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.

Birthday Boogers

I woke up this morning with my son beneath the covers next to me. His eyes were open as if he’d been waiting for me to wake up. I had  a yoga class to teach so I closed my eyes, hoping in my fantaasy world that he would go back to sleep. He leaned over, smiling, and said, “Happy birthday,” then closed his eyes and pretended to go back to sleep.

I rolled out of bed, my body achy from a cold I’ve been fighting off – that and too many late nights/early mornings this week tteaching and travelling. M-ito came out a few minutes later. “Dad-dito,” he said. “I want you to know I didn’t put any boogers on you last night. It’s your birthday so I put them on me instead.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s a very thoughtful gift.”

“Today,” he continued, “we’re going to do all things you like to do. So if you don’t want to watch Pokemon tonight (a bit of an evening ritual we’ve been following these days) you don’t have to. We’ll watch what you want to watch.”

“Okay,” I said.

“But… if you want to watch Pokemon, the movie we still haven’t seen, you know, that’s all right with me too.”

“Good.”

Then he hugged me as we looked at each other in the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t so long ago he couldn’t see himself without standing on the step-stool. Now he almost fits under my arm – almost. He’s a beautiful combination of Mom-ita and me.

Then we went out to the living, me to my yoga practice and preparation for the class I had to teach in an hour, and him to watch some TV, Phineas and Ferb to be exact. Usually I don’t let him watch TV while I do my practice. But it’s my birthday, so I figured if he could put the boogers on his own arm instead of mine, I could let him watch a show while I did my practice.

Green Frogs

“Every father should have a favorite animal and a favorite color.” So says my colleague and friend, Big H. said at work. His kids are 20 and 16. The older is a girl and the younger is a boy. I was in his office when he said this to me. He has two shelves filled with green frogs of all sizes and shapes. Some are made of wood. Some are puppets. Some are musical instruments. Some are stuffed animals.

“This way, ” he continues, “your kids always know what to get you. ‘It’s time to look for a new green frog,’ is what I hear them say to my wife every father’s day, and birthday, and holiday.  I used to have a lot more, but I lost them all at the Trade Center.”

I nodded. We both remember that day. He came up out of the subway and went right back home. I got out from the 16th floor with the rest of the staff at work that day. I remember looking for Big H. when two of us cleared the floor, knocking on doors and telling researchers to leave. I had wanted to make sure he left the building with everyone else.

“That’s a great idea,” I said.

For father’s day M-ito gave me a great card with a stick figure of him saying “Hi” on the front and one saying “Bye” on the back. In the center it said, “I hope you have a great day, love M-ito.” I also got a Pokémon pencil which I’d bought him earlier that day at Rite Aide and a small toy orange ninja he’d gotten from a bubblegum machine at the supermarket.

My son said, “I didn’t want that one so I thought you would like it.”

I loved it all.

By the way, my favorite animal is an elephant (satvic, grounded, ganesha-like, wise) and my favorite color is green (heart chakra). I wonder how those two things can go together.

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.

A Two-faced God

Dinner was almost over and we were sitting at our dinner table, still piled high on the far side with childhood debris (tiny plastic creatures from birthday parties and gumball machines, M-ito’s old homework assignments) and adult debris (catalogs and bills). I’d made us dinner and Mom-ita was in the bedroom resting, not feeling well.

“What does God look like?” M-ito asked me. We’ve been down this road before so I wasn’t completely surprised he’d asked me but still, it seemed out of the blue. 

“I don’t know,” I said.

“If God was a color he’d be yellow.”

“I like yellow.”

“So do I.”

“Does God have a shape?” I asked.

“He doesn’t.”

“What if God was a woman?” I asked.

“What if God had two faces? ” M-ito countered.

“You mean like a Hindu God with a man’s face on one side and woman’s on another?” I said.

M-ito nodded.

“There’d be half a man’s body on one side and half a woman’s body on the other.”

“And,” M-ito jumped in. “On one side he’d have a penis and the other she’d have a vagina and when she had to pee it would go on forever!”

“I guess it would,” I said. 

Mom-ita walked in sometime in the middle of this and sat down next to us.

“What are you two talking about?” she asked.

“God,” I said. “And he’s got two faces, on one head.”

M-ito nodded, smiling.

Satya – Truthfullness

“Dad-dito, can we play Pokemon now?”

“No, honey. It’s time to go to bed.” 

M-ito’s face fell and he started to cry. Dishes from dinner were still sitting on the table behind us. Our bellies were full and it was almost 7:30pm, bed-time. “I’m sorry but it’s time to go to bed.” I put my hand on his shoulder.

“You lied to me. You always lie to me,” M-ito said, shrugging my hand away and dropping himself onto the sofa.

“What do you mean? I didn’t lie to you.”

“You did to. You always tell me we can play a game together and then there’s never time to play. You always do that. You always lie to me.”

