Alone in a Foreign Land

It’s a pretty melodramatic title, I know. But I was being pretty melodramatic over the last few days. I’m in Greece right now, a trip I booked several weeks ago. I’ve been really looking forward to the trip. But, in the couple of days before leaving, I started obsessing over this being the first time I would be traveling in a foreign country by myself. Pause, think about that . . . yes, I eventually realized how stupid that was given the fact that I LIVE in a foreign country by myself. And, this isn’t even the first time I’ve done that! I am living and working in England, dealing with Ofsted and rude, presumptuous children. I lived and worked in Mexico, dealing with assassinations of police chiefs, sixteen-year-olds shooting up nightclubs, and narcos leaving severed heads on the front steps of City Hall in Acapulco (and rolling them onto the floor of a nightclub in Chihuahua). And I’m worried about Greece?

It’s funny because I would not have called myself an adventurous person. I tend to think of myself as fairly conservative, but if I were to objectively assess my life, I have taken a lot of risks and done a lot of adventurous things. I mean, I’m not talking skydiving types of risks (no way on God’s Green Earth), or Behind Enemy Lines types of risks, but I’ve lived abroad three times (I was a Foreign Service Officer for Pete’s sake!), and I’ve lived in Boston and Washington. I bought a piece of Manhattan real estate on my own (a strange and daring adventure all on its own). I’ve sent my work out to publishers and TV producers, and handled the subsequent rejection (and occasional minor success). I’ve chatted with Oscar-winning directors and actors because I figured I had nothing to lose (thanks Danny Boyle, et al!). And all this is from the girl who, at seventeen, was too scared to go from NY to Boston for college (made it there eventually for grad school!)

So, what turned the 17-year-old girl afraid to leave home into the nearly 37-year-old citizen of the world? So many things. Obviously as I grew older, I grew more confident (in some things, anyway!). And, I grew stronger. Mom and Dad were a huge part of that. They never pushed, but they always encouraged. When I couldn’t go to Boston, they made sure I didn’t need to. When I wanted to go to Oxford, and was, truly, terrified at the thought of being so far away, they supported me and left the ultimate decision to me. I remember people saying, “The girl who couldn’t go to Boston is going to England?” And I told them, “I can’t get Oxford in New York.” That was a turning point for me. I realized that, if I really wanted something, I had to take a risk and, if I didn’t take that risk, I would wonder “What if?” for the rest of my life. So I took the risk. It wasn’t easy. I was lonely, I never quite fit in with my peer group (especially when I was living with a bunch of pot-heads), and we spent a fortune on phone calls home. But it was an experience I still value today. And, it conquered that last fear of being away from home. Everything else was (relatively) easy after that.

So then, why was I scared to travel to Greece alone? Well, on one of my soul-searching walks along the Thames (very useful walks, actually, more on them another time), it finally hit me. It had nothing to do with fear of being in another country on my own – that was simple displacement. No, what this anxiety was about was something very, very different. This is the first time I have taken a trip like this without Mommy. This is something we would have done together. In fact, there were two separate occasions on which we were supposed to come to Greece, but plans fell through. A little over a year ago, if I were to have been planning this trip it would have, without question, been with her. And now, it’s on my own. The sense of loss is palpable. I should be doing this with her. Today, we should have been gazing from the hills of Delphi and marveling at what it must have been like in all it’s glory, envisioning being one of the faithful coming to the oracle for a prediction (btw, I didn’t realize the oracle was the place, not the person). We would have drunk in the atmosphere and reveled in the fact that we were treading the same ground as the Ancient Greeks thousands of years ago. Instead, I was doing that, but alone.

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? That’s what this year+ has been about – figuring out who I am without my parents, and particularly without my best friend. They are still an incredible presence in my life, but it’s times like this when I really feel the fact that their presence is within me now, not beside me. I’m grateful for having that strong sense of them being with me, but sometimes, I really just want to talk to them like I used to. And to hug them. But, as cliché as it sounds, Life goes on. And, though I would not have thought it possible last year, life is good. School kinda sucks, but life is good! And, unbelievably, it keeps moving forward. And that’s all because the girl who couldn’t go to Boston went to England (and Greece!)

Sheep and Cows and Kings, Oh My!

