There were only ten days left in Vava'u. That day, I walked the hour and a half into town and met Ben at the harbor. The day's heat had left three rings of color on my shirt and I was looking forward to the cooling dingy ride to the island. We bounced over the waves in content silence, the sucking air and spraying water too loud for conversation. I held onto one of the rubber rings, my other hand clutching my hat to my head. The water was translucent, then green, then deep blue.

When we arrived at the island, Lisa came down to help us drag the boat to shore. We carried the week's groceries to their outdoor kitchen, and Ben asked if I'd like to go for a sail before the sun went down. It was only a two man skiff, but since there was a slight breeze, it wouldn't take much effort to circle around the island.

We loosened the ropes and within a minute, the sail's stomach was full and pushing us smoothly over the water. The sun was setting, and orange light seeped out from behind the silhouettes of coconut trees. Bats wheeled around the islands, and the splash of a solitary leaping fish could be heard from time to time. The sky and water glowed the same warm color.

Ben asked if I was going to miss Tonga, and I said, gesturing around me, how could I not? Then he asked if I was looking forward to going home. With the same assurance, I said yes because you were there. He asked if I was afraid, if I had any small doubts. I told him no because I knew you and I were meant to spend our lives together. There were no more questions after that, and we continued to sail until the sun dropped out of sight.

In that boat on the orange water, you are always with me.

When we got off the plane from Los Angeles, the Tongan Peace Corps staff welcomed us with a garland and greeting that I couldn't even pronounce. Then they leaned in close, and instead of kissing our cheeks, took a big sniff.

We were told (after learning how to say ma-lo-e-le-lei quickly) that, in Tonga, greetings and farewells end with a sniff, not a kiss.

I spent a lot of time trying to figure out why this was (is it because Tongans want to check if you've bathed or if you've "mohe'uli"?), but eventually I just chalked it up to "the Tongan way".

On my last day in Vava'u, the school prepared a farewell for me. As at any Tongan feast, there were tearful speeches, gifts, and an abundance of food.

At the end of the ceremony, all the teachers stood and sang a hymn while I went around the circle saying good-bye. By the time I approached the third teacher, a good friend of mine, I was crying so hard my nose was dripping.

My cheek pressed against hers, I involuntarily gave a big sniff.

I almost quit the Peace Corps. I was at a bar in America, and had just finished my second vodka martini.

"Why would you want to leave this?" my friend said, gesturing to the elegant crowd sipping cocktails in mute gold lighting. "There won't be opera in Tonga, film festivals, wine tastings, restaurants, everything you love." She took a long pull on her gin and tonic. "I know you," she added.

That night I wrote an email to the Peace Corps, telling them that I would not be accepting their invitation to serve in Tonga, but would instead be attending law school in the fall.

I never sent it.

Twenty seven months later, it's the last day of school in Vava'u. The students are bent over their English exam papers, and I'm watching to make sure no one cheats. They are so intent, so earnest, mouthing words to themselves, crossing out and rewriting over and over. At the beginning of the year, none of them would have attempted or cared to write a sentence, let alone finish a three hour exam. They didn't listen to me, perhaps because they couldn't even understand me. Then again, when I started at the school, I just saw a classroom of brown faces that all looked vaguely alike. I couldn't even pronounce their names.

Now, I know Amipeleaisi likes to shout out answers. Anamanu gets angry when she gets a question wrong. Makeleta is quiet, but her writing is expressive and wild. Isileli likes to read with voices and make puns. Atalangi loves romantic stories and smiles at all the girls. Lepolo is raising herself, and Fuanaki gives away her lunch money.

They know when I'm impatient to finish an assignment, when I've fought with another staff member, when I've received a text message from my boyfriend. They also know that the final exam is important to me, so now, they are inches away from their papers, answering every question.

I feel my chest getting tight. I look outside at the ocean, the coconut trees, and the pigs roaming on the athletic field. One of my students looks up and sees the tears in my eyes. She gives me a warm and sad smile. She knows what I'm thinking.

She knows me.

The night it happened, I slept in the hospital. Sleeping in hospitals is as nice as sleeping on airplanes, but this was even worse. After the nurses cleaned up the blood, we were shown to a wide room, empty except for six beds. Really, there were only five: one had no cot, just springs.

"Do you have sheets?" the nurse asked us in Tongan. I translated to my friend, which didn't make much sense since I already knew the answer. My friend, still shivering, just stared.

"No," I answered. Her neighbor, the one that drove us to the hospital, rushed off to bring sheets and fresh clothes for my friend. The two of us waited, sitting on sticky blue mattress that felt and looked like the upholstery of a cheap car. I contemplated what I thought was a coat-rack, then I realized the object was for holding an IV. It was the only medical instrument in the room.

We spent that night with the florescent tube on. I held her hand and tried to keep the rest of my body under a blanket. I think she was staring at the puddle of mold on the ceiling.

We spent the next night in my house. First, without her asking, I locked and chained the doors, then moved my furniture against each. I left the outdoor light on and locked my bedroom door as well. I had her sleep near the wall; I slept on the side closest to the door. In the middle of the night, I woke to her shaking me. "Jenny! Jenny!" I was awake in an instant. "I'm sorry, can you please go check the doors?" I got up, examined the house, and came back to bed. "It's safe," I told her. I rubbed her shoulder, on the side that wasn't hurt, until she fell back to sleep.

The nights got better. By the fifth night, she slept the entire time without crying out or fighting in her sleep.

Just to get away, we spent Saturday night at an island resort. A friend of hers from home flew up to join us, but we still shared a bed. The next day, I had to leave the resort: I had school on Monday. Even though I would see her back in town the next afternoon, my friend gave me two long hugs on the dock. As the boat pulled away, I started to cry.

Sunday night, the night I slept alone, was the hardest of them all.

“Omai e inu.” Give the drink. Her brown claw flexed, reaching at the soda that I now instinctively clutched to my chest.

I had just spent my last pa’anga of the day on one soda and two ears of corn: my entire dinner. Unable to afford both, I had bought the soda in lieu of eggs, the luxury of a Dr. Pepper (the first I had seen in a year) too hard to resist. In my excitement, I had forgotten to immediately put my purchases in my back-pack. Thus, I had committed a very foolish error: in Tonga, don’t have anything visible if you aren’t willing to part with it.

Her hand, like a hideously overgrown toddler’s, continued to grab at nothing. I hesitated, my “culturally sensitive” angel battling against my “I’m American and this is mine” devil. I tried to evade the situation with humor: “I’m sick. I wouldn’t want you to catch a palangi disease.” The other Tongans from my village laughed, but the woman would not relent.

“You lie. Give me the drink.”

I tried a different approach. “Give me some change and I’ll go get you a drink.”

She pulled a Charlie Chaplin frown, displaying her hands palms out. “I’m poor. I’m not rich like you. You make lots of money. You buy it for me.”

I explained to her that I’m a volunteer, and thus, not paid.

“But you are a rich American,” she insisted. “Give me money.”

I really wanted to give her something else, but since my job description includes “spreading world peace”, I figured physical violence wouldn’t go over well back in Washington.

Defeated, I poured half of the drink into my water bottle and relinquished the rest of the can to her. She gulped it down, then threw the desiccated remains on the ground. She then eyed the thin plastic bag protecting my corn. Circumventing any irksome debate, she reached into the bag and snatched out an ear. She started to strip back the husk.

“You can’t it eat it yet; it hasn’t been boiled!” I protested. She continued to denude my corn, only stopping when the white flesh was exposed. She paused, then stuck it in her bag. “I’ll eat it tonight,” she shrugged.

I walked away with the little I had left: one ear of corn, half a Dr. Pepper, and a shred of composure. Turning down the road back home, a car stopped to ask if I needed a lift. I politely declined, seeing the car was already full. but the family insisted. They commenced to shift: some bags and groceries were thrown in the trunk, one child went to sit on its mother’s lap (where a baby was already nestled),while another child crouched between the two front seats. There it appeared: a seat for me. I squeezed in, thanking them profusely.

As we drove, we exchanged the usual pleasantries: where I lived, where I was from, how long I would be staying, and did I want to marry their son? Half an hour later, they dropped me off in front of my home. When I saw the car turn back the way it came, I was confused. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“Makave!” they replied.

Makave is a village two minutes outside of town.

The next day, I sat in my home, deep in thought. “Well!” I said aloud, throwing a shirt on over my tank-top. “As the saying goes…”

I went over to the woman’s house. She was sitting by a cooking fire, preparing dinner. “Mind if I join you?” I asked. She smiled, then set an extra plate for me.

Mrs. Guillard had been teaching French at South Central High for two months: it had taken half that time for her classes to become infamous.

“I got Mrs. Guillard!” a boy in my Study Hall grinned, looking at his schedule. “That fool don’t make you do shit!”

“Watch your language,” I commanded. The student apologized.

“And,” I interjected, “it’s not that she doesn’t “make you do shit”…you don’t do shit. Understand the difference?”

A few students snickered. The boy rushed to his own defense.

“No, Ms. Solove! Everyone plays cards and talks and she never says nothing!”

“She’s not a good teacher like you,” another student chirped. I raised my eyebrow.

“Yeah. You’re scary,” the boy complimented.

“Obviously not scary enough: do your homework. I know for a fact that you-” I pointed at the sycophant for emphasis, “have a test in my class next period. Study.”

She groaned. The boy, not ready to begin his school work, continued.

“The thing is she’s too nice! She gives cookies and stuff to us every week.”

I took the bait. “And this is what makes her a bad teacher?” I responded. “And just yesterday you were complaining how Mrs. Shapiro always yells at you, how she’s so mean. Then you have Mrs. Guillard, who is beyond kind, and instead of showing her respect, you treat her like dirt.”

The student looked down at his desk, admonished.

