You ever wonder how we keep from flying off this giant muffin when it’s going over 60,000 miles an hour? Like, a spaceship made of dirt and water, it’s outer skin nothing more than a layer of air holding all us guts in while screaming through space at 60,000 miles an hour. And any second another chunk of rock could slam into our bowling ball hot air balloon and we could shoot off like fireworks spraying out of a soda bottle at 60,000 miles an hour. Unless we’re more like a frisbee ‘cause we’re flat earthers and this giant paper plate planet is flinging and boomeranging around the sun at 60,000 miles an hour. Maybe the whole way to survive in this solar system is to keep moving as fast as you can, ‘cause if we stop, we die, and nobody wants to die, well, some people want to die, but not like that in a crash going 60,000 miles an hour. And think about it, these doctors are trying to slow us down with all these meds, making us walk around like zombies eating our own brains, drooling in our sleep, and slurring our speech ‘cause that’s supposedly better somehow, even though they should be smart enough to know that we have to keep the wheel spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning at least 60,000 miles an hour, or we’ll screech to a halt and scream forever like that Munch painting where the squiggledy guy is slapping both hands on his face like the Home Alone kid all because Krakatoa blew and burned and bled.
Image created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompt using AI on Gencraft.
WARNING – SPOILERS
A Court of Frost & Starlight, the 4th book in the ACOTAR series is a lovely, little, short novel wrapping up the last remaining threads of Feyre’s transformation. It focuses on her trying on her new role as High Lady and true partner to her love and delves into the parts of her that have been neglected because of war and survival. A key aspect is her art and desire to create, share her creativity, and understand creation as vital to her fulfillment.
It is a peak into homelife, an intimate Winter Solstice celebration, growth and blossoming of friendships, Mor’s self-realizations, and one of Feyre’s sisters suffering from emotional turmoil that gets totally out of hand. Interestingly, different voices begin to emerge. There are portions of the book from the perspectives of Rhysand, Cassian, Nesta, and Mor. The majority are in Feyre’s voice, but it is a nice change experiencing the inner thoughts of some of her loved ones.
This felt like a pause before a storm, a much-needed rest after the war and carnage of the 3rd book. I was disappointed that it was so short, as I wanted to learn more about all the members of the team & family. But book 4 is appropriately long, so I look forward to diving into that one immediately.
Maas, Sarah J. A Court of Frost and Starlight. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2018.
TRIGGER WARNING: This essay discusses patriarchal oppression, gender-based violence and punishment, sexual shaming, social ostracism, and cultural trauma. These topics are examined in a literary and analytical context.
The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston paints a picture of harsh expectations placed upon Chinese/Chinese American women. Though the narrator rejects some of the notions and attempts to forge her own path, she still feels duty-bound to uphold some of the traditions. Each section of the book focuses on a different woman and explores the expectations placed upon her specific to the time and place where that portion of the story is set.
For instance, No Name Woman lives in a village in China early in the 20th Century. She is expected to remain “pure” (no sex) until her husband’s return from war. Her sexual desires are not a consideration and her ensuing pregnancy is punished by shaming the family and destroying their crops, livestock, and stored foods. The family then disowns her and never speaks her name again, ensuring she would “suffer forever, even after death” (16). There is no mention of the man who must have impregnated her on the part of the villagers or her family. She must bear the full weight of the “crime” of having sex and becoming pregnant.
Fa-Mulan in the “White Tigers” section of the book becomes the greatest hero in the land saving her family, her village, and her country from evil rulers. She is a warrior, savior, and leader who has trained for 14 years to become the best hero possible. Yet, once her mission ends, she is expected to return to the “appropriate” role of wife, daughter-in-law, mother. There is no option for leadership in her world. This character is thought to have lived sometime around the year 500 in China. Women were not supposed to use their brains or their brawn, except in service to men. Any woman who attempted to pass as male enter the military or school would be executed, “no matter how bravely they fought or how high they scored on the examinations” (19).
