October 18, 2009

When the day is done

*This was written a few years ago, when I had a different principal, different students, a different apartment and a tighter ass (although the last part has nothing to do with the story). *Also, some names have been changed as to not embarrass anyone unnecessarily.

It makes me so happy when the day is done. I’ve worked my day of work, argued with the principal as to why Martin* should get detention again (Yes…I think leaving the classroom for 20 minutes to ask his friend from another class a Pokemon question while the class is writing is a means for losing recess…and why do I need to prove this?!). After I have stayed with Sammy* after school to find her helmet (again), put the daily plan for the next day, trade nightmare stories about my day with colleagues (“Yes…not only did I have to argue for Martin* to get detention again but my girls came back from lunch and told me the boys told them they had ‘big hairy dicks like Homer Simpson!’ I can’t make this shit up!”) and put the copies downstairs for tomorrow’s homework, I gather my stuff and realize I should have gotten a lot more work done between 3:00 and 6:00, I finally leave the building.

It makes me so happy to leave the building, walk the two blocks to the F train and pass numerous parents with their kids. I saw these children  just three hours earlier, but they get so excited, you would think I had not seen them in years.

“HI MS. G!” they yell from across the street, their eyes all lit up, waving their arms wildly and jumping up and down to make sure I notice them. I wave back and smile and hear the kid say, “Mom! That was Ms. G!” as if I was some kind of celebrity. They find it amazing I have actually left the school building, am walking on the same exact street as they are walking and am about to use the subway! The next day, inevitably, the same kid, excited as she has ever been, jumping up and down, says, “Remember when I saw you on the way to the subway yesterday?!!”

It makes me so happy when I get on that subway platform at 15th street and the wind in the tunnel starts to pick up, indicating the train is approaching. I love when the train passes and blows my hair back in all directions making me feel, if not for just a moment in time, like Felicity during the opening song of the once popular TV show about college angst.

It makes me so happy to be able to work on the crossword puzzle from AMNY, the free daily newspaper, on my way home; the one I started in the morning but my brain was not sharp enough then to remember the 7 -letter word for the lead actor in “The King and I” (Brynner).

It makes me so happy to dart up the stairs of the subway station, already taking out my keys to my apartment for the most exciting part of my day. I pass the fruit guy, packing up for the day, who offers me five bananas for a dollar. Pretty good deal but I can’t stop. I’m on a mission. I pass the little Italian restaurant and sneak a peek inside to see if the cute manager is there, trying my best to look sexy, nonchalant and inconspicuous simultaneously. I finally reach my corner. I just have to cross the street and climb up those 15 stairs, unlock Fort Knox and I’m be home free.

It makes me so happy when I finally  wrangle the first key into my hand ready to unlock the front door. I check the mail…Ooooo! YAY! A Netflix movie. I know what I’m doing tonight! But not before I do my most important and favorite part of the day. I’m almost there! I open one…two…three locks of my apartment door, trying to ignore the 85-year-old neighbor who is constantly on the phone with one of her five children yelling what sounds like distress calls in Polish. Her somewhat concerning cries are not going to stop me!

It makes me so happy when, at the end of the day, I can take off my bra and let the little ladies free.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh…………..

October 18, 2009

The Last Time

At 82 years old, my grandmother was a vibrant, independent woman with a sharp mind, but trapped inside an ailing body. She lived alone in her Florida condo (to where all New York Jews retire) while her entire family lived in New York. Extremely bullheaded and strong-willed, she refused to moved up to New York after my grandfather died five years earlier, claiming she was very capable of meeting her own needs, which, I believe, she was. She had someone to fetch groceries for her, go to “The Boys” specialty market to get her fresh fruits and vegetables and tripe, get her meds at the drug store, pick up Diet Rite, her favorite soda. She  personally knew the owners of the Chinese restaurant and the pizza place, who already knew her order when they heard her very distinct voice on the other end of the phone.

When she became ill in the summer of 2005 and needed to be in a rehab facility, needless to say, she was not happy.

“I’m surrounded by all these OLD people,” she ironically claimed. “I gotta get outta here!”

My family rotated going down to Florida to be with her. Many obligations plagued my family during that time–work, moving, new babies to take care of–so, being the single, child-less teacher with the summer off and no obligations of my own, I found myself in Florida with my grandmother most of the summer. I actually did not mind at all. She was definitely more entertaining than any summer reading I would have done.

Each morning I was woken up by a phone call from my grandmother reporting the needs of the day.

“Dayna, this is grandma.” (as if I didn’t know) “Bring me some more shmatas (her name for the mumu house dresses she wore) and new batteries for my hearing aides.”

I spent most of the day with her, at her bedside, reading funny or interesting stories from the newspaper, comics, recipes, etc.

“You should send that one to your sister,” she would say when we came across a stuffed artichoke recipe, or “Send that one to your father!” when it was an article entitled ‘How to Organize Your Living Space’.

Sometimes we would reminisce about our summers flying kites at Rockaway Beach or she would tell me stories she had told me a hundred times or more.

“Did I ever tell you how grandpa and I went on our first date to the movies?” or “Did I ever tell you about the time I hung your father on a meat hook by his pants because he was throwing sawdust at your aunt at the butcher store?” or “You’ve heard the story about when your schootch of a brother kept asking for a purple ice pop even though we didn’t have anymore and I squooshed grape jelly in his face?”

Sometimes we just sat in silence. She would tell me, “GET OUTTA HERE! GO ENJOY THE SUN!” or “I’m sure this is how you wanted to spend your summer! Taking care of your sick grandmother!” Then she would laugh and erupt into a coughing fit.

Each night she sent me home with laundry and gave me instructions for the next day. “Bring me some vanilla pudding from that place right off Military Drive…the food here is CRAP!”

As my trip began to come to a close, grandma started to become a bit delirious. She often forgot where she was and spoke of being at a bar-b-que at her friend Naomi’s house in New York, which she hadn’t been to in years. One morning when I was reading the rehab facility menu to her to make her meal choices, she said, “What the hell is going on? Naomi doesn’t serve shit like this!”