“But, Miss,” he muttered. “That’s just how it works around here.”

The principal sent Mrs. Guillard to me for lessons on classroom management. She sat across from me, wringing her small hands and shaking her head.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whimpered.

“Well, if you want to control your class, you need to make rules and enforce them. Mrs. Cataldo posts hers right next to the board.”

“Her classes are so good,” Mrs. Guillard mumbled in agreement. I ticked off some disciplinary tricks.

“If they are rude or lazy, hold detention after school. If they make a mess, make the entire class stay until it’s clean.”

She nodded.

“And don’t clean it yourself,” I added, noting her hunched shoulders. “Basically, you have to be strict.”

“I don’t understand!” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes. “I bring them pastries and they don’t even thank me! Last week one of them threw it on the floor and he even refused to pick it up!”

“Then why do you continue to do it? You should stop,” I advised.

Mrs. Guillard left the school by the next semester.

Years later, I’m watching the film Doubt. In it, Sister James, a sweet and innocent teacher, is scolded for being too nice to her students. The principal insists that she must be tough if she wants her class to behave. In the next scene, Sister James punishes a student for being noisy. “This is my class, boy, and you better not forget it!” she yells at him. The student, astonished, does indeed fall silent, but then he begins to cry. Sister James’s stern face collapses, and tears well in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I pause the film, blinking and staring at the ceiling.

The movie continues to follow the principal and priest, focusing on their struggle to choose and do what is right, just, and compassionate. At the end of the film, there’s a dedication. At first I’m surprised by it, considering the character played such a minor role, but then I understand.

“For Sister James” it reads.

I was running down the street, asking everyone I came across if they had phone credit. I had to call my family. I had to call my boyfriend. I had to reach home to tell everyone I loved them before it was too late.

Two minutes earlier, I had received a call from the Tonga Peace Corps Headquarters, telling me that a tsunami was coming and that it may or may not hit Vava’u within the hour. Stay away from the coast line and find high ground.

One hour. One hour. I have one hour. One hour.

I pounced on two men sitting outside the local shop. “A-tsunami-is-coming-do-you-have-any-phone-credit?” They raised an eyebrow, then both shook their head. “But Mima is coming back soon; she has credit.”

“Coming back when?”

They frowned at my very un-Tongan behavior, especially so early in the morning. “Why are you so afraid?” one asked. “A tsunami is coming!” I repeated. “What should we do? Where should we go?”

He regarded me. “You should make your soul strong,” he advised solemnly.

The other nodded down the road. “There she is.”

I sprinted towards the car.

“A tsunami is coming!” I called out to her. “Get the kindi kids together; we need to find high ground!” My co-teacher looked shocked for a second, then she smiled at my Chicken Little declaration. “No,” she reassured me. “No tsunamis come here. The people of Tonga are very religious. We pray every day.”

I dismissed this as quickly as she had dismissed me. “Do you have any phone credit? I have to call my family.” She said she had three dollars, which I immediately started begging her for. Out of generosity (and an effort to get rid of me), she transferred it over.

I called my father and told him to call me right back. Then, with the remaining credit, I called my boyfriend. As I left him a message, I wondered if I should tell him that I love him. What if he heard the message when it was too late and I never got the chance? I decided I would wait until the tsunami was definitely coming before I took that risk.

As I waited for either to call, I couldn’t stop shaking. I wondered why I had never asked for my friends’ numbers back home; I was nowhere near a computer and wouldn’t be able to reach them. The telephone’s ring cut through my thoughts.

“What’s going on?” Dad asked. I told him the news, which I had to repeat twice, since, in my panic, I had stopped making sense. “Wait,” he said firmly. “Hold on while I look it up.” When he got back on the phone, he told me that it was just a warning, that there was no tsunami yet, and that if one did form, it would probably hit Samoa,

I slumped against the wall. “Thank you,” I told him when I could breathe. “I love you.”

The rest of the morning, I taught at the kindi. As I sat with the children, I concentrated on coloring within the lines. I read my favorite book for story time. I helped build a sand castle.

Still, as I walked to town to meet with friends, I began to sob. I stepped into the bush where no one could see me crying. For the second time that day, I called my father.

“What’s wrong? You’re safe now.”

“I know. I know. It’s silly, but for ten minutes, I really thought I was going to die. I thought…” I broke off crying.

“Jenny. Listen to me. You need to take something away from this experience. What were you thinking about in those ten minutes? What did you regret? What did you wish you had said, but never did? Create something out of this, write something on your blog. This kind of experience can change your life.”

“I don’t know, Dad. I mean, it’s not like I had an actual near death experience. At most, I had an extreme cultural misunderstanding.”

“But you didn’t know that at the time. Think about it. I’ll be looking forward to reading your blog. I love you.”

As soon as I arrived in town, I wrote all my friends and family, telling them how much I loved them and how much they meant to me. There was just one person left.

I hesitated over the words, erasing “I love you” to retype “how much I care for you”: I didn’t need to tell him now. I could wait for him to say it first, wait for the right time, maybe over Christmas…

I erased again. I love you, I wrote. Taking a deep breath, I clicked send.

I once had a friend tell me that they liked my blog, but that I seemed to be absent from it, always commenting on what was around me, but never really putting myself in the writing. To be honest, I’m afraid to post this. What if it’s too intimate? What if the reader thinks it’s maudlin or histrionic? I should just wait, rewrite it later, put it in my diary…

But I learned an important lesson. I didn’t listen to it then, but I will now: make your soul strong. To me, this means never take those you love for granted and never live in fear. Love and live freely, without reservation, or you will regret it when it comes to the final hour.

It took me twenty five years and ten minutes to discover this.

I was hungry, dirty, and poor. My one working faucet no longer held that title, my cooking gas had run out, my single electrical socket had blown, my headphones had broken, and I was in debt with no possible way of getting out any time soon. And it was still raining. The monsoon season had broken two weeks back, breaking my spirit and hygiene with it; unable to do laundry, I had resorted to wearing my underwear inside out.

A trash bag covering my head and back-pack, I stepped out of my door to hitch a ride to work. My landlord greeted me with a smile and a water bill. Even though it was only the equivalent of ten American dollars, tears welled in my eyes.

"Have a good day at work!" he called out to me as I started trudging down the road.

At the end of the school day, the sun finally made an appearance. The gray sky was back to its robin's egg blue, water dripped from greener plants, and children were screaming and running about barefoot. I passed two grinning kids jogging down the street, a kite flying behind them. They had made it by tying pieces of cord or rope together, which was then attached to a single trash bag floating at the end. They waved to me as they ran by, laughing and squealing at their invention.

What a nice day, I thought as I watched them go.

I was approaching the end of my eight kilometer trek home when I passed by the elementary school of our neighboring village. Class was over and the students were pouring out of the small school house. I heard one of the teachers call out to me from the porch.

“Senifa! Where are you wandering to?” She was frowning and I noticed she had chosen the verb “to wander” as opposed to “to go”.

“Home!” I answered, trying to seem cheerful.

“How come you are never here to help us? You are always wandering in town.” she stated without preamble. Immediately on the defensive, I tried to explain that I wasn’t just “wandering” in town.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I work Monday through Thursday at Kalana High in town, then I work Fridays at the Kindergarten in Ha’akio. In the evenings I teach night school to the children in my village.”

This response did not seem sufficient; she continued to scowl and another teacher shook her head from side to side. I didn’t know what else to say, so I apologized again, waved good-bye, and kept walking. I cursed under my breath.

Once inside my house, I sighed and leaned against the door. In my peripheral vision, I caught my reflection in my home’s one cracked mirror. Something didn’t seem right, so I inspected myself closer. I touched what appeared to be bruises underneath my eyes. “Oh my god,” I exclaimed to no one. “I have under-eye circles!”

My cell phone started chiming an alarm. I fished it out of my pocket and groaned. “Aerobics” it reminded me.

Several weeks ago I had promised the women of Ha’akio that I would teach an aerobics class, but due to extenuating circumstances (choir practice, power outings, etc.) it hadn’t actually happened yet. It was raining outside, and knowing Tonga, I knew this was a good enough excuse to cancel again. I watched the rain for a few minutes.

“Screw it! Just get it over with!” I told myself and started to change.

Ten minutes later, I emerged from my house looking like what I envisioned as an“aerobics instructor”. I wore black yoga pants and a form-fitting t-shirt with my blond hair held in a high ponytail. I had even tied a bandanna across my forehead. I marched through the rain to the town hall. A few women were lounging out front.

“Time to do aerobics!” I chirped. The women laughed.

“My stomach aches!” one complained, rubbing her ample ailment.

“You’re only fake sick! Stop being lazy!” I chastised her, bringing forth a fresh burst of merriment. I rang the church bell that announced town meetings or other Ha’akio activities.

“We’re doing it today! I’m going to go get some more women, but we’re going to begin in ten minutes. Don’t you dare try to escape!”

I went to the individual houses, navigating a path over the pig fences and patches of mud.

“Time for aerobics!” I called out. Most of the women told me they were sick, or that they had to do laundry/weave/cook, but I was taking no prisoners.

“You can do that later! C’mon, let’s go. You don’t even need to change, just come in that.” I grabbed their hands and dragged them out of their houses.

After a good half hour of verbal and physical harassment, a ragged group of middle-aged potential exercisers were assembled in the hall.

“Yay!” I clapped, already the perky instructor. “Thank you all for coming!” They threw side-ways glances to each other. One sat down.

“O-kay!” I said, my voice rising on the “kay”. I turned to start the music I had prepared for the occasion. "Down in Mexico" by The Coasters began, and the women seemed to perk up.

We stretched (a necessary precaution, assuming most of the women had not exercised since high school, if then), the women surprising me with their ability to touch their toes. Stretching their quads wasn’t as successful: most of the women had too much leg between their heels and glutes. The fact that everyone wore ankle-length skirts also didn’t help.

