musings

This post has been a long time coming; much like alot of my writing lately. these are labors of love; carefully planned in my head, they gestate for weeks, sometimes months, before I commit words to paper. I admit, this is not the most efficient way to wrote but, just like Mr. Higgins and Eliza Doolittle, I’ve grown accustomed to their place…in my head.

This particular post has taken a while to come into being and not have had a life at all, if it hadn’t been for the insistent voice of my friend Serene, in the back of my head that keeps on pushing me to write. I admit, the voice could very well be my own, but I choose it to be Serene’s because it’s so much more fun that way. less pressure on my shoulders.

On to the task at hand.

I went to Italy.

After a nine year hiatus (nine years), I returned to the old country without too much fanfare. not too much. There was a mix of trepidation and excitement at the thought of my going back to the madre patria (mother country) after so long. Trepidation because I would be staying with family. Excitement because I would be staying with family. I must also admit that the thought of spending ten days with one of my mother’s sisters, the one she has had the most tumultuous relationship with, provided me with one of the most harrowing cases of nerves I have ever had. No need to get into the details of why and how come. For now. Suffice it to say, that on top of my already excited (terrified) state, I had to add a good dose of those aforementioned nerves.

There were so many things I wanted to do and yet knew that I wouldn’t have time to do them. Contrary to popular belief, though I am an American citizen and understand the American way, I am not, I repeat NOT, an American traveler; especially when traveling to Italy. Oh but how I wish I were! Americans get things done. Americans have the power to turn even a five day trip to the old country into a veritable
tour de force unknown to man. I have known Americans who have visited Italy who were able to see three cities, all their museums, most of their restaurants, allbyje historical sites, get mugged, felt up, fall in love as well as run into celebrities and have an audience with the pope on a budget of six days. It has been done.

But, I am not an American traveler. I get jet lag even before boarding the plane. I take things slow. Once I land in Milano, my birth city, I get into “home mode.” Granted, had the reason I went back to Italy been different, I might have been lured into traveling a bit more and probably go and visit childhood friends I haven’t seen in ages. But the reason and purpose were somber and I think, somewhere in
my heart of hearts, I was on a mission. A mission to heal the hurts; bridge the gaps that formed between my extended family in the last thirty years.

Tall order. I know.

End of Part I

I wrote this for one of the third grade classes I worked with this year. They enjoyed it, hope you do too.

The Tale of Tobias

He could hear the crickets in the distance. He had found a nice spot, under a large oak tree. The leaves were moving gently in the breeze, keeping him cool from the hot, summer sun. The wind would occasionally move the branches enough to let the rays of the bright sun hit his eyes, but that shot of sunlight was brief enough to not burn them. Or make him squint. He hated squinting.

Tobias rested and thought back at the adventure he had been on; an adventure that seemed to have no end in sight. His breathing got a little ragged, just then, thinking back at all that happened. But he was too tired to worry now, to think about François, to think about the house and the screaming and the noise. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath and thought to himself: “Sleep, now. Later you will start searching again. Sleep.”

He awoke with a start. Something wasn’t quite right. The crickets had stopped their constant chirping. It was quiet. Too quiet. It was coming again, he thought. He put his nose up in the air, forcing his nostrils to get as big as they could, to sense if danger was coming.

“Wait for it,” he told himself “wait.”

False alarm. He heaved a big sigh of relief and decided that after all that had happened, he should go back one more time, to see if something had changed. He stretched his paws in front of him and pulled up his tail. He yawned a big yawn and started on his way back to the city. Back to François, he hoped.

After a good hour, he knew he was close. He could see the trucks moving back and forth. He could hear the yelling and the screaming and the honking and the crying and the lament of people in pain. But he couldn’t see François; he couldn’t smell him; he couldn’t feel him. He felt like he couldn’t be the best friend he had always been.

He couldn’t save him.

He saw the same truck with the red and white stripes that had been the first one there. He saw the tall man with the golden hair. He went up to him, wagging his tail, letting him know he was friendly and began his ritual barking. “Hey boy! You’re back again. Looking for food, eh?” said the tall man. Tobias thought to himself, “No, I’m not looking for food. I’m looking for my best friend, François! He would understand. Why don’t you?!?”

Tobias gently pulled at the man’s pants. Then stepped away a little barked and wagged his tail again. The tall man with the golden hair looked tired. He smiled with his face, but not with his eyes. “You must have seen some sad things, boy,” he said to Tobias. Yes he had, but now he needed to find François. “Bark! Bark! Bark!” Tobias continued “Bark!”

“Maybe you’re not hungry after all,” said the tall man with the golden hair. “Maybe you’re trying to tell me something.” Finally. Tobias continued barking, he jumped a little for effect, to let the man know there was some urgency. “Alright, alright, let me get my gear.” He looked over to the truck and yelled “I think I have a lead, I’m going to go look for survivors!” A voice from the truck yelled back “Hurry up man, we’re due back in Port-au-Prince by nightfall.”

The tall man with the golden hair followed Tobias. Tobias was so happy that he sped up, almost to a sprint. “Wait up, buddy, my gear is heavy!” Finally, they arrived. The bricks were still all in the same place. The silence was deafening. Tobias walked in circles around what was once the house he grew up in; the house he was born in. The tall man with the golden hair started lifting a big brick. The smell of François hit him harder than the shocks of the earthquake. He ran up the rubble. He wagged his tail. “If I can smell him, that means he must be alive! He’s a strong boy!” He barked at the tall man with the blond hair. “Sh, sh, buddy, I think I hear something.” Tobias stopped. Both man and dog shifted their heads and ears towards the sound coming from below. It was a faint whimper at first; then it got louder. And louder. And louder until,

“Aide moi! Help me! Je m’appelle François. I am François. I am a boy. Help!”

They had found him. He was alive. That is all Tobias cared about.

I believe it’s official. I have lost my patience. I will no longer tolerate anyone, ANYONE who comes up to me with their petty problems. Not after hearing the stories from some of the kids I work with.

I don’t care anymore about if so and so isn’t talking to this and that. I don’t care that if you eat something it burns in your stomach or you feel light headed. Or you can’t get so and so’s attention. Or that you haven’t been on a date, unhappy in a relationship, not getting any in the bedroom, or bathroom or wherever. Shut up about your stupid, petty, trivial shit.

Today, a third grader, A 9 YEAR OLD said very matter-of-fact that she wanted to kill herself. Why? Because her mother doesn’t love her. This DESPERATE attempt at attention is appalling. Last Fall, a FIRST GRADER, threatened to off himself by jumping out the window.

So, the next time you feel like whining about your petty, little crap, think about the bigger picture. And send a prayer to the little children.