On August 12th, I was set to return to New York. I visited my grandmother for the last time. She lay in the bed, eyes closed looking very serene and relaxed, a way she hadn’t looked in weeks. I told her I was leaving and I would be back to visit very soon.

“Don’t you go anywhere!” I warned her, with tears in my eyes, knowing this might be the last time I saw my grandmother.

She gave me the most peaceful look I have ever seen and said, “I love you bubala,” a Yiddish term of endearment she often called me.

“I love you too Gram,” I said and left the room and cried all the way to the car.

The next morning, my grandmother passed away.

September 19, 2009

Forgotten: A True Story

Soccer practice was over.
” Can I go to the playground Dad?”
“Sure,” he said, waving me away.
He was busy chatting with other parents.
“Yeah!”
My friends and I ran off.
I swung on the tire swing.
I monkeyed around on the monkey bars.
I slid down the slide.
Over and over and over again.
Time went by.
I kept swinging, monkeying around and sliding.
One by one my friends were leaving.
“Let’s go!” parents started shouting.
But not my parent.
The sun was beginning to set.
“Bye Jamie!”
I played some more.
“Bye Michelle!”
It was getting even darker.
“Bye Melanie! Susan! Kim! See you tomorrow!”
I kept swinging higher until I realized….
everyone was gone.
I ran back to the field to find my dad.
There were no cars left in the lot.
No cars.
No parents.
No kids.
“Dad?!” I yelled, looking around.
Nothing.
“DAD?!”
Silence.
Fireflies started lighting up.
The crickets started chirping.
The final sliver of the sun set over the horizon.
“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!” I screamed one last time.
The car were gone.
The kids were gone.
The parents were gone.
The last of the sun was gone.
My dad was gone.
I was forgotten.

February 2, 2009

25 more random things about me

It was so much fun the first time, I thought I would add some more. Enjoy!

1. My lips used to get so chapped when I was little I had a chapped lip ring around my mouth. (Yep, I was that kid.)

2. When I was in second grade my sister said my legs were hairy so I shaved them.

3. I have given 4 eulogies, 4 maid-of-honor speeches, 2 anniversary speeches, read numerous birthday poems at surprise parties, gave 3 benediction speeches at athletic banquets, and read a poem at my cousin Matt’s “mattman” Bar Mitzvah.

4. My favorite number is 13 and I secretly get upset when a building doesn’t have a 13th floor.

5. I used to think that the “wind chill factor” was really the “wind shield factor”.

6. I cried when the tree in my front yard got chopped down.

7. When I was 5,  my brother pulled down my pants (underwear and all) in the middle of a super market. Years later he had the same thing done to him by his wife. (Thank Annie!)

8. I witnessed a shooting while walking to a class in grad school. I dove under a car and stayed there for an hour until a cop found me and said it was OK to come out. Nobody got hurt.

9. One of the only times I ever cut school, my principal pulled up to the take-out window at Taco Bell right behind us. We didn’t get in trouble though.

10. I have worked for two principals who got arrested; one for child molestation and the other for cheating on a state test.

11. I predicted my sister would have 2 daughters in a short story I wrote in high school.

12. My nephew Nicholas saved my life.

13. I have a scar right by my nose from my second bike accident. My friend Bill says it looks like a booger.

14. I had the chicken pox two times.

15. I am pretty sure my high school boyfriend dated me because I had cable.

16. I wrote a seven page rant about how much I despise mayonnaise after one of the most interesting nights of my life in Amsterdam.

17. I got my ears pierced when I was 3.

18. A few friends and I found Playboy magazines in my dad’s car and we made a song about it to the music of “Do Wa Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Do”.

19. I made tapes for both “Star Search” and ” The Real World” but never sent them. I am pretty sure I erased them. At least I should have.

20. I tried out for a Broadway group called “Tada!” when I was 9. They loved my dancing but my singing left much to be desired. (I sang Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All”)

21. I was 11 when my writing first got published. I wrote a letter to the Editor of the “Levittown Tribune” about a 3-year-old girl named Marissa who had diabetes. I wrote a song for her to Whitney Houston’s “Saving All My Love for You”. (OK so I liked Whitney Houston…who didn’t? It was the 80s!)

22. I made a stuffed bear in Home Ec. in 7th grade and got a C on it. It’s heart was sewn on upside down and the seam in the back made it look like it had scoliosis.

23. I was nominated for “Most Innocent…NOT!” in high school. I lost by one vote.

24. I once met Robin Williams on the street and took a picture with him. I sent it as my Christmas card that year.

25. My 6th grade teacher used to give us really hard bonus words on spelling tests. If we didn’t spell the word correctly we had to write it 100 times. (I now know this was his way of giving us busy work while he played his “Buttons and Bows” record.  Also, doing this now is called CORPORAL PUNISHMENT!) This is why I know how to spell Czechoslovakia, Cincinnati, Albuquerque, Yugoslavia and Okeechobee. Thanks Mr. Harling!

January 31, 2009

25 random things about me

Hi. My name is Dayna and I am a Facebook junkie. I have reconnected with so many people: from the three Jamies I went to elementary school with (Jamie S., Jamie K. and Jaime M.)  to Kevin Covais from American Idol (he went to my high school) to the assistant principal from the first school I was a teacher.

It is really fun to see who still has hair, who is married or divorced, how many kids people have, see who is in a Green Day tribute band, etc. Without really being in these people’s lives, you get a glimpse at what they have been up to through the pictures they post and messages on their wall.

The funniest thing is I have over 200 “friends”. This is funny because it is a misnomer. Most of these people are acquaintances rather than friends.

Today I got a message from numerous friends asking me to post 25 random things about myself. I feel like this entire blog is random things about myself so I thought I would add this little list of mine. If you feel like doing so, you can send me a list of YOUR 25 random things about  you….unless you were the one sending it to me on Facebook.

Enjoy!