Well, the past couple of weeks have been a bit rough. With all of the difficulties, though, I'm reminded that I have a wonderful group of colleagues around me, and I'm very lucky. They've all been very welcoming, and supportive, and have been there for me while everything has been going on at home. And, they don't need to - they hardly know me. But, that's the type of people they are. I'm very grateful for my colleagues, because some of the recent experiences I've had would have been totally unbearable without that support. But, those issues can hold for another time. I thought I'd just jot a quick note about a nice little visit Cali, Brooke and I had to my colleague Alan's home in Kent. It was a bit of adventure, actually. First, Cali and Brooke had their first ever train ride. They did well at Victoria Station, and we got a section of a car to ourselves on the train. We lucked out in that the ticket collector on the train was a dog lover, so she played with them and didn't mind them moving around a bit. Cali's usual snarkiness took hold at some stations, as she chose to growl at people on the platform through the window. Basically, for the whole ride, no one sat in our section! I have some cute pictures of them looking out the windows of the train (one of these days, I'll figure out how to insert pictures). When we got to Alan's house, they settled in pretty well, and then we went for a long country walk - another first for those two city dogs. I mean, they love Friends Lake, but that's not the same as the rolling English countryside. It was beautiful and, aside from one minor tiff with another dog, they did really well. When they met some sheep for the first time, they were very curious. Brooke gave a couple of experimental barks, but then settled for sniffing through the fence. I was a little concerned they might think the lambs were chew toys (they have a stuffed lamb from Stratford), but they did fine.

We didn't get too close to the Blank Angus cows, but I did see Cali and Brooke eyeing them cautiously. We stopped for a respite at the top of a hill and they drank some water and looked around curiously, and then we had another break at Chartwell, Winston Churchill's house, where we sat at a table outside and I had a coke. The two of them were too busy checking everyone out to have any water at that point. Cali had a couple of grumpy moments. Then we walked back, through the woods and across the fields. I really thought they'd get tired, but they seemed like they could go on forever. Made me feel a little bad that they spend so much time cooped up in the flat. They seemed so free and happy. Of course, their freedom had its restrictions - I didn't let them off the extension leashes. Alan's daughter Julia did a very commendable job of managing Brooke, while I handled Cali, and we worked out a rhythm of weaving back and forth to untangle the two maniacs!

Back at the house, after a late lunch (expertly prepared by Julia and Rebecca), Alan introduced me to the game of Kings - a simple, medieval game of strategy, using nothing more than wooden sticks and blocks, that is surprisingly addictive. It was a lot of fun, but I got the impression that Cali and Brooke wanted to try their hand at it, since Brooke kept knocking the blocks down with her lead. Then the train ride back - I expected them to be exhausted, but I guess there were too many exciting things to see. They got a lot of attention while we waited on the platform, and then the car was crowded, so we had to share space. Cali was snarky a couple of times, but overall, they did quite well, and we made it home without incident. I imagine they were quite overwhelmed with all the new things they saw and did, but I was quite proud of them (considering all the horrors I had envisioned!). Who knows, I may just take them out again! :)

This One's for Daddy

So much of what I've written over the past year has focused on Mommy and our relationship, but today is Daddy's Day. He loved St. Patrick's Day, and used to send countdown emails to any one "lucky" enough to be on his distribution list. Truthfully, everyone looked forward to the emails. They would come monthly, then weekly, then finally daily, complete with pictures, bits of Irish history, song lyrics, you name it. St. Patrick's Day was a season, just like Christmas. The house would be decorated, the flag would be out for the whole month before. We'd go to the Annunciation Parish celebration, with music, mass, then the young kids dancing in the school gym, complete with corned beef sandwiches. Usually the next day was the Yonkers parade, which was always fun. But the best part was going to Rory's afterward. On the day itself, we sometimes went to the parade, and sometimes watched it at home. One year, Dad and I went for lunch at Rory's and then Mom met us after school. Another year, he met me down at US Trust and we went to the Pig and Whistle for lunch. My cousin Anthony was working there at the time, and he joined us. Then, we went back to work and Dad went to see the parade, and ended up marching with the Clare contingent.

Maybe the most memorable parade was the 2002 parade. The city was still recovering from the 9/11 attacks, and it was a very moving parade. The moment I will never forget was when the firefighters, carrying 343 American flags, turned and faced south on Fifth Avenue, observing 2 minutes of silence for the fallen of 9/11. There wasn't a dry eye all up and down Fifth Avenue. That was the last time I went to the parade with Daddy. I was either working, or living in Mexico during subsequent St. Patrick's Days. But, for his last St. Patrick's Day (the one when I was in Mexico), he and Mommy met our cousins, the Goldings and DiFalcos, in the City and marched with them for a short time. I remember getting an email from one of my cousins from the parade route. I know how special it was for Daddy, and I only wish I could have shared it with him.

