even know who he is—have never heard his name for that matter. I shrug and mumble a weak e
xplanation. Like Bill, I sure as hell don’t understand what I am doing.
I don’t hear back from Bill and realize I don’t even know the name of the town where he’s working. It’s now Friday, I’m leaving tomorrow, and other than landing in Paris, I have no idea where I should be going in France to meet him. I don’t know the town, the name of his hotel, or his phone number. All I have is an email address where I’ve sent my itinerary, but I haven’t heard a peep in response.
Bill calls Friday night. I’m already packed.
“Hey there,” he says nonchalantly, his voice detached and empty. “Thought I’d give you a call,” he adds slowly, about to say something else, but I interrupt.
“I’ll be in Paris Sunday morning!”
“What? Sunday? Really?”
“Didn’t you get my email?”
“No. I haven’t been able to get to the Internet café when it’s open. You mean this Sunday, as in the day after tomorrow?”
I was unaware Bill had to go to an Internet café to access email. His voice has changed noticeably, now happy and full of energy. I notice a warm sensation spreading across my chest—a mix of relief, curiosity, and something I can’t quite identify. Bill listens to my itinerary. We make plans to meet late Sunday morning at the Paris train station where I learn he will be arriving from the small town of Lannion, five hours northwest of Paris.
On the long flight to France, nagging thoughts surface. What the hell am I doing? Sleep is totally out of reach as the risks of spending ten days with the man I divorced ten years ago roll continuously through my brain. This is probably a really bad idea.
Arriving in France, I begin to relax. I once enjoyed an easy fluency in this language that wraps around me as my own voice slowly shifts from English to French amidst the bustle of travelers.
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