1. I have been skydiving (Thanks Boner!)

2. I have begun to see gray hairs and I don’t like it one bit. I plucked one from my eyebrows the other day!

3. When I was 9 I got my tonsils taken out and the doctor slipped and left a divot in my palate. We didn’t sue but now I have this hole in my palate where gross stuff collects when I am sick. (oops…too much info??)

4. I have six screws and two metal plates in my knee. Can’t wait to make the alarms go off at the airport!

5. I can fold my tongue in half.

6. I used to have a beauty mark on my pinkie but my mom rubbed it off.

7. My sister and I can both fit over 20 grapes in our mouths.

8. My favorite beverage is an Arnold Palmer–half lemonade, half iced tea.

9. I kicked a 35 yard field goal in high school. With a half the football team behind me, we went to go ask the coach if I could kick for the team. He was all for it, but we had to ask the athletic director. When we asked the athletic director he laughed in my face, so I threw water in his!

10. I bought my freedom from the Indonesian police for $7.

11. I have been skiing once. I broke my nose.

12. When I was a baby my mom brought me to a modeling agency. They said I was cute but didn’t have enough hair.

13. I get a little freaked out when my money is not all facing the same direction.

14. In 6th grade, my class was playing kickball in the gym. I kicked the ball really hard. It hit the ceiling, loosened a ceiling tile and the tile landed on the pitcher’s head and he passed out.

15. In 3rd grade, there was a boy who had a crush on me. He would wait at the front of the bus until it was my stop and try to kiss me as I got out. So one day, I got really fed up with his antics and I took my recorder and bopped him over the head with it. (Wow…I’m really violent!)

16. My bed might possibly be my favorite place in the entire world.

17. When my friend Jamie and I were in elementary school, we planned on going to college at UCLA, buy a gray corvette with a pink pinstripe and play soccer.

18. My friend Karen and I were going to move to California together, get a dog and name it Sunny Rafterberg. She moved to Virginia instead.

19. I once passed out in temple during a service on Yom Kippur in front of a congregation of 500 or more. Don’t ever have Robitussin when you are fasting.

20. I have 3 fake teeth

21. I was nominated for homecoming queen but lost.

22. I used to think that Jason from Friday the 13th lived in the attic of the Keagan’s house down the block.

23. I put on comfy clothes as soon as I get home, no matter what time it is.

24. My grandmother has been the most influential person in my life.

25. When I was 3, I had a “shimmying” solo in my very first dance recital. I got to shimmy my shoulders and shake my little tushie up and down the stage.

January 18, 2009

Giving Thanks

My favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, has come and is long gone, but I wanted to take this opportunity to share some of my all time greatest hit memories from the turkey related holiday. Maybe then I will attempt to tackle the nightmare known as the December holidays.

I love Thanksgiving for a plethora of reasons. It is about giving thanks, which we should all do each and every day, but sometimes the nuances and responsibilities of life get in the way. It is not a “Hallmark holiday” like the upcoming Valentine’s Day or Halloween, both wonderous holidays for the candy industry.Thanksgiving is a holiday in which the focus is spending time with good friends and family,to appreciate those people and everything you have. It is also about eating way too much, getting into your fat pants right after dinner and getting comfy on the couch with your football fanatic male relatives or gossiping in the kitchen with the female relatives while they prepare dessert, or in my case, in recent years, being the designated baby sister for all children present.

As a little innocent girl, before the term “politically correct” came into our every day vocabulary, I dressed up as either an Indian (the feathered kind) or a Pilgrim. (I later learned that “Indians” were actually “Native Americans” and also not not even from India. In fact that were named “Indians” by Columbus who sailed the ocean blue looking for India, but “discovered” our fine country instead. Don’t even get me started on that rapist killer!) Each year I would alternate. For my Indian attire, I would wear a tank top and my soccer shorts, since, as I learned from the text books that lied to me throughout my youth, Indians didn’t wear much clothing. Then I would create a beautifully vibrant headdress made of a thick strip of brown construction paper taped together at the ends. Then with a pattern representative of the fall foliage, I would cut out red, orange and yellow feathers, also made of construction paper, and tape them to the brown halo of construction paper. Then I would sing “One little, two little, three little Indians…” both vocally and in sign language, taught to me by my 2nd grade teacher.

For my Pilgrim outfit, I chose the male ensemble. I guess the outfit seemed easier to put together. I wore my brown corduroy knickers with my green soccer socks pulled up underneath and my tap shoes on my feet. These were the closest footwear I had resembling the buckled shoe of the Pilgrim. I’d wear a white button down shirt with the collar pulled up and make a Abraham Lincoln-esque hat, again, out of construction paper. Mrs. Ugarte never taught us a song in sign language for Pilgrims so I just walked around being stiff, as I imagined Pilgrims to be.

While trying to recreate the first Thanksgiving through crafts and interpretive dance, I would watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Meanwhile, my teenage brother and sister slept off their hangovers. I never understood why they were always “sick” on Thanksgiving until I later learned the night before Thanksgiving was the biggest party night of the year, according to my brother.

So the arguments that inevitably ensued when we needed to start getting ready to go to my aunt’s house were:

Mom to brother and sister: “Yes you are going. No I don’t care how bad your headache is. Take some Tylenol.”

Mom to me: “Yes I think your Indian outfit is really great. No, you are not wearing it to your aunt’s house.”

Mom to dad: “Yes you are going. She is your sister. I don’t care how much your side hurts, take Pepto Bismal!”

Ahhhhh…the memories.

One year while my uncle was carving the turkey on Thanksgiving, he sliced right through his finger, almost down to the bone. He and my aunt headed to the emergency room and the rest of us stayed and ate, thankful he didn’t cut his entire finger off, and that he had already cut the dark meat.

Another time at my aunt’s and uncle’s house, my cousin decided to invited her new in-laws. I had the pleasure of sitting across from her new hubby’s brother, who would not shut the hell up. Not only would he not shut the hell up, he was dropping f-bombs like he was Andrew Dice Clay. I don’t think I had ever seen my uncle so enraged. He asked him to leave the table, threw his napkin of the floor and with clenched jaw went to have a “little talk” with the potty mouthed guest. We were all pretty f***ing thankful when he decided not to come the following year.

