Slideshow: Boats on Canals

 

In Amsterdam there are boats in canals. Sometimes they slide beneath ornate bridges, emerge from narrow tunnels, create lines in the water. Mostly they sit tethered to the side of the canal, beneath skinny tall painted faces and trees and sky and the smell of waffles. Little old ladies emerge to water lovely flowers, except they are not little or old, in the sense we might think. They are old like Maude, happy in their skin, chuckling softly, gripping a mug of something warm, chatting with a friend, and, let’s face it, they can hop on a bike and whip your ass in a mad dash across town down alleys, pumping hard over bridges, accelerating into the distances. Despite unfounded rumors of sneaky e-bike use, I found no elderly on the bike paths of Holland. Young and old zoomed past me like fish to my snorkel, smooth, easy, no longer thinking of pedalling. Mount, dismount, lock, unlock, ring if you have to.

In Amsterdam there is a boat filled with cats. You may stop in for a visit when you son misses his little black Wednesday. Some cats on the kitty boat have wanted posters posted on beams with warnings not to pet. Others sit waiting in a basket, gazing out at the canal while you stroke their soft little heads and backs. Outside it is a madness of bikes and cars and pedestrians. Here, only blinking eyes and soft tails, padding feet and curled sleep.

In Amsterdam there are boats in canals, red, blue, white, gray, yellow.

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Drive a Kilometer in My Shoes

All week I’ve been driving kilometers per hour. Some button-pushing child maniac switched it and I only notice it when I’m speeding along on the freeway and can’t take a moment to scour the dashboard for the button, one of those buttons I can never remember between scourings.

I first noticed it had been switched about five days ago. Amy and I were zipping off to a rare movie. As usual, we had left too late and were destined to sit in the front row or, tragically, apart. I was just getting on the freeway, rolling along in the slow lane behind another car, when I suddenly noticed I was going 90. Holy crap! How could this be 90?! We were all going 90. And faster too. That guy must be doing 100!

At first I blamed it on Trump. Stress. The new apocalypse. I thought, this is what we do now, drive around at 90 just to end up in the front or row or tragically apart. Eventually my brain caught up, cleared its throat, and said, “Those are kilometers, Nimrod.” (Why Nimrod? Isn’t it supposed to be Dimwit or Nincompoop?)

Since that glorious moment, there have been several times this week that I’ve found myself back in the car, zipping along, and suddenly I’m going 80, 90, and I think, need to find that dang button. But then I arrive (as I just did, moments ago, at my office here on campus), and the thought vanishes. It’s not unlike the missing soap problem in the shower. When I’m in the shower and discover the missing soap, I’m not going to get out, sopping wet, and rifle through the baskets and shelves to find a bar of soap. When I’m out of the shower, I forget. This goes back to ancient times: when it’s not raining, the roof is as good as any other.

I have to say there’s a certain badassness to driving around at kilometers per hour. Going 70 through a school zone? Love it. Out of the way you little bastards! On the freeway hitting 100? What the F&%$ do I care? I’m the fastest slow car in the slow lane you ever saw. Don’t make me go 105, Motherf$#%$#!

There’s also a certain escapism to it, disappearing down global backroads. Hey, I’m not American! I’m doing kilometers here! I play football, you know, with my feet! I speak multiple languages! I live in a small house and I’m fine with that! Fill her up, lads!

Wait, why did that last tank of gas cost so much?

 

The Logic Goes

The logic goes

if you want to change politics

elect someone who doesn’t know politics

if you want to change the environment

hire an oil man

if you want to house the people

hire a surgeon

and if you want to educate the masses

nominate an idiot.