The “Shaman” section about Brave Orchid shows the variety of domestic expectations placed on Chinese women. Brave Orchid lives the first half of her life in China and the second half in America spanning the 20th Century. She works as a medical practitioner in China and then in the family laundry business in America. Besides working long hours, she picks tomatoes as a part-time job to make more money, does all the cooking and cleaning, and manages all aspects of the household. She is also expected to carry on the traditions of the culture by keeping the rituals, ceremonies, and talk story alive so that it will pass on to the next generation. She must also protect everyone’s souls by calling them back when they have forgotten their way home. Brave Orchid’s eyes fill with tears as she tells her adult daughter, “I work so hard” (103). Chinese women are unrealistically expected to do more than their fair share of the work.
The section “At the Western Palace” highlights the way Chinese women in the past had little power in marital situations. Their partners were chosen for them and husbands might take multiple wives. The women were expected to tolerate and support these traditions without question. When Moon Orchid comes to America in the 1950’s, she is confronted by a different reality in which women have more rights and her husband rejects their marriage. She is expected to accept his continued financial support without living as his wife. Chinese American women seem to still have parents attempting to meddle with selecting their potential suitors according to the narrator.
In the final section “A Song For a Barbarian Reed Pipe” the narrator implies that a “good” Chinese American girl in America in the 1950’s should be able to speak fluent English and Chinese. She should attend Chinese school and American school. It is an interesting note that “good manners…is the same word as traditions” in Chinese (171). To please the Chinese, she should be obedient and demure, soft-spoken, and graceful, domestically competent – able to cook, clean, serve, and heal, and pleasant in interactions while not making eye contact, use opposites to confuse evil spirits, keep all Chinese traditions, send money to family members in China, lie to Americans so no one can trap her or deport her or trick her somehow, and remember that men are valued more highly than women. To please the Americans, she should be assertive and firm of voice, intelligent, sexy, able to defend herself, and independent making strong eye contact, speaking from a place of science and logic rather than any mention of evil spirits, creating a comfortable lifestyle that is America-focused, be a patriot, and believe that women and men are equal. A Chinese American woman is expected to do all of this and figure out how to be healthy, happy, and prosperous without driving herself crazy over the paradoxes such disparate expectations create.
Works Cited
Kingston, Maxine. The Woman Warrior – Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts. Vintage Books, New York, 1975.
TRIGGER WARNING: This essay contains discussion of racism, racial violence, police brutality, and psychological trauma in a literary context.
Baldwin’s writings seem to assert that all people deserve the opportunity to be understood, and barring that, at least given a fair shake to make their way in the world. A self-proclaimed witness to the treatment of his people, he uses story to persuade others to open themselves to the possibility of relationship, or at least the ability to visualize the other. In “Previous Condition”, the main character is a black man having an affair with a white woman. She grew up in poverty and argues with him when he implies that only black people have it hard economically. The argument sounds as though it could have been heard on YouTube with its layers of race, class, gender, and privilege still such hot current issues. However, Ida the white woman, does not get kicked out of a dwelling simply because of the color of her skin, as is the case for the black actor she is debating. Even more horrible is the description in “Sonny’s Blues” of white men running over and murdering Sonny’s uncle just for the fun of it. Evil breeds hatred. Sonny’s father “never really did get right again. Till the day he died he weren’t sure but that every white man he saw was the man that killed his brother” (Going 118). These are examples of the ways in which people as individuals interact in his stories showing the depth of conflict created by race in relationships.
In “This Morning, This Evening, So Soon” Baldwin paints the scene of a black man who has forgotten how to play the game of pacifying the white police officers as is so often necessary to ensure minority safety. The main character says, “I had once known how to pitch my voice precisely between curtness and servility…” (Going 163). He’s been in France so long and interacted with white people under a different social contract for so long that he has forgotten the tricks he used to know to keep himself safe around white people with power who hate him. This speaks to the “armies” of whom Baldwin speaks. The police represent the powers that be and are an ever-present menace to the black characters in his books. In “Going to Meet the Man,” the main character is a white police officer who truly believes he is simply enforcing rules God himself established. He says it wasn’t his fault the black people “fight against God and go against the rules laid down in the Bible” (Baldwin Going 235). This is an example of the way church gets mixed up in all the oppression in people’s minds. All these systems interact to create menaces of themselves.
