Where the White People Are

As a child, I was fascinated by Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are.  The illustrations captivated me, and the notion of entering another world both intrigued and terrified me.  

I’d forgotten about that wonderful book until I started the first week of school.  I’m not sure the exact moment the book returned to my consciousness, but at some point I stared at my class of thirty-two students and didn’t see a single person of color.  Then reality hit: I was Where the White People Are.

I had no idea that places like Los Blancos High School still existed.  When I visit family in the Midwest, for example, I anticipate less diversity, but not in California.  So when I looked at my third period roll sheet and saw a sea of British, Polish, and Russian surnames, I realized that my landscape at changed.  Dramatically.

And working at Where the White People Are has also meant a shift in cultural values and expectations.  First of all, parents have immediately referred to me as Mark.  For the past eleven years, the Asian and Latino parents at South Pasadena called me Mr. Afram.  To be fair, the parents at Los Blancos have been cordial and introduced themselves by only their first name.  Still, most parents have assumed a level of familiarity with which I am unaccustomed.  

I’ve observed another cultural shift with athletics.  Yes, South Pas valued its teams, but different sports held sway.  Track and cross country were extremely popular, as were boys volleyball and girls tennis.  Los Blancos, however, loves its football.  In fact, it’s a sort of a football powerhouse.  When I was moving, several Bay Area friends commented on the legendary coach who’d led the team to victory over the past thirty years.  I attended countless football games at my former school, but those games were casual affairs.  Los Blancos, by contrast, takes it football seriously.

With all these changes, I am reminded (to state the obvious) that I’m not in Kansas anymore.  There are new relationships to build, and I must work to earn students’ confidence.  Kids don’t know me, and I’m an unknown quantity. At this point I suspect that they are withholding judgment, waiting to see how I treat them and their fellow classmates.  These first weeks are pivotal in establishing trust, and I want to extend myself and assure them that I’m on their side.

I know that I made the right decision in moving, and on the first day of school, while I was passing out papers, one of the students whispered to me, “I think they like you.”  I was thrown by this unexpected kindness, and the teen’s reassurance boosted my spirits. At the end of the day, an origami flower mysteriously appeared on my desk, a gift from a student in Period 7.  Welcome to Los Blancos, indeed.

The Long and Winding Road

 Doesn’t that picture make me look crazy?  I mean, who tows a sedan behind a ten-foot U-Haul?  No one.  Except for me.  Because I’m insane. 

But for the past three years I’ve seriously considered moving to the Bay Area from Southern California, and finally, I couldn’t sit on my dream any longer.  So many people asked me why I was moving.  After all, I’m close with my family, and we all live in LA.  I have a wonderful job, and I work with great people.  It’s hard for public school teachers to find a good gig, so when a teacher lands a plumb position at a stellar school, educators white knuckle precious tenure.  Finally, a move to the Bay meant leaving a supportive network of friends who had sustained me through the deaths of my parents, along with the lesser griefs of life.

Despite all the reasons to stay in SoCal, the Bay haunted me.  I frequently returned for vacations, and one summer, I even taught at an elite school for five weeks.  Finally I could no longer ignore my desires; in other words, the dream could no longer be deferred.  I managed to secure a new teaching position, and I rented a U-Haul truck with a camel’s head blazoned on the side panel.  (Aside: This design choice both pleased and horrified my Egyptian family.)

So, on an unseasonably cool Saturday in July, I found myself charging up the Grapevine at a record thirty miles an hour, praying that my truck wouldn’t overheat or that my sedan wouldn’t slip off the hitch and barrel into oncoming traffic.  In the truck cabin was my sidekick Susan, who took pity on my trek and volunteered to accompany me through the wilderness to the Promised Land.

At the time of our adventure, Susan’s father, who also lives in the Bay, was undergoing surgery to receive a pacemaker.  Our conversations on Highway 5 were punctuated by frequent phone calls to the hospital.  In between medical updates, we dreamed about my future, discussed Susan’s screenplay, and psychoanalyzed Susan's love life.

As the desert flashed past our windows, we frequently saw cars sidelined on the road.  Each time we saw a stalled car I clenched my steering wheel more tightly and muttered a frantic, unintelligible prayer.

