The Welcome Boat

I know it's normally called the welcome wagon, but I'm so special that I got welcomed into Greenville by a boat. Jack (and the rest of the people at the Greenville Drive) had the past three days off because of the All-Star Break and we got invited to spend it at a lake house in Georgia. I was a little anxious because I was going somewhere where I didn't know anyone and had no escape route besides running away. And given how my workouts have been going, I'd probably only make it about 100 yards before keeling over and crawling back to get some water.

The Fiorillos have two basic rules for making someone new feel welcome: (1) Give them a lot of alcohol and (2) Make numerous inappropriate sexual comments. Whether it's my dad subtly putting a second beer in front of you or my mom trying to make the "Shocker" symbol with her hand, people tend to loosen up pretty quickly (or they leave). This weekend (week beginning? What do you call Monday-Wednesday?) I realized that I do it to make myself more comfortable... which meant Jack's friends had better be comfortable with a little bit of drinking and several under-my-breath boner jokes. I made guacamole as a safety net in case they weren't.

It turned out being awesome- perfect weather, an entire day out on the boat, jumping off a giant rock (eek!), and more Catchphrase than I've played in the first 24 years of my life. It was a great start to the move down here, as long as all my new friends don't tire of my sense of humor.

It's a Man's World

I moved into Jack's apartment for the summer this week. I'll save my tearful Charlotte goodbyes for a later blog since my days have been mainly consumed with unpacking all my junk into the place HE'S been living for a month and a half.

Lucky for me, he cleaned up AND made space for my stuff (as he enthusiastically told me several times) so that I could get settled in, stress-free, while he was video-taping minor league baseball players "swings" (butts) until 11:00 my first day here in Greenville.

Jack and I have been dating long enough for me to know a lot about his living habits, especially since we've been long distance and generally spend several days and nights together at once. For example- he always lays his toothbrush on his toothpaste, rather than getting a cup to put them in. He cleans his ears frequently (who doesn't? Ear canals be damned!). His laundry basket always has at least one article of clothing draped over the side.

But there are little things about a person's living space that you don't pick up on until you are very conscious that you are moving in with them (even if only for the summer). And I picked up on some things that any girl needs to bring with her when moving in with ANY boy.

To be clear, I'm not picking on Jack. He has no flaws aside from the flaws that each member of his gender share (point for Sara!)

1. A box of trash bags: boys don't throw things away. Well, they SORT OF do. Jack didn't lie when he said he cleaned up for me, because he did. But I kept finding all these empty bottles and boxes on the ground. Or in the place where they would belong if they were still full. There was the half-dented Irish Spring soap box next to the shower, an empty mouthwash bottle on the sink, and an empty Advil bottle on his dresser. I think boys think that just because it won't make a mess when it isn't in the trash means they don't have to throw it away. I called my mom to investigate further.

"When I was cleaning out dad's shower yesterday, I threw away three empty bottles of shampoo."

2. Conditioner: that's because men, ever efficient, use grooming products that combine as many functions as possible. This is what is in Jack's shower:

Hair and body wash. I bet it can also be used as toothpaste and toilet cleaner. To upgrade, he bought a bottle of Head n' Shoulders 2 in 1 (specifically for me), but unless you want your hair to look like its been zapped by a taser, I suggest bringing your own beauty products.

3. A toilet brush: I don't think many boys know what this is used for. A plunger, yes, but a toilet brush, no. They'd be as lost identifying its use as they would for eyelash curlers. Most male apartments I've been in seem to have toilets that have never seen a toilet brush. I genuinely think this is because they think that the toilet is naturally stained like that (Jack's case), but bring one and show them the light. Just be sure that it's used to clean the toilet, not as some kinky sex toy (you never know when they might be confused).

4. An air freshener: not because boys smell bad (though some might). I did this because I wanted Jack to think that I (and my stuff) naturally smell like lavender and vanilla. It's even better when you can hide the air freshener so they really think it is just you. I put mine behind the bed. When Jack got home from work the day I moved in, he walked in to his room and goes, "Wow! It smells good in here."

Yeah, that's just me and my stuff. That's what I smell like all the time.