Well, Republicans, you’ve really buckled your seatbelts

on that meteorite you’re riding down

It would be fun to watch

if it weren’t going to burn up so many innocents

underneath the crash

I have to keep reminding myself

We knew this was coming

from that moment of incomprehensible result

We knew the era of pillage

and destruction

would be upon us

in all its hellfire

and we would have to fight and fight and fight and fight

and fight and fight and fight

and get knocked on our asses

and fight and fight and fight

But what I didn’t know…

Was how much beauty would be in the streets

from the pussy hat millions

pouring onto the streets of the world

too many to march!

to the airport lawyer army,

holding handmade signs,

to the indivisible heroes

popping up wildflowers in the weeds

shouting,

shouting,

Shame on you!

You spineless chickenshit bastards

Lighting up phones

Showing up in offices

and calling out in public squares,

Shame on you!

You cackling idiot ghouls

Shame on you!

I have to remember

We are everywhere

all ages

all people

sitting on shoulders

rolling in chairs

climbing lampposts

wanging on guitars

pouring out of public trains

congregating, gathering,

making late-night desperate calls and emails

We are everywhere

face scrunched with determination

fist in the air

and there ain’t no power like the power of the people

’cause the power of the people don’t stop

(say what?!!)

Fight on, my brothers and sisters!

Welcome to The Apocalpyse!

Good morning, Resistance! Put on Bad Moon Rising. Get pumped. It is time to fight!

Dear Rest of the World

I don’t know what to write, but I want to say,

Dear Rest of the World,

I’m so sorry.

When you wrote me eight years ago to ecstatically congratulate me and us

and US,

I congratulated us too!

I knew it was only the beginning, not arrival,

but still, what a surprise and joy it was

to begin, to be reborn a country with a heart

 

For America to elect a Black president

I will always see as something great

 

but now what have we done?!

where have we arrived?

For America to elect an Orange president…

My horror is too great for the joke

 

Dear Rest of the World,

Believe me.

There are more of us here than you realize,

living in deep shock

We forget for a moment

Then are back, sitting on the floor

leaning against the couch

running fingers through our hair

We sat at long holiday tables

and fumed at spineless moderates

who knew better

We stand in morning kitchens

and watch tiny Tvs

and rurmors of recounts

and try to percolate a sip of hope

but every day our tiny little orange boy stomps his tweet

louder and LOUDER

and scares the living crap out of us

and I don’t know what I want to write

but I think I want to say

Come,

Meet me friend outside the twitterverse

Let’s walk up into the hills,

curving away from the sunset

feet on soft redwood ground

feet on soft redwood ground.

The World is Broken

He looks at us from the end of the long table and says, “When they start rounding us up, what are you going to do?” He’s talking to me, one of the only white people in the room. He’s talking to you maybe. He’s talking to all of us who aren’t living in fear of deportation right now in the fast-approaching Trump’s America. When they round up your neighbor, your friend, your nanny, your gardener, your nurse, your clients, your students, what are you going to do?!

This is the talk before the talk here at Berkeley City College by this journalist who is likely to be deported. You know the one. He won the Pulitzer and then came out as undocumented. It’s Jose Antonio Vargas.

Before the talk before the talk, I arrive with my English student, M-, and we grab a slice of pizza and sit at the long table in a conference room up a few floors here in downtown Berkeley. I got invited to this gig not as the token white guy but because I am the co-advisor for the Puente Program at my college and we were invited to bring a couple students. I am sitting next to one of them, an older student from Michoacán who has come to me during office hours to tell me, voice trembling, that she is doing her best with the assignments but that her grandmother is dying back in México and she is trying to get her green card so she can go visit her before Abuela passes on. That was before the election.

We are sitting across from two young students who are talking about how hard it is to focus on anything right now. “All I know is the world is broken,” says the young African American. “That’s all. The world is broken.”

“Just keeping says that,” says her Latina friend.

Jose Antonio Vargas speaks to us and his staff (he points out the irony that as an undocumented person himself, he cannot be hired, but he can start a business and hire others) film him and and the students who choose to speak. A young Latino male takes the mic and says bitterly, “We played their game and half the country said we don’t want you.”

Another student, also young, Latino, male, says, “This election, if anything, has taken away any uncertainty.” He says it’s a good thing we see America for what it is.