After he died, some people asked if I would continue his countdown, but it didn't seem right. That was his thing. But, today I did send an email, and included a link to a youtube clip of his favorite Irish song, "A Nation Once Again." It reminded me of his funeral, actually, but not in a bad way. At the graveside, we all sang the song, and I remember my Uncle Tony commenting, "Only Joe Cleary could get a bunch of Puerto Ricans to sing an Irish song." But that said everything about my dad, and my family. You wouldn't think an Irish-American guy and a Puerto Rican family would blend so well, but Daddy was welcomed in to the family so fully, that it was like he had always been one of them. He was even the one to do the eulogy when Mama passed away. He was as much her son as any of my 7 Uncles.

I think about both Mommy and Daddy every day, but some days it's more potent, and this is one of them. They had amazing weather in NY, so he would have definitely gone to the parade, and right about now, he'd be getting ready for Pete Smith's party. But, he's not, and I'm living in a country that, let's face it, doesn't really mark this holiday! Oh, well, there's always next year in NY. And, I'm happy to celebrate this year with the knowledge that I have received my Irish citizenship - Daddy would love that!

Happy Birthday Mommy

I just wanted to include a quick entry today, which would have been Mommy's 66th birthday. Thought about her a lot today, especially as I had to deal with observation at school today. I asked her for help in getting through the observation and for it to go well. The answer came in a weird way. The result was not what I wanted, but is not actually surprising given the current climate at school. I realized on my walk to the train that what Mommy gave me was perspective. Perspective allowed me to see the process here for what it is and to remember that in 10 years of teaching, on the college level, and high school level, and in 2 years in the Foreign Service, I never got anything less than an outstanding evaluation. And, aside from kids with axes to grind (see "40" in last post), I've always had an excellent rapport with my students. I know I'm a good teacher, a knowledgeable teacher, a teacher who inspires students and gets them to think about the world around them. That's not arrogance, that's truth.

The problem here is that my idea of what makes a good teacher (you know, actually teaching for example) seems to be the antithesis of what the government here thinks makes a good teacher (moderating activities and ticking boxes). I'm comfortable with who I am and what I do, and I know I make a difference as a teacher. And, from what I've seen, if that seems to clash with Ofsted's idea of good teaching, then I must be doing something right.

This is the sort of thing I would have probably discussed at length with Mommy, probably over cocktails while watching the news in the den. Life is different now, but I felt her with me, and I know I was the stronger for it. So, Happy Birthday, Mommy. I love you and I miss you.

24 and a half plus 7 equals 40. No, wait . . .

No, my math skills haven't finally bitten the dust. Not that they were so high above the dust to begin with. I can still remember getting a score lower than my age on a calculus test in college. But I mean, come on! Who really uses calculus, other than mathematicians? Anyway, I digress (as usual). These numbers are merely representative of some of the things that have been going on since I last wrote. Let's start with the easy stuff. The HALF references the fact that we just had the February HALF-term holiday, which came after a particularly difficult first HALF of the spring term, but which also marked that we are HALF-way through the school year. Since coming back from the holiday, I feel better physically, and am so much more at ease with Angela's situation, which has been amazing. But, I've felt a bit wrong-footed at work. I'm not quite sure if it's actually me, though, as everyone is on edge following the Ofsted inspection. At any rate, some people have been a touch snippy, with comments that I don't quite know how to take - they could mean nothing, or they could represent their true feelings which they've been too polite to express before. I'm not going to go into specifics, but I'm trying not to take it personally, trying to chalk it up to the pressure and stress that everyone is under. Just keeping my head down.

So, 7. 7 refers simply to the number of hours I had to deal with a screaming baby on my ride home to NY over half-term. It penetrated even through my earbuds, and I had a pounding headache by the time I reached my apartment. In fact, I don't really know what was worse, the screaming baby, or her Chav mother trying to "soothe" her by loudly humming the theme tune to "The A-Team." Frankly, if she were my mother, I'd cry too.

The trip home was good, and generated a few numbers of its own: 5 is the number of boxes I unpacked. 4 is the number of contractors I met with to do the kitchen and bath, and I'm still too traumatized to actually write down the numbers they gave me to do the work! 3 is the number of suitcases full of clothes I brought back to NY so I wouldn't have to ship them. 2 is the number of suitcases full of groceries I brought back to London (6 boxes of cereal, 8 boxes of mac n cheese, 10 boxes of granola bars, etc.)  And, finally, 1 is the number of miracles my family was granted this year.