Then there was the time my mom decided to host Thanksgiving. There were two reasons we always had Thanksgiving at my aunt’s house: 1. There was much more room at their house than at our house. 2. My aunt is a fabulous cook and my mom is… really great at cleaning. OK, my mom has a lot of outstanding qualities–giving unconditional love, organizing, dealing with other people’s medical bills, going over her minutes each month on her cell phone–but being a good cook is not one of them. She is not a bad cook, but she is not particularly a great cook either. It’s ok though. We still love her lots.

However, for some reason, my mom really wanted to play the hostess for once, so we had Thanksgiving at our house. I especially thought it was a great idea because maybe then I’d have a chance to wear my Indian outfit. No such luck.

So my mom went shopping, got the turkey and all the accoutrement to have a Thanksgiving feast. She woke up early to put the bird in the oven. A little while later I woke up due to a peculiar stench coming from the kitchen. I thought it was the smell of burning plastic. When we opened the oven, smoke came pouring out. Sure enough, my nose was correct in its assumed aroma. My mom had forgotten to take out the plastic bag inside the turkey, the plastic melted and burned. The 20 lb. once-feathered gobbler had died in vain.

We ate Chinese that year.

My most vivid and excruciatingly painful Thanksgiving memory was Thanksgiving 1982. I was in Kindergarten and my mom was the class parent. She and my teacher planned a full on Thanksgiving feast with the entire class. We decorated the classroom with the colorful turkeys made from our tiny traced hands. Each parent brought in a Thanksgiving dish. We put all of our desks together so we had one long table just like the first Thanksgiving. It was beautiful….except for one thing. We were assigned to dress as either a Pilgrim or an Indian. I was hoping to be an Indian but I got picked to be a Pilgrim. I cried and cried. Somehow I knew the Indians were the better people. I knew they were truthful and honest and much more laid back than their Puritan counterparts.

I put my knicker, soccer sock, white button down, tap shoe outfit together, but my mom wasn’t going for it.

“My friend’s daughter was a Pilgrim at her feast two years ago,” she insisted. “So you can borrow her outfit.” Mom wasn’t, and still isn’t, the “let’s buy fabric and make a costume from scratch” type and I guess a new outfit wasn’t in the budget, so I agreed to wear the hand-me-down Pilgrim dress. I was OK with it…until I found out who we were borrowing it from: an overweight 2nd grader who nobody sat with on the bus because she took up practically the whole seat!

I couldn’t believe my mom was making me wear a fat girl’s outfit. I was not fat! OK, I was a little chubby, I admit. Two years earlier when my sister bought me Jordache jeans for my third birthday I couldn’t button them over my baby Buddah belly. But now at age five, I had gotten a bit taller and slimmed out. I was ashamed to be seen in her outfit. She was a really nice girl and all, but after the Jordache incident, I was already having some body image issues.

I ended up wearing the outfit, which looked absolutely ridiculous. I looked like I was a daughter Pilgrim wearing mother Pilgrim’s clothes. If only I had been picked to be an Indian like my friend Dani. Her parents bought her the coolest brown suede outfit and little moccasins. There is a picture of me from that day outside the kindergarten classroom. I have the fakest smile on my face and there is a little girl in the background (probably a younger sister of one of my classmates) staring at me with a look on her face that plainly says, “What the hell are you wearing?”

But this did not take away the joy of the day…well maybe it did just a little. Despite being in a fat girl’s dress, I was thankful my mom was there to celebrate the day with me, unlike most of the other kids in my class whose parents worked. I was thankful we got to take home the leftovers since my mom was the class mother. I was also thankful my friend Jamie was a Pilgrim too and comforted me when she saw how mortified I was.

These days I don’t dress as either a Pilgrim or Native American. My aunt and uncle have since moved to Florida and celebrate Thanksgiving with their retirement community friends. My mom won’t dare have Thanksgiving at her house after the burnt bird incident. Instead, we all come together to give thanks at my brother’s house, where my sister-in-law and her parents rule the kitchen, my brother rules the remote and the kids are thrown in the basement to play until dinner is ready.

I don’t have to cook. I don’t have to watch the kids, since my sister-in-law’s niece is old enough to watch them now. I can just relax, look around the room and reflect on those around me…and despite the kitchen chaos and the men screaming at the television and the occasional crying, hurt child piercing my eardrums, despite all the dysfunction…I am thankful.

November 2, 2008

Soundtrack of Life

The first song I remember trying to memorize was Billy Joel’s song “The Stranger”. I sat in my sister’s room (because she had a stereo) and played the song, wrote down the lyrics in my diary, line by line, rewinding and fast-forwarding for hours. I’m not sure why I chose this song. Maybe it was around the same time a man in a white van tried to kidnap me by telling me if I gave him my Keds (white leather ones), he would give me $20. Mom told me to “Not Talk to Strangers” (a song by Rick Springfield) so I sprinted home and have been suspicious of white vans ever since. This may have been the motivation behind memorizing Billy Joel’s song.

Another time I remember attempting music memorizations was when the Blues Traveler’s song “The Hook” came out. My friend Mike and I sat in his living room all day with the determination to get every word down. What a huge accomplishment when we finally sang it by heart! We did the same thing with “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” Mike is much better at memorizing songs than I am. In fact, he and some college friends made a video of Snow’s song “Informer”, which is not exactly an easy song to commit to memory. That takes talent. He also wooed his bride on his wedding day by putting a white bandana on his head and performing Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.”

Here is a list of songs I would put on a soundtrack of my life, let’s say if I somehow got a movie deal by someone who somehow came across my blog and thought my stories would make a good movie! (I think Natalie Portman would be a good pick to play me in this hypothetical movie). It is a list of songs that help define me, my personality, my life…or just songs I really like.

I will explain why I have put some of the songs on there, but some are self-explanatory.These songs have made me feel something, have moved me in some way. If you really enjoy this soundtrack, perhaps I can make a mixed tape for you! Here is another assignment for you. After reading my life soundtrack, let me know what you would put on yours! Can’t wait to hear from you!

