I Help People Who Help People

Friday last week was Community Worker day at M-ito’s school. I’d scheduled an hour in the morning to attend and talk to the kids in the second grade about what I did for a living. Poppi, my father, was coming too. He’s an animal rescuer and rehabilitator, liscenced (not certified as he would be the first to remind me). He specializes in ducks and geese, uses the moniker, Duck Man. In other words he was set up to be a real hit with the kids.

I’d just come home from a trip to North Dakota where I got to run a 3-hour workshop for 100 judges, lawyers and drug treatment workers. I spoke right after the governer of the state and the supreme court justice spoke. They got ten minutes each and I got the rest of the day. Knowing that made me smile. What I hadn’t really thought about was how I was going to explain my work to a group of second graders. What is it that I really do?

I remember when my son first explained my job to someone else. He was four and said I was an officer because I worked in an office. Once he said I was a fencer, because he saw me fence once. I liked both of those answers. Now he knows I travel, teach yoga, teach other subjects like public speaking to judges and lawyers, and do other public health work with people who have diseases of some sort or another. But… he d0esn’t really understand the public health part. I’ve left it at that for the moment.

I sat down at a small desk with my knees hitting the underside. Poppi sat down and spread out his handouts at another collection of desks – his station – he’d made some copies of a how-to about how to take care of a baby bird or wounded bird if they ever came accross one. A mom who was an orthodontist had packages of lip balm, tootpaste, toothbrushes, small toys, glittering things (this was the third time she was doing this) I had… nothing. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. It hadn’t occurred to me to bring anything. And what would I bring? Condoms or syringes wouldn’t go over very well.

M-ito was in my first group of kids. He came over to me and gave me a big smile and hug. He rarely does that at school. Usually he just presents me with the top of his head for a kiss on his crown. But I got a hug, a real hug. That pretty much made my day right there, even without anything to give to the kids but words.

So here’s what I learned about myself when it comes to my work.

1. How do I describe my job: I’m a public health worker. The kids could spell it easily because it was written on my name card. It took me two groups to figure this trick out. I tried different ways to explain public health. I settled on working with people who work in hospitals, clinics, and treatment centers. I’m pretty sure hospital is what stuck in their heads. I left HIV/AIDS, drug treatment, Sexually Transmitted Infections, Methadone, Mental Health Issues, and Hepatitis C out. I wanted to come back next year. I heard my dad tell the kids he was a rehabilitator – then, when he realized they had to spell the word – told them to just call it rehab. “Your teacher will allow that,” he told them confidently. With some groups I added that I was a boss and a teacher also. That didn’t need any explanation. I left out writer. It would have been too complicated and, well, I just haven’t been feeling very writerly lately so I left it out. It made me sad for a moment but I moved on, letting it simply be.
2. When second graders interview you and they have to take notes on what you say – long sentences are out. Bullet points are in. “Just give us the bullet points,” a colleague of M-ito’s told me in the first group. From then on I adjusted all my answers to one to three words, keeping them as short as possible.
3. What are the tools of my trade? Computer, LCD projecter, my voice, and my body. I think they understood the first tool best – everyone knows what a computer is. Some associated the projector with the smart board used in their classroom so that worked too. I’m not sure what they thought of my voice and body answer. I tried to explain a few times but gave up after the fourth attempt.
4. What do I like best about my job? To teach. But I told them my favorite courses to teach were yoga, public speaking, and leadership. Three bullets – three answers. They understood yoga. I told them public speaking was teaching someone to speak like Barak Obama – which seemed to work. I told them teaching leadership skills was teaching someone how to be a boss – bingo.
5. Finally… how does my job help the community? I kept trying to figure out a way to explain it but I didn’t have a lot of time – mere seconds before I had to come up with something. So I ended up with this. I help people who help people. “That’s people twice?” One boy asked looking up from his clipboard. “Yes,” I responded. “Yes it is.”

My Dad drove me to the train station later and we sat and had coffee while I waited for the train to come in. I let two trains go by, sipping coffee and catching up with him. He walked me from the coffee shop to the train the way he had my brother so many times before when we were younger and my brother lived in Manhattan. My brother died almost twenty years ago, dually diagnosed with schitzophrenia and chemical dependancy (he used one to treat the other) murdered for little real reason. What reason could ever be sufficient? The moment echoed for me. I’m sure it did for my father too. He gave me a big hug and a kiss before the train doors closed.

Later that evening I told M-ito how great it was to have the three of us in the same classroom, three generations all together for a purpose. “What’s a generation?” M-ito asked. “It’s every twenty years or so,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t be good enough. “I just liked having all three of us together,” I added. M-ito nodded and smiled.

Concrete Thinking

Finally I got to learn a lesson from someone else. Mom-ita told me this one earlier in the week.

“Mom-ita,” M-ito said. “I can go over to Aus-ito’s house any time I want.”