Another student speaks of trying to work hard, succeed and transfer to a four-year university but admits her biggest struggle is believing in herself, that she is good enough. She asks him what he tells himself in the morning to keep going.

Vargas speaks of his mom putting him on the plane alone at age 12 and sending him off for a better life. He admits that has taken its toll, that he is still that 12 year old with fear of abandonment, that it has deeply shaped his adult relationships. He implores all of us, “At a time like this, loving yourself is a radical act.”

I listen to these brave students talk and observe this warrior for the undocumented and I scribble on the yellow pad they have provided us, “Who am I? What is my role?

  • Connect the undocumented with resources and information
  • Provide safe spaces for learning, sharing, organizing
  • Serve the moment: translate, edit, drive the truck, house (the verb).”

Later, we ride the elevator down to the auditorium for the big talk. Jose Antonio Vargas, who was all over the map at the long table, is articulate, funny, and wise in the big talk in the big room. (He is reading what he has written, now, rather than speaking off the cuff. He is a writer.) He recites a poem by Baldwin, including the line:

The falling mortal is our brother

He urges us to find “radical empathy,” to try to figure out how people got to where they are in their thinking. He tell us, “A changing country requires a changing language” and urges us to use the language of the other side but turn it around, turn it upside down.

He asks this question of those of us who are already citizens:

“What are you doing to do to earn your citizenship?”

I get in the car and drive through Berkeley back to Oakland. I turn on the radio and Patty Griffin is singing “Rain,” one of my favorites. With pensive guitar strings, she sings, “It’s hard to listen to a hard hard heart…” I roll past good people standing at the corner or driving in the lane next to me, trying to get home too. It’s late but my kids will still be up. In fact, when I walk through the door Amy will be playing guitar in the corner, something she’s been meaning to do for weeks, maybe months.

Rolling towards the goodness that is my safe home, Patty sings,

“Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I’m still alive underneath this shroud
Rain Rain Rain”

In These Times

OK, here’s a new series. I find a item in the news. I write about it. Neat, right? I know.

What’s my purpose? I wanna write. Also, I want to engage with the information. I want to dance with it. I would like to be present so that by the time my cereal bowl is empty, my mind is full. I want to be a better reader.

This family varies a bit in how it reads the paper. One of us grabs the Sports first and maybe the comics if time permits. One of us used to only read the comics but now reads major articles, especially if musicals are involved. I tend to skim a lot. “1 in 4 Cancer Deaths Tied to Smoking”? Skip. I already knew smoking causes cancer. Flip, flip, oh, I’ll read this.

Then there is my counterpart. She reads the paper like it’s going out of style (which, of course…). She reads it top to bottom, side to side. She reads it at the table, on the couch, in the bathroom, and at bed. She reads it until it’s all read up. When we get our Sunday New York Times, she reads that too, like she’s squeezing water out of a damp towel, like she’s growing potatoes on Mars. The crazy thing is, she’s probably the busiest of us all. I am in awe of her newspaper readership.

So, here I am, starting out. I don’t know what my rules are yet other than read, notice, write. I will start small. It may be painful at first. For instance, today’s item? I just re-read the paper and noticed an ad for John Cleese and Eric Idle. Cleese and Idle! They are appearing soon at a theater near you for “sit-down comedy.” I read the whole paper this morning and missed it. All I saw were issues of the day, politics, health, elections. This almost got past me.

Just a day or two I heard Luke on the Gilmore Girls make a Monty Python reference about the beaking incident on the lake (I’ve said too much already), comparing it to the rabbit. Last week, it was a sign posted on Facebook to do with silly walks.

When I think of John Cleese, I first hear my mom snorting with laughter during Fawlty Towers. There was a sign at the college where I used to teach that I would see early in the morning on my way to my 8am class: “Faculty” Something. Something about it reminded me of Fawlty Towers and every time I saw it I said to myself, need to look that up and compare, but I never did. I forgot all about it until the next time I was stumbling out of the fog across that little bridge past that Faculty Towers sign.

