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My son was six years old when I went to graduate school in Virginia. I remember being so excited to road-trip across America. I grew up road-tripping. Not a summer of my childhood passed without the road atlas being brought to the table and destinations like the Grand Canyon or San Fransisco being routed out. One of my jobs was to help my dad load up the big, heavy red cooler with ice. Then I would decide how many books I would read and get my “side” of the back seat ready with a pillow and my favorite swimming towel. On my son’s first road trip he took a stack of Pokémon cards, Harry Potter and his battered Kermit the Frog.

Even though things like Garmin existed in the late nineties, I didn’t have that technology. I didn’t even have a cell phone in graduate school. It became my son’s job to follow the route in the big atlas. I remember him reading off the names of the cities, sometimes spelling them if he wasn’t sure how to say them. He started circling them as we passed them by. I still have the atlas with all the cities and towns circled along I70. I couldn’t bear to let it go, even if atlases are passé. I considered bringing it on this trip, but didn’t want to unearth it from its hiding spot.

I have been on a quest to get to all fifty states. The ones I have left are random and I have had no pressing need to go to any of them. Iowa is one the list. I have been to all the states surrounding it. Twice this summer I went to Omaha and didn’t make it across the state line to set foot in Iowa. So I decided I would traverse across Nebraska one more time and make it to Iowa. And I’d take Shayne.

Shayne has been struggling. The effects of the antipsychotic he is on has worn off and he has been improperly medicated or maybe not all for several months. At the beginning of July, he finally got into his provider and she changed his medicine. He has gone through an adjustment period and he seems to be in a better place. At least he isn’t accusing me of being an imposter anymore. I asked him if he wanted to go on a road trip. His response? He got his bag out, threw in his clothes, a novel, and his Beats.

The first day was uneventful. We took the back road route. At one point I said we were traveling like Rain Man and Shayne looked over at me and laughed. We talked about our dream houses and wind energy and memories of past road trips. We stopped for gas at a place surrounded by cornfields. The station had a single pump and it was old school with the dial numbers. An old guy dressed in overalls came out and said, “fill er up?” It was like a cartoon.

When I came to Nebraska at the beginning of the summer, I landed at the airport and saw a giant elephant sculpture. I didn’t think much of it until I started seeing random elephant art in the small towns I was passing by. I learned that thousands of pioneers made their way across Nebraska on their quest for a better life in Oregan or the goldfields of California. They called the journey “chasing the elephant.” I keep thinking about that metaphor. I can relate. I feel like I am chasing something too. I just don’t have a clear vision of what it is. But Nebraska keeps calling me. I find the endless green fields and wide blue sky calming. Last night I saw fireflies. Magical.

I awoke to the sound of rain this morning. The forecast is promising a break in the heat. Shayne was laughing at something only he can hear in the shower. Usually that kind of stuff makes me uneasy, but he wasn’t screaming or cursing, so it could be worse. When he emerged from the bathroom, he was clean, smiling, and said, “What’s on the map today?”

I am not sure. But we are hitting the road.

Someone asked me recently why I haven’t been blogging lately. I told her that I have spent a lot time this summer pulling weeds and it’s not the most thrilling subject. . Between the rain and the heat, weeds have been ridiculous. And that’s not even commenting on the swarm of insects that rises in a cloud of turbulence with every weed unearthed. I have decided that I don’t love yard work.

My house is hot. I have a window air unit and it keeps the living room bearable. The swamp cooler upstairs keeps the attic cool when it works. The swamp cooler is a millennial because it works when it feels like it. I have replaced every part of it and tonight it was the fan that quit. I turned off the pump and turned on my old fashioned fan and got back in bed.

I couldn’t go back to sleep. At first, I thought about the swamp cooler some. Do I get a new fan? Buy a new swamp cooler? A window unit? Central air? I tried to think of something else.

I went to see The Sound of Freedom. It’s like Law and Order SVU only on the big screen. The cinematography is incredible and it is based on a true story. I am sure the Barbie movie will make a better profit, because living in a Barbie world is much more entertaining than living in a world where children are sex slaves. But what really resonated with me was the power of storytelling. Some stories are harder to tell and even harder to hear. Those are the stories that can change the world. Stories that remain buried only gain in power until they explode.