“No you can’t,” Mom-ita said. “They have to invite you and they have to be there.”

“No they don’t. I can go over any time. I can, I can,” M-ito persisted. “Aus-ito’s mom told me, ‘I was welcome to come over any time I want.’”

Mom-ita raised her eyebrows.

“Really, Mom-ita.  She did. She said I was welcome any time I want.”

So there’s a lesson in concrete thinking from a seven year old.

Another Zen Koan

Same subway ride. I give M-ito another Zen Koan.

A Zen Master has a student who leaves the dormitory at night to carouse in the town. He places a tall chair beneath his room window and climbs out. One night the Zen Master goes to the young man’s room and sees the chair. He takes it away and stands beneath the window where the chair had been, his head coming up to about the same height as the chair had. When the young man comes back through the window it’s dark so he doesn’t see the Master beneath him and places his feet on the Master’s head. When he gets down the Master says, “It’s a cold night out tonight.” The young man responds, “It is,” and gets in to bed. The young man never goes to the town at night again.

I asked M-ito what he thought of the story.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. I thought for a moment and then had an idea. I retold the exact same story but with a friend of his, Aus-ito, and the boy’s father, Big Aus-ito, in the place of the master and the young man. I thought he’d understand it better if it was about someone he knew. Aus-ito is a very adventurous boy who loves to climb and explore and who I knew M-ito could see doing something like the zen student – ie: escaping his room via the window. I figured he’d understand the story better this way – that it would be more relevant.

I asked M-ito what he thought of this version of the story.

“I don’t understand,” he said again.

“What do mean? I thought you’d understand it better if I used Aus-ito in the story.”

“That’s just it,” M-ito said. “That’s not possible because Aus-ito would use some kind of crazy zip-line and never have to touch his father’s head. Then he’d make some kind of bomb and blow up the zip-line so no one would ever know he’d used it. That way he’d never get caught by his parents and no one would know that he’d ever left his room.”

I’m still laughing about that one.

One Hand Clapping

I took M-ito to work with me today. Mom-ita was working, teaching a consulting gig, and out all day. I had work that had to be done so I couldn’t take the day off. We walked to the express station – what is normally a fifteen minute walk – in half an hour. The trains were fast though, and instead of 11am I made it in by 10:15.

He sat in my office for almost three hours, reading a Pokemon Manga and playing games on my iPhone. He’s so good. He even waved, his small, shy, bent-elbow wave, to everyone I introduced him too. They smiled back at him.

We had lunch and walked about twenty blocks downtown to the comics store, Forbidden Planet. I had him avoid all the “adult” sections and the “monster” sections. He bought two ugly dolls with his allowed funds, eyeballing the USS Enterprise model and a Godzilla action figure.

On the R train home, both of us exhausted, nodding a little, I took out a book of Zen Koans I’d been reading (Zen Flesh, Zen Bones) and asked M-ito if he wanted me to read him some stories that were like puzzles.

He said, “Sure.”

I told him the story of the Zen Master who had a young student who wanted to the master to give him a koan to help him to study and learn. The master asked him if he knew the sound of two hands clapping and the student said, “Yes.” Then he asked him, “What’s the sound of one hand?” The student went back and forth over a year coming up with answers like, the wind, an owl hooting, the breath and each time the master said, “No. Come back when you have figured it out.”

Well… I only got to the first time the master asked, “What’s the sound of one hand clapping,” when M-ito interrupted me and said, “there is no sound.” My mouth hung open for a moment. Then I shut it and continued the story, ending at the same place my son had already been to, camped out at, and completed. It took the student a year. It took my son about three seconds.

Mothering Magazine Online

It took almost four years, but they finally published it! Here’s the link for Dinosaurs, my poem published at Mothering online.

Rock and Sky – Heaven and Earth

We were eating breakfast this morning, wheat squares for me, cornflakes for M-ito. He was ignoring the cut up pear (not quite ripe), eyeing the squares of corn muffin (definitely wanted a piece), and holding his cup of OJ in two hands – red cup, his favorite. 

“I meditated this morning,” I said, thinking about my ten minutes of practice that I added to my yoga practice that morning. Sometimes I have to search for things to talk about with my son. I tend to be quiet otherwise – perhaps too quiet. 

M-ito nodded.

“Do you know what meditation is?”

M-ito nodded again.

“Tell me what you think it is,” I asked, curious to what he would answer.

He stood up from his chair and sat down on the floor at my feet, cross-legged, placing his left hand into a fist on his left thigh and his right hand onto his right thigh with his palm up. “This,” he said, moving his left fist, “is the earth or rock, and this,” he raised his left hand, “is the sky.”

“Heaven and earth,” I said, smiling. “Taoism – a Chinese belief, would call them Heaven and Earth and we – us human’s walk between them both trying to balance the heavens above and the earth that we walk on.”