There are some things like that I forget and remember and forget and remember again, over and over. There should be a name for that.

“It’s called aging.” I know, I know. The memory-loss jokes never get old.

My Leap Years

Five years ago I quit a job I had loved for so many years but was physically and mentally wearing me down, packed up my third grade classroom, kissed a good health plan goodbye, and made the leap into deep space: grad school. I packed up my guitar, my songs: Oakland Roads, Monkey Bite and Little Verb, my books: my Charlotte’s Web, Abel’s Island, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. But I also packed up, “Your attention please,” and “Clap twice if you can hear me…Clap 23 times if you can hear me.” I said goodbye to an amazing group of teachers and filled my basement with bins full of binders and books.

For what? An MFA! Bicycle rides down the long slow tree-lined entry to the silent library at Mills. Small classes. The quiet lawn. Reading, thinking, writing. Discussions with the higher part of my brain. It was wonderful.

But it was a little terrifying. I wasn’t 29 like most of the rest of my classmates. I had kids. I had a little gray in my barba. In fact, I had a barba and often had to turn on the light when I went into the Men’s room. What if this was a huge mistake? I shrugged, picked up my ukulele and thought, ‘Well, if all else fails I can become a ukelele rockstar.’ I wrote a song called Ukelele Rockstar. It began:

Ukulele Rockstar, really gonna go far

Doesn’t need a house, doesn’t need a car

Doesn’t even know where he’s going to go

tomorrow.

Two years of blissful debt later, I got my M.F.A. in English/Creative Writing and put out feelers to teach in a community college. Nope, nope, nothing, are you kidding? Nobody. Nowhere. Doubt. Fear. What had I done? Then I happened to write an email at just the right moment and was suddenly told, “Something has shifted!”

I got a part-time job at Laney College, a community college in Oakland, exactly where I wanted to be, because a wonderful teacher happened to retire and they happened to need someone rather fast. I taught an English class called Foundations in Reading and Writing in a program called Gateway to College. These students had dropped out of high school and then turned around and, judo move, gotten into a dual enrollment program at their local two-year college. My students were wonderful, full of hope, new beginnings, determination. We read Zora Neale Hurston and Hill Harper and recited “I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul.” Some of my students were challenging, full of anger, substances, trauma. I rode my bike down through the mansions of Piedmont to the sparkle of Lake Merritt, rolled past the trees and geese and joggers and dogs, over the little green bridge, under the tunnel, past the person sleeping in a tent, past the boarded up Convention building, to Laney. I added classes. I taught students from 18 to 88 years old, from all around the world. I worked with a great bunch of dedicated colleagues. I quickly discovered teaching kids had taught me how to teach anyone. I loved it.

I was getting paid peanuts. I added a job teaching English at Diablo Valley College. I rolled out through the tunnel listening to All Songs Considered. The sun rose on the sleeping lion, Mt. Diablo. I cut across pleasant hills and rolled into a pristine campus. I loved my students there as well. The teaching was fabulous. You stepped up to the front of the room and they got quiet and looked at you and listened. Can you imagine? Sometimes I stepped up twice just to marvel.

I was working with great colleagues and amazing students from all backgrounds at both colleges. I was still making peanuts, almost half what I made teaching third grade.

A full-time English job opened up at Laney. It was the first in eight years. I applied. I waited. I never heard back. I followed-up. They told me I had applied incorrectly. The gods cackled. HR slammed shut the door.

Months later, I applied for a full-time job at Diablo Valley College. I’m told some 200 apply. They choose 15 for an interview. I managed to get the interview. I interviewed. I didn’t get called back. I hadn’t interviewed in a million years.

The next year, my third as an adjunct, I rolled up my sleeves and said, OK, I’m all in for this job hunt. I went to a workshop on the hiring process. I asked wonderful, veteran colleagues for help. They went out of their way to give me advice. I went to a job coach. She helped me lead with my “headline.” I applied for four jobs. I got interviews at three of them.