Yet, somehow, despite all the horrors Baldwin witnessed and wrote about, he continually returns to the theme of love. He seems to believe that love can prevail. I am in awe of his optimism. In “A Letter to My Nephew,” he writes, “love shall force our brothers to see themselves as they are, to cease fleeing from reality and begin to change it” (Baldwin Letter). I hope and pray that he is right.
Works Cited
Baldwin, James. “A Letter to My Nephew.” The Progressive. 1 Dec, 1962, progressive.org/magazine/letter-nephew/
Baldwin, James. Going to Meet the Man. Vintage International, 1948.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Brief mentions of violence, abuse, self-harm, suicide, traumatic events, mental health disorders, death, explosive rage, murder, confinement in a residential treatment center, rape, addiction, human trafficking, and COVID.
Image created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompt using AI on Gencraft.
Being spit at, called a variety of explicit names, and having items hurled their way are all in a day’s work for teachers at treatment centers for youths in crisis. Teachers join with classroom aids, mental health technicians, nurses, doctors, and therapists to manage the care of children in treatment centers all over the United States. Because the work involves minors whose identities must be protected and due to both HIPPA and FERPA regulations, little is known about the daily grind these teachers endure.
Many are called upon to work long hours in less-than ideal conditions including inadequate classrooms and minimal planning time, with little training related to the disorders with which their students suffer, and no more pay than typical school teachers in traditional school settings. Add to these struggles the current horrors of COVID-19, which include anxiety about catching the virus, extra work preparing lessons for both in-person and remote students, and the daily hustle to sanitize every possible surface to stop the spread of illness. These men and women on the front lines of educating some of the most dangerous, difficult, at-risk youth during a pandemic cannot be personally applauded due to the secret nature of their jobs. At least maybe a look into their world can create some appreciation for these unsung heroes.
One teacher, we’ll call her Ms. Sue, starts her day by heading into the main office to get her temperature checked. A fever means automatically being sent home and will require a negative COVID-19 test before returning. The forehead thermometer reads 96.7 (they read lower than the other kinds of thermometers), so she begins her daily duties cleaning her classroom, setting the thermostat to 72 degrees Fahrenheit (she says that temperature tends to please no one, but causes the least complaints and fights overall), making sure the toilet is working and sanitary supplies are stocked for female students in the bathroom available in her portable classroom, and checking emails to be sure nothing emergent needs managing prior to students arriving for class. 14 desks are arranged in neat rows spaced as far apart as possible to provide social distance. 6 new desktop computers are lined against a back wall, but only every other computer may be used due to the need for students to be spaced out. When asked about putting plexiglass between them so all of the computers can be used, Ms. Sue says she proposed that idea and shrugs her shoulders with a smile.
The floor is in need of sweeping; grass and mud has been tracked into the room and a decorative rug is littered with bits of paper and dirt. Ms. Sue mentions that she is out of time to vacuum as the kids will be arriving any second, and she will have to try to do it at lunch. When asked about janitorial staff, she replies that their only job is to take out the trash. Another shrug and smile are accompanied by an eye roll.
A boisterous group of teenage girls flood into the room ranging in age from 12 to 17. They look like any group of teenagers might, fashionably dressed, hair in messy buns or sticking out from under crocheted hats, backpacks full of books and school supplies, and cheerful greetings to their teacher. All of the girls seem to want to talk to Ms. Sue at once and she reminds them to come in and get settled before raising their hands to ask questions. The girls seem very well behaved for a treatment center and look as though they know the routines. Several are getting paper from a bin, one is passing out binders with first names only written on the sides (they explain that no last names are posted for confidentiality), and other than one skirmish over whose seat is whose, everyone sits in their assigned seat. All but one girl has her mask on, though several have let it slip down below their nose. Several mental health techs have accompanied the students into the classroom (it turns out that some of them identify as male, so though they look like a group of girls, they are referred to as class or students so as not to offend.) The techs talk with Ms. Sue in quiet voices, letting her know which students are struggling emotionally, have refused to come to school and remain at their dorms, who is at a doctor’s office, and point out one that is new and will need additional instructions in order to begin class. Apparently, students come and go depending on the course of their treatment, beds opening up, and insurance running out. Length of stay can vary from six weeks to six months. This group regularly has 15 or 16 students, though only 12 are present today.