The Coasters finished and Missy Eliot’s "Work It" began to thump through the speakers.

“Time to exercise!” I cheered. I started to do slow squats in time with the bass, making the movement, without my intention, extremely suggestive. The women howled with laughter, then tried to mirror the movement. Some could only bend at the waist, but everyone was enjoying the effort. A two hundred pound house-wife next to me grabbed my rear and cried out, “Ouaie!” She then took large handfuls of her own bottom and pretended to compare the consistency.

“Good to exercise!” I winked, which was followed with more hoots of laughter.

Pitbull’s "Hit the Floor" came on next, and I prayed no one would understand the lyrics. Encouraged by the communal mischievous mood, I decided to show them a modified version of pop, locking, and dropping it. Tongan dancing is mostly performed with the hands, so most of the women didn’t understand how to “shake it”. I assisted one woman by placing my hands on her hips, guiding her weight to shift from side to side. A mother of eight, she giggled and covered her face with her hands.

The women were huffing and losing steam, so I announced that the next song would be the last; I skipped ahead to “The Train”. The pulse came on and I instructed the women to form a line behind me, hands on each other’s shoulders. We hopped from foot to foot and conga lined around the room.

“Up high!” I called out and the women squealed and raised their hands up to the ceiling. “Down low!” I shouted and circled my hands at my knees. Everyone followed, laughing and hooting. Then I had everyone join hands in a circle, come together, run back out, then come back in again.

“Whee!” they cheered. We finished by dancing however we wanted to: knocking hips, shaking butts, flapping arms. The song ended with everyone exhausted and smiling. “Next week?” I asked, grinning. The question was met with a resounding “Yes!”. Outside the hall, a teenage girl approached me and asked if she could join next time. “Of course!” I replied.

Walking home, my feet still keeping time to "The Train", I sang to myself:

“C’mon ride the train, jump right in…I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

I already felt like an outsider, a white girl on an island in the middle of the South Pacific, but the three teenage girls teasing me made it much worse. Tonga usually lives up to its name, the friendly islands, but, at times (as it is world-wide), kids can be punks. And, let's admit it, I made an easy target: face red from the heat, walking bent forward to counter-balance the weight of my back-pack, sweat forming a crescent on the neck of my shirt.

The three adolescents had started following me at the bottom of the hill, whistling, making noises, giggling; I ignored them and pushed on towards my office. They continued to follow me, asking, in Tongan, if I'd give them money, if they could have a camera, etc. Then one said, "I'm thirsty; give me your soda."

I turned and they froze. "Thirsty?" I asked in Tongan. I held out the Coke I had been carrying. They eyed me warily, then looked at the offering and nodded. One crept forward, extending her hand for the treat. Once she had it in her grip, I yelled "HAH!" and took off running up the hill. When the group realized it was an empty can, they started sprinting after me, shouting. I had a good head start on them, so I reached my office, just in time to shut the door and stick my tongue out at them from the window.

We were all laughing.

Fifteen minutes before the end my first period class, the intercom sputtered with its daily interruption of announcements. The voice of our principal, Vincent Carbino, invaded the classroom. Mr. Carbino was pale and pudgy with blond hair and watery blue eyes: the picture of what anyone would envision as “the man”. Despite this, in an effort to relate to his Spanish students, Mr. Carbino pronounced his name Carrr-bee-no, but everyone else, mostly to spite him, pronounced it Car-bin-o.

“A word to the wise,” the voice began and the students groaned. “A word to the wise,” one student parroted and everyone laughed. Even I, not one to encourage the students' inherent disrespect of authority figures, rolled my eyes.

“Next week is the William’s Compliance Check, so every student must bring their textbook every day.” He emphasized every word with grandiose pauses; his flare for the dramatic usually stretched his announcements into ten minute sermons.

“Textbooks?” I said out loud. We were halfway into the semester, and I had never seen a book for Journalism, my subject, in all of Santee High. As a result, I had written to The Los Angeles Times and they had been donating fifty newspapers a day, all of which I had to share amongst my three periods of at least thirty students each.

“Today, during each period, every third floor teacher must report to the textbook room, with their students, to ensure that each student has their own book. I want, and I know, the Santee Falcons will soar through the William’s Compliance Check with soaring colors…”

I stopped listening. I had asked for Journalism textbooks at the beginning of the semester, but Car-bin-o had told me that the budget didn’t cover “extra-curricular” courses. I wondered what the budget did cover, considering that the school had been rented out as a movie set during last semester’s week of exams, closing the library for filming. No one knew what had happened with the money garnered from that “extra-curricular” enterprise.

“Are you going?” my surly neighboring teacher asked, opening the door between us.

“I suppose we have to, although I’m positive there are no textbooks for my class.”

“This is such bullshit,” she muttered, and for once, I agreed.

The textbook room was chaos. Before any of my students took the golden opportunity to ditch, I gathered them into a clump towards the back. “Ah, miss!” they complained, watching their peers make the most out of the mad-house. Mr. Carbino approached in his three piece suit, the tie bringing out the color of his dish-water eyes.

“Where are your students’ books?” he interrogated.

“We don’t have any,” I replied. “My class is Journalism and there are no books.”

He snorted.

“Yes, there are. The tenth grade Literature textbook. Have each of your students get one then return to your classroom.” He began to turn away.

“Sir, I teach Journalism. That book has nothing to do with my class.”

He scoffed. “Have you read it?”

“Yes, Sir. I taught it last semester. That book has fiction, poetry, and drama. It wouldn’t make any sense for them to check it out.”

He whirled on me and pointed his finger at my chest.

“If you were a good teacher, you could a find a way to make it work. Check them out and go upstairs.”

He walked away before I could reply.

“Wow,” one my students said. “You want us to throw down?” another joked.

“Do we have to check them out? Those books are heavy, Miss.”

I stood there a moment, watching his back.

“No, we don’t. Let’s go.”

Later in the staff room, I vented to the fellow teachers.

“He chastised me in front my own students! My students! And he has the audacity to tell me I’m a bad teacher when he’s just trying to cover his own ass!”

“I don’t have any Economics textbooks either, and he told me the same thing,” a fellow teacher added.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked, turning to the veteran History teacher. He took a bite of his sandwich.

“I checked them out. What can you do?”

I still refused to check out the books, and continued teaching Journalism as I had before; if the auditors came to my classroom, I would be more than happy to inform them of the situation. Then, on Wednesday morning, I was no longer the Journalism teacher.

“What the…” I whispered, staring at my computer screen. I had logged on to submit by daily attendance and saw that my Journalism course title had been changed to Writing Seminar…the class requiring the literature textbook.

“He can’t do this!” I shouted, slamming the desk.

I went to the Culinary Arts teacher, our former UTLA representative, and apprised him of the dilemma.

“Is there something the Union can do about this?”

“Well, he really can’t change the course half-way into the semester without giving you three days off, paid, for lesson planning...”

“But what about the students? Half of them already took Writing Seminar with me last semester!”

“Hmmm. Jordan Henry is the current UTLA representative. He could take it to the Union for you and maybe something would happen.” He paused.

“You know, Jenny, this is sorta how it goes around here. Maybe UTLA could help you, but in all likelihood, nothing will happen and you’ll just end up on Carbino’s shit list. He’s fired people for less than this, and considering you’re a brand new teacher, not even fully credentialed, this could easily mean your job.”

“What floor does Mr. Henry work on?”

Mr. Henry told me he would find out how many other teachers this had happened to and then he’d get back to me. The bell rang and I returned to my classroom. Before I could even shut the door, I was bombarded with complaints.

“Miss, I already took Writing Seminar and I need my credits to graduate!”

“Look guys, I’m figuring this out and this is still Journalism. Don’t worry about it. Let’s begin class.”

I walked over to the board and erased the day’s agenda.

“I’ve decided we’re going to put the review section on pause so that we move straight into the current events section. Since I want all of you to have the experience of real reporting, I would like us to write on events here at Santee.”

I turned back to them and smiled.

“Maybe the Williams audit would make a good piece?”

Every day, the students came into the “newsroom” excited to share their new information. It had turned out that a married couple on the first floor, history teachers, had also had similar problems: their AP textbooks had never been delivered, so Carbino had switched their classes to regular History. One teacher had yelled at Carbino and been thrown out by security. Her husband was now planning to walk out on Friday.

“Ok,” I instructed my class. “We need to be unbiased reporters, so make sure all your facts are correct, that you have reliable sources that you can quote, and be sure not to express your own opinion. This isn’t the opinion section and I don’t want any of you getting into trouble. I want the final drafts on Wednesday.”

The students did incredible work, surprising me with their enthusiasm. A few groups even interviewed Mr. Carbino, who seemed to be avoiding my classroom. On Thursday, I gave my last assignment. “We don’t have a printing press, but this is your voice and it can reach your community. I want all of you to go home and read your article to your parents, your family, everyone. Then I want you to invite them to the protest tomorrow morning. I won’t be in class, but I hope to see all of you there.”

“Miss Solove takes it to the street!” a student cheered.

The next morning, the sidewalk was packed. Students, teachers, and parents were all shouting: “Are we gonna take it? -No! -Carbino Must Go!” The police surrounded the school, helicopters circled above us, even The Los Angeles Times came to cover the story. Everyone had come together.

By the end of the following week, Mr. Carbino had resigned.

* * *

"How was your day?" my pen-pal asked.

I still had two hours until night school, so I strapped on my running shoes and opened my screen door. At the familiar creak, eight children jumped up from the porch of the abandoned house next door.

"Vaiolupe!" they screamed, swarming around me.

"Alu ki fakamalehesino?" Going to exercise? one kid asked, tugging my shorts.

"Alu ki lele?" Going to run? said another, pushing the first. On my other side, two children jostled to hold my hand.