The real reason I haven’t been blogging is that someone recently asked me not to. Not quit blogging exactly, but to not blog about teaching. Censor myself. I am kind of laughing at that. Imagine what I could say, if I wasn’t already censoring myself. That’s the power of storytelling. And I guess that’s why it makes people uncomfortable. Don’t talk. Don’t complain. Don’t cry. Don’t say trauma.

August is coming and apparently the weeds aren’t stopping and I have to make a decision about the damn swamp cooler. Also the rest of my life. The only thing that I absolutely know to be true is that I am not going to stop writing. I just don’t know which story comes next. I’ll keep thinking about it.

I know it’s only July, but I have already had my first stress dream about school. In the dream I showed up to the wrong school to teach and I was in a grade I hadn’t expected to teach. I had a teaching partner who was an old robot and the students were androids. My job was to plug-in the students and charge them by programming them with repetitive tasks like writing their names over and over. I woke up from the dream and decided that I was not going to even try to unpack that, instead I was going to spend the day with my nieces.

My brother lives in Asia, so I only see him and his family once a year. I am always amazed each year at how my nieces have grown and changed. I always feel like I only get them for a little bit, so I need to soak it all in. Most of the time, we don’t really do anything super fancy, play board games, eat pizza, go to the park, or the river, pick strawberries, swim. Normal things we do around here. I realized that my oldest niece will be going to college soon and I might not get too many more summers. My younger niece was a baby when my parents died and has really only known me during all my trauma of the last years. We haven’t really built memories. I wanted to have some time with them, build memories that they could take home and remember forever.

My nieces have traveled far more than I have and have been to some of the most beautiful and famous places in the world, but I felt like the Denver Art museum would be a big hit. It really is a great space. It’s not like a place just to walk around and look at paintings, it is so much more. The curators are friendly and knowledgeable and go out of their way to guide visitors to a good experience. There are interactive displays to help engage with the art. For example, there was a wooden story book model that could be touched and unfolded right next to a centuries old story book. Getting to touch the model really provides understanding of the complexity of the art. There are videos of artists working through their process, interactive maps, and lots of places to sit down and do art with quality materials.

I was a little disappointed that my brother just delivered one niece to me, but ten minutes into the drive to Denver, I realized that a day alone with my oldest niece was going to be a treat. She is sixteen and just getting ready to be an upperclassman, which in her country is really all about what comes after schooling is over. She is planning on college, so she was telling me about her interest based project (painting) and the difficulties she had with the process. She is also going to a summer program in Japan after her US visit and she was worried about staying in a dorm and if she’d have enough clothes and what the classes might be like. My own kids have been through these experiences of camp and going to college, but it was different with my niece. I didn’t feel like I needed to advise her or reassure her, or worry about her choices. I just could enjoy the conversation.

I didn’t plan our visit around a special exhibit, but it just so happened that our visit coincided with an exhibit of Japanese women and brush strokes. Since my niece is interested in painting and Japan, that exhibit caught her attention right away. The walls were full of centuries of work from princess and pagans hidden in the shadows, finally brought to light. We saw work of one artist who had her arms cut off as a child and learned to paint with the brush handle in her mouth. Her work was delicate and fluid. We ended the visit in a studio, grinding our own ink and painting with fine brushes for as long as we wanted.

After the museum, we had lunch. The day turned out to be the perfect temperature and we sat outside with the tall buildings all around. Everytime I am in the city and I get a moment just to sit and gaze around me, I remember that I love Denver. I love the energy. It makes me feel alive and full of possibility.