One chosen student is leading a therapeutic group to start the day with each student explaining a treatment goal and how they are currently feeling. Ms. Sue listens and takes notes. It is not a requirement of her job, but she says it helps her work with the students the more she is aware of their treatment issues. The students are surprisingly insightful and seem to know the language of both goal-setting and recognizing a variety of feelings. The techs reveal that students present have issues ranging from attempted suicide, family problems, drug and alcohol addiction, eating disorders, and paranoia, to bipolar, depression, psychosis and personality disorders. Though each student has different problems or illnesses that they are working on, a positive peer culture is encouraged to support one another as they work their treatment.
Ms. Sue starts the day showing CNN 10 a daily 10-minute news segment created for schools that covers some of the big topics happening in the world. Most of the students look mesmerized and I find out that it is because this is the only outside information they get while in treatment. They do not have cell phones, internet access, or even television with commercials. The news does not shy away from the big headlines and several students are angered by what they consider to be a biased statement about President Trump. A minor argument breaks out, but is quickly squelched when they are reminded that they will not be allowed to watch tomorrow if they argue about politics.
When class officially begins, the pace is mind-blowing. Six grade levels are present in the room. A few of the grade levels are studying the same concept and can work together. Others have completely different lessons. Between a teacher and an aid, student questions and needs are being addressed for an hour straight. One girl throws her papers on the floor and storms into the restroom. Another puts her head down and starts to cry. The MHT’s jump into action and address the two having meltdowns while the teacher and aid continue putting out fires related to educational questions. The school principal walks into the room to do a walk-through observation in the middle of the mayhem. In some schools, teachers complain about having to put on an act for their observations. There does not appear to be a dog-and-pony show going on here. This is the reality of teaching in the trenches at a psych facility.
Clean up time is a whirlwind of activity. Every desk, chair, pencil, marker, keyboard, laptop, mouse, headphone set, stress ball, doorknob, and handle is wiped down with paper towels sprayed with industrial cleaner. Each kid helps with wiping down their area and is given some sort of reward ticket if they offer to do extra. The mood is almost festive and appears to be well-orchestrated. They all wave and laugh, chattering loudly as they exit, the weeping girl from the bathroom even bubbly once again. I expect a moment of calm to relax for a second before any more activity, but that is not the case.
Within seconds, another group of students enters the room. This group is also girls, but seems to be a smaller group. They are a bit more disheveled and do not talk as loudly nor as confidently as the previous group. They look more concerned about my presence and crowd around the teacher like little birds awaiting morsels of bread. Ms. Sue reminds them all of the routine which includes coming in quietly, getting supplies, and taking seats. I find out that this group has more neurological problems and some have seizures. Some of them have suffered brain damage and may have more educational needs due to difficulties with learning. Their staff seem more relaxed and playful than the previous MHT’s. I notice that a similar routine occurs with this group, but the pace is less frenetic. Everyone speaks a little more quietly and there are some delays in response from the students. A constant refrain is the reminder to keep face masks up over the nose. The kids let them slip down so they can breathe better. At one point, no one in the room (including Ms. Sue) has theirs on correctly. Granted, she is taking a drink of her coffee. All goes smoothly until one girl accuses another of cheating. Screaming ensues and the one who dealt the accusations must be led from the room and talked to outside. Her screams and obscenities can still be heard, but everyone seems strangely calm. I later am told that the screamer does that at least once per day over something. No one ever knows what will trigger her. Everyone has gotten used to ignoring her and going on about their business.
