And I really do feel like I fell underneath a giant, tulled and be-ribboned thing, a thing of registries and rehearsal dinners and formalware and invitations that just made me forget I was a person with a life outside having a wedding.
There is some normalcy to my life now: I am back to teaching, and sitting in on a class is going to force my writing in a way that I haven't felt in years. There simply are more important things for me to do than obsess about crafts and parties. This week I gave a reading at a bar on Chicago's north side about the woman that I accidentally became through a series of missteps in my early 20s. Here's a taste.
You ever heard of that frog in the pot of water that slowly boils to death because it can’t feel the water temperature getting hotter? I was that frog: the CEO of my job puts up a racially offensive poster, and when I complain about the message it sends to our kids, he refuses to take it down; temperature goes up three degrees. A kid at one of my schools blatantly ignore my instructions, picks a fight with another kid, and gets expelled, temp goes up two degrees. When I ask my boss for guidance, she tells me that if I“affect a blacker attitude” my kids will listen to me, four degrees. One of my students suffers from heat stroke, and instead of calling 9-1-1, my superiors slap wet paper towels on her and force her to drink water until she’s responsive, five degrees. I was confused, insecure and desperately unhappy. But somehow I just couldn’t harvest enough initiative to do something about it. Devon and Natasha did
whatever they could to take my mind off how unhappy I was, which generally involved pot and booze. There was always something to drink or smoke in the
house, and they were willing to share.