Here it goes:

“I’m Only Happy When it Rains”-Garbage

It’s only water. Water falling from the sky in tiny droplets bouncing off of the mighty ground with hundreds of little splashes. Leaping down from the clouds, using the ground as its trampoline. And this brings creases around my mouth towards the direction of the rain’s origin. The harder it falls, the happier I feel. I sit comfortably watching the rain water the Earth as I stay dry and warm inside. Maybe when Courtney Love sang this song she meant the water brings her alive, like she is a thirsty plant and without it, she can’t survive. Or maybe she meant she is only happy when it rains because it gives her an excuse to stay inside her house, in comfy clothes and be a recluse. Or maybe that’s just me.

“Let it Be”- The Beatles

My Gramma Tommy always used to say “Whatever will be will be. Que sera sera! Just let it be!” I value her words as I do the words John and Paul wrote many years ago. Sometimes you can’t control or change a situation and it is extremely frustrating. It took me a long time to accept the things I could not change. I learned to change my reaction to things, rather than trying to change or control them. Thanks Tom, John and Paul!

“Black Bird”-The Beatles

This one is simple. I have always wanted to be a bird. To fly high and soar across the sky, the wind in my hair, carefree and open.

“Can’t Always Get What You Want”-The Rolling Stones

Pretty self-explanatory. But the best line is “If you try some time, you just might find, you get what you need.”

“Strong Enough”-Sheryl Crow

Let’s me be honest with you and myself….I am not easy to deal with. I am stubborn, independent, moody, I’m a procrastinator, I’m anxious, paranoid and wheat intolerant. So I ask…Are you strong enough to be my man?

“You are My Sunshine”

My mom used to sing this song to me when I was little. Bill sometimes calls me sunshine. Apparently, despite my ability to be difficult, as I have mentioned above, I guess I also have the ability to brighten lives. I also chose this song because it is the song I sang to my nephew Nicholas when he cried as a baby. It usually helped. He definitely makes me happy when my skies are gray.

“A Change is Gonna Come”-Sam Cooke

With the Presidential Election 2 days away, I hope Mr. Cooke’s words from years ago are true!

“Crazy”- Gnarls Barkley

This is how I feel a lot of the time. I think this is how a lot of people feel a lot of the time. Plus, it’s a great song to boogie down to!

“Momma Said There’d Be Days Like This”-Sam Cooke

Whether I was freaking out because I was afraid to fly across the world to Indonesia, or freaking out because I couldn’t find my keys (which happens often) or freaking out because I lost my keys and tried to get into my apartment and accidentally broke my roommate’s window, my mom was always there attempting to calm me down and assure me that this too shall pass. There are lots of days like this my momma said.

“People Are Strange”-The Doors

People are definitely strange. This is especially true in NYC. Where else could you see a person dressed in a duck costume hailing a cab…in February, not on Halloween. I guess in Ithaca, where there was a he/she who wore a leotard and hot pink tights and rode around on a bike in the dead of winter. Or the lady in green in Brooklyn, who has dyed her hair green and wears only green clothes, green socks, green shoes, green pony tail holders, etc. Her bike is green too. But who am I to say who is strange? I eat green peas and ketchup. One of my best friends tweezes the hairs on her legs. We’re all strange.

“Layla”-Eric Clapton

There are no songs about my name so I pretend Mr. Clapton is actually singing about me. “Got me on my knees DAY-na! Beggin’ darling please DAY-na. Darling won’t you ease my worried mind!”

“Feel Like Making Love”- Dan Finnerty

Who doesn’t? We’re all animals and have needs! I love this head banging song. Brings out my inner air guitarist.

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow”-Judy Garland

My favorite movie as a child was “The Wizard of Oz”. I would watch the movie over and over every time I was home sick or on a cold wintry day. I dreamed of being Dorothy and my large Golden Retriever, Honey, was Toto. I dreamed Honey and I could fly far away, behind the moon, beyond the rain, to a place where I could meet millions of little people and befriend men made of straw and tin and a wussy lion. Then get a makeover, kill a witch and wear some sparkly ruby kicks. Plus, I really wished I could sing as well as Judy Garland.

“Nightswimming”-R.E.M.

In college, I worked at the Athletic Center. I was an office manager and also worked in the gym. Three or four days a week I was in charge of closing up the building. Before I would close up, after everyone had left the building, my friend and I would go swimming in the pool. I felt so free, so laid back and open…and a little naughty since we weren’t really supposed to be there. This was our own nightswimming time. Alone, floating, enveloped by the water, protected by each other. Plus, the piano part of this song makes me melt.

“Superstition”-Stevie Wonder

Another song that makes me want to get up and dance. Gotta love Stevie! I can also play it on the clarinet. We played it in marching band. Yes, I was in the marching band. SO?! But I had to quit because it conflicted with my soccer schedule. My soccer team and coach (who happened to also be my dad) were very superstitious. We had a horse shoe we had to touch before every game. We were told picking up our feet over a railroad track was lucky, so we did that too. My dad believed stepping in poop was lucky, so he brought a pile of my dog’s poop to a soccer game once. We were a really good team, but I am sure it had nothing to do with horseshoes, railroad tracks, or poop.

“Think (Freedom)”-Aretha Franklin

Aretha, oh Aretha. She just has a voice like no other. Powerful, meaningful, moving, passionate, motivational. She just wows me. This song is no exception. “Think about what you’re trying to do to me!” Yeah, Aretha, you tell ‘em. She is a strong woman who won’t put up with any bullshit. Take that!

“Move it”

I like dancing. I like to move it move it. I like how this song makes you move and then pumps it up right in the middle and makes you move it even more. It makes me shake my rump like a rump shaker (another one I would have put on my list but I didn’t want to make it a 90s club mix).

“Stand By Me” Ben E. King

My friend Jamie and I used to sing this song on our way home from school. I have known her since we were five and she has stood by me for all the good and bad our lives has dealt us. This applies to a lot of my friends and family who, during the darkest times, stood by me. Thank you for that. I hope you know who you are.