After lunch, we went to an art store on Broadway, then checked out an arcade Monica wanted to go to. I have never been much of a gamer, but I did grow up in the eighties, so I have been to arcades and as a teenager spent my fair share of quarters in pinball machines and Ms. Pac-Man. While my own kids dabbled a bit in gaming and I have listened to two decades of students telling me about different games, nothing really prepared me for Round One. First of all, it was the largest arcade I have ever been to. It is in a mall, in one of those defunct department store spaces, but it has been filled with hundreds of pulsating, neon, machines. I thought about my son. I wondered how he would process the lights and noise. I imagine it would like the machines were calling out to him, each vying for attention. It felt a bit like that to me without the schizophrenia. Monica was at home though. She knew how to load credits on her card and headed right for the dancing machines. .She clicked through the screen, even though everything was in Japanese, choosing the music, the pace, the level of difficulty, and then she jammed. I am going to say that I felt like I was getting cardio just from watching her. The machine gave her an A. I got an F on my turn. We did one of those racing games together and it actually felt like I was racing my car through a mountain canyon. I found a version of Pac-man which was definitely more my speed, but it wasn’t the same memorized pattern that is still automatic for me, but more complicated and larger than life. We took our “tickets” which were automatically loaded onto the cards to the “prize” store. Mostly, we saved all the points racked up by my Pac-man prowess, because Monica is hoping to get to take her dad to Round One. My brother would love it. If not, there is a Round One in Tokyo. Monica was telling me that the arcade started in Japan and the one in Tokyo is eight stories high. She said that not only are there video games, but restaurants and a sports complex. The one in Denver has a bowling alley and air hockey, pool, and karaoke rooms. Monica was sweating from the dancing, and so excited to be there. It was awesome to see her so happy.

When I delivered her back to my brother, my younger niece begged me to play a game of pool with her. I told her that I was disappointed that she didn’t come. She told me that she didn’t get up that early. I have to think about night owl activities for that kid.

I drove home happy to have had the day. My niece is growing into such an amazing young woman, but still has the unspoiled excitement of a joyous little kid at her core. It was a pleasure to spend the day just enjoying love. It gave me hope for all the possibilities ahead.

I avoid social media at this time of year; the memories of all the past June tragedies are a lot. But that doesn’t mean the memories don’t come anyway. Lately, I have been thinking about my mom. I used to go over to the house and sit at the kitchen counter and watch her cook and tell her the stuff that was happening in my life. If it was good stuff, she’d cheer. If it wasn’t, she’d suggest we go shopping. Hence, whenever I have decisions to make, I wander around The Buckle and Forever 21 for while.

I have had an incredibly difficult time sinking into the rhythm of summer this year. The whole decision of what I am going to do next year for a job has been weighing heavy on my mind. I was thinking about what my mom would say. First off, she wouldn’t understand my angst about teaching. She always thought teachers are to be held in great esteem because they are giving everything to kids for the better of the world. She was proud of me for being an artist and a writer, but she was most proud of me for being a teacher. Second, she wouldn’t have understood the Pueblo thing. She would look around at the boarded up buildings, and weeds and graffiti and just see DANGER. She would recognize that the kids need safety and someone to care about them. She probably would have trotted out her wallet a dozen times and bought hoodies, backpacks, and books for my classroom. But she wouldn’t have thought that I would have to be the one to teach there. Let someone else do that. Then she would have had plenty of things to say about my personal life. I don’t know what she would have said about her grandson though. My guess is she would have been at a loss with him and probably doing the same thing I am, hoping for better.

There have been plenty of bad summers with Shayne since his diagnosis, but this is the worst. I don’t know how to help him anymore. The strong roots of family that I was raised with hold me in the game and support him and love him and just try to make it through whatever obstacle comes our way. On the other hand the absolute enormity of a lifetime of his disease makes me want to push him to be as self sufficient as he can be, which every time puts him on the street or in a situation were he ends up being held down by security guards and shot up with a cocktail of drugs. Both scenarios keep me up at night.

Earlier this week I went and finished the llama mural I started at Parkview. I ran into one of my students. His face lit up and he came and gave me a full on hug, not a “dab me up” fist bump. He said Miss Tay Tay! Then he went and got his crew and they rode their bikes over and shared their Takis with me. After that I went and turned in my resignation.