"Io!" I replied, trying to make it out of my yard.

"Whee!" they whooped, skipping in circles around me. "Ifo fakamalehesino!" Yay exercise! they chanted.

Reaching my gate, I stepped over the metal and began to jog down Ha'akio's only road. The children, barefoot, began to jog next to me, still whooping. Most quit when we reached the end of the road, but one little boy ran next to me the entire four miles, chattering the entire time.

"Oku ke sia'ia guava? Oku ou ia guava momoho i ko hoku api pea..." Do you like guava? I have ripe guava in my yard and...

Finally, we were in front of my house.

"Okay, oku totuno ke ke foki ki ho'o api koe'uhi oku ou fiekaukau kuosi kamata po'ako." You should go home because I need to shower before night school.

The boy stood on my steps, looking crestfallen.

"Te u sio a koe anai!" I will see you later! I encouraged, stepping inside.

Half an hour later, I was standing in front of a piece of wood painted black, nineteen children, from age seven to seventeen, sitting on the floor in front of me. We were in the abandoned house next door, the church hall occupied by the men's kalapu. I floundered to find a lesson that would fit the vast range of students present.

"Umm...why don't you seven write your name for me. You five write three sentences about yourself, and you seven write a paragraph describing yourself using these conjunctions."

I wrote AND, BUT, and BECAUSE on the painted wood. The children began, looking over each others' shoulders, fighting over pencils, elbowing each other for room. At the end, I discovered I had four kids with the same name and six kids that all liked to eat yam.

"No, no. Write something different. Don't copy what he writes! Tell me what you like!"

The children looked up at me bewildered. I decided to take a different approach; I told the little kids to come back Monday, then began a lesson with just the high school students.

"Let's review the three basic tenses," I began, turning to erase the "board". I looked around for an eraser.

"Here!" a girl volunteered, holding out her flip-flop.

An hour later, my phone rang.

"We're outside, you ready?" my American friend asked.

"Yeah, give me one second." I turned to the class.

"Okay, we're done today. Come back next week, same time. And next time, please come at seven, not seven forty!"

The students shuffled out. I grabbed my over-night bag and ran to the car parked outside.

"Alright, ladies night!" sang the Australian volunteer sitting next to the driver.

"Whoo!" I cried, hopping into the back-seat.

Three glasses of wine and one night later, Ema tapped my shoulder with her foot.

"You still want to go to yoga?" she yawned. It was dark out.

"Yeah," I said, rising from my foam mattress on the ground.

Yoga was held on the deck of the American woman's restaurant, overlooking the harbor of Vava'u's capitol. As I stood holding the tree pose, I watched the sun rise over the water, turning the sky from pink to blue. A summer rain began to fall. The empty yachts bobbed on the water, waiting for their owners to return for the sailing season. What an exciting life, I thought. I wonder what kind of people come sailing in the South Pacific?

After briefly talking online to my over-seas love interest (a boy I had met once five years ago), I signed off from fantasy land and headed up the hill, back to Ha'akio. A girl from my village was having her wedding today, so I would not be working at the high school in town. At the top of the hill, I saw a procession of cars and trucks, all honking their horns and singing, making as much noise as possible. I started to run.

"Hey!" I called out, waving my arms.

"Vaiolupe!" they called back. "Hifo ki lalo!" Get in!

I grabbed the moving truck bed and climbed inside. They handed me a pot and a stick, which I started to bang in time with their singing.

After circling through all the villages in Vava'u, which took half an hour, the wedding procession ended at the church. During the ceremony, the light rain turned into a torrential downpour. At the end of the service, everyone crowded at the doors, eyeing the feast waiting across the field. The tables were set, grilled pigs prostrate on top, their mouths and anuses stuffed with flowers. The DJ had even begun to blare Tongan hits.

Suddenly, a middle-aged woman ran out into the rain, climbing to the top of a hill between the church and the feast. She started to dance, gyrating her hips in a ridiculous and lewd manner. Everyone howled with laughter and clapped. Four other women ran out to join her. Soon, the five of them were dancing on the hill, their clothes beginning to stick to their ample bodies. After a short internal debate, I sprinted out to join them.

Soon, half of the wedding party was on top of the hill, soaking wet and dancing. The original women had ran back to the church, grabbing protesting family members. Holding onto flailing arms and legs, they lifted their victims and carried them to giant puddles, dropping them in with a great splash of mud. As the women carried one man, he struggled to keep his tupenu (a long wrap-around skirt that Tongan men wear)shut; when he inevitably flashed the crowd, everyone cheered. Another woman was stuffed into a giant cooking pot, which was hauled to a puddle by six strapping men. After being dumped into the mud, she shrugged her shoulders and tried to sit on the pot. It crumpled with her weight. A shriveled old woman, the groom's grandmother, jumped face-down into a puddle. She began to raise her arms and kick her feet, pretending to swim.

Not to be out-done, I grabbed the hand of the Tongan woman next to me. "Ready?" I shouted, hauling her down. At the top of the hill, I laid out flat, my arms clasped over my head. "Here we go!" I called, rolling down the hill of grass and mud. The woman rolled after me, knocking into me when we reached the bottom, our muddy skirts raised up over our knees.

"Toe!" Again! she squealed, grabbing my hand. We sprinted back up to the top.

"Oh, it was good," I replied.

We had been training for two and a half months and today was the big day. As the coach, I had instructed my long distance team on the basics (form, pace, breathing techniques), along with a few extras (leave the coconuts on the ground, don't run in dime-store flip-flops, no hitch-hiking on the long runs).

All five high schools were gathered at Vava'u High, the one government school. The other four represented each prominent religion: the Wesleyans, the Mormons, the Free Church of Tonga, and the Catholics. The track was a grass field, the first lane no longer available because of the rain that morning. Although the pigs had been chased to the side-lines, a feral dog managed to lope across the field. Some soldiers nearby picked up a rock, but as the dog passed out of range, they returned to leaning against their truck. They did not carry any formal weapons, but one slapped a medium sized stick, whittled to a point at the end, against his thigh.

I gave my team a pep talk before they lined up for the four hundred.

"Ok, remember what we learned. Don't swing your arms everywhere, don't slow down at the end, and try to run around the mud if you can. Ready to win?"

They nodded; either they were nervous or my Tongan speech had made no sense.

"Okay! Good luck!"

They filed out barefoot to the starting line, the first runner wearing the only pair of tennis shoes. The first heat got into their prospective lanes.

"On ya mah!" called out a Tongan man.

"Geh seh!"

He lifted two pieces of wood over his head and banged them together. The runners were off. To my chagrin, I noticed my student running with the cross of her rosary between her teeth. I yelled in Tongan "Oua e kolosi!" but my voice was lost in the cheering.

Even though the other coaches had remained standing in the shade, I jogged down to the beginning of the last stretch. As my student approached, I started yelling general encouragements from the side-line. Then I remembered something my coach had said to me before a race. I screamed, "Nonu, oku ke he havili! Oku ke he afi!" I meant to say: Nonu, you are the wind! You are a fire! What I actually said was: You are windy! You are a cooking fire!

Despite the language error, I saw her glance up at me, then her eyebrows furrowed and her legs picked up. She ran through the ribbon.

I ran through the mud to congratulate her. Her team members had already crowded around her, two supporting her weight, the rest slapping her back.

I was reminded of track back home.

I raise my arm and slice it down, an action equivalent to sticking out your thumb in America. The battered van groans to a stop a little ahead of me.

"Where are you going?" I ask in Tongan, jogging up to the passenger window. A man sits at the front, his belly squished against the wheel. The front seat is empty, a large woman, probably his wife, sitting behind him. Next to her stands a spindly child with a dirty shirt worn inside out.

"To Koloa. Where are you going?" the large woman responds.

"To Ha'akio. Can I ride with you?"

"Yes. Come." She shifts her bulk, making room on the torn seat beside her. She shouts at the boy, who has been transfixed staring at me, his snot running into his mouth unnoticed. His mom hisses and lifts her floppy arm to slap him, but before she can lean over far enough, he has scrambled over the seat to crouch down in the back.

I climb inside. I turn to slide the van's door shut, but the woman stops me.

"It's fine. Cooler."

I agree, taking my shirt collar to wipe the sweat from my forehead. The van creaks then lurches forward, smoke coming up between the passenger and driver seat.

"Peace Corps?" the wife asks.

"Yes. I live in Ha'akio but I work at the high school in town," I reply, justifying my presence in town. Her suspicions gone, the woman gives me smile with two gold teeth.

"You speak Tongan very good!"

"Thank you. I try to practice a lot. I hope maybe in two years I will be very very good."

Perhaps I don't say the last sentence right, or she wants to show her own language skills. The woman repeats, this time in English, "Your Tongan is very good!"

I thank her again and repay the compliment, asking if she has learned English by living overseas. She beams.

"No, I learn English in school."

I emphasize my astonishment at this accomplishment, which seems to satisfy her. She slaps the driver's shoulder.

"He speak no English," she boasts. The husband half turns and nods, grinning. Her superiority established, the conversation turns back to Tongan.

"How long will you work here?"

"Two years. A long time. Thanks for giving me a ride. It's too hot to walk and my bag is too heavy."

"Of course! It's bad to walk on the road. The devil lives on the road."

"They have a bizarre sense of humor. I was talking to these two Tongan men, and they were joking that the best way to get a woman is to hit her under the jaw so that she'll pass out," the older volunteer gives a half-chuckle and nods her head from side to side.

"They joke about rape!" I exclaim. "That's terrible!" She shrugs and grows serious.

"Yeah, it is. But you'll hear them joke about it all the time, about a man dragging a woman out off into the bush. They say the devil lives in the road, but that's what they mean."

"The devil?" I ask, even though I've heard this phrase almost every time I hitch rides.