The same pattern repeats itself with different groups of children throughout the day. Ms. Sue teaches 7 classes in all with 2 hours off for lunch, planning, and meetings. She says she has an average of 4 meetings per week including working with her department, staff meetings with the entire school, ARD meetings for special education students, 504 meetings for students with special needs who do not qualify for special education, and meetings with the hospital staff to learn more about the medical side of the patients’ needs. I ask her which meetings are her favorite and she says meeting with the hospital staff. She loves learning about the kids’ home lives and how they are doing therapeutically. It helps her teach them to know some of their background and what they are working on outside of the classroom. When asked if it is difficult for her emotionally to hear some of the abuse and horrors these kids have endured, she shakes her head no. She says she has done this so long that nothing shocks her anymore. It is all simply information she can use to understand the kid better and do a better job reaching them in learning. I asked if the kids are aware that she knows their history, and she assures me that they are. The philosophy at their facility is a team approach and the kids know that everyone is a part of their treatment team, including the educators.
I ask her what kinds of cases used to shock her. Children whose parents were killed by serial killers and are now teenagers dealing with that reality. Children who are the product of rape or incest and are now teenagers dealing with that reality. Children who were kept in cages. Children who were raising themselves and their siblings at 10 years old and no one knew it. Children who took guns to school planning to kill as many people as they could. Children whose parents tried to kill them, but they survived – by throwing them out windows, running them over with cars, throwing them in the lake, or shooting them and leaving them for dead. Children with no parents at home because both are active military. Children kidnapped, then rescued. Children sold into slavery, escaped from dangerous countries, rescued from sex trafficking, found in dumpsters, found in deserts, found floating at sea. She started to laugh and it startled me.
“One of my favorites is children kicked out of countries because they are so bad that country won’t let them live there anymore.” She goes on to tell an insane story that sounds a bit like a plot to a Hangover movie, only the star is a teenage girl with way too much time, money, and imagination for one country she was invited to never return to. She was born in America, so that is where she got sent back to. Apparently, this happens on planet earth.
In the afternoon, Ms. Sue has a complicated moment with a young boy, 11 years old. He begins to scream at her that she is a liar. According to him, she has ruined his life and destroyed his faith in his father. He begins to call her horrible names that most certainly do not describe the kind woman I have spent the day with. He knocks over his desk, breaks his plastic binder in half, and wails an inhuman sound resonating from deep in his belly. He reminds me of a cornered, wounded animal, terror on his face like he is being assaulted. Ms. Sue is frozen in place. She has not moved since the start of the rant. I begin to wonder if she is unsure what to do. The boy is bigger than her and could most certainly hurt her if he attacks. Two other MHT’s have approached from the other side and are trying to convince him to take his concerns outside where they can talk about it more calmy, but he keeps pointing at her and screaming obscenities. He doesn’t seem to hear them at all. Spittle is flying and mixing with tears and snot. He declares her an unfit teacher who does not know how to work with children like him. He informs her in no uncertain terms that she needs to go get a different job or retire or something because she is terrible as a teacher. He is quite eloquent, even in the midst of his rage.
Ms. Sue later explains that this happens with him at least twice per week. They will be working just fine and then he explodes for no reason that she can ascertain. This time it was because she told him the colors of the rainbow. Thinking I misheard, I ask her to repeat herself.
Apparently, when she told him that two of the colors of the rainbow are indigo and violet, he lost it. He had never heard those words used in connection with the rainbow and therefore, she was a liar. Because his dad had told him the colors of the rainbow and not included those words, Ms. Sue was also calling the child’s dad a liar. All faith in humanity, parents, teachers, and life itself balanced on the tip of this knowledge and she had destroyed his world with the words indigo and violet. She rolls her eyes.
“It’s always something,” she says with a sigh.
I asked her why she just stood there and she says it seemed to be the best method for staying safe. Any sudden movements could be perceived by him as an attack. Staying still and calm, breathing deeply, willing a slower heartrate and not adding to the verbal stimulation are ways to de-escalate a neurological rage. When pushed further, she explains that some kids have seizure-like episodes that are set off by a strong emotion and they cannot control themselves well while it is happening. Often afterwards, they need sleep and have little memory of the incident, much the way other types of seizures effect people. My observation of the panic and terror on the boy’s face were real-time wild animal feelings he was experiencing. His perception was that everything around him was a threat. Ms. Sue chuckles and says that the boy got one thing right. She does not know how to work with children like him. I ask what she means and she shrugs.