I don’t know if it was the right choice. I love those kids. I know that not everyone wants to teach in that neighborhood and I want the best for them. But I also need to take care of myself and my own family. I guess I am practicing making decisions for myself instead of everyone else. It’s not so easy, after a lifetime of thinking about everyone else first. Dad came to me in a dream last night. He was sweeping up my bedroom–all sorts of stuff–cat litter, Monopoly money, piles of dirt. I was scrambling to pick up dice out of the debris, thinking about using it for math games. He stopped me and said, “Let it go. It’s time for a new story.”

Okay. Message received. So instead of worrying about the future and fretting about the past, I am going to try to just live in the moment. This past year has taught me so much about grace and love and strength. No matter what happens next, those lessons live in my heart and will take me to the next chapter.

I always share my blogs on social media, but this will just be for me and my few followers. I have thought a lot about sharing this. Most people will be appalled and frightened and turn away from me like a disease that might be catching. If the stigma is to be broken, then stories must be shared.

My son assaulted me a week ago. He punched me five or six times in the face and head. The attack was sudden and brutal and I didn’t see it coming. Even though, I was surprised in the moment, I guess I’ve known that it could happen. The voices don’t like me. They keep a running commentary about me–“she isn’t your real mom”–“she never loved you”–“she wants your soul”–“she wants your money.” Who knows what else.

I don’t manage his medicine. I used to try, but it was an illusion. He would take it or he wouldn’t. He’s one of those interesting cases where the medicine doesn’t really work anyway. Maybe at best it brings the voices from screaming to a mutinous whisper. So this time, he blitzed me. I have a black eye, my mouth was cut inside and is bruised, but most of the blows were to my head behind my ear and my arm that was shielding my face. I don’t look horrible because my hair is hiding some of the injuries. Emotionally, it’s a different story.

At first, I was numb. I couldn’t take in what it meant. The few people I did tell all had opinions about what should happen. Police. Hospital. Out of the house. The cycle of abuse has started. The genie is out of the bottle; it will be easier for it to come out again. I know about all that, and I’m not saying it’s wrong, but at the same time, he is my son and he is ill. If he had cancer or AIDs, would I kick him out and make him live on the street? I went to social services and asked for help. I went to adult protective services. I’ve been there before. I was turned away. This time fresh bruises got me in the door. They listened and said they’d discuss his case and see if he qualified for services. I reminded them that I’d been before, trying to be proactive. I’m back, lucky this time. It could’ve been worse, maybe next time, I won’t be so lucky, maybe it will be someone else. Who will be responsible at that point?

I was able to apply for some services that my son is not getting and I did find out about a new resource in my community that might actually help with housing and maybe employment. I set up appointments. But that doesn’t fix the situation immediately. My son seems as shell shocked as I do, like he can’t believe that he is capable of what happened. He isn’t denying it, but he also can barely face me. My emotions are stealing in around my armor and my overwhelming feeling is sadness. But a sadness so big, that if I fully unleashed it, I am sure it would engulf me like giant tidal waves and carry me far out into an unreachable place. So I am acknowledging that the sadness is there and allowing it to wash over my feet; I’m not strong enough to swim in it. Yet.

Strength is a funny thing. Every time we come to a crossroad on this journey, I don’t think I have the strength for what comes next, but the strength finds me and I move forward. I am looking for the light. I sure hope it shows up soon.

When my parents were killed eight years ago, I wrote their eulogy. I remember the priest was a little nervous about including a eulogy. He said often a family member would get in front of the congregation and fall apart. I assured him that he didn’t need to worry. I knew that not everyone that attended the service would understand the rituals of a mass and I wanted to make sure there were words for everyone attached to my parents final celebration. A story for those that knew them, not just in church, but in life. And I wanted to tell their love story for everyone.

Most of the events of those days are kind of a blur for me. I remember being completely exhausted, but unable to sleep. Shayne was in the throes of psychosis and I just had no idea what to do about him. He would talk to himself and pace the house, sometimes walking out the front door in his pajamas and disappearing down the street. I’d assign myself a to do list for the day and push off the sheets with this song lyric in my head, “I’m coming up, so you better get this party started.” I know it is completely incongruous, but that’s what I felt like, like I was getting up and showing up and hitting all my marks. Like some damn performance. I remember so vividly my to do list the day before the funeral. Write eulogy was number five.

