Theft

Friday I was walking my boys. This is totally my favorite part of every day. The spiritual bond you feel with an animal you love while you're walking as part of a pack is almost tangible. Every now and then, WD will nuzzle my hand with his nose. Just sort of checking on me. At the beach this summer, he did that to JC. She's part of his pack.
It was a beautiful spring day until a huge dog started to charge us. In the next millisecond, there was snarling, and my WD was on the ground yelping. I rarely feel helpless. I did in this moment. As I yelled and tried to pull my dog out from under the other he turned on LD, who was so much smaller. And then I moved. Not because I moved me. But because the other dog's owner moved me. Put his motherfucking hands on me and moved me. A. Man. Put. His. Hands. On. Me.

I come from a long line of men who put their hands on women. My mom was the first to choose to leave. She was confident and brave enough to get her shit and go. And she married my dad. Who knew that for no reason do you ever put your hands on a female. The man who taught her that some houses don't hold secrets and violence and hate. And I learned that no man ever touched me.

Until Friday. When a cop, who isn't man enough to handle his dog, grabbed me and shoved me. If I weren't so fairly strong (and already in a warrior like stance to hold my dogs and pull) I would have gone down. Who knows what might have happened if that had happened.

Now, the dog who has issues with men who he thinks might hurt his girl, has seen a man put his hands on her. His fears have been validated. And his girl never did trust cops, because she saw one shoot her friend in the head (and for many other ugly reasons). That girl will never trust cops.* Because instead of serving and protecting, he put his hands on her. Put her in more danger. And yelled at her to get her dogs. Even though she had hers on a leash.

In the end sweet WD, has a cut ear and leg and a busted ego. And because this sorry excuse for a man is a cop, I can't tell anyone. This man has made me be that woman. I had a man touch me and I let it go. I let it go because I was afraid of the repercussions.

Not to mention that I was afraid to walk my dogs. A week ago I watched my cat twitch and writhe in her crate as we rushed her to the emergency vet, to have her die. Of old age no doubt, but it wasn't pretty. Friday I watched a bigger dog throw down mine and bite on him savagely as WD looked up at me confused. Fucked with my head a little bit it did.

But I'm no punk. Face my fears and all that. So I leashed up the boys and walked the next day. Angry and afraid. I told myself that I was being silly. This was a once in a lifetime thing. Besides. My best part of my day is walking with these boys. The jingle of their tags. The rhythm of our walk. The fresh air. The joy of not doing anything else. Taking care of something that needs me. Being with something I need.

And then it happened again today. Walking past this house (which is required to go on a walk of any length in my neighborhood) the door opened to let in a visitor and here came that dog charging at mine again. He grabbed hold of little dog's tail. But this time TB was there and got in between the two of them until the owner drug the dog off.

No lie. I was not in best form. I was for all intensive purposes, hysterical. Screaming things like, "what the fuck is wrong with you people???" and "yeah, you're sorry!!!" Totally hysterical, really. Ready to fight. Not only because her dog attacked me a second time and her husband pushed me. But, because of what these people have taken away from me. I can no longer say things like, "no man puts his hands on me" because one has. I now look like the hood rat I am to all my neighbors as twice in four days I have stood screaming profanities on the sidewalk. I am too intimidated by what trouble I might find if I piss off a cop (who clearly isn't too ethical or level headed) to do the right thing. And now. If I want my dogs to be safe, I can't walk them in our neighborhood, because these people can't even keep their dog in their own house. This family has taken the best part of my day. And ladies and gentlemen... I have worked really, fucking hard to live in a neighborhood where I can walk and feel safe. And these people took it away.

*please don't try to convince me some cops are good... i'm sure there might be a few.... but frankly, i don't want to hear it.

And oh yeah...

So. I think my blog is a bit too serious. In a way that I seldom am. I think its hard for me to sit at this computer where I do academic writing and not you know... do academic writing.

So here's a little scene out of Mama Err's classroom for ya...because really folks... what I do for a living is one of two things.
I'm either totally going off on 13 year olds or joking around with them. Very little Social Studies gets done in my room, folks.