“I just try different things every day until something works. Today it didn’t work.” She looks defeated, like this one shook her a little, even if she doesn’t admit it.
Ms. Sue has had to physically restrain children in the past, but not in a long time. She uses her words, calm demeanor, plenty of physical distance, and personal relationships with the children to create a safe environment. She says she stays over an arm’s length away at all times. She does not get down on their level like all the teaching manuals say she should. She does not touch them. She does not stare into their eyes when telling them to do something. She does not power struggle…ever. That is the worst possible thing you can do with children with conduct disorder. Physical space, emotional space, and even space in time…asking a question or giving an instruction, then waiting a few minutes if need be for a result are her tricks. Some of the children have slower processing speeds that cause a delay. Many other reasons can cause delays including depression, OCD, psychosis, intellectual disabilities, and ADHD. She says children want to do well. They just don’t always have the tools they need. She tries to give them tools. There is no dumb question. She repeats instructions 400 times if need be. She is a broken record. I have her instructions memorized and want to yell at the next kid who says, “What are we doing?” after she has already explained it in detail. She calmly begins to explain again. She says many of the students have ADHD or other issues that make focus difficult.
When asked which kids she enjoys working with the most, she says the really smart bad ones, the ones that annoy everyone else with their narcissistic or borderline tendencies. She says she can see right through them to the wounded child and has a heart for getting them to do their best work without all the bluster and nonsense. She says at their core they are terrified of life and reality and need someone to hold them accountable for doing their best work and not accepting their excuses.
The teacher next door prefers the boys like the one who threw his desk because of the rainbow colors. She absolutely loves the challenge of figuring out what structure will help them thrive. As they get more med stable during their stay at the hospital, she is able to streamline their educational experience so that they begin to experience true success in school, sometimes for the first time in a long time. The teachers say they help each other out sometimes with ideas for how to work with these very different kids. They also say they point out to each other when they might need to tag out and let someone else take a turn. Ms. Sue said she has never had to tag out, but probably should have once or twice. When pushed, she shrugs, but does not reveal more.
By the end of the day, I am exhausted. I don’t know how Ms. Sue is still on her feet. She seems to have the same smile, same energy, same cheerful tone in her voice for the last group as she did with the first. Luckily, the last group seems to be a really easy class. They are quiet, doing their work, and seem capable. They are older – juniors and seniors, one getting close to graduation. Ms. Sue whispers that they are not as sweet as they seem and are the type of kids that would plot to run away, get you to let down your guard, steal your keys, steal your car, wreck your car, get caught by the police, then throw you under the bus as the person who helped them escape. But they look so innocent.
When the day is over, Ms. Sue packs up a big stack of papers to grade at home. There is not enough time during the day to finish her grading. I am worried that my time with her might have caused this, but she laughs and assures me that she does her best grading in front of Hulu every night. She likes to take her time while grading and write personal notes and examples of things kids are doing well on each paper.
While cleaning up I decide to ask her specifically about COVID. She claims she is not afraid. She could die of an aneurysm right this second. She could die in a car wreck on the way home. Some of her students have died by suicide after leaving the treatment center. Death is a part of life. As our conversation about life and death and coping with 2020 continues I find myself sharing in her perspective. We’re doing our best to mask, social distance, clean, etc. What good is fear? Then I realize that she is using that same calm face, stillness, and quiet voice trick I witnessed with the rainbow boy. She’s good. She’s very good.
She’s been doing this for over 20 years and has no intention of stopping anytime soon. When asked why she does it, she says it is a job she fell into. There was an opening, it was close to home, and they provided a paycheck. She did not have special training beyond her teaching degree. Her training occurred on the job. They paid for her to get her special education and several other certifications, and she continues learning new areas of psychological training as she goes. She thinks anyone with patience could do this job. I beg to differ. When I point out that she is doing something amazing, she shrugs and says she would quit in a heartbeat if she won the lotto. I think she means it. She looks exhausted and walks slowly to her car.