4. An open mind: women are naturally snoopers. Now necessarily because they're looking for ill intentions, but I think because they're curious and like to be in control. This needs to be reigned in when you move in with someone, because you are going to find some weird things partly because of bullet number one (their tendency to NOT throw things away). As I was bringing my stuff in, I found two very strange things.

In case you're wondering, that is a creepy plastic headband usually worn by middle-aged women in windsuits and a bottle of German baby shampoo. Now, either Jack is cheating on me with a German immigrant who is also a single mother, or these things were just left in his apartment (which is fully furnished, making it easier to leave things behind when moving out) by the former tenant (presumably a German immigrant who is also a single mother).

I'll be throwing both away with the other empty bottles.

Awkward Turtle

I HATE packing. On most occasions, I've been able to knock it out in one day, piling everything into my mom's minivan and dad's truck and then going off on my way. I'm not afforded that luxury now. Half my stuff will go to Greenville, where I'm living for the summer, and the rest goes back home, only to sit in boxes and bins and garbage bags and God knows what other types of containers until I get to start the whole process over again when I move to Boston in September. I also have way more stuff (read: junk) to account for since Charlotte was really my first home.

*Extended side note: YES, my mom still has a minivan. She bought it after all three of her kids were already in (or graduated from) college, complete with an entertainment system in the back. Why, you might ask, would a mother with kids in college need a minivan with an entertainment system in the back? When we take road trips now, we generally come in separate modes of transportation since we're coming from different places. And no one needs a DVD player when you're driving around town, especially when your town is approximately one square mile. She got it so that when her and my dad are traipsing around for retirement, she can sit in the way way back (we've always called the bench seat the way way back and I am just now realizing how juvenile it sounds in writing) and watch the Office/nap/stretch her legs out while my dad drives. But this is all beside the point.
 
So here I am, blogging up until the very last moment we have internet, surrounded by piles and piles of clothes and bedding and pens (seriously, how have I acquired so many pens over the past two years?), with nothing to do except sulk about how much packing there is to do (packing that will need to be done again in such a short amount of time). UGH.

This is my only outlet of escape. I can't watch TV because our TV's gone. I can't eat, because all our dishes are packed up. I can't work out because I am not very strategic in my clothing packing and the only thing I've left out for the past three days are my bathing suit and a pair of flip flops. I've had to pull random oversized t-shirts out of the nooks and crannies of laundry baskets and Sterilite snap bins just to go out to my car. Clearly, I'm under a little bit of pressure, especially with summer breathing down my neck and not a single thing planned out except that I'm moving to live with Jack and I'm bringing at least ten unread books. THAT'S IT. The other major stress is whether everything will fit in the truck when my dad comes down next week. Which leads me to mention- the Turtle.

The Turtle and I have a love-hate relationship. Wait... just a hate relationship. A long time ago, my parents decided that a minivan was just not big enough to pack things into when we went on long trips. They needed some kind extra space... a backpack for a car, if you will. So they bought the Turtle. A plastic hump that you strap onto the top of the car to give you a little bit more room to fit things. Why do I hate the Turtle? Let me count the ways.

1. It's loud: On a good day, the only thing you hear from the turtle is the occasional slap of one of its straps hitting the side of the car. On a bad day (meaning almost every time it was on our car), you hear the constant FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP, punctuated by a loud PING! every so often. We took a 24 hour road trip to Florida every year, usually without stopping. You do the math.
2. It's disgusting: You know what your car looks like after driving through the swampy humidity of southern states like Georgia. We'd have to draw straws for who would have to unlatch the front latch.
3. The latches: I should say "latches". There are none left. The Turtle is as old as I am, so over the years, the snaps that hold the thing shut have disappeared. You'd think that would be the cue to trash it and buy a new one (or just not have a Turtle anymore), but my thrifty father would have none of that. "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!" he says as he cuts a wire coat hanger and threads it strategically through the clasps, securing it with pliers.
4. There IS something wrong with the Turtle: this one is going to need some sub bullets:

1. The time when the top wasn't latched down and it flew open, causing our tent and several pillows to fly off the top of our car on the side of the road. We found the tent three weeks later (What a save!).
2. The time when the top wasn't latched down and THE WHOLE TURTLE FLEW OFF OUR CAR. My dad went back and got it ("There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!").
3. The time when we crushed the turtle backing out of a carport. It got completely mangled. In my head, I was cheering- "Yes! The demise of the Turtle! They're finally going to throw it away!" My dad, banging out the dents with his hand- "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!"
4. The time when the Turtle was leaking (aka every time after it got crushed by the carport) and we have to double pack everything in black plastic garbage bags. We looked REALLY classy unpacking this stuff when we went to Disney World.
   
