I finally brought myself around to watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time.
Alyssa Rosenberg (via buffythebamfireslayer)
…about the teacher. Pretty sure my kids are SO tired of me talking about “the patriarchy” at least once every hour.
This weekend in a gas station, I bought a phone charger from a teenage kid who for nine bucks in cash at three in the morning. He pulled it out from his leather jacket, sketchy street-dealer style.
I’m probably never going to get around to reevaluating my life choices.
I need to break apart into millions of pieces, but it turns out the coffee I’ve inhaled this week has sturdy adhesive qualities.
Spent the last two hours watching JLaw interviews on YouTube…for the second night in a row. Come onnn winter break.
One of the first steps towards autonomy that I give my high school students is going to the bathroom without having to ask for permission. Such a ridiculous notion when you think about it, but hey, systems of power, albeit seemingly arbitrary ones, are still systems…plus it just gets SO OLD hearing, “Miss, can I go the bathroom?” at least forty times a day.
Wait. Some teachers still do this in college. I got up to barf and my teacher gave me a ton of shit when I got back and I asked if he’d rather I throw up in his face waiting for his permission
My brother woke me at five in the morning the day after Thanksgiving to say goodbye to me before his return to Austin. I was disoriented in the dark silence of the morning, but I held him tightly as I sat up in my bed, murmuring gibberish words to him that he didn’t return. Instead, he gently let go of me and as he did, he let his hand linger in holding mine for a brief moment. Then he let go, and his silhouette left through the door. He didn’t have to say any words; he never needs to in order to get his point across. Maybe one day I won’t need words either; maybe I always will. At least I can always count on November for figuring that out.
For now, I’ll say goodbye to this gentle month of equal parts reflection and exhaustion with a swift release of its hand that I’ve been holding.
I don’t need many words for today.
In the afternoon, I wondered when my mom’s hand became so small in mine. In the evening, I pressed my nose to the cold car window to see a sliver of fading radiance line the distant row of hills that shaped the horizon. During both times, I memorized the feeling of my insides swaying with the familiar, curving road toward and from Vanderpool and Medina. That familiar drive — and days like today — never fail to leave me in a childlike state of awe and an elderly sense of reflection.
Thanksgiving is the only holiday that I don’t associate with memories of domestic violence, police visits, or relapses.
It’s my favorite holiday, I told my dad this morning.
Really, Mija? I didn’t know that. When he asked me to explain, instead I told him about how it’s the only holiday yet to be overly commercialized; it’s about family, food, and gratitude. I left out the rest/real part of my reasoning.
I’m thankful for another peaceful, untarnished, and joyful Thanksgiving spent with my small, ever-recovering, and ever-resilient family.
I’M FINALLY HOME.
Gentle countdowns this sunny morning.
I hate packing.
I love my job.
I’m excited for the new developments to come to my teaching experience in the next month and for the constant opportunities to evolve as a teacher.
I was supposed to write a lot today; there’s a lot of things I need to work out through words. Instead, I cried a lot in my car driving home on 83 and had a shot of whiskey at three on a frigid Sunday afternoon and slept for a really long time afterward.
November isn’t as sweet as it should be, and it hasn’t been for awhile. I’m looking forward to the year it will be again, but for now, I only have to survive through six more days of it. At least there will be family filling half of those days.