dearest daughters & son

To Babybel on the Occasion of Starting Kindergarten (and The Rest of Your Educational Career)

Dearest Babybel,

Tomorrow you start kindergarten.

 

I get it. Like in a rational sense. I mean, you were in childcare and then you were in preschool and this is the next logical step. But, my heart doesn’t get it.

I can’t comprehend how you’ve grown so quickly, developed emotionally and intellectually over the past five years. It’s truly a sign of God’s wonders.

What happened to my baby who needed me at night? What happened to my toddler who threw up hysterical vomit? What happened to my preschooler who pronounced her r’s like w’s? Really? Weally!

I know this is the same old story of disbelief, shock and awe told by parents for years and that’s not why I’m writing to you, but it had to be said.

What I want to tell you today may be a little intense for your first day of kindergarten, but nevertheless important from Room 2 to the hallowed halls of [Wellesley] College.

I’m writing to tell you that you should be ever grateful for you education.

You are about to embark on (by my count) seventeen years of formal education. This is a privilege so profound you can not yet imagine it. You are benefiting from a long fight for women and people of color to be educated in this country. And there are still others who know no such right. There are those who travel miles on foot to go to school. There are those who go to school, but in a system so unjust and with a fate so bleak. Do not take your education for granted. Work hard and be grateful every day for your ability to wake up, take a safe walk to school, learn from educators who care, do your homework at a well lit table and benefit from all that your education will provide you.

I’m writing to tell you that I will be here every step of the way.

I’m no helicopter, but I will be here when you need me--in kindergarten, in college. I will be here to celebrate with you on your good days--when you make a friend, when you ace a test, when you accomplish something you never thought you could. I will be here when you need a push--when you think you can’t do something, when you won’t do it, when you get really stuck on writing the letter G or carrying the 1. I will be here to simply be here--to sit with you in your fear, in your frustration, in your pain. I will be here to listen--to the rundown of your day, to your thoughts on One Direction and Middle Eastern conflict, to your ever-changing plans and to your heart’s desires.

I’m writing to tell you that I am proud of you.

Know that I am proud of you because you dare to be in this world. I am proud of all you can and will do, for sure. But, I’m also proud of what you can’t do yet, of what challenges you will tackle. You are a work in progress. And the ability to grow and change is a wonderful part of being human. You can make choices. You can change your mind. You can soften your heart. I know you will not always do things that please me. You will not always do things my way. You may even wander into places that I cannot prevent you from going. But, you will live your own truth and follow your own path. You will grown into the person God has created you to be. And I am honored to watch you do it.

Love you no matter what,

 

Mommy

Call me a conformist, but you can't say I don't speak my mind.

Dearest Daughters,

In a world of limitless art supplies and boundless time and two year olds, I agree that there is no right and wrong. I believe in open-ended art and play. I encourage pretending and tinkering and open-ended conversation.

I do everything in my capacity to build my girls up. Not tear you down. Especially not with mockery and berating, but, I must admit, sometimes a finger shake. Right, Danjo, Miss Finger Shaker?

I've written before about grey areas and my desire to avoid making my children feel wrong, making you feel like there is only one right answer.

I've had these thoughts for the very same reason as Teacher Tom (via Intrepid Murmurings), who writes:

When we manage to teach children that there is a right way and a wrong way, they are learning something about black and white. They are learning something about their own judgement. They are learning something about rote and obedience. And I think none of it good, at least if the idea is to have them ultimately emerge from school as people who form their own ideas and have the courage to express them.

Certainly. I want you, my daughters, to be true to yourselves and to be courageous in your convictions and actions.

But, there's something about this approach to child-rearing that is too "perfect world" for me. Never offering guidance about "right" and "wrong" or communicating expectations of excellence.

Yes, in a perfect world, those are the children I would raise. Children who are self-motivated to learn and make good choices. Who don't hit each other because they understand that it hurts, who want to learn math because they understand its fascinating application to natural phenomenon. (Click on Teacher Tom's link about "obedience" above, for more on that. A whole 'nother post. Don't have time to go there now.)

But, in reality?

Admission

Dearest Daughters,

It's Pirate Week at Bel's preschool. I picked you up today and we talked about the usual. What you may or may not have done. What parts of your lunch you may or may not have eaten. What you may or may not have done in your diaper. As we arrived home you had an epiphany, declaring, "Mommy, I DO like school!"

Good thing, since you have no less than twenty years left of it.

Love,
Mommy

Adobo and Buzz Lightyear: my master plan for raising mixed girls

Dearest Daughters,

Having biracial children, Lola and Lolopop made a conscious decision to raise us as Filipino as possible. Lola was born in the United States, doesn't speak the language, cook much of the food and is not Catholic (which is a big cultural aspect of being Filipino). So, raising us "Filipino" entailed surrounding us with a community of Filipino aunties and uncles, seeking out the annual Manila Fests around Northern California and teaching us a few words and phrases that my dad picked up in a Tagalog class. Other stuff too: buying books, teaching us to respect our elders, sending a rice cooker with me to college. And more!