“Eye of the Tiger”-Rocky Soundtrack

This song was a huge motivator for me. Rocky was my second favorite movie growing up. I had the 45 record of this song and would play it over and over and pretend to box around my room. All this came to a tragic end when my brother accidentally came in my room and stepped on the record. I was devastated….until I got the Rocky Soundtrack cassette tape for my 5th birthday (which was at the Ground Round…how great was that place!)!

There are lots more songs I can add and those of you who know me well, please feel free to suggest some songs you think I should add to my list.

Your turn! I want to hear your life soundtrack. Can’t wait to hear from you.

October 25, 2008

Schooling Ms. G

“So…why do you want to be a teacher?” the energetic interviewer asked, holding her clipboard, pen in hand, ready to take notes.

“Well,” I said with confident disinterest, “I really don’t.”

Since I was interviewing for a highly competitive teaching opportunity, the woman’s raised eyebrows and dropped jaw didn’t surprise me.

I didn’t want to be a teacher. I never wanted to be a teacher. Since I was 7 years old I wanted to be a writer. All the women in my family are teachers–mom, aunts, sister, sister-in-law, cousins–and I believed I was destined to be different.

“So why are you here?” she questioned.

Why was I there? A month or so before the interview, my friend Adam found an article in the NY Times about the New York City Teaching Fellows; an accelerated Master’s degree program for new inexperienced teachers initiated by the NYC Board of Education Chancellor. This program planned to take non-teaching professionals from the world of business and otherwise, put them through “teacher boot camp”, and place them in NYC’s lowest performing schools. The hope was these new teachers would bring their outside “know how” into the classrooms and “make a difference.”

Maybe you have seen their ads on the subway. “Do you remember the name of your first grade teacher? Who is going to remember yours?” or “What do you call a room full of authors, inventors, and explorers? Your first period class.”

Anyway, Adam decided to apply. Since he was living in Delaware at the time, he asked me to go to an information session in NYC to see what the program was all about. Adam and I had both been journalism majors and were both in the process of looking for jobs. He was doing some freelance work from home, while I took a job with a public relations firm. This job was not all I was hoping for in my first job out of college, but I was excited to be making an actual salary, albeit a very insignificant one that still did not allow me to move out of my mother’s house. I was commuting on the Long Island Rail Road every day with the rest of the sleep deprived workers facing 1.5 hours on a packed train each way. The scene on the railroad of my 6:13 a.m. train was like an ad for people needing Prozac. I did not want to do this for the rest of my life. (Although I did feel important and very grown up in my dress suits and blazers and really uncomfortable shoes, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other).

I went to the information session for Adam and reported back to him. He applied for the program and I decided I was going to quit my job and move to California. I decided I was moving to San Francisco, even though I had never been there. I had always wanted to live in California. (My friend Jamie and I dreamed of moving there since elementary school. We said we would both go to UCLA and drive around campus in a gray convertible with a pink pinstripe.) I believed making the move would be a great new start for me. I had always lived on the east coast, so why not try the other coast? I got a job at an internet company a college friend was working at, had an apartment to stay in with my friend’s cousin and was planning to leave at the end of July 2000.

“Why don’t YOU apply for the Teaching Fellows?” Adam kept bugging me. “You would be perfect for the job. You love kids.”

“I am NOT being a teacher,” I said firmly. “I am moving to California.”

“Just apply,” he continued. “What’s the worst that can happen? You get it?? You can always say no. It’s a free Master’s!”

I rolled my eyes and gave in.

Adam and I wrote essays about why we wanted to be teachers. I wrote of my experience working with autistic children during college summers. It was true. I did like working with children. I wasn’t too bad at it either, but I had convinced myself I was going to do something different from everyone else in my family.

We sent our applications and essays in. I got called for an interview. Adam did not (which actually turned out better for him because he has been traveling around the world and has become a very successful journalist. Plus, the one time he visited me in my classroom, he was ready to leave 5 minutes later!).

“Well Dayna,” the young interviewer sighed, “you are one of the better candidate I have met today. I think you really have what it takes to be a great teacher. We will be contacting you within the next few weeks. I really hope you reconsider your decision to move to California.”

I did reconsider.

I got accepted into the NYC Teaching Fellows program as cohort 1. Thus started my illustrious career as an elementary school teacher and the roller coaster ride through the NYC Board of Education system.

After three weeks of twelve hour days, five days a week of intensive coursework, I was given a position as a second grade teacher at a school in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. My new school was in the bottom ten of the worst performing schools in NYC. It was known for its drive-by shootings and arrests in school more than its academic achievement.

Mikey was the first one I met.

“Good morning!” I said with extreme excitement, smiling ear to ear, already breaking the very first rule of teaching, “Don’t smile before Thanksgiving.”

Mikey rolled his eyes, as did his mother.

“YOU the new teacher for 204?” she asked.

“Yes!” My cheeks were starting to hurt I was smiling so much.

She looked me up and down and grunted–”Hmmmph!” She then turned to another parent not too far away, making no attempt to make her words unheard. “You see that whitey over dere?” (actually pointing at me) “She Mikey’s teacha!”

I was temporarily deflated, but was convinced I was going to be THE teacher everyone in the school wanted. I didn’t want to be a teacher, but if I was going to be one, I would be the best damn teacher I could.

The rest of the class came and we began our journey to the classroom. Mikey’s attitude did not change. When we were playing the name game, an ice breaker, he put his head on the desk, pulled his uniform sweater over his head and began snoring five minutes later. I guess it didn’t help there was a television camera in our faces.

PBS decided to do a six-part documentary following five brand new Teaching Fellows over the two years we were in the program. Along with four other new Teaching Fellows from my school, I was chosen. Our arduous journey of being thrown in one of the roughest, toughest schools in NYC, without much experience, to guide these children towards a successful future was all being documented. No pressure.