The first was far inland. I was excited about the possibility, but I had doubt about working in what seemed a more insular community than I had ever experienced. Nearby was an extremely wealthy gated community. Still, it was a community college, serving students of many backgrounds. I needed to get a full-time job. I practiced hard for the interview. I did well. They called me back for a final interview with the district president and the vice-president. There was a mix-up and they didn’t show me the interview questions 30 minutes before like they were supposed to. They handed me the questions and said take as long as you need and then we’ll start. They stared at me. I read the first question over and over, not concentrating, and said, “Let’s just start.” At the end, the president looked into my heart and saw I had doubt. He said, But how would you feel about teaching out there, away from your diverse urban community? He had me. I said something unconvincing. He shook my hand out the door.

The next interview was for Diablo Valley College where I had already taught for two years. I had been evaluated twice and had excellent evaluations, but they don’t use those in the hiring process. This was my second time interviewing there. I prepped hard again. It was extremely competitive. I didn’t get a call back. Again. I felt the fury of the scorned and vowed to seek part-time employment elsewhere. I rattled off emails to a different district. They didn’t reply. Apparently nothing had shifted.

I had one option left after all my hard work and preparation: Merritt College in Oakland. I was excited about the position because it was the only one to list being bilingual in Spanish as a desired qualification. It is in Peralta, the same district as Laney, but smaller, still incredibly diverse. I prepared hard again. I circled the table talking to myself. “You see before you a re-invented man. After 16 years teaching reading and writing at the ground floor…” This job would mean teaching exactly where I wanted to teach, in Oakland, in the same community, más o menos, where I had taught for 18 years, at a diverse, urban college.

I drove the ten minutes up the hill to Merritt. I interviewed for the job with no doubt in my heart. All I knew was I wanted it and I would do great things if I got it. They were nice and the interview was structured in a way that felt friendly to the applicant. They laughed at my jokes. I walked out feeling hopeful. Outside, in the parking lot up in the Oakland hills, I looked out over a crystal clear view of the entire San Francisco Bay, the new white Bay Bridge in the foreground with its long white cables, the Golden Gate far in the distance.

I waited a week. I waited 8 days, 9 days. I decided it was time to move on. Suddenly, I got a call to come back for a final interview.

I returned to the campus on the hill. Another interview around a conference table with many new faces and questions taped to the table.

I left feeling good but had no idea who I was up against. I waved to the gods and said, I’ve done my best.

I waited a week. Nothing. I waited two weeks. Silence. It began to feel a bit pathetic to tell people I was “still waiting to hear.” OK, feller, time to move on. The days piled up. Summer was starting without me.

I took a deep breath and told myself it was time to get back on Adjunct Airlines, a freeway flyer. Here’s your peanuts.

For three weeks I answered every phone call. It was election season and there were a lot. Then, on a Monday, the phone rang again. I answered it and it was none other than Bernie Sanders, or a recording of Bernie, urging me to get out and vote the next day. Later, the phone rang again. I answered it. It was a Feel the Bern volunteer, making sure I knew where my polling place was. I did: the garage where it always is. The phone rang a third time. I considered not anwering it. What was the point? I picked it up anyway. It was the robot lady calling me about an urgent deal with my credit card. Bless her.

Three weeks of this, fueling my doubts. You’re too old. They’ll want one of those 29 year olds you sat next to in grad school. You’re too white. Too male. The kids came home from school. Milo asked, “Hear anything today, Papa?” I shook my head. Maya had recently written an essay where she mentioned that she knew how hard it was get a job because her dad had been looking for one for two years.

An hour later, the phone rang again, on that Monday before election day, and Maya was sitting nearby on the couch in the office and the door was closed because Milo was out by the piano having his first saxophone lesson with the same teacher who has now taught him ukulele, piano, and clarinet.