M-ito nodded, smiling back at me. “This is Korean. We do this in Tae-Kwon-Do for like fifteen minutes at the end of class.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s excellent. I’m really glad.” I didn’t know he’d been doing this as part of his studies with his sensei – yet another reminder that my son has a life outside of mine that I know not everything about. “It’s good to have quiet time,” I added, not ready to let it go.

“Uh-huh.”

“When our world is full of noise.”

M-ito spooned some corn flakes into his mouth then grabbed a piece of cornbread and looked at me, hesitating.

“Go ahead,” I said and he added it into his mouth, bulging his cheeks like a chipmunk.

Mixed Metaphors – Snow and S-t-o-o-p-i-d

I left early from work. There was snow – over 6 inches. I still had plenty of work to do but the snow was calling me. My son was calling me, even though he hasn’t figured out how to dial the phone yet. Besides, how many snow days were we going to get this winter? School was closed and he was home, waiting to go outside. I figured it was the last chance for a sled ride. So I left work and we fought trying to get out of the apartment because that’s what we do these days. The ten feet to the front door from the coat stand is still the longest, slowest ten feet of my life. First we put on the socks. Then we adjust the socks. Then we put on the shoes. Then we adjust the socks in the shoes and take the shoes off because they don’t “feel right.” Then we put on the shoes and look for the sweatshirt. We put on the sweatshirt one arm at a time. Then we do the zipper. Then we adjust the shoes again because those socks are slipping down. Then we put on the coat. Then we zipper the coat. Then argue over whether we need to wear the hat. It’s 20 degrees out and he has to wear the hat. Then there are tears. Then the hat goes on. Then the gloves, one at a time. Then the scarf. Then, I’m sweating because all this time I’ve been fully dressed. Can you hear my silent scream? But, we made it to the park in Woodside and we hit the slopes and trudged through the snow and laughed and laughed and his giggle was like a balm to all the tension of leaving work early and the fight over leaving the apartment. And his gap toothed smile is from a picture postcard. We went down double on the inflatable sled maybe a dozen times and drank hot chocolate Mom-ita had packed for us. It was just about perfect.

There was one blemish. A group of 13-15 year old boys were playing and cursing near the top of the sledding ramp and we had to go through them to get to our last ride of the afternoon. One of the boys hit his friend when he cursed after noticing my son within earshot. “Watch the language,” said to his friend. They let us go ahead of them. M-ito took it all in and filed it away for reference.

We got home as it was getting dark. Mom-ita was waiting for us and asked us about our afternoon.

M-ito told her about the boys and their cursing.”

“Do you know what cursing is?” Mom-ita asked him.

“No Mom-ita,” he said. I’d used the word in explaining what the boys had been saying and doing.

“Well, you know the word s-t-o-o-p-i-d?” Mom-ita asked. That’s how M-ito has spelled it since he first learned from us that it was a bad word and not to be used at all. So, he’d spell it when he wanted to tell us he’d heard someone use it and never used the word himself.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well,” Mom-ita said, “its worse than that.”

“You mean like idiot, Mom-ita?

Mom-ita laughed. “Yeah, like idiot.”

It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

Playpen Attachment

A man came by yesterday in the evening to take one of the two playpens we used with M-ito. It’s such a simple thing to give something away to another who is needy. The couple has a nine month old.

Our playpen wasn’t used much. Mom-ita used it more when M-ito was an infant. She used the changing table that sat on top of it more than anything. I don’t think I ever used it except for changing our son. but it allowed her to take a shower and go to the bathroom. At least until we found the exer-saucer and that took over that job. We gave that away over the summer.

M-ito never really liked the play pen so he didn’t spend a lot of time in it. But giving it away was difficult never-the-less. I handed it over, saying, “Give it a good home, please.” It sounded trite and stupid to my ears.

The young man said, “We will.” He smiled at me, with what seemed like some sense of understanding. That’s all I really needed.

Awesome

We just saw The Phantom Menace together. M-ito is buzzing with questions. “Dad-dito. When Darth Maul falls in half – he just falls in half – his legs go one way and the rest of his body the other. That was just awesome!”

“Well,” I say, a bit uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and noting for myself that we will not be watching Episodes II and III until M-ito is much older, “Darth Maul gets, um, well, he gets cut in … half by Obi Wan’s light saber.”

“Cut in half?” M-ito’s eyes widen and he moves back slightly. Then, after it all sinks in, he moves forward again. “That’s awwwwesome.”

I nod.

“By the way, Dad-dito.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s maul mean? Isn’t that, like, a shopping center? Why would they name the bad guy Darth Maul if it has to do with, you know, shopping?”

“Spelled this way it means… let me see. It means hurting someone really badly. Like when we saw the two bears fight on Be The Creature?”

M-ito nods.

“The older bear slashed the younger one. You could say, he mauled him pretty bad.”

M-ito nodded again and his face lit up. “Awwwwesome.”