So as if I was not nervous enough to face twenty-five 7year olds who I was chosen to teach, trying to pronounce their names correctly without be laughed at, not knowing exactly what to teach them, not having any books or materials or enough desks, with only three weeks of training, having a microphone attached to me and cameras around me did not ease my anxieties.

I made it through the first two months without crying. Koi, a 7-year-old in my class, did it. He sat in the front of the room. In second grade he could hardly write his name, which was only three letters long. When I asked him what one plus one equaled, he scrunched his face and guessed, “Ummmm….64?”

I spoke to the assistant principal about getting him tested for a learning disability. I spoke to the school based support team (which was not so supportive at all). The only answers I got was from his first grade teacher.

“I requested to have him left back, but this district promotes all K-2 students despite his or her abilities, or lack there of. It’s called social promotion,” the experienced teacher said in disgust.

What I found more appalling was his mother’s refusal to recognize her child had a problem.

“Isn’t that educational neglect?” I asked, with my save-the-world attitude .

She chuckled at how naive I was. “Welcome to the Board of Ed,” she said, a phrase I became very familiar with, often heard when some kind of bureaucratic atrocity occurred.

It was a Tuesday. Koi was taking his pencil on his desk during math.

“Please stop doing that Koi,” I said. I stayed patient when he did not stop.

“Koi,” I said, “you have two choices: either stop tapping the pencil or I am going to take it away from you.”

As soon I was done talking, he stared right at me and started the tapping again. I grabbed the pencil out of his hands. He started screaming, “GIMME MY PENCOO! I WANT MY PENCOO BACK. ITs MINES!”

I said no and tried to go on with the lesson. Yeah, good try. He told me I sucked and that I was a “f***ing white b*tch” and then proceeded to reeked havoc in my room. First he ran around the room a few times smacking kids in the head. Then he pulled Taekwon’s chair out from under him and slapped Britney in the face. Next he pushed over table 6 which landed on Alicia’s head. Class 2-204 was officially out of control and all I kept thinking was “Jesus Dayna, why didn’t you just give the kid back his damn pencil!”

The seven principals of learning we were taught during our summer training session were definitely not helping me now. Taekwon’s head was bleeding. Britney and Alicia were crying and Calvin was trying to hold back Koi from hitting two other boys. Then Koi ran for the door!

Kids were running around and screaming at me: “I need to go to the nurse Ms. G!” “I need to go to the baffroom Ms. G!” “He’s gonna get away Ms. G!”

OK, I thought, focus. Taekwon is bleeding. Tend to him first. What do I do? What do I do? Latex gloves, where are the latex gloves? They said I would have latex gloves. No latex gloves. Tissue? Paper towels? I searched quickly around the room. Nothing. Oh! I thought. Call the office! They’ll help me! But my phone box was locked and I hadn’t gotten the key yet. My body tensed up as Koi was kicking me and screeching at very high decibels as I blocked the door he was trying to get out of.

Laseema, the girl genius in my class, saw my distress and came over like an experienced emergency room nurse to save me. “Ms. G! I got his arms! You grab his legs!” She grabbed Koi’s arms, struggling. I did as I was told because, although she was only seven years old, she had seen this kind of incident a lot more than I did in my twelve years of middle-class, suburbian education. I trusted her. Another helpful student opened the door. Luckily, just at that moment, my teacher’s aide (who I only had for 2 months because she later got sent to the “rubber room”, a place where educators sit idly while awaiting their fate on charges they have been brought up on) came to the rescue. She took Koi down to the office and I went inside to deal with the repercussions of the incident.

That is the day I cried. I cried because as I handed the boy that caused a commotion in my room earlier that day over to his mother, she grabbed him by the neck and said, “Wait ’til you get home BOY! You gonna get it!” I was shaking. The boy who terrorized my room, was now looking back at me with tear-filled eyes. What have I done? I thought.

This is just one frightful moment I have experienced at that school. Not all stories are like this one though. Some are really funny, like when Calvin starting humming the Bee Gee’s song “Stayin’ Alive” during a quiet activity and everyone joined in on “Uh Uh Uh Uh Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive!” part. Some are amazing, like when we went to the aquarium and there was a cigarette butt in the sting ray tank and my class cheered after we chased down the aquarium worker to take it out.

I had a lot of days like the one I described, but as each day went by, (and I know this sounds very cliche) I became a stronger person and stronger teacher because of it. That was the most stressful, terrifying year of my life. It was also the most joyful, fulfilling, interesting year.

I’m glad I decided not to move to California.

October 13, 2008

Not Quite What I was Planning

I recently picked up a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs. It is a compilation of memoirs by “famous and obscure writers” containing only six words. With the memoir genre becoming a very popular way of writing, this book challenges writers to keep it short and sweet; sum up your life in six words, no more, no less. So I decided to take a stab at it. Here are some I came up with. Then you can try!

I couldn’t help myself and use some song lyrics and lines from movies. Sometimes what you are thinking and feeling has already been said so eloquently by someone else.  Here it goes:

*Under construction. Beware. Speed bumps ahead.

*I have more books than clothes.

*How you doin’? Hangin’ in there. (That’s a Tommy original)

*There is no place like home. (Thanks Dorothy)

*Two bike accidents. Three knee surgeries.

*I’m an accident waiting to happen.

*Dancing alone in front of mirror.

*A horse of a different color. (Another Wizard of Oz reference)

*Strong enough to be my man? (Thanks Sheryl)

*Day day has a boo boo. (That one is actually from my niece Leah).

*Trying not to be my parents. (I love you mom and dad!!!)

*I should win an Academy Award.

*So easy solving other people’s problems.

*I am going back to bed.

*Can’t always get what you want. (stole that one from the Rolling Stones)

*Optimistic pessimist. Introverted extrovert. Realistic extremist.

*Hate feeling low. Love feeling high. (on life, not drugs!)

*Unconditional love always comes from mom.

*I am my own worst enemy.

*Teaching pays bills. Writing sparks passion.

*Work in progress. Please stay tuned.

If it were eight-word memoirs, I would have to add this comment from some men who really have a way with words.

*Never trust a big butt and a smile. -Bel Biv Devoe

Truer words have not been spoken.

