The Sun is Out
The sun is out, on average it rains 34 days a year, but sometimes those rains are very short, and the water never seems to hang in the air. I am no longer nocturnal. I used to encounter coyotes every night coming home at 3:00 in the morning, they'd crossed the streets in front of me, loose-limbed, youthful, sometimes carrying a cat in their mouths like a handbag. They'd dig up someone's lawn whose underground sprinkler is on, the sprinkler's hissing sound gives it away, and create a little water hole for all the night animals. A little Serengeti with different species coming at different times.
Now I work and wake up when I used to go to bed. The coffee shop has a plexiglass hole and once there was an article in the New York Times about how it was the ugliest Starbucks in America. In the morning, people who sleep rough drift up here from the arroyo next to the river or where the river would have been. They covered it in concrete in 1935 after a flood, the river just went under the ground. The palms in the arroyo were planted by Franciscan monks in the 1880s, a symbol of joy and plenty. They tower above us all, outlined by the sky, joined by the equally tall cypress.
Above the empty river on the Broadway bridge, a white bicycle is tied to a sign telling everyone not to drink and drive. I don’t drink and drive. I sit and drink motionless in the evenings after a difficult day spent with teenagers.
I am required to take the Burn-Out Questionnaire. I'm instructed to be precise.
Are you easily annoyed by coworkers?
If so, I am not the only one. In the faculty meeting the dance teacher asks me to stop staring at her. I was bored out of my mind and staring into space. A space she occupied, I guess.
Do you feel your job is pointless?
Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know.
In the days after the shooting, I received an email, a reminder to keep all students in the room. I was only to allow them to go to the restroom one at a time and keep track of when they left and when they returned. The students go one after another, so every four minutes or so, I write down names and the departure and return times. I don’t do the math, but this takes up an inordinate amount of time.
Are you watching the clock?
Yes.
I am and it is moving very slowly. I’m pretty sure I will get a 100 on this test.
Do you wake up and dread going to work?
Yes.
Clearly, I am not the only one the trauma team has been visiting. They offer to take the students to speak singly. I am given a little pile of blue permission slips to fill out as they leave in addition to the new and additional form for noting departure and returns. There seems to be a rhythm to this and for some reason I keep hearing the sing song intonations of my childhood prayers in my head (dear father I am heartily sorry for having offended thee).
I work with the kids on using parallel structure in their writing creating rhythms, but I don't discuss religious iconography with them. We create a scat version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for fun.
Some of the students witnessed the sheriffs shoot a man in the outside eating area (we don't have a cafeteria; we have an outside eating area). Well, it wasn’t a sheriff, but a trainee. In my classroom on the second floor, we heard the shot and the scream. I couldn't tell you the order.
The questionnaire has a lot of questions but none of them seem to be the right ones.
I have questions. Why did the trainee have a gun? Why couldn’t the students be reunited with their parents and go home instead of being locked down in place for the next six hours.
Do you watch the clock?
Yes.
I note how long it takes me to wake a child (okay, teenager) and for them to fall asleep again. Can they stay awake? I try to stay calm, but I freak out daily (hourly?) when I have trouble rousing them. The nurse isn't always here, and she is the only one with Narcan.
Pieces of prayers, like a broken record, continue to float on repeat through my mind like weird returning childhood memories, although I'm not religious and don't believe in God. Out the window I can see the tops of palm trees.
The sun is out, on average it rains 34 days a year, but sometimes those rains are very short, and the water never seems to hang in the air. I am no longer nocturnal. I used to encounter coyotes every night coming home at 3:00 in the morning, they'd crossed the streets in front of me, loose-limbed, youthful, sometimes carrying a cat in their mouths like a handbag. They'd dig up someone's lawn whose underground sprinkler is on, the sprinkler's hissing sound gives it away, and create a little water hole for all the night animals. A little Serengeti with different species coming at different times.
Now I work and wake up when I used to go to bed. The coffee shop has a plexiglass hole and once there was an article in the New York Times about how it was the ugliest Starbucks in America. In the morning, people who sleep rough drift up here from the arroyo next to the river or where the river would have been. They covered it in concrete in 1935 after a flood, the river just went under the ground. The palms in the arroyo were planted by Franciscan monks in the 1880s, a symbol of joy and plenty. They tower above us all, outlined by the sky, joined by the equally tall cypress.
Above the empty river on the Broadway bridge, a white bicycle is tied to a sign telling everyone not to drink and drive. I don’t drink and drive. I sit and drink motionless in the evenings after a difficult day spent with teenagers.
I am required to take the Burn-Out Questionnaire. I'm instructed to be precise.
Are you easily annoyed by coworkers?
If so, I am not the only one. In the faculty meeting the dance teacher asks me to stop staring at her. I was bored out of my mind and staring into space. A space she occupied, I guess.
Do you feel your job is pointless?
Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know.
In the days after the shooting, I received an email, a reminder to keep all students in the room. I was only to allow them to go to the restroom one at a time and keep track of when they left and when they returned. The students go one after another, so every four minutes or so, I write down names and the departure and return times. I don’t do the math, but this takes up an inordinate amount of time.
Are you watching the clock?
Yes.
I am and it is moving very slowly. I’m pretty sure I will get a 100 on this test.
Do you wake up and dread going to work?
Yes.
Clearly, I am not the only one the trauma team has been visiting. They offer to take the students to speak singly. I am given a little pile of blue permission slips to fill out as they leave in addition to the new and additional form for noting departure and returns. There seems to be a rhythm to this and for some reason I keep hearing the sing song intonations of my childhood prayers in my head (dear father I am heartily sorry for having offended thee).
I work with the kids on using parallel structure in their writing creating rhythms, but I don't discuss religious iconography with them. We create a scat version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for fun.
Some of the students witnessed the sheriffs shoot a man in the outside eating area (we don't have a cafeteria; we have an outside eating area). Well, it wasn’t a sheriff, but a trainee. In my classroom on the second floor, we heard the shot and the scream. I couldn't tell you the order.
The questionnaire has a lot of questions but none of them seem to be the right ones.
I have questions. Why did the trainee have a gun? Why couldn’t the students be reunited with their parents and go home instead of being locked down in place for the next six hours.
Do you watch the clock?
Yes.
I note how long it takes me to wake a child (okay, teenager) and for them to fall asleep again. Can they stay awake? I try to stay calm, but I freak out daily (hourly?) when I have trouble rousing them. The nurse isn't always here, and she is the only one with Narcan.
Pieces of prayers, like a broken record, continue to float on repeat through my mind like weird returning childhood memories, although I'm not religious and don't believe in God. Out the window I can see the tops of palm trees.