I knew my dad was white, I knew I was part white, but most of my childhood I claimed to be Filipino, because that's the culture I identified with. Also, I didn't want to be the only "white girl" in my grade in predominantly Asian south Stockton. Then in middle school, when we moved to Marin County, I didn't want to be one of "those kids" who were cruel middle schoolers at a school aptly called White Hill; "those" mean kids also happened to be white, which in retrospect I can't blame them for. But imagine my culture shock and the associations I made between my first immersion in white society and being treated so meanly, made fun of for my smelly lunches and self-concious when the envelope to collect money for weekly pizza day circulated around homeroom. (I'll add for a point of reference, there was NO subsidized school lunch program at White Hill. Lunch was "catered" two days a week--pizza and burrito days--the rest of the days everyone brought their own lunch. The school I went to before had almost 100% participation in the free or reduced lunch program. My parents made enough money that we never qualified for free or reduced lunches, so we were accostomed to bringing our brown bags. But the fact that NO ONE at the school qualified for a subsidized lunch, shows that socio-economic issues were also at play.)

"What ARE you?" they'd ask.

"A human."

"No. I mean where are you from?"

"My mother's womb?"

"You know what I mean. Like what nationality are you?"

"My nationality is American. I was born here."

"No like what ARRRRREEE you? You know!"

"Oh! I'm Filipino."

Blank stares. Perhaps, they were considering what Filipino is or why I'm obviously so stupid. Perhaps both.

Feedbacks: A Long Story About Making the World Better-ish

Dearest Daughters,

Your dad was born in the Philippines. He was adopted by Grandma and Grandpa and grew up in Chico, where Filipinos were few and far between. And if you happened to see more than one Filipino on any given day in Chico, it was probably just because your dad was riding his bike around and around the block.

When it came time for your daddy to choose a language to study, he wanted to learn French. The story goes that Grandpa had to tell it to him straight. "Look, Son," I can imagine him saying, "you're Filipino. And you live in California." The only logical conclusion is that he would study Spanish. French would be useless. Not to mention the fact that learning Spanish could serve as some sort of twisted post-colonial protest. Like: take that Spain! You may have raped and plundered my land, but I'll murder your language with incorrect conjugations, mixed up gender agreements and bad pronunciation. Yeah. That's right. Take it all. And THAT is the real reason why your dad failed Spanish. I made that last half up. Your dad has never failed anything.

Fast forward 20 years and your dad gets a job with a French company. I love irony.

Damnyoualanis: A Vocabulary Lesson

Dearest Daughters,

By 6th grade, having read a lot of Baby Sitters Club and Sweet Valley High, I had a handle on irony, particularly dramatic irony, my favorite kind of irony. Because it makes me feel superior that I know what's going on, when the characters don't. But when Alanis Morisette's "Ironic" came out in 1996, my world was thrown askew.

Now, I'm just sitting here wondering, is it considered "ironic" when you buy scissors, because you don't have any. But, they're in that horrible packaging that you need scissors to open in the first place? And then you're like: stupid scissors! That's why I bought you! And now you're trapped inside all this plastic and I can't liberate you!

Then, you realize that you could use a knife or something. Except you run the risk of cutting off two of your fingers and/or scratching your hands on the roughly cut serrated plastic packaging edges.

Not that I've ever been in this situation. I'm just wondering.

What say you, Internet?

The Going Rate for Friends

Dearest Daughters,

Choosing a college is a big decision. But, these days not so much for the emotional reasons you might think, i.e. finding the "right" place.

Tuition costs are rising and student loans are all too easy to come by. When I made the decision to go to Wellesley College, I was eighteen. There was no way I could fully understand how choosing to take out $12,000 in loans each year would affect my future.

I thought 1) twelve grand to go to a forty grand school--that's like a 70% discount and you know how I love me a good deal! 2) that's what it would cost to stay home and go to a UC anyway and that money would have to come from somewhere as well and 3) what will $1000/month in student loans be once I graduate from my Seven Sisters school and am rolling in the dough!?

As you well know, life happened and while $1000/month is not unaffordable for our family, I can't help thinking how many pairs of designer jeans or purses I could buy each month with that money. Or how much more house or how much more we could put into YOUR college savings that money would afford us.

Yet! I do not regret my decision. The education, experiences and opportunities that Wellesley College and subsequently UCLA have granted and will continue to grant me are worth every penny. I would not be who I am as a person or as your mother without my educational experiences. And an education is something that no one can take away from me.

So, yes, it sucks monkey poop to have to hand over that much money per month to the powers that be, but if nothing else, I have this to show for it:

When you break it down, I rent Ashley for about $300 a month and Katherine (as well as a few other Wellesley friends) for about $700 a month. Pretty good deals, considering the quality of the goods.

Love,

Mommy

Tale as Old as Time

Dearest Daughters,

Today's lesson is in critical thinking.

What's that?

Here's something from my teaching days, stolen (as teachers tend to do) from my Social Studies Methods teacher, Brian Gibbs (no relation). When reading, for example, but also when looking and listening, there are four levels of questions that can be asked to help you learn about something. Asking questions about things, that's called critical thinking.