"Yes. The Tongan people are good people." The woman sits up straighter. "We go to church. But, sometimes, the unmarried men, they see you, and they have not seen you before."

I walk with Lupi every day. This evening, two teenage boys from the village follow behind us; I ignore their attempts to flirt with me. However, when they ask Lupi, a former female boxing champion, to punch me then leave me in the bush where they can come find me later, I whirl on them.

"I can hear you," I say in Tongan.

At first, the boys are startled I speak Tongan. Then they start whooping with laughter. Lupi is laughing too. I start walking faster. Lupi, seeing my anger, touches my arm.

"Jenny, you know I would never do that. It's a joke."

"They don't know you. They have no wife and they see you walking."

"You have read the bible?" my Tongan neighbor asks me as he and his wife drive me to school.

"Yes," I reply without lying.

"You remember Eve? She is to blame. She tempted Adam, that is why man fall. It is her fault. The woman is evil."

"But he took the bite! He knew better, but he did it anyway," I argue. Before the husband can reply, I add, "If woman is evil, than man is stupid."

The man and his wife begin to howl with laughter.

"But, the Tongan men, they are not bad. It is the evil in the road. That is why I ask my husband to drive you all the way home."

I am standing in her doorway, my muddy tennis shoes keeping me from entering the house.

"How come you can't walk with me to town today? We can go swimming again," I ask Lupi. She is holding a long spoon.

"I would, but my dad told me I can't walk with you anymore. He thinks a man with a knife will grab us, so I have to stay home and cook. Maybe my brother can drive us Friday?"

"You can stop up here," I interrupt the woman.

"Here? Really?"

"Yeah, this is fine. It's not far and I like to walk."

The van coasts to a stop. I jump out the open door, slinging my bag onto my back. The shade of the jungle around us provides a little relief from the sun. A bird calls above me and the ghost moan of a cow comes from the field behind me.

The woman looks down at me, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"But aren't you afraid of the devil?" she pleads.

I smile.

"No. He's afraid of me."

With that, I wave and start down the road.

In front of me, a Ziploc baggie now holds the remains of a six inch long by one inch wide molokau (centipede). It’s bright orange with black stripes, and is not half as friendly as James and the Giant Peach would have you believe. If this entry seems disjointed, it’s because I’m writing this at 5:30 in the morning.

The half-hour story begins, well, I’ll let you guess. What I’m sure were pleasant dreams (they always are in cases like these) were interrupted when I felt a slight tickle moving across my gentle cheek. What I didn’t know until four seconds later, was that this agreeable sensation was in fact caused by the many sinister legs of the molokau, out for a leisurely stroll along a low impact surface. Fortunately, in the four seconds it took me to become cognizant, the molokau had moved on to the slightly less warm, but no less soft, surface of my pillow. My subsequent scream startled us both: me jumping (well, pushing than falling) out of the bed, him (if I may assume that gender) ducking under the pillow. After a short but effective mantra of “holy shit”, I realized what I, an independent woman living alone, must do: find someone else.

Propelled on this purpose, I stumbled out to the road (having changed first, but still to shocked/harried to remember/care to put on underwear), the picture of white-man incompetence wearing an REI flashlight on my head.

All the village houses were dark (yes, I can see every house), the only light coming from the town hall. Maybe desperation blinded me, but I could have sworn the lumpy huddled figures were women weaving. Alas, as I approached (slowly: see above detail and note I’ve gained ten pounds) I realized the lounging figures were the male village youth, finishing up a long night of kava drinking. Fear fighting better judgment, I approached the sprawled circle.

“Excuse me?”

The element of surprise (mixed with mild narcotics) went in my favor. Before anyone even had the wits to make a joke or a pass, I had pulled the town officer’s son out of the group, insisting he help me kill the fiendish creature.

“I he taimi’ni?” my reluctant (and slightly drunk) knight in shining armor asked.

“Um…Io, now,” I replied.

He stumbled to his feet, making me wonder if I had made a smart choice after all. Still, his hands and legs were his, and not mine, which made him a better choice by default.

Walking to my house, I debriefed him on the situation.

“And this is the second time! The first time I was in the shower, but that one was much smaller; this one is huge, almost as big as my arm (I exaggerated), and it was in my bed! My bed! (I was especially indignant at this last invasion of privacy).”

The boy chuckled.

“Maybe he wants to see you.”

This was followed by something in Tongan about a beautiful girl living alone; it didn’t really matter, the molokau being the more immediate threat. Still, upon reaching the house, I decided to be culturally sensitive.

“He’s in the bedroom, inside my bed,” I said, standing safely outside. Nasili started searching the “living room”, which confused me and indicated how much kava he’d consumed, seeing as he had helped build the three room house.

“No, no. In here,” I cautiously stepped inside, showing him the molokau’s new lair.

“Oh.” After a pause, perhaps to gather his bearings (which he seemed to do): “Maybe you have something I hit with?” He grabbed a poster tube.

“Is this okay?”

“Sure.”

We marched (he walked, I crept) into the room, and with the hand not holding a can of Mortein, I pointed. “He was under the pillow.”

After lifting all three pillows, the sheet, and the mattress, I began to feel like an idiot.

“He was there, I swear!” I searched the ground.

“Oh. He’s right here,” Nasili said calmly.

“Where?” I asked, jumping to attention.

“Here.” Nasili nodded to his shoulder, where the molokau now coiled and wound itself down his arm. I screamed and raised the can towards my villain and savoir.

“No! Don’t hurt him now!” Nasili urged, showing fear for the first time. He flicked his shirt, hurling the molokau down to our feet.

“Now we kill it.” I sprayed while he beat. The thing curled up in its last death throw. Nasili picked it up.

“Yes, it is dead,” he stated with his Hemingway simplicity.

“Should I throw it outside?”

“Yes…Well, actually?”

In front of me, a Ziploc baggie now holds the remains of a six inch long by one inch thick molokau.

I had actually waited for the sun to come up before I began my walk: the pigs and church bells had pulled me from my sleep while the sky was still gray. My host mom and grandma were already awake, the former sitting on a tire chopping coconuts, the latter clucking to the chickens in a voice as cracked as her hands. I left quietly, it being too early for my tongue to perform the yoga routine required to speak Tongan.

Alone for the first time in three weeks, my mind became crowded instead. While I hadn't joined the Peace Corps to save the world (I'm not that naive), I was surprised to arrive in a country where I could drink the water without a steady regimen of peptobismal, where no one slept on the street, where, if anything, the people were too well fed. I had even been told not to worry if something went missing, because it would probably reappear before the week was out. Of course, I hadn't taken a hot shower since I arrived, "but that's better for your skin anyway", as my Angelino friend had pointed out.

"We're just thankful you're not working in South Central anymore," my parents had told me.

It was strange, but I wasn't sure I agreed. Egotistical but true, amidst poverty and violence I felt important, needed. Here...

"Alu ki fe?"

I looked up from the road into the round face of a Tongan woman settled on her doorstep. Where are you going? She shifted closer to hear my answer, the bulk of her worn floral dress spilling forward with her. I paused with my mouth open, searching for something to say.

"Eva pe," I replied, a two word response easily memorized. While not quite translatable into English, the phrase roughly means "just wandering". The question, when posed in Tonga, requires no real answer, but is used more as a greeting. I had therefore given a correct response.

She gave me a gummy smile.

"Io," she called back, a word meaning good-bye and yes.

"Io," I returned as I walked on, smiling as well.

Peace Corps Volunteers must be open to ideas and cultures different from their own and may need to modify their appearance or behavior appropriately. Give an example (between 250-500 words) of a significant experience that illustrates your ability to adapt in an unfamiliar environment. Please highlight the skills you used and the perspectives you gained. You may draw from experiences in your work, school, or community in the U.S. or abroad. Please list the date(s) of your experience.

It was the first day of school, except now I was the teacher. Never in all my years as a student had I felt this nervous; at least in high school I knew what defined popularity. Here, in South Central Los Angeles, I was just as positive that a cute outfit would not win my tough students. In all honesty, I had no idea how I would earn their approval and respect.

“Just don’t show any fear,” a bleary eyed teacher told me in the faculty lounge. “They can smell it like wolves.”

When the students entered the classroom, I couldn’t even look at them. In my most authoritative voice, I commanded all the students to stand up: I was going to assign them their seats for the first semester. Some groaned, others looked at me with indignation, but they all stood. When they were in their correct seats, I handed out the syllabus, which included the classroom rules. I barked at the different students to read each one, not even cracking a smile. When I came to the rule “Always use appropriate language for the classroom” one of the students turned to his desk mate and stage whispered in Spanish, “This chick’s a bitch, man.” I turned to look at him, then addressed the class (in Spanish). “And that goes for Spanish as well.” The Hispanic class froze, astonished that their blonde teacher spoke their language. In one small moment, I had earned a step towards their respect.

As the year went on, I became closer and closer to my students. Being wealthy and white, I never pretended to know or understand their lives. My parents came home from work at five. Gangs didn't accost me on the way to the bus stop. Police didn't stop me on my way home. I had no friends in jail, and had only been to my grandmother's funeral. Despite our differences, I tried to show my students that I cared about their lives, even if I was unable to understand it. I learned each student's name. I translated difficult English words into Spanish. I edited every word of every essay. I stayed after school to tutor and prep students for the S.A.T. I called home when a “trouble maker” student improved. I bought books for students who needed to be challenged. I did everything that I could.

And the students gave back. Kids who had been labeled as failures tried to beat each other on vocabulary quizzes. Notorious gang members helped me hang posters and taught me their own vocabulary (like ghetto birds-which means helicopters). One student invited me to her quinceañera. The student who called me a bitch the first day gave me a ticket to the school play so that I could see him perform. Perhaps that teacher was right: students can smell fear. But they can also sense love and compassion, no matter who it comes from. Perhaps it is a cliché saying, but if a new teacher were to ask me for advice on their first day, I would tell them this:

Love conquers all.