I remember using one of my daughter’s school notebooks and sitting cross-legged on my bed. All my best writing is done in bed. I chewed on my pen, considering my audience. My siblings. My cousins. My aunts and uncles. Father Dan. All the people who knew my parents. Then I wrote a one page story about a poor boy from San Luis Valley who traveled the seas to meet an Irish fisherman’s daughter. I contrasted their differences, highlighted their strengths and honored their faith and love, just like I was writing an essay for college. My parents in 250 words or less.

The day of the funeral is erased from my memory, except I get flashes sometimes. I remember Father Dan motioning me to the mic at the alter. I had a little glitch in my brain taking in how full the church was. It could have been an Easter Mass. I saw my human resource director come in and dip her finger into the holy water and my high school art teacher behind her, holding the program with my parents’ picture. And my neighbors from childhood were there. My Colorado Springs cousins to my left. The ladies from City Market in the back. All these people who had been touched by my parents’ lives and their love. I could see what the priest meant about falling apart, but I took a breath and started speaking. I got through my eulogy without tears, without wavering. The words felt strong and true.

I was going to repost the eulogy on my blog to commemorate my parents’ sixty-first anniversary today. I think the torn off notebook paper is in a box of my writing that I keep around. I also think I might have posted the eulogy on Facebook after the days of the funeral. But I realize that I don’t want to sift through those memories anymore. I have a different story of love to tell now.

I was over at my mom and dad’s on the day of their last anniversary in 2015. It was early when I got there, but my dad was gone and my mom was still in bed. Shayne was days out of his first experience of being hospitalized and injected by force with Haldol. We were all holding our breaths about what was happening with him, but hoping everything would be okay. I grabbed the paper off the porch and let myself into the house to work on the crossword puzzle. My dad showed up in the backyard with a hanging basket of flowers and hung it on a hook on the back porch. I watched him through the window. The flowers were a beautiful mix of pink cascading blossoms. Mom loved her pink.

When Dad came in, I passed him the front page. “Those are gorgeous,” I told him. He flicked open the pages of the newspaper and said, “She’s going to move it to another hook.” Mom got up a little while later and came out to the kitchen in her bathrobe. She noticed the flowers right away and went outside to admire them. Dad and I watched her through the window. She touched the blossoms and then reached for a step stool. She lifted the basket off the hook and moved it to another hook. I looked at Dad and he laughed. “Why didn’t you put it on that one to begin with?” “She always moves it. It’s got to be her choice.” When my mom came in the house, neither one of us said a word. Instead I wished them a happy anniversary. I asked them what it was like to have been married all those years. Dad said it went so fast. Mom said she wouldn’t change any of it. And then they started making breakfast together. Totally in sync. I can’t know all the ingredients that created the love that my parents had. But I do know the constant, everyday, little things are what left their mark on me.

So here it is again. Their anniversary. Another June. Shayne is in the throes of another crisis and I am facing life changes again. I literally have asked out loud my parents to help me. To show me the way forward. I realize they have already done that. Get up. Do little things. Pull the weeds. Make the bed. Be kind. Be accepting. Laugh. Have faith. Believe in the good. Everything will work out how it is supposed to. That’s the love story they left me to tell. But now I know am telling it for myself.

Explaining the layers of my family is like giving a science lecture; I need a flow chart and a lot of space. To keep it simple though, I didn’t have a grandmother growing up. Instead, I had Genevieve and the Sisters, three maiden aunts that were sisters of my father’s mother. For as long as I can remember these women were the matriarchs of the family, holding the threads of our sprawling family together with green chili, watermelon slices and rosary beads. They knew all the stories and memories and I can see how I grew up thinking women could do anything, because these ladies did.

Genevieve lived on the property where my father and all his siblings were born. Her house was an old adobe place with a flat roof and a wood cooking stove. My memories of that small kitchen are as rich as the fresh,, warm tortillas that were passed out anytime my brother and I asked. The Sisters were sisters, but also nuns in the Sister of Mercy order. During the school year, they were teachers in New Mexico, but in the summer, they would come home to Genevieve’s.