So Milo was blowing strange notes loudly out of his newly borrowed saxophone and the door was closed and Maya was typing on a laptop and I was standing there holding the phone. I peered at the number and it was local, so I answered it, expecting Bernie, Hillary or the credit card robot lady, or maybe that fun fellow from the fake IRS, threatening to throw me in prison. But it was someone named Vivian, calling from “Peralta” (the community college district of Merritt) and she asked if Evan Nichols were there. People trying to sell me stuff ask for Andrew, my first name.

I said, “This is he,” and she said, “Hold on” and there was fumbling and silence and I thought, well, even if this were about the job I’ve just blown my whole future with that whole “This is he” thing. Still, I gestured to Maya as if to say, this is something maybe. She sat up and looked at me.

“Sorry about that,” said Vivian, coming back on. “Are you still there?”

I searched my brain for an answer and replied, quite cleverly, “Yes.” My heart was pounding and I just wanted the news one way or another, bad or good.

“We would like to offer you the position of English Instructor at Merritt College,” she said. I gestured to Maya. Her eyes widened. I searched my brain and said, quite cleverly, “Really?” I pumped my fist. Maya smiled. Milo blew a bad note on the sax like a dying whale and his teacher said, “Good!”

Vivian told me they would send me an offer letter and I would need to circle that I accepted the offer and sign and date it and then scan it and send it back by clicking Reply All. I said will this be a letter or an email and she said, “It’s a letter, sent as an attachment.” That didn’t seem possible to me but I tried to be reasonable because she was offering to change my life. I thanked her and told her that was wonderful news. I hung up and whispered to Maya, “I got the job!” and she got up and gave me a hug. I wanted to shout but I wanted to wait ’til Milo’s lesson was over and his teacher had gone.

When his teacher whistled his way down the stairs, I told Milo the story and he couldn’t stand the waiting even from the beginning of the first sentence to the end, so I quickly blurted, “I got a phone call…and I got the job!”

Later, at dinner, we waited ’til Amy was seated and eating and then began giggling and looking at each other and I said something about Bernie calling and Maya said, “Yeah, Papa got some good calls today.” Amy looked around and instantly knew and it was time for celebrating.

Today I met with my tenure committee and tomorrow I will complete three weeks on the job as a full-time Merritt English professor, teaching reading and writing to an amazing mix of students. I was falling through space for a while there but oh what a glorious leap it was. My feet are just now touching down on the ground. I didn’t know exactly what I was doing when I took that mad leap. I knew that being a third grade teacher had been the best job in the universe for 16, or maybe 15, years, but I also knew my vocal chords were going (surgery the year before) and that my class size was growing and I really wanted to try teaching grown-ups. So, I leapt. I’m awfully glad I did.

Let the new adventure begin!

 

Sitting on a Branch in the Drizzle

Some people need to sing. Others to dribble the ball. I need to write.

It happens for days, weeks even. My fingers twitch at night. I toss and turn, words and phrases dropping through my brain like Pachinko balls.

Lately I’ve been better about taking a minute to sit in my front porch (enclosed), feet on the furry green pillow, and dash off some thoughts in my journal (it’s really a little blue keyboard, but that’s another story) before bed.

But there’s the writing you do for yourself, like lifting weights to build muscles, like going for a walk to clear your head, and then there’s put words into whiteness that are read by someone. That’s where writing gets exciting.

So, here I am, in between grading reading quizzes, writing again. Here I am, flapping up to a branch and singing my song. (Suddenly, as I am just about to reach the last line, I remember something I actually wanted to write about! Coming soon! The ice begins to crack. The flow returns.) It feels pretty good.

Finger on the Issues

It is raining in drought town again

but who is more confused?

the flowers

or the electorate?

this climate change uncertainty

those white flowers used to bloom only on my wife’s birthday

now they are angry,

drive white trucks

and vote the game show ticket

…except, looking closer,

the bumpersticker says “Bernie,

because F*%k this S#%t!”

So…

how can we join hands

and throw our petals in tickertapehooray!

when the only thing we have in common

is the middle finger?