Essay #4: Classroom Plants

On Monday, I purchased a hoya hindu rope from my local plant seller. It doesn't have traditional flat leaves, but instead its leaves curl, bend, and close over each other in clusters along the stems, which trail down from the plant. On mine, the effect is that of two green and white, overly-twisted octopus tentacles emerging from a tiny black and white pot.

In my houseplant family, I think the hoya is the quirky step-sister, small but full of personality. Why does it need to curl its leaves so tight? How can a stem support such weight? I rearranged a number of items on my desk at school so that I'd have it in constant eyesight. It probably would do better directly on the windowsill of my classroom, but that's behind me, and I want the new addition on full display.

I have a lot of houseplants. Most are at my house, but my classroom at school has three wide, east-facing windows that receive fantastic sunlight. Plants thrive in my classroom in a way I can't achieve at my house. Right now I have nine plants at school, and though the hoya may be my current favorite, it's not my newest, even though I acquired the hoya only three days ago.

Last night I was at Kroger with my youngest daughter, waiting for the pharmacy to fill her amoxicillin prescription (for a double ear infection). We wandered over to the "reduced" section, where we nabbed a box of mini croissants and I noticed a shopping cart of reduced plants. Most were air plants that I had little interest in, but a small arrowhead plant in a pot designed to look like tree bark caught my attention. There was no price tag, which meant the poor self-checkout lane attendant had to spend ten minutes in consultation with other employees to finally decide that she would charge me $2.50 for it.

Today, the arrowhead sits in one of the coveted east-facing windowsill locations. It has a cluster of mid-sized leaves shaped like a sharply-pointed hearts, but it was "reduced" for a reason. The leaves have a brownish tinge, and many have dried-out tips or cracks. I think the arrowhead is a bit of a grandmother, holding on despite years of wear. 

I hope the hoya isn't jealous that I gave the arrowhead the prime window location. I've been glancing behind me every so often to ensure it's doing okay next to my suffering homelomena selby, a "rescue" from home. I'm still holding out hope it'll revive in the sunny window location, but it's the sulky teenager in the family, so I'm not entirely confident.

My classroom plants give me delight. I burst with pride when they develop new leaves; I admire them as I wander among the students in my classroom. I stop to visit during my prep periods, a break from the constant essay-reading. They promise growth and renewal; even the ones that die don't feel like real failures, but an opportunity to start anew. As the mug on my desk at home proclaims, I'm a "proud plant parent."

Essay #3: Hot Pink Shoes

Yesterday, I wore hot pink flats to school.

Such an announcement may be unwarranted for other people, but it is indeed news for me. I have always thought of shoes the same way I've thought of cars: as nothing more than practical and necessary conveyances. For years, I rotated three pairs of Nine West kitten-heeled, pointy-toed shoes at work, identical except for their color--black, brown, and tan. Now that I'm officially middle-aged, I've switched to flats--in black, brown, and tan, of course.

Sure, I've occasionally been excited about shoes, but only when in service to an activity: my LLBean duck boots, acquired early-pandemic for the wet and muddy spring; my Saloman hiking boots, purchased before my week-long backpacking trip in Yellowstone; my La Sportiva climbing shoes, which proved I was taking on climbing as a real hobby, not an occasional trip. But to be excited about a pair of business casual shoes? Never.

My indifference is partly due to my practical nature and partly due to the fact that I have absolutely no sense of style. To compensate, I dress as suburban-mom basic as possible. Not conspicuously out of fashion; not on-trend. Think "fade into the wallpaper" style.

A couple months ago, a friend passed along some gently-used shoes that she not longer needed. Most fit my "wallpaper" style, but one was a pair of dress flats, in a slipper style. They were clad in a faux fur, with small black spots upon a tan background. I looked at them in astonishment. These shoes were not wallpaper! Should I choose to wear them, they "said" something. I wasn't quite sure what the message was, but I certainly didn't feel worthy of carrying it. In fact, the idea of conveying an intentional message through my shoes was terrifying--surely others would see through my attempt at style and inwardly laugh.

They sat in my closet for a few weeks until I finally worked up the nerve to wear them to school with an entirely neutral outfit. The response at school? Nothing--I teach at an all-boys school. They wouldn't remark on my outfit if I showed up in a chicken costume. Still, I felt a little daring, a little wrong, and a little proud all day.

A few weeks later, I met a friend in the evening, and she was wearing hot pink flats with jeans and a casual top. Maybe I was overly emboldened from the fur slippers, but something happened that had never happened before. Those hot pink flats moved me. I had to have some.

I occasionally get weird obsessions with acquiring random things: moss art for our bathroom; a Roka backpack that I saw in a gift shop in Scotland. If I put it off long enough, many of these obsessions pass. The obsession for hot pink shoes did not. I justified my longing by scouring Poshmark for a secondhand find. And there they were: Rothy's Dragon Fruit flats, size 8. 

