Reggae Night

I walked home from VCU yesterday night. Walking up Main Street, I looked into the windows of the different bars and stores, dividing my attention between the store windows, reflections over what I had heard in class that afternoon, and keeping a general lookout for potential muggers.
As I walked past the Martini Kitchen and Bubble Bar just before Meadow, a black man with dreadlocks was standing outside smoking a cigarette. I smiled and nodded at him, so that he could see I was one of the cool white people, and he smiled back. As I went around the corner he called out to me.
"Monday night is reggae night."
Awkwardly, I turned back a moment to respond, but without knowing what to say.
"No cover," he said cheerfully, just as I was about to say no. I tried quickly to come up with something else to say to him, and just before I could get it out he spoke again:
"No dress code either."
I looked at my jeans and brown hooded sweatshirt, unsure of what a dress code would have to do with someone dressed as dapperly as myself.
"Yeah, I'm on my way to pick up some Chinese food," I told him sheepishly, "maybe next time."

Self-Portrait

I like to draw at work. The other day in homework time none of my kids needed help, so I drew a picture of them doing their homework. I knew this was a mistake as I did it, but I didn't care. I was bored, and homework time was almost over anyway. Many of them were sitting around drawing themselves. Sure enough, as I drew each person a number of them crowded around to see what I was doing.
"Who is that?"
"Is that me?"
"No, that's Stacy. See, she's got glasses."
"Oh, I bet that one's Frank."
"Who's that supposed to be?" one particularly loud kid said into my ear.
The figure I was drawing as taller than the others, and had a beard.
"Duh, Terrell, he's drawing himself now!"
"Is that you?" asked Terrell. I nodded.
"Dude, you got way more eyebrows than that," said Terrell.
He was right, so I thickened up the eyebrows, and he smiled his approval.

With an S

"Please fold your index card in half, and then write your name on both sides, like this," says the professor.
We follow his directions, as he goes on, "In a class like this it's very important to know everyone's name. So, the name cards will help with that, but let's go around the room and just quickly introduce ourselves."
"My name is Michael, and I work with special needs children."
"My name is Rachel and I want to teach high school math."
"My name is Megs and I am elementary ed."
"Thank you, Meg" says the professor.
Her hand goes up.
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry, did I say it wrong?"
"Yeah, I go by 'Megs."
"Meg?"
"Megs. With an S. That's what all my friends call me, and I just prefer it."
I can't tell if the professor is confused or irritated.
"Okay, thank you Meg, let's hear from Jonathon!"

Service

I frequently identify with cashiers. I think about what it was like when I worked at Barnes & Noble several years ago. I remember the boredom that would set in after hours behind the counter, and how I would quietly judge the people who came through my line. I would look at their clothes, their hair, the way they carried themselves, what they were buying, but most importantly, I judged their manners. Did they treat me like a servant or a person? If I helped them did they take it for granted or were they appropriately grateful? That stuff mattered to me, and I always try to be the sort of customer I would have liked.

Here's something I wrote about cashiering back in 2005, shortly before I left Barns-ez Nobobo:

Two observations after 8 hours of cashiering:

1. Exact Change
slows me down, and is unneeded as I am capable of basic mathematics. If you insist on giving a cashier exact change please don't pretend like you are doing your cashier a favor. Be honest with the cashier and with yourself: you're not doing it to save anyone time, you're doing it to get the pennies out of your wallet. While you fish around for loose pennies the people behind you are waiting impatiently. As am I. You selfish asshole.

2. Do you want a bag?
is a question I ask any customer with only one item, and I have noticed something about the responses I get:
Most business men and college students don't like bags, and most old women and black people do.
Broad theories as to why this is:
Business men don't want to be bothered with an extra piece of trash.
College students are enviromentally aware.
Old women like to save bags and use them around the house.
Black people are used to living in a racist society and would prefer not to be accused of stealing.

Slogans

Another semester has started, and with it come fresh feelings of contempt for my peers.

In one class a boring professor started off by assigning group work in which students wrote down answers to broad questions like "What is effective teaching?" and then wrote answers on the board to discuss with the class. In response to this one girl wrote the words, "REACH TO TEACH."
When asked what this meant she replied, "It's a saying I made up. It just means, you know, you can't teach'em if you can't reach'em!"
"Do you reach them?" asked boring professor.
"Yeah, I think so." said the girl.
"How far do you reach?" asked the professor.
"As far as I need to," said the girl.
They exchanged meaningful glances.

In my experience, one thing that most education classes have in common is a fondness for bad slogans. Every concept needs its own memorable catch phrase, preferably one that is short, and involves either rhyming or alliteration. Last semester I participated in a group presentation on Linda Albert's "Cooperative Discipline," a theory of classroom management that involved "The 3 C's," "The 5 A's," "The 6 R's," and God knows how many others. I could barely discuss it straight-faced.