5. The time when my parents showed up to move me out from college with the Turtle after I specifically asked them not to. I'm still not ready to talk about this one.
5. And finally- why is it called the Turtle when the picture on it clearly shows a snail?

I think it's obvious how much I hate the Turtle. Which is why this next statement is going to tell you just how much this whole packing thing is stressing me out. In a text message draft at approximately 8:32 pm last night, I almost asked my mom- "I'm afraid everything won't fit. Maybe you should bring the Turtle." I cringed thinking about sending it. It's like considering dating your third grade boyfriend again when you're living at home in your parents basement and you know you're better than that. But then, like magic, came the saving text from my mom- "Dad might bring an enclosed trailer on the back of the truck."

Phew! That was a close one.

*End note: I still HATE the Turtle.

Over.

I'm struggling to put into words exactly how I feel right now. My two years are up. My short-lived teaching career is over. Tomorrow, I will pack up the last pieces of my classroom and leave J. H. Gunn Elementary forever. While I do that, I'll find remnants of my students everywhere- the Disney tracings that Glenda gave me, the pencils Jaelyn tore erasers out of, the thirteen toy cars I confiscated from Sean.

I'll think of my kids from last year. Of Jacob, who figured out how multiplication worked on his own but could barely read. Of Taylor, who got a nosebleed every single day when we packed up. I'll think of Briona and the day I found bruises handprinted up her arms and onto her back. The sadness that was constantly behind Juwon's eyes.

I'll remember the days I hated it more than anything, the days when I was waiting in the parking lot at 5:25 am for the janitor to come and open the doors. The days when it was dark as I walked alone to my car. I'll remember my desperate hours spent planning, worrying, wondering how I would get some of these kids to read. I'll remember my craziest days when I wanted to go back to where I found myself after that first day, curled up in my cubby sobbing to my mom on the phone. The books and pencils and chairs that got thrown at me. The slammed doors. I'll remember the Mondays that felt like a whole week by themselves, the paperwork that took up hours of time. I'll remember the pain I felt knowing about the lives some of my kids led, lives filled with poverty and problems and neglect.

But most of all, I'll remember the moments when it all came together. When I asked how Ronaldo became such a good reader and he told me he dreamt it one night while he was sleeping. When Adrian remembered what the word elusive meant a month after we learned it. The excitement of the fun days. The hugs and high fives. The Friday dances on the bus lot. When they GOT it and their eyes lit up because they knew they got it.

My dad's always said that this is the greatest job in the world. And while I feel good about what is next for me, I can't help but think of how different life will be without those kids driving me crazy every day. Because when it came down to it, no matter what they did or said or threw, they were always just kids, growing right in front of my face and teaching me a hell of a lot more than I think they realized, a hell of a lot more than I ever thought they would.

I'll end this post with a quote from Destini's yearbook about me, which I think might be a better description of how I feel about each and every one of my kids:

My teacher is crazy and she is full of love and I want to squeeze the love out of her.... Right back at ya.

Five Days

I'm not quite ready to do my final reflection on these crazy two years I've spent teaching. I do, after all, have five more days to go (and with six and seven year olds, you never know what can happen in five days). But I am beginning to fill up with a big sense of guilt and regret about leaving. My plans for next year were put in the staff bulletin for the week and I got an e-mail shortly after from the teaching assistant who has worked in my room for the past two years.

She's seen some of the craziest moments of my teaching career, from my horrible first day (after which she told me she was surprised I came back) to the day when two kids peed their pants and one threw up within a span of 30 seconds. She was there when one of my kids threw a bin of books across the room in rage, when my autistic student ran out of the room and down the hallway. She's amazing.

Her e-mail was short, but it really hit me hard.

Miss Fiorillo, Congratulations on your new venture! I was really surprised. I thought you were a born teacher, but I know you will be successful in whatever you do. I have thoroughly enjoyed working with you the past two years. Please be sure to stay in touch!