Our mantra throughout the trip was, “We’re not in a hurry,” but I secretly felt the pressure of time.  I had arranged for two college friends to help me unload the truck, and I didn’t want to keep them waiting.

About halfway through the journey, Susan’s father received his pacemaker, and she cheerfully spoke to her father.  Since Susan’s father is hard of hearing, Susan yelled her medical advice through the mobile mouthpiece: 

            “HOW ARE YOU FEELING?”

            “YOU SHOULD NOT EAT THAT FOOD.  IT’S TOO GREASY!”

Three hours after the phone call, we pulled into U-Haul facility.  One customer asked me if I was moving to the Silicon Valley.

“Yup!” I happily replied.

“Are you working at Google?” he asked.

“No, I’m a teacher.”

The U-Haul employee, who overheard our conversation, laughed.  As he inspected my truck he turned to me: “The guy in LA who hitched your car to the truck didn’t do it right.”

Here’s to new beginnings…

These Boots Were Made for Walking...

 **Note: This entry was written in February, 2010; I just never posted it!**

In their efforts to improve our health, my employers recently implemented a walking program. The premise is simple: participants join teams, and each team member receives a pedometer. The team that walks the most steps wins.

While I was supportive of the cause, I am by nature non-competitive. Maybe I’m a big wuss, but I like to think that we’re all winners. Or maybe I just watched too much Sesame Street as a kid.

During one lunch one day, Sandy casually walked by and asked if I wanted to join her team. Joining a team of middle-aged women doesn’t necessary scream COMPETITIVE, so I shrugged and said, “Sure, why not!”

And just like that, I had been jumped into a gang.

Sandy, my team captain, and formerly sweet lady, had designs on first place. She was bound and determined to win. At first I didn’t recognize her peculiar brand of crazy, but I slowly recognized the signs.

First, Sandy (hereafter Psycho Sandy) wanted us to purchase team shirts. Unfortunately, my size wasn’t available, so I was given a triple XL. When I put it on, it reached my knees. As I looked in the mirror, I thought that my shirt would be appropriate for a demonstration on the school dress code. (Girls, note that your hems should just be at knee length.) However, when other colleagues saw my untucked t-shirt, they called me Gangsta Afram. Apparently, my flowing t-shirt screamed Thug Life!

Second, Psycho Sandy wanted me to e-mail her my steps. Daily. When I asked if I could submit my steps on a weekly basis, she quickly shot that idea down. “No. I need your data every day.” Not only does our gang have terrible fashion sense, but we’re disciplined. And anal-retentive.

Initially, Psycho Sandy doesn’t appear diabolical; in fact, she’s more of a soccer mom. And that’s part of her insidious strategy: she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her peppy e-mails are rife with smiley faces and exclamation points. I didn’t realize this when I was “jumped” into the group, but we are the Gang of Cuteness. Our goal is to walk all over the enemy, smiling along the way.

More recently, others gang members have started to question our leader. One of our members, for example, fell ill. Since she wasn’t able to walk, Psycho Sandy quickly cut her from the group. Apparently, she wasn’t pulling her weight.

Since I was curious about life on The Outside, I talked to my former gang member.

Me: “I heard you got cut.”

Disgruntled Former Walking Gang Member: “This is bullshit. This is a fucking walking group. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Disgruntled Former Walking Gang Member: “I’ve spent so much money on this thing. First, I bought that butt-ugly t-shirt, and then I purchased a new pedometer. At least I’m now free.”

Me: “Take me with you.”

Not everyone gets cut from our gang, though. Sometimes we’re just sharply reprimanded. Recently, Psycho Sandy scolding a team member for not having enough steps. Several staff heard my team member plaintively cry, “I’m sorry, but I’m trying the best I can!”

 * * *

I recently had a conversation with my mother when I expressed my regret over Sandy’s fascist tendencies. Mom was unsympathetic. “Mark, let this be a lesson. You should have researched your team better.”

I can’t believe my mother. Since when do people need to conduct a background check on team captains for walking groups? If this is true, society has reached a new low.

If I ever make it out of this gang, I will enter public service, speaking to children about the dangers of gangs and how they destroy a person’s life.

Until then, I’m gonna keep on walking. Until my feet bleed.