The words always, never, and lie flared up in my brain in neon.  Before I replied I took a breath and thought about what my son had told me. I knew he was upset because we had only had time for homework and dinner, no playing, and my son lives for play – as any child his age should. So his outburst wasn’t unexpected. Still, I paused because I’d been teaching in my yoga classes the concept of Satya, or truthfullness, and my son saying I had lied, was just too coincidental. I thought about what I’d told him before dinner when he’d finished his homework and I’d said to get ready for dinner. “We can play after dinner,” I’d said. Well, it was after dinner and we weren’t playing. As usual dinner and dessert had taken too long – or longer than I’d thought it would , and there was no time left. But I had said we’d play.

Had I done this before? Yes, actually I had. I did it alot. I told my son, “Yes, there’ll be time later,” when I was pretty sure, if I was being honest with myself, that I knew there wouldn’t be. I wanted there to be time. I wanted us to play. I felt guilty about all the time I spent working and teaching and not being able to pay attention to him, so I said, yes, we’d have time. I ignored the little voice in my head that said, no way. I didn’t want to see his face fall. Instead I saw it fall after dinner anyway, when I had to say what I should have said in the first place.

So I looked at M-ito and apoligized. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that. I wanted us to have time so I said we would. I shouldn’t do that. It’s not telling you the truth. If I’m not sure we’ll have time to play, from now on I’ll tell you that. I’ll tell you the truth. But it means I’ll be telling you there won’t be time to play even when you want there to be time to play. You understand?”

M-ito nodded. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

“You ready for bed?”

He nodded again, the argument washed out of him. I gave him a hug and he didn’t resist.

I took a deep breath and exhaled, letting it wash out of me too.

Yoga (M-ito) Sutra

I was up at 5:50 am, late for me. The darkness was fuller with daylight savings pushing the sun farther away from the early morning hours. M-ito awoke at 6:30 when I went in to wake Mom-ita. We had a date day planned and had some preparation for our morning/afternoon together. M-ito’s eyes were open and he rolled out of bed. I walked him to the bathroom and, after he’d peed, into the dark living room. 

“I’m half way through my yoga,” I said quietly. “You want to lie on the couch and wait?”

“No,” he said. “Can I do yoga with you?”

It has been a while since we’ve done any yoga together. I’ve been out of his school because of my work load since November and feeling guilty about not teaching yoga to his class and the kindergardeners. This all flashed through my mind as he looked up at me. 

I smiled. “Sure.” I said. I put a blanket down for him, next to mine. 

“This is the perfect size for me,” he said.

“It is,” I echoed.

We did pidgeon or eka pada rajakapotasana.

“I can do this, Dad-dito,” he said.

We did navasana or boat pose.

“That’s hard to do, Dad-dito,” he said shaking while he balanced on his sits bones. Then we did tabletop together and he laughed. “I can balance on my knees,” he said, coming down to earth and rolling onto his knees. “Watch this!”

“That’s hard to do, M-ito,” I said and didn’t even try to put that kind of pressure on my old workhorses.

“Is this a yoga pose?” he asked.

“It is now,” I said.

“I made up a new yoga pose!” he said.

“Indeed you did.”

We followed with janu-sirsasana, setu-banda sarvangasana, a full wheel, and savasana. Then we rolled onto our sides together and sat up. 

“I’m doing my Om Namos,” I said. 

“Can I do them with you?”

“Sure.”

“Can we set up the blankets facing each other?” he asked. I said yes and set up our blankets next to each other so we could find cross-legged pose with our knees almost touching. I showed him half-lotus and he found it easily. “Can I use your beads?” he asked.

I hesitated a moment. My mala has my energy in it. Then I thought of the beauty of his fingers working through each of the worn beads and nodded. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll use yours.” His is a wrist mala. “Just remember I have to go around three times and you only go around once.”

M-ito nodded. “I want to do your new one – what is it again?”

“Om tare, tutare, ture, sarva shanteem kuru swaha.”

“Um… maybe I’ll just do my old one.”

“Okay,” I said. “Ho sum, sum ho, it is.”

M-ito finished five beads before I did.

“Namaste,” we said together and bowed to each other.

Then it was time to get ready for school.

Om nama shivaya.

Human Being

We’re walking to our favorite Columbian restaurant on a Sunday morning, a big breakfast ahead of us, M-ito walking between us. I don’t remember what we’re talking about, it’s already been a week but I remember the punch line. I ask M-ito, “What’s a human being?”

“That’s easy,” he says. “It means you’re human and you’re bee-ing. Right?”

Mom-ita shakes her head waiting for me to give my lesson. I can’t help myself. “That’s right,” I say. “You have to bee, not do. We’re not human doings we’re human beings. We have to just be sometimes and not always do.” 

Mom-ita can’t help herself and starts to laugh. She knows just being is one of things I have difficulty with in my life. I’m working on it, though.

“What?” I say. “I think what he said is important – it’s wonderful.”

“Uh huh,” M-ito says and grabs my hand, yanking my arm forward to try and pull me off balance. “Yeeeaahhh!” he says, waiting for me to pull him back like a rubber band stretched to its limit.