Peace Corps service presents major physical, emotional, and intellectual challenges. You have provided information on how you qualify for Peace Corps service elsewhere in the application. In the space below, please provide a statement (between 250-500 words) that includes:

1) Your reasons for wanting to serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer; and

2) How these reasons are related to your past experiences and life goals.

I was looking at a memorial for William Wallace in Scotland. “What an amazing person,” I said to my father. “Yes,” my father agreed. After a pause, he continued. “Did you know, Jenny, for every century, there might be one person who creates an impact on the world. Jesus, Mother Theresa, Gandhi: maybe one every hundred years. That means of the million people born every day, almost every single one of them is here only to consume until they are replaced by the next batch.” We stood in silence.

“Well, let’s go have lunch,” my father added. I remained in front of the statue. Part of me wanted to reject his cynical comment, but I looked at my own life and wondered if it was true. Was I a William Wallace? A Gandhi? No. Then I reconsidered.

Not yet.

If my dad’s statement is true, I wonder how much of it is due to fear. I wonder if we never accomplish what we can do because we are so afraid of what we can’t. At one point, I never thought I would be able to teach high school students in South Central. Now, I can easily say it has been the best experience of my life.

With that same confidence, I can say I am ready to face all the challenges the Peace Corps will present; I am not here only to consume.

Will I be the next Gandhi or William Wallace? Probably not.

But I just want to be sure.

Pregnant girl in red,

ironic redundancy,

child with two balloons.

"It is with great sadness that I inform you that one of our Santee students died this week, on Tuesday evening..."

I had to stop reading the script to tell a student to put away her mirror.

"His name and the details of his death are being kept confidential to protect his privacy and the privacy of his family. If you or one of your friends..."

Again I stopped when I heard a student giggle. I had only to look at her and she fell silent. I finished the announcement with a moment of silence out of respect for the deceased. The students sat dutifully, but began to fidget after a minute.

"Ok. Study Hall can begin."

Some bent furrowed eye-brows over a book; others penciled theirs in over a mirror. Only one student wiped his eye; he tried to make it look like he was rubbing them, but I knew he had been crying. The student had died in gang-related activity, yet one of the teachers who knew him testified that he was actually a good kid despite his gang affiliation. I didn't know the deceased student, but I did know the boy sitting before me.

When I met him one year earlier, I would never have thought that he would become one of my favorite students. At the time, he looked like a classic hoodlum: big body lost in baggy clothes, a hood pulled over his shaved head. He was never rude to me, but I dismissed him as failure all the same. During class he would scribble gang signs; after class, he would wander the halls with other notorious gang-bangers. He struck me as a crony, the big guy who doesn't ask questions and doesn't have answers. He failed my class the first time, which, I hate to admit, didn't effect either him or me.

The next semester I had him again, but his two "friends" weren't so fortunate: both had been expelled. Having a little more experience at that point, I assigned his seat next to the smartest and sweetest girl in the class, assuming she would be a good influence on him. During class, I could see her bent over his paper, pointing and explaining things to him in whispers. He would nod his big head, and then hunch his great back over his work. When I opened his notebook to grade it for the first time, I put it back down in shock. The scrawls and doodles had disappeared, replaced with pages of writing that amazed me. The next day I called him up to me after class; he approached me like you would approach a doberman.

"Daniel, this is amazing. I had no idea you were so smart. Please, keep this up. It's truly amazing."

He smiled, the first time I had seen him do so. "Thanks miss," he said, his shoulders now hunched in modesty instead of slouched in apathy.

He got an A that semester, and the next. At one point, we noticed that we were reading the same book. "I'll race you," he smiled playfully. "Oh, I don't know. You ready to lose?" I joked. I had already decided to let him win, but he had finished the book by the next day. "So what do I win?" he asked. "This," I handed him another book. He turned it over in his hands. A week later he brought it back. "Here you go miss. Thanks," he held it out to me. "No, you won that. It's yours to keep." He smiled again. I had become really fond of that smile.

One year later, still in the baggy jeans, I noticed his grief despite the hood he was hiding under. The bell rang.

"Daniel, can you stay a moment?" The other students emptied the room, laughing and shouting as they went. When it was just the two of us, I asked him if he knew the student that had died.

"Yeah, he was a friend of mine."

I paused, trying to formulate my next words.

"I heard he died in a gang-related fight. But I also hear that he was a good kid with a good heart."

"He was."

"I suppose he must have been drawn into a gang life that he couldn't escape."

Daniel remained silent.

"Do you remember when I first met you?"

He nodded.

"You were in that life too." I paused. "Are you still in a gang?"

Daniel shifted his weight.

"To be honest, yes." He looked down. "But...I don't do bad things. It's just...I'm applying to Cal State, so hopefully I'll be out of here soon."

"It's just, well," I swallowed. "I didn't know that kid, but he sounds a lot like you: a good person with a good heart, dragged into a bad thing. But, as you can see, that can be dangerous."

He nodded, and rubbed his eyes again.

In the quiet of the room, I whispered,"Please be careful. It would break my heart to make that announcement for you."

He shook his head. Suddenly he wrapped his thick arms around me in a hug, burying his shaved head into my shoulder. At first I was frozen in surprise. Then I put my arms around him, cradling him against me. The bell rang for the next class.

"See you tomorrow," he murmured, pulling his hood back over his face.

I didn't know whether to turn around or keep walking. Their laughs and hollers echoed across the quad. "Chupa mi verga, hija de perra!" the voice shouted again, now chorused with others. Suck my dick, bitch. Other students had turned to look at me, hiding their smiles behind their hands.

I tried to console myself that at least they weren't my students. Still, my face grew hot with shame and anger, but above all, with defeat. As naive as it sounds, I couldn't understand what I had done to deserve this.

Of course, it shouldn't have been so difficult to figure out; I had busted the kid for ditching. At a recent staff meeting teachers had been instructed to escort wandering students back to their class in order to prevent gang violence on campus. With this in mind, I had told the three sauntering boys to get to their class, to which they had responded, "we don't give a FUCK!" Moving past the verbal warning, I then decided to drag the cussing students to the detention hall. Or really, the detention cage. We don't have a hall, but a little fenced off area to hold the students until they're released. Since the campus cops weren't there to silence them, the students continued to scream at my back. I ended the day with "fuck you bitch" ringing in my ears. I remembered the words of a fellow teacher: "Let there be no mistake; this is no school and we are no teachers. This is a warehouse for the shit of society. This is a jail. They are the inmates and we are the wardens."

Yet even the taunts of these strangers, these "inmates", hadn't bothered me as much as the incident a few days prior. One of my students was failing class; every day that he showed up, he would lay his head down and try to sleep. When I told him to sit up and do his work, he would raise his head only enough to glare at me with his bleary eyes. Finally, after encouraging, rationalizing, pleading, and threatening him, I went to his coach.

"I need you to bench Arthur until he begins passing my class." The coach looked reluctant. "What if he just comes to your office to make up the work right now?" I tried to protest that Arthur needed more than an hour, but the coach had already called him over. "Arthur, now you're going to go with Ms.Solove and make up your work, you hear? I won't play you tonight if you don't do what your nice teacher asks of you." Arthur rolled his head to one side and looked at the ceiling. "You hear?"

After a pause, Arthur let out a sarcastic and loud, "Yes Coach." "Good," the coach smiled, patting him on the back. Arthur smiled a cheshire cat grin down at me.

On the way to my room, I asked Arthur why he would choose to fail a class he knew he needed in order to graduate this spring. He said nothing. I then asked if he needed additional help in the class. Still, nothing. As the minutes passed I couldn't help but blurt out, "I know you hate me right now, but you have to realize I'm only doing this because I care about you. I think you're really bright and if I didn't care I would just let you fail silently. Or I would pass you with a D, regardless if you learned or not." No response. Arthur picked at his fingernails. "I don't need to be here right now; I could be at home, but instead I'm here with you. So, what are you going to do?" Silence. In desperation I added, "What do you want me to do?" His eyes wandered around the room. The second hand boomed as it ticked off the minutes. "Fine. We'll sit here until you say something, anything, to me." An hour passed. When the school bell rang, he picked up his bag and walked out the door.

Alone in the room, even the words "fuck you bitch" would have been a comfort.

"Goddamn it!" I hit my water bottle against my leg. Today was supposed to be the first day of cross-country practice; as the coach, I had been looking forward to it. As I was waiting for the whole team to get ready, I had noticed the students running to create a circle in a corner of the gym. They were squeaking with excitement: a fight. I looked for some of the older, stockier teachers to break it up, but I couldn't see one. "Shit," I had muttered, sprinting over. Pushing my way through the crowd, I finally erupted onto the fighters. One of them was black, the other hispanic. That couldn't be good. "Stop! Stop it!" I shouted waving my arms as I stepped between them, but they had already broken apart. A student had shouted a warning: cops. One ran for the fence, the other tried to melt into the crowd. To prevent any further violence, all athletics were canceled.

"Fucking gang-bangers!" I gritted my teeth, slamming my car door. "Why can't anything be normal!"

On the drive home, I cursed at a woman changing lanes slowly. I hit my steering wheel when the garage door wouldn't open.

"Damn it," I repeated. What was the point? I had broken up one fight; my moment of heroism was ridiculous and pathetic. There would be more; nothing would change.

"I could just punch something!" I shouted, clenching my fists.

I wonder, did the two fighters feel the same way?

He was back in class. "I was sick miss, real sick. I swear."

Relief soared through me. "No, don't worry. I believe you." I said nodding.

The last two weeks my eyes had avoided his empty desk. I had even stopped calling his name aloud for role; I had felt strange speaking to nothing. It had felt like last semester.