The Sisters were Sister Concetta and Sister Magdalene. We just called them Sister. And as a child, I didn’t really spend a lot of time, trying to separate them into individuals. The three of them were a package deal in my mind. But as I got older, I grew to see them as unique.. Genevieve was the strong one. She lived on the land herself and had cattle, and chopped wood for the fire. She knew everyone for miles and men would pull up in front of the house and take off their hats at the door and inquire if there was anything she needed. She’d send them on their way, but maybe with a handful of fresh roasted pinion, or some cookies.

Mary Magdalene was the sweet one. She was a first grade teacher and she liked kids. She was the one that taught me how to make an ojo de Dios. Or a God’s Eye, a Mexican folk art with sticks and yarn. Every year, I would teach that craft to my students and always tell the story about my aunt teaching me that it was a custom of protection. Fathers would make them for their children when they went off to school. I wouldn’t tell them about how her hands held mine and guided me through the motions of the weaving, but I would never fail to forget that memory. I will never forget the day she was buried in the mountains.

Sister Concetta is the only one left. She was the smallest and youngest, but always a take charge kind of girl. She was a principal during her education years and always very well caught up on world affairs. She had good timing and would slip a joke into a story and make everyone laugh. For awhile she lived alone on the ranch, doing all the things all three of the ladies had done for years, chopping wood for the fire, lighting the stove, moving the snow to get to the gate. She was almost ninety years old when she went to live at the Sister of Mercy motherhouse in Nebraska. It always bothered me a lot that she was so far from home. I have wanted to go see her, but I haven’t until now.

This marks Sister Concetta’s 80th year as a nun. In the faith, this is called a jubilee. With five of my cousins, I joined the celebration. Sister is our family saint, but she is well-loved in her community. She is 102 and going strong. I guess chopping wood has given her some stamina. Her hearing isn’t great and she didn’t recognize us, but she knew the names of our parents and then would remember who we belonged to. I am not sure she knew the celebration was for her at first, but she caught on and joined in the singing and sang each of my cousins and myself a blessing as we were leaving.

Afterward, the six of us had dinner in The Haymarket section of Lincoln and it was like all the meals of my youth–laughter, stories, sharing. I can see how love, faith, and strength was born in my life. I am glad I made the journey and made these memories with my cousins. I guess our aunt isn’t done doing her job, because she is still bringing us together and showing us how to be joyful.

This is supposed to be the first week of summer, and the stress of the school year should melt away. Instead I keep thinking about my students, keep wondering if I should try and find out Surenaty’s ball game schedule, or see if Jaydin and Alyana want to help me paint. I have also been sick with a sinus infection and an earache. I wonder if I have battle fatigue.

Monday, I drove up to Gunnison for a class. The class was for art teachers and taught by all the art professors at Western State. The first session was a clay class. The prof did a mini slab throwing lesson and then instructed us to make a mug or a vase using slab. I wasn’t feeling it. I just wanted to lay my head on the table and go to sleep. Instead I made a rose with my clay, even though that was not the assignment. It just made me think about my mom. June is not my favorite month.

In the afternoon, we did cyanotypes. That was a little more my speed because all that takes is putting some objects on material and setting it in the sun for nine minutes and then washing the chemicals clear. There was a whole room of objects, but I just grabbed a bike gear, my car keys and took off my rings–Mom’s wedding ring, my breast cancer survivor ring, and the birthstone ring of my kids that I always wear. I realized that I just put the my personal story of the last eight years on that paper.

I was the first person done with the composition and I sat outside against the wall of the art building. Gunnison is a beautiful place with the mountains and wildflowers and a lazy pace. I watched the other teachers put their boxes down and mill around talking quietly. I thought about actually doing this project with students. There is no way, kids would stand around quietly for nine minutes. I realized that I didn’t need to think like a teacher at the moment. And maybe June doesn’t need to be about grief anymore.

After I hung my fabric up to dry, I left. I had planned on camping, but instead checked in to the Roadside Inn and went to bed. I slept for twelve hours straight and woke up with the absolute worst earache. I felt like I was about twelve and really just wanted someone to take care of me. I thought about bailing on school and just going home. Instead, I stopped at Starbucks and went to campus. We learned how to make paint from things like dirt and crushed leaves. I messed around with my colors, even after everyone went to lunch.

