Flowers

  I am so tired. I am exhausted and emotional and I feel like (Whatabout)Andre'... I am bedraggled. No other way to put it. I was watching a Dateline episode that I dvr'd about this first year teacher. She was so hopeful, she was so wanting it to go well and the kids in her class were tough. Just tough and it made me upset. And then she kept saying how she remembered her first grade teacher... blah blah blah... we know the story. It wasn't working out so good until the very end of the year when her students "got it" and turned around. Then of course, the first grade teacher that inspired her shows up. Thank you trite dateline and hote kotbe (yes, we see you cry too)... and blammo, half a box of kleenex brand tissue and I am emotionally sapped myself, sitting on the couch thinking about my day, being emotionally tired and wishing I could inspire someone that way. But seriously... notsomuch at this point in my life. Maybe tommorrow. But I cried. I was sad-like. I was and am an emotional wreck.

Well I remember my English teacher from my senior year. He was the one teacher that made a difference. Mr. Villareal. I don't remember his first name. I have it on something I am sure (other than a yearbook I don't want to shlep out). Honestly, I thought he was a nut. But wouldn't you know it, I would walk into his class every single damn day and do the 10 minute free form writing experience and love it. I never once skipped his class. EVER. (I can't say that for Espanol with Senorita Royce or Newspaper or Yearbook or any of the other senioritis classes I took). I am sad that I never actually told him what I thought of those writing exersizes. I loved them. I think of them alot. I am sure that when my Mom unpacks that part of the basement (at least I hope, I really really hope) there will be a box full of my highschool work. I wasn't the best student and I certainly didn't try hard enough at all, but Mr. Villareal made me think that I could be the next greatest writer of sorts.

I have held onto this picture that I took at the New York Deli news one night. The flowers were on the table, they seemed to be a busy distraction, just one more thing to have to move to get to the pickle bowl. But when I looked at them I realized that while they were kind of tacky, they were actually secretely so wonderful. They are made out of half and half containers. Each flower leaf was individually painted, the color was bright and cheery and I immediately realized, this was time and energy and love right on the table. The pickle bowl could wait. I haven't found a single link (I didn't search all that hard because I didn't want to take away from whoever actually made the display) on what the process is to cut and put it together but the picture makes me smile and in a way think about the above two paragraphs (yes there is a point). Smile like a curved Banana. Smile like sitting in Mr. Villareal's class waiting for the daily writing assignment. Sometimes it was one word. Sometimes it was an entire phrase of sensical combinations. Other times not. Many times it didn't matter.

I only wish I had someone leading me like that daily still. It had only exaserbated my emotions today. I could sit on the couch and cry all night for no other reason than my day was difficult, I didn't really learn anything and I am in way over my head on some things but can't and won't admit it (which is stupid and stubborn and completely ridiculous).

I will open all the windows (crazy neighborlady's cat screaming or not) and get some fresh air and just try my absolute best to wake up with stars in my eyes and goals of grandeur in my head. I owe it to Mr. Villareal.