So while my first reaction to "Reach to Teach!" was one of disdain, I feel as though I know where it comes from. This girl has no doubt been to as many education classes as I have, she's internalized all this slogan making, and, having concluded that this is what the education game is about, she has decided to play along. In the moment where she and the professor exchanged meaningful looks, I thought I knew what the professor was thinking. I thought she was thinking, "Dear God, this girl is going to work with children." However, less than thirty minutes later when this same professor showed us a video that included the phrase, "Engage them, don't enrage them!" I changed my mind.
Now I think that in that pregnant pause the professor was likely thinking, "Reach to teach.... Can I steal that?"

Puritan indeed.

This is exactly what I should have said to the woman behind the counter at Puritan Cleaners on Robinson when I was there Monday. What I actually said was something the long the lines of "That's too bad, thanks for your time." Manners may be classy, but they're rarely fun.

Ma'am, please do not look at me like that. I am not insane. What I have asked you to do is very reasonable, considering that you operate a dry cleaners. Where else would you suggest I go with a pair of vomit-encrusted tuxedo pants? It's not as if I am capable of cleaning them myself. This is lucky for you, because it keeps you in business.
Perhaps you think I should just discard the pants-- write them off as a loss. Well, I am sure that even though you most likely do not own a tuxedo yourself, you recognize that they are not cheap. Perhaps with the lavish income you make here at Puritan Cleaners you feel okay casually throwing away expensive garments that get a little vomit on them, but I am not in that sort of financial position.

Perhaps your expression is one of moral judgement-- you understand my need to save the pants, but are appalled by the picture that vomit on tuxedo pants paints in your mind. You imagine some sort of depraved bacchanal, with booze pouring freely early in the evening, vomit flowing freely at its end. Well. I would hope that you might remember that this past Thursday night was New Year's Eve. Many people host fancy parties on New Year's Eve, parties with dress codes, and yes, most of these people serve alcohol. And yes, I overindulged at one such party, ending up on the floor of a bathroom where I got vomit on my pants. Perhaps this is all foreign to you, you don't understand it, and you feel comfortable making a moral judgment of me based on this one piece of information. That is fine as long as you keep such thoughts to yourself. Making nasty faces at a customer is immensely unprofessional, and if you hope to run any sort of a successful business you should probably refrain from so openly judging your clientele.

Finally, after glaring at me, you tell me you cannot clean my pants. You say they pose a danger to you, that they possibly contain "airborne pathogens, and stuff like that." Your expression, not mine. You say these potential pathogens mean you are not allowed to take my pants. It's forbidden, and out of your control.
Well, then now it would be my turn to question your sanity. You work at a dry cleaners. I can only imagine the many disgusting things that are brought to you for cleaning on a daily basis, and I have to think that vomit is on the tamer end of the spectrum. Airborne pathogens? Forgive me ma'am, but that sounds like bullshit. I wish you could have done me the courtesy of at least being honest. In an alternate world where you are not a judgmental phony I might have brought you my pants, and instead of this airborne pathogens nonsense you would have said, "Oh gross, I'm sorry. I don't want to deal with that. We don't send our cleaning out, we do it here, and I don't personally want to deal with vomit-encrusted pants. Sorry. Maybe the cleaners down the road could help you?" And although I would have questioned your work ethic, I would respect it a lot more than that stupid sneering face you just made at me.

Now good evening to you, I need to go spread some negative word-of-mouth.

Puritan Cleaners is located on the 200 block of Robinson Street in the Fan, between Grove and Hanover.

Silver Lining

The day before New Year's Eve my daycare went ice skating. I had never done this before, and as many of the children we brought glided out onto the ice, moving effortlessly with speed and grace, I held tightly to the wall, trying to walk, allowing myself to skate smoothly only for a few seconds at a time before losing my balance and lunging back to the wall.
"You're walking, Mr. E!" a girl told me. She and a friend skated over to help me.
"You have to push one leg forward, and then the other, like this." She demonstrated; kids love to demonstrate when giving instructions, partially I think because they don't know how to communicate clearly what they want for you to do, and partially because they enjoy the attention.
I tried to follow this kid's lead, but after slipping and falling several times I took a short break. A few minutes later I tried to skate again, hoping I could figure it out better on my own, only to find the same two girls skating up to me trying to help.
"Here, hold my hand. I'll hold you up."
"Gail, I weigh at least twice as much as you, I don't think you could do much to stop my fall."
"Really? Twice? I weigh seventy pounds."
"Oh, okay then, three times as much."
The girls silently did the math, and then looked at me wide-eyed, astonished that their svelte and handsome teacher was secretly so heavy.
"Don't worry Mr. E," one of them said, "it's a good thing. Someday, when you have a girlfriend, you can give her bear-hugs."

Found in a Child's Locker

The following was written on a piece of white paper in pink magic marker. It was placed by a seven-year-old girl in her best friend's locker.

When we get a fieldtrip I will put another sumthing in your locker to prove I am a vampire
from Lizzie
Love you
Write back.

New Year's Resolution

On the playground last week I observed Emily, an eight-year-old, playing with her friends.
One was lying on her back doing sit-ups, while another held her feet.
Emily stood over both of them, fists clenched and at her sides, yelling at them. Though she has a speech impediment, the words were clear.
"YOU'VE GOT TO WANT IT! YOU'VE GOT TO WANT IT!"