I tried to play coy. I resisted for a few days. I chalked by obsession up to some subliminal Barbie mania leftover from the summer movie. And then, I bought them. I bought a used pair of hot pink flats for the same price they'd be sold for on Black Friday. 

They arrived right before Thanksgiving, and yesterday, I wore them for the first time, with gray slacks and a black long-sleeved top. I stepped into the entirely empty hallway at 7:00am with a bit of spring in my step. 

Even though another teacher called my shoes "ostentatious" (I chose to interpret the comment as a compliment), by halfway through first period, my spring was gone. It was clear maybe four students read the assigned chapter of The Great Gatsby; another student boasted he "read" an assigned essay by listening to the audiobook on 3.5 times speed. In my advanced class, one student said his writing didn't matter--he just capitulated to whatever he thought I wanted; the guidance counselor told me another student blamed my essay advice for his failure to be admitted to a summer program. 

I felt the unending frustrations of being a teacher. But--and though I'm still not entirely sure what message they conveyed--I was wearing fabulously, fantastically, hot pink shoes.

Essay #2: 10pm Check-In

Every evening, right around 10pm, I hear the soft patter of feet on my carpeted stairs. I turn as I see Amelia, usually clad in one of the giant t-shirts from my school that she wears as pajamas, enter the living room. She approaches with a faux appearance of timidity, her fingers on her lips as if nervous--as if I'm going to reprimand her for being up so late, though we both know I'm not--and shuffles over to me on the couch. There, she snuggles in deep, and I cover her with the blanket. I ask her about the book she's reading; she asks me about my book or the movie I'm watching. We talk about the upcoming day. She's childish and sweet, maybe even a little slap-happy given the hour. After five minutes, I kiss her on the head and tell her goodnight. She gets up, shuffles out of the room, and returns back up the stairs.

I'm not sure when the tradition started. Though for years we've put both girls to bed starting at 8:30pm and are done reading to them by 9:15, Amelia had trouble falling asleep, so she'd stay up after we left, reading one of her novels. When she still had trouble falling asleep, Jeremy suggested she listen to a podcast--for whatever reason, she's chosen "Who Was?", a short-lived children's trivia podcast about famous figures from history. She's listened to every episode more than a dozen times at this point. Amelia started coming downstairs every night when she was done reading--usually about 10pm--to ask Jeremy to start the podcast. Somehow that nightly request morphed into our five-minute snuggle ritual.

Jeremy's usually in the room, and he occasionally participates in our conversation, but more often than not, he plays around on his phone while Amelia and I gab. I've long safeguarded my personal time after the children go to bed, but I don't mind this intrusion. It's easy for Amelia and I to get into silly fights during the day, but this time is different. I'm not distracted by my to-do list; Amelia's not anxious about friends or perceived slights. 

Amelia likes snuggling at pretty much any time, but I'm most receptive to it at this hour. I'm cozy on the couch, she feels warm and, if she's just showered, her hair smells damp and flowery. Last night, when I told her it was bedtime, she turned and snuggled in even harder, burying herself under the blanket and into my stomach. I laughed at something she said, and she giggled when she felt my belly vibrate.

One of my favorite children's books, Uni the Unicorn, is about a unicorn hoping to meet a "real girl." The book describes all the things the unicorn imagines they'll do together. On one page the text reads simply, "Other times, they would just sit quietly and talk about important things."

I know these times are precious--and fleeting. I appreciate that, right now, Amelia still longs to snuggle and "talk about important things" with her mom. So, last night, like Uni, I cherished my "strong smart wonderful magical" little girl.

Essay #1: Corsi Tree Farm

When I was in high school, there was a popular daily reflection practice--I want to say it originated with Oprah--where you were supposed to take time each evening to write down three things you were grateful for. Cultivating gratitude and all.

It's a lovely sentiment, but when I tried it, I just felt depressed. On too many days, I couldn't think of anything particular I was grateful for. Generic statements about "family and friends" seemed like a copout. When I wrote down trivial things that didn't really count, I felt insincere, not reenergized by my bounty.

I recently checked out Ross Gay's The Book of (More) Delights, from which I've read exactly one essay (and the introduction, if that counts). Still, I find myself feeling inspired simply by the idea of his brief essays. They seem doable! And charming! And I probably should find more delight, particularly as we head into winter, which I never weather (pun intended?) well. 

Of course, given my previous experience, I'm hesitant. What if I find no delight, only monotony? What if I feel cynical, or--even worse--sentimental? Still, as I lay in bed last night, a first topic came to me. So here goes.

Yesterday, my family drove out to Corsi Tree Farm to cut down our Christmas tree. It's a tradition we started in 2020, when we wanted to find some new festive fun--outside and away from everyone else. Cutting down a tree in nowhere Ohio fit the bill.