Now it is your turn. Please send me your take on six-word memoirs. Can’t wait to hear from you!

October 8, 2008

Why I am like this

I grew up in the laundry room. I shared my small box of a room in the back of the house with a pure white Maytag washing machine and separate dryer. I didn’t mind, nor did I know any better. The rumble of the dryer was relaxing, reminding me of gymnastics and hot summer wind. It was my lullaby at night. The swirling waters of the washing machine brought me back to our above-ground swimming pool and the innocent delight of creating a whirlpool, my friends and I chasing each other ’round and ’round the pool’s outer edges.

When I went to college, I needed an alarm clock with an “ocean sounds” option to help sing me to sleep as my dryer once did.

I grew up in Levittown, NY. This historical town was the first affordable housing development built especially for World War II vets. These homes were eventually the dwellings of baby boomers looking to move from the big city to the serene suburbs; a place where the kids could play kickball in the street until the street lights went on and adults could talk about when to water their lawn.

In 1976, my parents bought the three-bedroom house on Ripple Lane (cleverly called “Nipple Lane” by my hometown friends and everybody I have met since). With two kids, ages 8 and 6 at the time, a third child born a year later wasn’t exactly in the plans. Happy they finally could afford a home of their own, I believe I was the product of my parents celebratory consummation of the house.

“You weren’t a mistake!” my mom always tries to convince me. “We planned on having you.”

“Save the best for last!” my dad says.

“I finally got a sister!” my sister explains excitedly.

“You ARE a mistake,” my brother always told me. “Mom is just trying to be nice.” or “You’re adopted, you know that, right?”

As it turns out, I am not adopted. My likeliness to both my father and my sister is undeniable. At about age 6 or 7, I finally realized this and proudly told my brother, as if I had just solved a great mystery.

“Yeah and did you know the word gullible isn’t in the dictionary?” he said laughing.

I looked.

It was there.

I could deal with “mistake” or “accident” since we all make mistakes and accidents happen. I mean, my brother, who tortured me with these statements, is the same person who “accidentally” pooped his pants in first grade. He, like a lot of people I know actually, had a fear of going #2 in public.

Sometimes accidents happen, as it was so clearly explained to me by my mother.

“A diaphragm doesn’t always work, Dayna. Sperm meets egg, they do a little dance together and BOOM! Baby #3 is on the way!”

The explanation of my accidental conception was the closet to “the talk” I ever had. Until age 18, I had no idea what diaphragm she was talking about. The only diaphragm I knew was in a person’s chest and had something to do with breathing. I didn’t understand what a breathing defect had to do with becoming pregnant.

To reinforce my feelings of unwantedness, there was the dining situation. Our kitchen table had four chairs with assigned seating. Being the youngest, I did not to get one of those seats since seat assignments were doled out before I was born. Instead, I sat on the high stool at the breakfast bar adjacent to the table where everyone else was eating. It was as though I lost a cruel round of musical chairs.

“You get your own ’special seat’, ” my mom would say. “You get to be higher than everyone else.”

With my extra large Holly Hobby doll sitting on the stool beside me, we stared at the blue and white checkered wallpaper. I would mull over this “special seating” situation while everyone else watched Wheel of Fortune. From my stool I couldn’t see the television, so I grew to despise Pat and Vanna. I cringe whenever I hear the theme song.

Plus, Jeopardy, which followed “The Wheel”, is so much more intellectually stimulating. Not to mention, dinner was over by then and I could sit a foot away from the screen and attempt to know the answers. We didn’t know it was bad for our eyes to sit so close to the television, just like we didn’t know eating raw chopped meat might give us salmonella or riding our bikes without helmets was dangerous.

Levittown was not exactly the mecca of diversity. In fact, as the story goes William Levitt was accepting applicants for his new housing development, he turned down those who did not fit the white, Catholic, churchgoing Mr. Joe blue collar worker and Susie homemaker with their 2.5 kids and pooch Sparky, mold. When a face of a darker shade walked through the streets of Levittown, there was talk.

So being Jewish was a foreign concept growing up in Levittown, even 40 years after the town was developed. *Jenny Katz, Jeff Rosenbloom, and Kara Biacci (she was 1/2 Jewish) understood what a dreidel was or that when I said “my keppe hurt” to the nurse, it meant I had a headache. I got strange looks on the playground when I told dirty-faced kids they had schmutz on their faces. I soon stopped using the Hebrew and Yiddish words my great-grandmother taught me for fear one of my friends would think I was trying to loosen phlegm. Unlike some of the neighboring towns, Levittown was not exactly a “Jewish town.”

I didn’t understand when my friend Jamie went to religion class on Saturday mornings instead of watching the Smurfs and eating Pilsbury cinnamon buns (the ones with the gooey white icing) why I didn’t go. Or why I couldn’t go to Catholic school when her parents thought about sending her. I didn’t understand why Santa didn’t come to our house; was I bad? Did I do something wrong? And if I was bad, why didn’t I even get coal? I wasn’t even good enough for coal?

It’s amazing how it took me so long to get to therapy.

On my third birthday I got a pair of Jordache jeans from my sister. Until that point in my life, vinyl plaid pants and one-piece jumpsuits were really hip, so jeans were a new and unusual treat for me. I remember getting so excited I stripped out of my white summer dress on the spot to try them on. I often ran around naked as a little girl, especially at night to escape the chicken my family convinced me was in my Bert and Ernie feetie pajamas. As I tried to pull those Jordache suckers up, my not-so-little tush got in the way. I couldn’t button them. My little three-year-old birthday heart was broken.

I grew up in the laundry room. I sat separately from the rest of my family at dinner. Santa didn’t visit my house, even though we had a Christmas tree (Hanukah bush). I truly believed a chicken lived in my favorite pajamas.

Is it any no wonder I became an overanxious, neurotic person with body image issues who doesn’t wear pajamas and hardly eats chicken?

*Names of my former Jewish and 1/2 Jewish classmates in this story were changed to protect the innocent (or maybe not so innocent).