Last semester his absences had been of a different nature. He was one of the many students who only came to school when a cop forced him off the street. The second week of school, he sauntered in, hunched over in the gang member attitude, then flopped into his seat. This was followed with a long sigh, "fuck". Strewn across his desk, he whined, "Miss, this shit is too hard. Why can't just kick it? The other teachers are cool."

The next day we were reading "The Cask of Amontillado" by Edgar Allen Poe. I asked the students what might be the symbolism behind the character's clothing; most of them gave me a blank stare. Joshua sighed, "the guy Montresor is dressed all like death, wearing black, and his mask is like a symbol for his being two-faced. Then the other one, what's his face, is dressed like a clown, because he's a fool and gets tricked." Everyone in the class turned to look at him; even I stared. He sunk lower in his chair.

"Fuck it. I don't know," he said.

"No, no. That's exactly right, Joshua," I jumped in. "A perfect interpretation."

"Forget it miss," he murmured. "I'm stupid."

Everyday when he came, I would plead with him to do the work, that I knew he could. Everyday, although I could see he was reading and following the class, he never turned anything in. On the day of the midterm, I went around the class to collect their essays. I had seen Joshua writing his; I had even read it over his shoulder. When I got to him, his hands were in pockets. "Where's your exam?" I asked.

"I threw it away."

"But why?"

"It wasn't good. I can't do this, miss."

Finally, I called his home for a parent-teacher conference.

His grandmother came in, clutching a worn out cloth bag to her chest. "Eh," she faltered, looking at me, twisting her hands. "Mucho gusto a conocerte," I broke in, extending my hand. Immediately she smiled and stretched out her hand. "You are Joshua's teacher?" she asked in Spanish.

I conducted Joshua and his grandmother into the empty faculty lounge. I had never held a parent-teacher conference, much less in Spanish. I began to explain the problem to his grandmother, "Currently, your son is failing all his classes, including mine. He's also been reported as having discipline problems. However, this happens to many students. I called you in here because I don't think this needs to happen to Josh. He's very bright, probably one of the most gifted students I have. But he doesn't seem to understand this, and I need your help."

The grandmother burst into tears.

"I know. I know. I love him, I try to help him, but he doesn't listen to me anymore. He used to love me, but he comes from a bad family. His mother, she's always out, always drinking. Sometimes she calls to yell at Joshua or ask me for money. I don't have anymore money. And my son, his dad, is gone. He left, but that is not so bad. He just yelled too. He was angry and violent. And now, now I tell Joshua, mi hijo, please, and he yells at me. His grandmother. I try to help, I try, but he is now his father."

I sat stunned. Joshua, with his shaved head and baggy jeans, had tears streaming down his face. He was trying to look out the window, at the desk, anywhere. His grandmother touched his arm. He looked away.

"Mi hijo, please. Listen to the teacher. Listen to me."

Now he stands before me. "Well, you can just make up the work you missed since you can't help being sick," I added cheerily. "You missed the midterm, so here's the essay topic and I'll give you today and tomorrow in class to work on it." I stood with him outside the class, holding the text book out to him. "Just go into Mrs. Cataldo's room to work so that you won't be distracted." The book stayed in my hands.

"No. I can't."

"What do you mean Joshua? This is just the first draft. Don't make it harder than it is. Just go write it, you're here anyway, so take the time now."

"No, miss. I can't."

We stood in the hallway.

"Can I pass without taking it?"

"No Josh. And that's the wrong attitude. Just take it. For god's sake just take it."

He didn't move, but kept shaking his head.

"Joshua, take the book out my hands. Josh, take the book now."

He finally reached for it, then turned to walk into the other class.

At the end of the period, he returned. I held out my hand for the essay. He shook his head, looking at the ground. My hand fell at my side; I had nothing to say.

That day, during the staff meeting, there was the usual bickering and complaining. The English department was changing; to accomodate for more students, the already eight week semesters were being cut in half.

"How are we supposed to teach them in eight weeks?" a teacher protested. The debate continued, flaring into the small budget, lack of books, low student achievement, etc. I sat doodling on my meeting agenda.

When the meeting released I walked out to the parking lot, running into one of my students horsing around with his girlfriend. He was a big guy, one of the students who had shown me his gunshot wounds and had told me that "ghetto-birds" were helicopters. He had written the best essay of his class. Not thinking about it, I strode up to him.

"Moises, you must come to school every day."

Moises began to smile; he had been ditching lately.

"No. Really Moises," I said. My voice cracked. Moises' smile faded.

"You must come every day. For me. So that I can look back and say, one, him, he turned it around. He did alright."

The words ran out of my mouth; I could feel tears rising, but I couldn't stop.

"Do you understand me?" I pleaded. Moises looked me in the eyes, studying me. Quietly, he replied:

"Yes, miss. I understand."

Without a word, I turned and walked away.

Amy sat in the apartment wishing she knew a drug dealer. She was watching "Permanent Midnight", a movie about a failed writer turned heroin addict in LA. She lived in LA too, but she didn't have any heroin. Besides, she had a needle phobia.

Beer cans and dirty dishes decorated the otherwise empty apartment. The cream rug had black stains, greasy mementos of her friends' binge drinking. Amy didn't drink that much, another reason why she wasn't really cut out for substance abuse.

Leaving the television on, Amy wandered into her room. She shared it with another girl, but her roommate had only slept there three times in the last eight months. As a result, the other half of the room had become storage space, a dumping ground for ugly clothes not worth packing. On her own side, Amy had decorated the room with pictures from children's books. She had envisioned the room as a wonderland of hope and imagination; her friends had told her it was creepy. "Don't ever show this room to someone you want to hook up," they had teased. Amy had laughed, but she couldn't help holding her breath when she showed her room to someone new.

She had had someone over that weekend; he hadn't noticed the pictures. He hadn't really registered much about Amy, although he did think she was pretty. He had told her that.

Amy laid back in bed, staring at the glossy illustrations. With a sudden movement, she reached for one, but she couldn't bring herself to pull it down.

“Hey miss. Sorry but I might not be in class tomorrow. There’s going to be another riot. Good luck!”

I read the email again. The tone was flippant, but I could feel my chest tightening. At the high school where I work, there is a basic code of honor that a student never “snitches” to a teacher under any circumstance. For a student to send me a warning before class, I knew I had every reason to be scared. Of course, the riot that day had been scary enough; fights between rival gangs had exploded into school-wide chaos. At the end of the day, seventeen students were expelled with ten in the hospital for knife and gun-shot wounds. I sat at my computer debating what to do. The next morning, instead of my usual high-heels, I wore tennis shoes.

The class was missing a third of the students, but even the remaining twenty seemed extra-ordinarily quiet. Instead of the typical loitering in the halls, every student was in their seat before the class bell even rang.

“Are we going to do work today?” a student asked.

“Of course,” I replied, to numerous groans. “Today, I’ve decided we’re going to read an excerpt from “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Ernest Hemingway. He’s not in your text-books, so come on up and get a hand-out.”

We began the story, which opens on a tranquil town square in Spain where the villagers are standing in two lines. It is the Spanish civil war, and inside the town hall, the guerrilla leaders are holding the fascists. The villagers have been ordered to execute the fascists by clubbing them as they run down the middle of the two lines.

“Cool!” one exclaims, expressing the average American’s preoccupation with violence. The students are all reading, utterly absorbed in the story. The intercom sputters. “Teachers, please do not allow your students to leave the classroom under any circumstance. There are to be no passes issued until further notice.” The students glance at each other, but nobody says anything. We continue reading.

In the story, the innocent villagers are at first reluctant to kill the fascists, but after the first murder they quickly become a mob, killing the fascists with gruesome ferocity. As the villagers massacre their fellow men, I could see the students’ initial excitement evaporate.

“Miss, I don’t want to read this story anymore,” a student whispered.

Before we reached the end, I asked the students: Is man-kind inherently good or evil? Discussing the answer, we decided that man is not born good or evil, but he must choose how he will live. He may be surrounded with hatred and violence, but he must choose not to join the mob, no matter how hard that choice may be.

We then read the last paragraph of the story. One of the characters asks when they will no longer speak of war. The other replies that in the afternoon, they will forget the war and lay in the grass. On the last line of the story, “that the afternoon may come flying”, I couldn’t stop tears coming to my eyes.

“Miss,” one boy asked concerned. “Why are you crying?”

I was unable to answer. In the silence, one of my students answered for me.

“Because it’s beautiful.”

It was the final two days of the semester. For the last three weeks of class the students had been writing personal statements; today they presented their final draft.

"Who would like to read first?" I asked.

There was the usual pause of false modesty, followed with the 'I-guess-I'll-read' and a shrug of the shoulders. The boy lumbered up to the front of class, the biggest student by far. Earlier in the year he had proudly showed me his gunshot scars, one on his leg, the other on his shoulder. He had been recently acquitted for murder charges.

"Life is too short," he began. Despite his shaved head and his three dot tattoo, I noticed the paper was shaking in his hand. “In my gang, I’m called Anger because I lose my temper easily. When my little brother joined the gang, we decided to call him little Anger.” The boy continued to describe how he and his gang were involved in a drive-by where they managed to kill four “enemies”. As they drove away, congratulating each other, Anger realized his little brother wasn’t speaking. Turning around, he realized his brother had been shot in the head. The boy described his brother’s blood staining his white shirt as he tried to carry him into the hospital. The paper shook harder.

“At the funeral, everyone came through to show their respect.” The student paused, swallowing. “It was then that I realized that life is too short to be caught up in this shit. I wish I could get my brother back, but I can’t. Now, I can only live for him as long as I can.”

When he finished reading the class was completely silent. Then a student started to clap; everyone clapped until the student had returned to his desk.

“Who would like to read next?”