Because everyone else had the same idea in 2020, and because we visited a few weekends into the holiday season, the selection was poor by the time we arrived. We walked up and down the rows of neatly planted trees, feeling like Goldilocks: all the trees were too short, too tall, or weirdly misshapen. No "just right." Additionally, it had rained recently, so the fields were full of mud, and my youngest daughter, Clara, was only three, so she had difficulty walking. After what must have been at least an hour of searching, we headed into a "natural" area where the trees weren't planted in rows but haphazardly, often right up against each other. It was there that we found the perfect tree.

It wasn't actually perfect--a number of branches stuck out in weird angles--but we were proud. Jeremy lay on the ground to saw the tree down. We bought the girls candy and cookies at the gift shop. They proudly decorated our tree when we returned home. 

We wanted to repeat the tradition in 2021, but a first floor renovation meant no room. We returned in 2022--and found a tree much more easily--and then again this year.

Now that my girls are six and nine, family traditions are a mixed bag. The girls still enjoy many of the same things they did when they were younger, but we also get far more complaining: they're bored, they want to spent time with friends, they want to be lazy around the house.

Still, when I pushed them out the door just after 9am on Sunday, no one was grumpy. On the ride there, the girls eagerly shared their memories of tree hunting from years prior. We talked about Clara getting stuck in the mud. We talked about Amelia buying a stick full of gummy candies. They were enthusiastic.

Once we arrived and got out, I felt myself perking up too. The air was brisk but not uncomfortable. It was bright, and open fields of trees lay before us. We were early in the season, and there was a lot of inventory. We quickly found several suitable trees. The girls were eager to choose right away, but there was no way I was going to drive forty minutes just to find a tree in five. We hiked on.

Inevitably, the complaining began. Amelia said I was too picky. Clara said we'd walked too far. Still, I could tell their hearts weren't really in the whining. It was beautiful, and it felt good to be outside. We got into the depths of the Canaan Firs, and it was clear our tree was here. My Texas aunt texted  and remarked that she hadn't had a real tree in ages. I smiled to myself, knowing I'd have a real Fir scenting my home for the next month. We picked a few potential trees with lovely shapes and full branches, and I ran back and forth between our finalists. The winner was one Jeremy picked.

Clara insisted on helping Jeremy drag the tree back to the barn in which we'd pay. All the ride home, the girls excitedly talked about the decorating process. There'd be hot chocolate and popcorn and Christmas music. We started to name our favorite ornaments: the cats battling over popcorn; the fencers to resemble Jeremy and me; the ceramic turtle. We reminisced about the ornaments we'd made over the years.

That evening, once we'd finished decorating, the girls ran off to a friend's house. They got into stupid fights that evening; I felt frustrated. 

But today I can look at our tree in our living room, decorated proudly by my family. Ornaments from all our years together cover the tree. My girls won't always be little, and I'm sure they'll fight the family tree-cutting tradition in years to come. Still, this year, I can delight in our moments together. And I can remember that the world is a delight--maybe even I can embrace the Ohio winter.

"Erasure" by Percival Everett

I checked out Erasure after seeing the trailer for the upcoming movie American Fiction, based on the book. I was a little surprised to learn the book was more than twenty years old. The trailer, at least, seemed to situate the story in a post-2020 world of anxious white publishers attempting to "reckon" with their publishing bias and privilege--and, of course, failing miserably, being all the more biased and privileged for their patronizing attempts to recognize "real" Black voices. Though I'm eager to see the film, it came as a happy surprise to find that the film's source material has a far different focus. Everett's book doesn't care about white privilege much, though of course the book's protagonist, "Monk" Ellison, is furious that his books on philosophical classics are labeled as "African American Fiction" and that the only Black books that sell focus relentlessly on a caricature of dire struggle in the "ghetto." And a central feature of the novel is the parody Monk writes in this vein that, not-so-ironically, goes on to be a beloved, award-winning bestseller. But despite all these conflicts, Everett is focused primarily on family--Monk's complicated relationships with his siblings and parents; how his sense of self-identity was formed from those relationships.

Monk is both arrogant and insecure. He was his father's favorite, but his doctor siblings seem far more accomplished. He writes dense, complicated books that no one reads or understands. He has no relationships beyond his family, and even those are considerably cool. He finds pleasure in philosophy and wood-working, but beyond that, he seems adrift. He's forced into action when his sister is murdered and his mother's health takes a significant decline. In other books, such a catalyst might force change or growth, but Monk's path isn't that simple. He's furious at himself for "selling out," but he takes no righteous stand. He's overly-generous, too late, to peripheral people in his life, but he can't rescue the relationships he actually cares about. 

Erasure, like Monk, is a little dense and not always entirely clear. But that just means that Monk is a compelling and complicated character. Similarly, the social satire the film will undoubtedly explore is still there, but more ambiguous. After all, at some point, I started to wonder if Monk's parody was actually good.