Image created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompt using AI on Gencraft.
Silence has become the standard by which I judge all things. People who talk too much or too loudly, chew food in a way that amplifies the crunch, have loud ringers on their phones, or wear hard soled shoes that clomp across the floor…well, let’s just say I don’t let them into my inner circle. So, when a mewling kitten showed up in the drainage ditch near my house, I was reluctant to take it in. The incessant screeching forced me to rescue it, if for no other reason than to try to stop the sound.
She needed to be bottle fed, not an easy feat for a person with no sense of time. I am a book scout and read all day for a living. I will sometimes read for six or seven hours straight if I’ve got enough material, only taking quick restroom breaks and snacking while I read. I set alarms for my alarms because I also sometimes fall asleep while I read, my brain giving out without notice. And they aren’t supposed to be held like human babies. They have to be on their bellies and knead something like they would on their mother’s teat. I look all of this up so I would do it right, including stimulating her anus with a wet cotton swab to imitate the attentions her mother would naturally provide.
Phoebe is an ugly kitten. Her face is squished, not in a cute way; what little hair she has is a non-descript greyish-brown. Her mother probably abandoned her because her front paws have something wrong with them. The four fingers and one thumb on each seem to be fused together and the paws twist inward slightly. Even worse, she’s loud. Her back paws seem fine.
My small rental is situated on a cul-de-sac near an elementary school. The plan is to advertise as close to the school as I can once Phoebe is old enough to wean. Children are suckers and their parents are even worse. A disabled kitty will have a home in no time. I just have to make it another month.
We’ve settled into a routine, Phoebe and I. She cries, I respond to stop the horrific noise with whatever I think she needs most right then, she falls asleep, and I get some work done. The longest stretch of silence we have achieved is 2 hours. In all honesty, it might have gone longer, but I got worried and jiggled her to make sure she was alive. She awoke with a vengeance and ate until her belly nearly burst.
It’s a ridiculously silly comparison, I know, but this experience has made me appreciate my mother more. When I was born, she had no one to help her and worked long hours to provide for us. My stepdad came into the picture when I was nine, but for years it was just us. All on her own, she kept me alive – the nighttime feedings and diaper changes, the cooking and cleaning. The woman deserves an award. I can’t wait until this kitten can eat solid food and I can find her a home. I’m worn out.
She likes to sleep in the hood of my hoodie and makes a great neck warmer. It gets chilly in the alcove where I like to work, looking out at a pecan tree growing in the neighbor’s yard. The branches hang down over the privacy fence that connects our back yards and pecans spill onto my property. I don’t mind at all because I take them all every year and make pecan pies for the holidays. This year I’m planning to make praline. Last year some of the pies went to waste because I have no one to share them with other than my parents.
I decide to take a walk to the mailbox at the end of my street with Phoebe curled up in my hood. Movement doesn’t seem to wake her, only hunger, but it is about time for a feeding and she has begun to wiggle and squeak. On the way back home, she begins climbing the cloth of her makeshift bed with her tiny claws and I fear she might fall out of my hood. In my haste to grab her I drop my mail rather dramatically. A man raking leaves in his yard stops mid-rake and waves; I pretend not to notice, busy with my mail. He doesn’t take the hint and assumes my lack of eye-contact requires a verbal interaction.
“Hey!” he says, tilting the rake he is holding away from himself and adjusting his baseball cap with his free hand. He could be on the cover of a men’s health or fitness magazine. His every movement draws my eyes, the unabashed grin demanding my attention. I stop, say hello, and even force a smile. He seems genuine in his attempt to be friendly, but as he starts to walk toward me a compulsion to bolt wells up. I squelch it because he is really cute.
“Can I see?” His hazel eyes light up and the corners crinkle the way I find sexy in men of that age. I am confused for a second, but then realize he is talking about Phoebe. He gathers all of my mail for me. I find gentlemanly manners quite sexy, as well.