I'm not putting that on here to try to show everyone what a fabulous teacher I was (and am, for five more days). In fact, I don't really know why I'm blogging about it. It's just another piece in the puzzle of trying to make sense of the work I've done these two years, trying to come to terms with all the challenges I've faced and the challenges my kids face. It makes it incredibly hard to leave knowing how powerful your impact can be as a teacher, but I'm still doing it. For what? Maybe I'll figure that out in my final reflection. Until then, I'm letting it sink in.

"Do you think this makes me want to invite you to my house?"

First grade teachers have to deal with a lot of problems that have nothing to do with whether their kids know how to read or do basic math (although I guess all teachers do). Because of the time of year, and all the canceled specials and outdoor recess, those problems seemed to be a lot bigger over the past two weeks. The biggest one? Our classroom bathroom.

Every day for two weeks, someone was peeing on the floor of the bathroom. It was gross. We had already had the talk that just because there's a drain (in this case, on the floor) does not mean you can pee in it. Several boys had further questions after that.

"Why not?"
"Well would you pee in a sink? That has a drain in it."
Blank stares. My thoughts- Oh God, they peed in the sink.


After that, I had everyone close their eyes and offered a Dum Dum to the student who was honest enough to admit to doing it, whether it was by accident or on purpose. Three boys raised their hands. THREE. They admitted to peeing all over the bathroom for a piece of D list candy. I had to have a talk with them, trying VERY hard not to just yell about locking it up and getting themselves under control.

"What do you think we can do to solve this problem?"

The three boys looked at me inquisitively. Then Gabriel, one of the few white kids in my class with a thick backcountry accent says, "I think maybe I might stand too far away." Yeah, that sounds like a good place to start to me.

Later that week, our toilet started spurting water out of the top, flooding the bathroom with at least an inch of standing water (good thing there's a drain!). I called the office, ready to evacuate the room for fear of rising toilet water. Luckily, the water stopped after about five minutes. Even more lucky because no one ever came down to fix it.

Which brings me to my main story. Before lunch one day, Gabriel came running out of the bathroom speaking so quickly and with such Southern twang I could barely understand him.

"I don' know what happened Miss Fi-rillo but I was jus' in the bathroom and washin' my hands and all of a sudden out of nowhere the piece fell right on off of that sink and I didn't do nothin' and it just fell and now it's sprayin' all over the place and I don' know why."

Translation: the piece that makes the sink water come out in a soft, steady stream somehow fell off. I didn't think it would be that bad until I turned on the sink and a stream of water came shooting out so hard it ricocheted off the porcelain and almost took my eye out. I hastily tried to screw it back on, but one of the pieces wouldn't fit. I left it by the sink, deciding to wait until the end of the day to call a custodian.

At the end of the day, one of my girls came to me and informed me that the metal piece of the sink had gotten thrown in the toilet. I was mad. Really mad. And really fed up with all these bathroom problems.

"IF SOMEONE DOESN'T TELL ME WHO THREW THAT PIECE IN THE TOILET, I AM CANCELING FIELD DAY FOR EVERYBODY."

Gasps. Color drained from their faces. A chorus of "I didn't do it!" rang from the class.

I calmed myself down a little bit. "I don't need to know who didn't do it," I replied, writing NO FIELD DAY in big black letters on the whiteboard. "But if I don't find out who did do it, we will be sitting inside doing MATH WORKSHEETS during Field Day."

Kids started packing up, and Gabriel starts walking sullenly to the front of the room. I should have known.

"Uh, Mis Fi-rillo?" he said, looking down. "I, uh... I think I might have been the one who threw the thing in the toilet.

"You either did it or you didn't Gabriel."

He paused for five seconds. Then- "I did it."

I made him go get it out and replace it in the original spot on the sink. While he was doing that, I erased my NO FIELD DAY message and started to meet my packed-up class on the carpet.

Just before I got there, Gabriel walked by me again.

"Well you're welcome for telling the TRUTH!" he proclaimed with his hands on his hips.

Oh right. I'm supposed to thank you when you throw stuff in the toilet. They must have skipped over that in Teach For America training.