Another student rose, a tiny girl who usually spent a large amount of class time fixing her antennae-like eyebrows. Her essay was titled “The Bet”; she and her best friend had challenged each other not to eat for three months.

“We wanted to weigh 95 pounds,” she explained sheepishly. Not soon after, she had quit the bet, but her best friend wouldn't stop. Despite the pleading of friends and family, the girl refused to eat. When she began to vomit blood, they took her to the hospital.

“There were all these feeding tubes coming out of her. She couldn’t even speak. Three weeks later, she died. I really miss her, and I wish hadn't made that bet.”

The next girl, a perfect "A" student, walked to the board. Normally she would come to class early to read while the other students chattered in the halls. In a clear voice, she read about protecting her little sister from a father that used to beat them.

"I was pretty young, but I remember how it felt when my nose broke. My little sister was shaking. The taste of blood and tears running into my mouth was bitter. We were sent to a foster home where a woman with fat fingers never fed us. My mom promised she'd get us back, and told us to keep being her little soldiers."

Her mom divorced the father, and eventually won her and her sister back.

“Now we’re back together. In the other room, I can hear my sister and my mom laughing.”

During the presentations, no one spoke, and everyone clapped when the writer was finished. When the bell rang, instead of the usual mad-dash for the door, people slowly got up and put their books away. One student remained.

“Can I know my grade?” she asked. Every day I had to sign an official slip proving to her parole officer that she was on good behavior. The previous semester she had failed my class; this semester she would yell "cayate guey!" to friends that tried to talk to her during class.

“This semester you earned a B, a vast improvement Yuri. Good work.”

She still stood by my desk.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Umm.” She paused. “Are you proud of me?”

She hadn't looked at me when she asked the question.

“Yuri,” I replied. “I couldn’t be more proud.”

Her face broke into a smile. “Ok miss. See you later!” she waved and ran out of the room.

In the empty classroom I walked over to the window. Watching the cars race by on the highway, I called my mom.

After some empty conversation my mom asked if something was wrong. I began to describe all the essays, crying as I retold each story.

"I just don't know if they're incredibly sad or incredibly beautiful."

"Well Jenny, I think they're both."

I wiped my eyes, trying to focus on the tall buildings masked in smog.

"Jenny?"

"Yes?"

"I'm very proud of you."

“Do you know how much this shit costs?”

The fluorescent light above buzzed like an electrical insect, a fly spreading a jaundice light on the patients below. One of them swatted at his ear.

“A thousand dollars, Tim. A thousand dollars a night.”

One of the patients walked by, his head straight down, each foot coming to a complete stop before the other would jerk forward. Tim realized the man was only stepping on the green tiles.

“Think about that before you pull this shit again.”

While Tim had preferred the white tiles for the past two days, he watched the man's progress with appreciation. A male nurse approached them, his feet clicking on the hospital floor indiscriminately.

“Mrs. Jones?”

Tim’s mother turned, her turquoise earrings rattling then resettling on her tanned neck. “Yes.” she answered, the words just escaping her pinched lips.

“Your son seems fine now. We can release him today if you don’t mind signing a few papers.”

With a curt nod Mrs. Jones followed the nurse, leaving Tim to pick at the fuzz on his navy blue chair. One patient started to giggle; Tim smiled at him. The man stopped laughing, but he grinned at Tim from behind his hands.

“We’re done. Let’s go.”

Tim’s mom stood over him, blocking the sallow indoor sun. Tim shaded his eyes to look up at her. “Already?” he said. Her earrings rattled; she pivoted towards the exit.

Tim rose slowly. At the door, he considered waving goodbye. After a hesitation, Tim left the building with his hand in his pocket.

Grass tickles the back of my neck

Dripping Louisiana summer sweat.

Mosquitoes whine by the crawfish beds,

The only noise in the afternoon heat.

We lie underneath your family tree,

Where you say you want to be buried.

Dappled sunlight comes through the leaves,

Lighting your blonde hair like a halo.

"You're missing quite a view," I say.

"That's alright," you smile above me,

"Your eyes are reflecting the sky."

And it is this moment

That I will always remember

As the time I loved you the most.

I can just see my hands, the white fingers gripped around a silver sword. The darkness collapses on me, the long corridors seeming to have no end. I begin to run, fumbling to stay up, to keep my knees straight . One hallway turns into another, and that one into another, and another and another. "Please," I cry out, my shrill voice breaking and rebounding against me. Please.

I start to cry, loud chokes that strangle my chest. I slam into the wall, then sink to the ground, hugging my knees. I know he is in here, lost. I push myself back up, hand pressed against the cold black wall. My sword scrapes along the floor, then I'm running again.

I turn a corner, then stop. In the middle of the corridor, a large black man stands facing me. His dark skin gleams, nearly as bright as the sword he lifts and points at me.

"Fight," he says.

Eyes wide, I turn back, running until the acrid taste of blood burns in my throat. I check to see if he is following me, but I hear no footsteps. Sucking in breath, I turn down the next hall.

He is there, his sword held out.

"Fight," he repeats.

"No. Please," I plead. "You have to help me."

"Fight."

"No, no." I whirl around, but he is in front of me again.

"Please," I beg. "I have to find him."

The man doesn't move, his face shows no expression. Then he lifts his sword, slowly, until it is pointing at my heart. I finally stop crying, but my chest still throbs a few feet away from the tip of his blade.

"You know what you have to do," he states without inflection. I nod. I grip my sword tighter, then let it fall at my side. Without a word, I run myself on his sword.

White leather shoes

singing

laughter at every step.

While it wasn't yellow,

the tan fedora hat

left me more

than a little

curious.

Everything is white. The brilliant white of expensive paper or the blinding white of a light bulb flash. A black line begins to seep through. The line lazes across, then drops to create a cliff. The cliff is sand, the glittering white the sun on the ocean water. The cliff cups a beach where no birds cry and no children shout. There are only the waves and the light, and a man sitting where the sun, water and sand meet.

The man is old, but his back bends over a project. From a pile of drift wood he whittles tiny boats, steady hands carving delicate masts and prows. The sun warms his back.

The sun dipping into the horizon, the man places each sailboat along the edge of the shore. With his toes, he nudges each ship into the water. Hands on his hips, he watches the ships bob out into the ocean, following the dazzling line of the sun. Silent, he remains on the shore, the waves touching his feet, watching until the last boat disappears.

Alone, his hands fall to his sides. He collapses into the sinking sand, tears dropping into the ebbing water.

I’m teaching and I turn around. There’s a man sitting at one of the desks. He’s staring at me; a blank look boring through me. He’s not old, but he looks it. His eyes are glazed, his face is dirty, disgusting, his hair matted from days and nights on sidewalks. Dried saliva cakes the sides of his mouth, a grotesque chalk marking his slack jaw. A fly buzzes around his face, but he doesn’t move. The fly lands on his eye, sawing its legs together as the man sits still as death, his eyes still looking straight down through me.

I wake up with a gasp. I start to cry, but I never bring home my books. I leave them at school. I leave them behind. Instead, I take sleeping pills on the weekdays and alcohol on the weekends. With just enough, I can suffocate the dreams. But now, now what am I? When I turn around, am I looking at myself?

Lips crushing cheeks

burning with blood

that crept

onto white sheets.

Now, there is only the stain.

When we drove back to the city, it was night. The streets seemed especially dark with no traffic lights and no street lamps. The houses, once illuminated with french chandeliers glittering through stained glass windows, were now macabre doll houses. Furniture and picture frames rotting, the homes were untouched. But then there were the holes in the roofs.

One house had two messages spray-painted on the outside. The first: In here with a shotgun, a dog, and an ugly woman. Help. The second: Still in here, the woman left me and I ate the dog. Help. "That's funny," I said to my friend as we walked by. Neither of us laughed.

Within six months, I had left New Orleans like a rat on a sinking ship. That was nothing new to me; I had abandoned it before. I had watched it drown sitting in front a television. I didn't even move back until the bodies had been removed, and I never stepped into the ninth ward; I fled the city as soon as I could.

Today, I wear a Fleur-de-Lis charm around my neck, a symbol declaring my devotion to New Orleans. But I know, on the inside, I'm only a rat.

Atlantis, the Land of the Lotus Eaters, New Orleans. If you didn't know any better, you'd think everyone here was lost. Here, nobody walks quickly and no one watches their feet. People sit on their porches, smile at strangers, shout at neighbors, or take a drag on their cigarette if tourists hurry by. Perhaps the people aren't lost, rather the city itself. The old buildings with crumbling easter egg walls, jazz music drifting from wooden doors, real gas lamps casting faint light on un-even sidewalks.

When I first moved here, I watched my feet to make sure I wouldn't trip on the cracked cement blocks; now, I walk slowly enough that I don't have to worry. In some ways, it's hard to worry about anything here. This could be the curse of the city, but nobody seems too concerned about that either. Nothing is taken too seriously, even the recent tragedy. Before Katrina there was a popular bumper sticker: New Orleans, proud to call home. Now that bumper sticker has been replaced: New Orleans, proud to swim home. If the city ever seems sad, it's not the same dull emptiness you'd find in Los Angeles; here, it's the enjoyable melancholy that goes well with bourbon and the gravely voice of Bessie Smith or Muddy Waters.

But you have to be careful here or you can sink right along with the city. In a place where it's upside-down day everyday, the outside world is all too easy to forget. Laws and rules of society don't seem to really apply here. While this makes the city unbelievably beautiful, it also makes it corrupt, and at times, grotesque. The buildings are crumbling and the people inside of them drowning from alcohol instead of water. Perhaps that's why my mom calls the city Sodom and Gomorrah.

Atlantis, the Land of the Lotus Eaters, the Big Easy, Sodom and Gomorrah, the Crescent City; the city has a different name for each of its faces. Yet, for anyone who has ever lived here, we can only call it home.