Most of the kids in my school know me. The 8th graders were pissed when I moved down to 7th grade because they couldn't be in my room. But they all say 'hi' and some of them introduce themselves. I even got cookies and a Christmas card from a kid this year that said, "I don't have you but you always smile at me." It was maybe, my most proud professional moment. I think the children just like to hear, "hi baby" during the school day.
And I talk to kids I don't know all the time. For instance, the other day I was walking down the hall and heard the 8th graders who run track talking about if they had to wear pants or if they could wear shorts.
Because jr high students are dumb and like to wear minimal clothing when its still winter weather. What the hell is it that make you think you're cool when you are dressed like a jackass in the cold. Coat=Lame. Goosebumps and pnemunia=big pimpin. I dunno.
But anyway, because I am lucky in love and life, I walked by *just* in time to hear, "man do we gotta wear pants?" And because I am also totally immature I said, "boys. I don't care where ya going... in this school ya gotta wear pants."
They didn't get it. I, however, giggled all the way out to my car.

I do this thing with my students I call, "getting Michelled." K's mom, used to smack us in the forehead (K's mom is the only person EVAH to hit me besides my folks....she passed almost 4 years ago). K and I smack my god daughter on the forehead. Like a "I should have had a V8" only someone else does it to you. I barely touch them, but they recognize this gesture as my busting on them when the do something stupid. I think they'd be devastated if I didn't do it to them. When you do something particularly stupid, I stop class, make you get up and get michelled in front of everyone. I told you folks. Very little Social Studies in my room....

I think it speaks volumes about my class that I motioned for one of my dears to come over to me during a lecture and his response was, "Mama, are ya gonna hit me?"

My students have spring fever. They operate on YP Time (young people time) and quite frankly... something is wrong with them. I know because I asked one of my children this week, "Baby. What is WRONG with you??" and he said very honestly and sincerely, "I don't know."

So I had to have THE TALK with them. You remember the talk. The one where your teacher says something like, "the school year is not over folks." Except mine goes more like, "I got ten weeks to get you knuckle head in shape. If you can't act like you got some sense by the time you leave me, you may never learn how. And I SURE ain't gonna let you get away from me without doin' my best to get you in line. Cuz you ain't never gonna have a teacher who love you like I do. So if you think I been mean this year, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

And don't you know some chuckle head did something dumb like 15 seconds later. So I had him get up (which might have been when he asked if I was going to hit him...). The following conversation ensued:

Err: "Son. Look behind you."
Boy: "What?"
Err: "Look behind you chuckle head."
Boy: "What am I looking for?"
Err: "Don't you see that?"
Boy: "What is it?"
Err: "That, son, is my foot. And its going to stay there directly up your behind until you learn to act right."

I really love my job. But I can't wait for spring break.

Apparently, I did have something to say.... Thanks JC

I’m sitting here at 6:30 in the morning eating a granola bar drinking out of my Top Finisher mug (yes, I save it for Saturdays and I might wash it for Sunday…). I’ve been thinking about JC’s last post. Not because I’m wringing my hands for her or anything. JC is badass and that’s why I love her. No check that. I love her for a handful of reasons. I respect her because she’s badass.
But whatever. It’s early and I am rambling. I’m thinking about her post because words are what I do. I think about the way we label our world and the social work that does. Naming is an act of agency (of taking an active role in controlling something). This is why (for those of you who don’t understand the use the N word among the Black Community or Queer among the uh, Queer Community) groups reconstitute horrible and oppressive names to use among themselves. You take that name, change it and own it.
Even my use of capital C in the above is social work. I am (whether or not my grammar is right) making these communities entities of their own. They are distinct and importantly marked by the use of capitals. This is markedly different that a lower case c community which indicates a general community that happens to be Black or Queer. Its awesome social work those words are doing if you think about it.
You can think I’m full of shit if you want. You can say you still don’t understand the use of these words. People in these communities still chose not to use them. That’s on you. Full of shit or not; I’ve got ten years of college and a co authored book that said I’ve got at least a little street cred. Or um…sidewalk cred? Hallway cred? What kind of cred to academics get? I dunno.
One of the things I’ve spend a lot of time doing is looking at the social dynamics between people when they talk. Not only how they position themselves by using words but how they position others. What kind of social work is going on when a college professor says that she can’t tell her students how to reflect on the weekly readings? She needs a discussion of the readings, but their reflections are their reflections and valuable as such. She’s giving up a lot of her power, huh? She’s not dictating their thinking. Wow. That is democratic (not in the government way, but rather the Dewey schools way) and the power differential has been decreased. Wow. Awesome professor. But really, she’s still dictating the format (less democratic) and in Freire would say that because the professor has given the opportunity to reflect in a way meaningful to them she maintains her power as an oppressor. The professor in question gave them the right to reflect freely. When you give power, you maintain it. Kind of like when your parents let you stay up to watch a movie. You gain a right, but your parents still have the power over you.