When I got home, the cats were overjoyed to see me. My son on the other hand was out of it and I was unsure if he knew that I had been gone. I am going to have to deal with how far gone he is, but I felt like my ears were closing down and and my body was aching., so for the next couple of days, I just tried to get well. I finished painting a sign for High on the Hill Farm.

Hand painting signs is a side gig that I do sometimes. I like the lettering and working on the wood, but it is slow meticulous work. Usually, I work with the tv on, or music, but this time I worked in silence, trying to quiet the school year from my mind. I thought a little about getting a summer job. I know staying busy is how I cope with not dealing with my emotions.

I made a list. 1. Breathe. 2. Art. 3. Family. 4. Home. I decided that I felt well enough, so, I am with my cousins on a road trip to meet up with other cousins. Our great aunt is having her 80th Jubilee as a Sisters of Mercy nun. We spent the night in Cozac, Nebraska. The town is full of wings. It started as a local movement to honor the memory of s little girl who died and the wings are everywhere. I like that idea. Celebrate a memory with light and color. Make pain into something joyful. Once again, the universe has given me what I needed. Looking forward to today’s journey.

Because I have been teaching art for so long, my last of school usually looks different than other teachers Typically, I don’t see kids and spend the last day packing up the room. Sometimes kids drop by and ask me to sign their yearbooks. Some cry and I have been puzzled by that in the past. It is the last day of school. Summer vacation. Why the heck would anyone cry about that! This year, I had my first ever traditional LAST day of school and I found myself numb for a few days.

When my parents were killed I noticed that I seemed to have a switch on my emotions. I had the power to turn them off and move ahead with the things that needed to be done. Last year, the switch broke and layers of grief and trauma broke through and I was terrified all the time. I left teaching 300 students a week, because I thought fifteen kids would be easier. Instead those fifteen kids taught me that there is no off switch to trauma. There is no easy.

I had no idea that being a classroom teacher and managing all the curriculum would be such a learning curve. I mean I managed six grade levels as an art teacher and tons of supplies and ways of approaching art. Mostly, I just had to do reading and writing and math and science and social studies. And the scope and sequence was laid out for me. How hard could that be? Pretty hard when my group of kids couldn’t easily access grade level content, and they really weren’t super interested in trying to access it either.

The academic battle was only part of the problem. I was dealing with kids who had been seriously traumatized. All of them? Yea. All in their own way. One of them told me about his memories of sleeping on the sidewalk. He said he had a little bedroll and he would sleep tight up against a wall, so no one would step on him. He told me that he would never forget the bad times, because that helped him appreciate the good times. Outwardly this kid seemed like he had it going on with good attendance and good grades, but the moment he stumbled, he’d start hitting himself with a ruler or bang his head on the desk. As the year went on I saw their traumas triggered over and over. Behavior is communication.

Somehow we made it to the end. They grew in math and English. But it didn’t feel clean or tidy. I didn’t feel like I did my job, because I don’t think they are prepared well for the next grade. I was ready to end my time with them because I was exhausted, but I didn’t know how to say goodbye and send them on their next journey. It felt like I was sending kids to a battle with toy guns.

On a whim, I decided to give them gifts. Not teacher gifts of school supplies and trinkets and candy, but real gifts that showed thought and maybe gifts to give them a little hope, or a little reminder that someone believes in them. I bought some of the gifts, like I gave one of the girls a baseball bat. I told her that she was not allowed to hit anyone with it, or destroy property with it. I told her major league ball players signed their bats and they were worth a lot of money sometimes. So I signed her bat and told her that I wanted to be invited to her first high school game.

Some of the gifts were more sentimental. I gave another girl a mirror that had been my mother’s. I told her about how beautiful my mother was and how she could always see the good in everyone . I told this girl that my mother would have loved her and she would have wanted someone to use her mirror everyday instead of just leaving it in a box. I saw this girl take the mirror out of her bag three times and look at herself. I hope one day she sees what I see.