Yeeeaahhh!

The Pink Leotard

Maybe if it was blue the leotard would have been in my laundry.

Ballet started last week and M-ito is in a class with three older girls (7, 8, and 9 years old). He’s the only boy. He’s really enjoying himself and his teacher says he’s doing wonderfully. I made sure I could come home early from work last week and this week so that I could be there to take him to his first classes. He’s growing out of his leotard and black leggings. My son is growing. Everybody comments on how tall he has grown. 

On Monday I had to get his ballet clothes from the laundromat – we’ve been having it picked up and delivered lately – a real luxury since it’s expensive, but I haven’t had the energy lately to do it all myself. I couldn’t have the clothes delivered in time to give M-ito his ballet clothes so I had to stop at the laundromat and get those two pieces, his leotard and his black leggings and bring them to him before his class. We need to get new ones – a second pair but we haven’t gotten around to it yet. At the laundromat I couldn’t find his leotard. It’s pink. The owner asked me, after I’d looked through the pile of beautifully folded clothes and not been able to find it, to describe it. I did and a light went off above her head. 

“I’m sorry,” she said in her broken English. “My worker thought this was another families , in your bag by mistake, and we put it in their laundry. They have a little girl.”

“No,” I said, still smiling. “It’s my son’s. He dances ballet. It’s a little small, since he’s grown so much over the summer, but it’s his.”

She nodded and handed me his leotard. “I’m sorry.”

Later, waiting for his class to begin, M-ito and I sit on the couch outside the music room. He leans against my side. I wrap my arm around him. We’re in the middle of watching Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back. I have to tell him about Luke loosing his arm in his fight with Darth Vader, so he’s not too scared to watch it. I’m wondering how I’m going to explain this to him. 

His teacher opens the door and smiles at M-ito and Liqua, an eight year old girl he’s dancing with. His teacher has ten little girls behind her ready to go to their parents, all ages 4-6. M-ito’s grown out of that group.

“Liqua and M-ito,” the teacher says. “You can go in and start stretching while I take the rest of the kids downstairs to their after-school classroom.”

M-ito gives her a big smile, looks at Liqua and runs into the room with her, dropping down into their first stretch – what I would call upavista konasana if it was a yoga class. His teacher returns with her two other students and the door closes behind her. I can hear her voice through the door. Class, once again, has begun.

September 11

I was in Tower 2 and still I didn’t remember what day it was today.

I didn’t remember until I got off the subway on 23rd street and saw a friend who started talking about the 9/11 – today, this day. I asked her if she’d been down there on the 11th and she said she’d been down on Fulton. I told her I’d been in Tower 2. Her eyes opened wide and she said, “Wow.”

I started off the day well, with my yoga and meditation, then Mom-ita and M-ito came into the living room – both early, about ten minutes before I was finished. That was all the peace we’d have this morning. Mom-ita walked M-ito into the bathroom to pee – he’s been having moments of being afraid lately, perhaps coinciding with going back to school – entering first grade? Perhaps just afraid of the biting beetles of childhood.

The fighting started with the shower. M-ito resisted and I gave up waiting after ten minutes of standing in the shower and asking him to get in the tub.  There were tears and  harsh words, but I kept my cool, didn’t raise my voice at all. M-it’s voice rang loud and clear. I let it come and go in a wave. M-ito said I’d made fun of him and yelled at him. I had not yelled, but I’d joked about keeping all the hot water to myself to try and nudge him into getting into the tub. It didn’t work and I reminded myself never to try that again. My son doesn’t need excuses to stay out of the shower.

Then he wouldn’t put the nail clipper down when he was supposed to be eating at the breakfast table. By the third time I’d asked him and he’d nodded but not put it down, I’d had it. Then he put the nail clipper down and shot it past me with a flick of his finger. That put me over the edge. I slammed my hand onto the table and said, “That’s enough!” And so we had a second set of tears to cover the morning.

The third set occurred only minutes later. M-ito and I had been eating breakfast silently, him with his back to me, me with my heart breaking. Mom-ita came in to help him put on his socks. She smiled at him and he pushed the socks away onto the floor. We both yelled and tears flowed.

When we got to school, I had to stay in the car while Mom-ita walked M-ito in – we’d parked by a hydrant. I told M-ito I loved him and he barely turned to look at me. I can still feel the hollowness inside my chest from his expression. I know he’ll be over it by this afternoon, the whole morning having passed over like a rain shower, leaving the grass fresh and filled with dew and the sun shining. Then his smile will turn my world bright. But now I hold on to it, too adult and filled with wonderings over what I should have done different to let it all go.

I walked to the subway and down underground. Up at 23rd street, my friend saw me and asked me about 9/11. “Nope,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about it at all.”

“I was on Fulton Street,” she said.

“I was in Tower 2,” I said and watched her face change in reply.

“Wow,” she said.

Nope, I wasn’t thinking of 9/11 at all.