“My turn,” he says, and offers a trade, the mail for the kitten. A wave of overprotective fear grips me. No one else can hold my baby kitten. He might not do it right. What if he drops her? I push back the irrational panic and gently place Phoebe in his big hand. She looks so vulnerable it makes me want to cry.
We chat amiably about kittens and how much work they are. He tells me he is new to the area, having moved here to be closer to his 11-year-old daughter and in a home where he can have her over every other weekend. I can see I may have found a home for Phoebe already.
I warm up a little and decide to offer some neighborly advice. “If you’ve never eaten at the Thai restaurant on Main, you have to check it out. Their lunch specials are really cheap and the food is authentic.”
“I love Thai,” he says. “How about tomorrow at noon?”
I smile and nod, then realize he is asking me to join him and I freeze. I guess I started it. I might have even sounded like I was angling for a date. “I wasn’t trying to ask you out,” I fumble. “I was just trying to tell you about some good places around here.”
“I know,” he says, the twinkle in his eye giving away amusement at my back peddling.
I decide to be brave. It’s just lunch.
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Styling my shoulder-length thick brown hair into some semblance of order proves impossible. A messy bun with a few loose curls hanging here and there will have to do. Phoebe is wiggling around in the bathroom sink where she was curled up in a hand towel sleeping only a moment ago. I imagine she can sense my excitement and is nervous about being left home alone. I begin to worry that this was a bad idea. What if she cries so hard that she stops breathing and dies? What if, in her panic, she escapes her box and gets trapped inside the couch and can’t be rescued? I almost cancel my lunch date, then scoop Phoebe into a snuggle, willing myself some of her spunky courage. She is my little good luck charm. She begins to scream because she’s learned that is what gets her a bottle. I sigh and roll my eyes, knowing her pathetic cries are fake.
“Little drama queen, I already fed you,” I tease before putting her into the box on the bathroom floor. I check my mascara in the mirror, take a deep breath, and head out. When I am almost to the front door, her cries intensify and I run back to the bathroom. I decide to set the box in the bathtub as an added safety measure.
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Phoebe stretches out between us, one paw across Mitchell’s forehead. Her intermittent purring blends with Mitchell’s rhythmic soft snore, but all I hear is silence. My sweet lover bought me custom molded shooting earplugs that hunters use to block out the loud sounds of weapons blasting next to ears.
I moved into his place because it made sense, but we brought most of my furniture because his consisted of bean bags and futons. His back yard has a wide oak that shades the patio and there is a pecan tree in the front. He loves to work outside and keeps the lawn pristine. I hate the sound of the lawn mower revving up, knowing I’ll have to put in my earplugs to get any of my own work done. I do occasionally miss the silence of my manless sanctuary, but then I take in the stunning view – not of the trees, of him muscling things into place along the fence or digging a hole for who-knows-what-reason men dig holes. And for the adorable way he clangs and bangs and slams tools around outside, then slips off his boots at the door and wears socks in the house so I don’t hear footfalls.
Things are a little more raucous when Mitchell’s daughter comes over for a weekend, but I’ve found I can tolerate joyful exuberance more than I realized. And it is worth it to see how happy it makes Mitchell when she’s sprawled on our couch watching movies with us while scrolling through her phone. They make fun of me by doing fake sign language and whispering dramatically when I’m in the room. When they are at work and school and I have the house to myself, I revel in the quiet – absolute peace for me to dig into my books.
I obviously never tried to find Phoebe another home. After a few months of never leaving my side, I couldn’t bear to part with her. She nestled her way right into my heart. And the only time she puts up a fuss is when I am taking too long to feed her and she thinks I deserve a scolding. She walks just fine, though her paws curve in, so she looks a little like she’s walking on the wrists of her front legs. She doesn’t climb well, but can jump really high because her back legs are quite powerful. She rarely needs help doing anything. She likes to curl up on my lap, and every once in a while, when I’ve had my fill of silence, I’ll take out my ear plugs and listen to her purr while I read.