It’s possible, that all the words that have hurt me personally have never been spoken. What has hurt me more than anything has been the failure to communicate.

Mean words, I can deal with. I can even fight back with mean words. Is this propensity to fight back dysfunctional? Yeah, maybe. But it’s my dysfunction and I’ve named it and you all know what social work that does. The moral of the story here is that you don’t want to fight with your words with me. Really you don’t. Maybe it’s a gift. Maybe it’s a curse. But I’ve learned that street smarts and book smarts are a lethal combination. And this combination means that you can bring your mean words.

My in-laws are passive aggressive. They don’t use mean words. I don’t know how to deal with that. I am totally lost. Instead, they don’t bother to call their son to ask how his shingles feel when you tell them he’s still working and not sleeping. They don’t ask what kind of new puppy we got when we tell them we added to our family. They don’t call or send a card when they’re told their daughter in law just became Dr. Daughter in Law.

How do you respond to that kind of deafening silence? It doesn’t even provide you with a chance to use your words to stand strong. It’s maddening.

It’s no secret that outside of my parents my family situation is complex to say the least. WM and I have been disowned several times and it looks as though this last time will stick (think fellow discourse analysts about the way I’ve named brother Chuck, Al and Dre sisters JC and Staci and my girl K who defies traditional naming-what social work am I doing?). However, WM in her efforts to keep a clean conscience with elderly parents called this fall to make sure that they were alive. She never wants to feel as though any of this bullshit can be on her. For years, I’ve told her that however she needs to deal with her parents is on her. I support her fully. After all. I don’t know what its like to have your parents not want you. No lie. I’m glad she’s not trying to go down to that house that backs up to Parsons Ave for Christmas. Because the family is dangerous and I insist on going. And man. I fucking hate that house.

Their conversation lasted no more than 2 minutes. A basic, “I’m ok, are you two ok.” My mom confessed this conversation to me recently. I knew how it would go. Polite and awkward. I knew there would be no question of how their granddaughter was. I knew that there wouldn’t any kind words or even any inquiries. I am not even worth naming. Logically, I know this isn’t about me. I have 2 parents who are nothing short of amazing. Who gave everything they have to let me shine. They ran from the crime and violence and fuckedupedness (yeah it’s a word…I can make them up it’s a bonus of being Dr. Err) of my family and gave me every not only every opportunity but never let me forget who I was. My mom has had to deal with the fact that her parents ain’t right. They don’t love her in any kind of way parents are supposed to love children. Even mama birds fight and protect their babies. Her parents aren’t wired as tight as house wrens. And she’s had to live 57 years with that reality. I got no problems.

Except that lack of words burned like hell. And it pissed me off that it burned. I called this woman a whore. And my mom let it go. She let it go when I began calling them by their first names in my late teens. She understands this process of naming. And then I realized that although I know a whole lotta words….for these people who won’t take the effort to use words for me….I can’t think of words bad enough to name them.

notes

guided notes if you're in my class...and if you ARE in my class...GET OFFA HERE OR ELSE!!!!!!!

LD graduated from dog school last week. He did awesome.
He also, last week, seems to have sprained his leg. I need to keep him in active. Outside time at my house just got way complicated.
He's also a tubby bunny at a whopping 55 pounds!

I'm not racist against blondes, or white girls, or girls. If you know me, you get my comment in my last post. If not....fuhgetabboutit.

I am tired.

I can't wait for the beach.

I need a day off.

I am still coughing.

That's all I got.

I'll test myself on this later.