We'll use this as our "text":

(source)

1. The "text" - things contained in the "text" (could be a literal text or more abstract, a painting, a group of individuals, an advertisement), the answer can be found RIGHT THERE in the text. For example, Belbel and Danjo, what color is Belle's dress? Blue.

2. The "text" and itself - you have to look two or more places in order to infer the answer. For example, Belbel and Danjo, do Belle and the Beast like each other? Yes, because they are making eye contact and smiling.

3. The "text" and me - you need the text and your thoughts. For example, Belbel and Danjo, do you think that Belle and the Beast have a healthy relationship? No. Although they appear to like each other, Belle is reading to the Beast, and the Beast looks friendly, really their relationship is a result of Belle placating the Beast, attempting to "kill" the beast in him with kindness, while suffering his imprisonment.

4. Just me - your opinion, not so much on the text, but maybe a theme in the text. These are questions that you keep asking yourself after you've digested the text and you might ask them about other texts, situations, etc. For example, Belbel and Danjo, should Disney be perpetuating images of imprisoned women in emotionally and physically abusive realtionships? And how does this affect your own views of women and relationships? I'll let you stew on that one.

Oh, Disney. How I love to deconstruct the messages you send. In 7th grade I wrote a paper about what a racist and sexist film Aladdin is. Seventh grade. I've been fighting the man since seventh grade!

And yet, I let you watch Disney movies. Where did the middle school humanist, womanist, counter-culture revolutionary in me go?

I think she turned on Tangled, set her two year old and and seven month old daughters in front of the televsion and went to take a nap, leaving them the above primer in critcal thinking of course.

Children, Tangled. Imprisonment. Blond hair/blue eyes. Long hair/infantilization. Criminal love interest, tamed by a barely-legal, shoeless, under socialized princess.

Discuss.

(Also. I love that movie.)

Love,

Mommy

A Message from the United States Postal Service

Dearest Daughters,

There are many things that you can learn from being observant. Simply looking and listening. And being nosy.

Generally speaking, there are two categories of things you can learn.

One: the obvious, things you're supposed to learn, during lessons, lectures, speeches and sermons

Two: the not so obvious, things you observe about yourself and other people, about places and how things work, and, most importantly, about Julie's boyfriend and how he's keeping secrets from her, so she logged onto his facebook account and saw that four girls, FOUR, sent him facebook messages about Friday night and she's so breaking up with him anyway, not because of the messages, but because he has this wierd thing that he does with his toe nail clippings. Things like that.

I guess these two "categories" could be considered "academic" and "experiential" learning. The difference between "book smart" and "street smart." Some people excel at one or the other, or both. (And this isn't to mention the "multiple intelligences" that people can excel at or how they can be learned, we're just talking about two types of things you CAN learn.)

I'm so confused.

Anyway, today I want you to take a look at a few gems I found in my desk and let me know what you've learned about the United States.

 

Colonialism! Imperialism! Even, neo-imperialism! Yay! Yay Hawaii, you're awesome! And yay Alaska, you're beautiful too, except for the alcohol abuse and suicide rates!

Today is Friday.

Fridays are good days. Even when they are bad days, they are good days. Thursdays can be good days too, if there's no school on Friday. Oh and Mondays too, if it's a long weekend.

I'm going to go ahead and do myself and my adoring audience the favor of writing on Fridays. Because they are good days. I can't promise Thursdays or Mondays, but Fridays I can do.

While I cannot announce a "hard" launch (my husband's in PR), consider this the announcement of a "soft" launch of my new creative endeavor: hippillow.

I should have some stuff up in the shop by the end of the weekend, whereupon you can tell everyone you know and their dog.

This is what I've decided to do to stay sane. This next semester, starting on Feb. 5, holds in store a LOT more lesson planning for an AP Human Geography course as well as two College Prep Geography courses. This semester with all it's ups and downs at least had a somewhat scripted curriculum, enabling me to basically go home after school and do nothing. Nothing became taxing. After a day at school my coping mechanisms told me to curl up into a ball, rock back and forth, pull out my hair and watch HGTV or Law and Order: SVU. You'd think that'd be fullfilling. Well that and cooking dinner and conversating with my husband. You'd think, but not entirely. I needed something to counteract my free fall into the vast abyss of public education, hurtling into darkness and an uncertain death. Everyday.

Okay, so teaching isn't the end of the world. I can do it now. I mean, I can do it without casualties. The body count was a little high there for awhile, but now we're just losing fingers and toes. It's just not exactly what I'd call rewarding, satisfying, or even fun. Nothing beats the satisfaction of waking up at 9am, eating waffles, going to class, eating chicken strips and French fries, taking a nap, surfing the Internet all afternoon, eating chocolate cake for dinner, picking up a book, looking at the cover, putting it down, watching TV, going to sleep and doing it all over again. But, I had to leave college at some point.

So, now I make things. With my hands. Not like how gorillas in the zoo make dung balls with their hands and throw them at taunting onlookers, but close. It feels that good.