After the bell rang and the kids left, I went outside to the playground and worked on the llama mural for awhile. One of the girls came over from her house and sat with me. I gave her some paint and had her put snow on the mountain tops. When I met this kid in August, she reminded me of a squirrel. One day she asked me if I liked hugs. I remember it was not a good moment, but I hugged her for a second and it actually brought down my blood pressure. After that moment, she became my fave. She worked so hard and grew so much. I am so proud of her. Her heart is so good, even though her eleven year old life has had so much pain.

So yeah. I had all these feelings the last day of school with these kids I tried to not think about it at first, but I know that turning off emotions doesn’t work out so well. Truth is, I don’t know if I will ever see any of them again. I might never know what happens to them. 5th grade. Just nine months in a life.

I will never forget Room 201. These children were given to me for a while. They taught me so much about strength and resilience. Sometimes I wonder why I keep getting more lessons in strength, but instead of questioning why, I am just trying to appreciate all the gifts.

This past week was interesting.

Sunday my son was standing on a chair in the garage swearing at the top of his lungs. He called me, “Michelle,” which is a bad sign and then when I asked about his meds, he got angry. I ended up spending the night at my cousin’s house.

Monday, I called Shayne’s doctor and found out that he’d missed his April appointment and had been unmedicated for at least a few weeks. I told him that he needed to get back on his meds or find a new place to live. He went to the doctor all by himself and got a dose of meds and a new prescription. Surprised the hell out of me.

Tuesday, I invented “a novel in a day” and my students and I read Frindle. I had my end of the year review and realized that a large majority of my students had more than expected growth in math and reading. That made me realize that all my tears and work had amounted to something. After my school day, I drove over to the library to pick up the art show pieces. The sky was all hazy from the fires in Canada. From the walkway bridge at the library, I could see the valley Pueblo sits in, with the river and spring trees and the stacks of the steel mill. It was kind of beautiful in a gritty way. And I had this strange feeling of home.

Wednesday, my students had their graduation ceremony and all but one of my students showed up to the ceremony. This is an achievement because attendance has been a struggle all year. But they showed up. They brought their families and stood with me to get their awards. I took picture after picture with my kids and talked to all the family members and had an enormous sense of pride and love for all of them.

Thursday, I got a call that my car was considered a total loss. I started tearing down my room because I am not teaching fifth grade next year. Someone else is already planning on moving in to the space. I took down my Banksy poster and Jarmiah asked if he could have it. I told him only if he was going to hang it up and truly treasure it, because Banksy is my favorite artist and it is my favorite poster. He hung his milk carton key chain on my key ring. A trade from the tough boy who has been to date the most unforgettable student I have ever had.

Friday, I got up early and walked down to my old elementary to help with field day. I got hugged by at least 100 kids. One of them said, “I am not a hugger, but it’s you.” The kids have grown so much, but I realized that I have moved on. I am not their art teacher anymore. I am no longer part of that community. And I am not sad about it.

People keep asking me what I am doing next year. Will I go back to art? Come back to teach in Canon? Stay at Park View and teach kindergarten? I don’t really know the answers to any of those questions. People keep giving me all kinds of advice, and I am trying very much to listen to what my heart is telling me. But my heart is very much like the shy kid in the back of the room who speaks in whispers when forced to say anything at all. I have to completely shut everything else out to hear it.

The car accident really messed up my thinking. I don’t love being on the road all week. I don’t think leaving Shayne alone for so long is the best. I am not sure what the solution is, but maybe things don’t happen to us, maybe they happen for us. We just have to be brave enough to accept the gifts even when the packages aren’t beautiful.

So I am concentrating on the gifts I have been given lately. I think my heart is telling me to stay at Park View and teach kindergarten. Paint my llama mural and maybe some other things on the barren blank walls of the school yard. Keep writing my blog. Inspire hope in places where it hasn’t been before. Make a difference. Maybe do Destination Imagination again with these kids who don’t even know how magical creativity can be. I don’t know where crashing my car and my son fit in all of this, but I know the answers are there. I just have to be open to listening for them.

Saturday. Tomorrow. All the possibilities.