small wonders

If it wasn’t for the kids, I don’t know what I’d do.

I remember when I lived with the 69-year-old retired recording engineer Charlie
in his house in suburban wasteland Fremont
where he rented rooms to single guys
and slept with the 19-year-old one.
“It’s all bullshit!” he used to intone in baronial disgust,
and he would tell another story of how he got the better of someone
who was trying to rip him off.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” he trumpeted. “I worked with Santana, with Miles.”
He had psychedelic rock show posters on the hallway walls
and invited me to call him Papa
and the 19-year-old said, when telling me about the old man’s bed,
that he had answering machines hidden underneath,
rigged to record all the phone conversations in the house.
Yeah I know who you are, I thought.
You are the paranoid king of the bullshit artists
You are the man who outshat the bull.

18 years later I understand Charlie better.
He needed a hug beyond hugs.
My voicemail today said:
Hi… this is Tony from Accelerated Cable, uh, I was hoping I would catch you at home, um…
(Clearing throat)…excuse me,
Well we are going to be in your neighborhood in the next few weeks…

How did Tony feel while making this fake neighborly message recording?
How do I feel when I tell my students that they should be quiet and not touch each other?
And when my bed is empty, while my heart reaches out in futility
to the same image of the same damn skinny 20-something-year-old
on every Cosmo cover, People, Self, Lexus ad, porn site
and early morning eyelid TV.
But thank god the caca still hasn’t buried me, and I haven’t buried the young ones!

K., who having just learned a new game, sat up tall and announced to no one and everyone, “I feel confident!!”

W. the Spontaneous who has made a practice of making her 6th-grade buddies giggle by yelling across the patio, “Hi Michael!” and running up and giving me a hug.

S. the Cambodian immigrant force of nature who shoves me and says, “Michael, you Scooby-doo!,” laughs maniacally, then comes in at lunch to be recorded singing “The Ash Grove” like an angel.

A., who barely hears a word I say in class, but refuses to give up on laughing and finding ways to make his friends laugh.

The three girls who came to me with a deep and horrible conflict, who converted to buddies again after ten minutes of listening and the suggestion that they do something fun together.

The sound of 35 third-graders singing “Las Mañanitas” perfectly and sincerely, a week after having heard it for the first time.

S., who burns for justice and is outraged by any hint of unfairness. “They sang it twice and we only sang it once!”

The circle of 5th-graders, who knew better than to remain calm during completely unstructured time, and instead invented a pillowfight game with a stuffed elephant.

A., with her bright willingness and her passion to dance.

Z. with his tooth.