Moving on to 40. That's a bit of a funny one. They say you should never read your reviews, but I've never been good at following that advice. So, I found a somewhat nasty review of me on ratemyteachers.com from the end of last year (so an Ursuline girl). Now, at the risk of sounding cocky, I'm a good teacher and my students like me. Just look at the number of caring girls who came to Mommy's wake last year. But, there's always a few you can't reach, and there's always those who decide  to get back at you if they get in trouble, or do poorly. Students are virtually powerless, so they resort to things like websites that allow you to vent your poison anonymously (quite brave, huh?). Anyway, this particular spoiled brat had a few things to say, but my favorite was "She's jealous that I'm three times the writer at 18 that she is at 40. Sad." You can imagine my ire at this! How dare she! I am not 40!!!!

And that brings me to the last number: 24. This is a number I've thought about a lot over the last few weeks. It's another life philosophy of mine for when life tries to knock you down. Some people believe that being strong means you don't let things affect you, but that's not true. Being an English teacher, it makes me think of a quote from Macbeth. When Macduff is told of the murder of his family, he is overcome with grief. Malcolm tells him, "Dispute it like a man." Macduff responds, "I shall, but first I must feel it like a man." You have to feel things, and those feelings are valid. But, there comes a time when you have to put those feelings aside, deal with it and move on. So, many years ago, I came up with the 24-hour rule. Basically this rule means that, when something goes wrong, when you have a disappointment, or some issue at work or school, you get to wallow in self pity for 24 hours. But, after that, you need to get it together and deal. This way, the feelings are acknowledged and not bottled up, but you don't stay mired in them forever. Life goes on, and we need to go on with it. Even when we think we can't. I never imagined living without my parents, but here I am, still going. By the way, the 24 hour rule clearly would not apply in truly traumatic situations. You need more time for those. But, the basic principle is the same - eventually you have to get up out of the depths and start living again.

So, for a girl who hates math (or maths, as they say here), I certainly have been consumed by numbers lately.  I'm sure it's just a passing fever and the world will right itself soon. Only time will tell . . .

One Year

I can't actually believe it has been one year. One year ago today, I was certain my life was over. How was life supposed to continue without the most important person in the world? But, life did continue and here I am, one year later, in another country, living a new life. Coming to London was the best thing I could have done, really. I needed to figure out who I was as a person, without being "Haydee and Joe's daughter." I couldn't do that at home. I needed to be somewhere where no one knew me, so I could reinvent myself. And, I have reinvented myself to some extent. I mean, I'm still me - and it's crazy to think I'd change that significantly. But, I am fguring out how to go it alone, and how to be OK with that. It's not that I don't have low moments or like I don't feel lonely, because I definitely do. But, somehow, I'm finding the strength to keep going. Mommy always said "Adversity builds character," and I suppose over the years I built up the strength to deal with the worst life could throw at me. But there's something else too. Over the last year I've sometimes wondered why someone who has had the close relationship I had with my parents should lose them. Rather unfairly, I have found myself sometimes resenting people who still have their parents. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. I expecially get annoyed when I hear about people not getting along with their parents, when I would love to just have a conversation with mine. Like I said, I know it's not fair to judge others' relationships with their parents, but what can I say? Sometimes I can't help it. Anyway, sometimes I find myself thinking that I was so close with my parents because I was destined to lose them too soon. As if I was storing up the love an happy memories to sustain me through the rest of my lie without them. And, in a weird way, if having them with me longer would have meant not being as close to them, I don't think I would have wanted that.

Anyway, it's been a hell of a year. So much has happened, and continues to happen. Keith and Angela have been through so much more this year too, but that seems to be getting a bit better. This is life, or "afterlife" I guess you could say. Figuring out who you are when the most important person in your world is gone. It's a work in progress, and I'm interested to see how it turns out.

Good Enough to See

It really is a good thing I don’t have an adoring public hanging on my every word for nourishment – they’d starve. Seriously, I could never be one of those people who tweet every little detail of their lives. Aside from the fact that the world doesn’t care if I had fish and chips for lunch (I did, by the way), who has that kind of time. Although, that does remind me that Kacy Cannon, the hero of my teen novel The Secret of Starlight Landing, hasn’t been on her twitter in a while. Must get on that.


Anyway, I’ve had some experiences recently (well one was in November, but see statement above about the frequency of posts!) that have reminded me of an old life philosophy I had. Don’t worry, it’s nothing deep and ponderous. I don’t really do deep an ponderous. And, it’s not so much a philosophy as an observation, I suppose. At any rate, I call it “Good Enough to See.”

So, what does that mean? Perhaps an illustration is best. Last week, I went to a black tie performance of Twelfth Night at the Royal National Theatre in London. Very nice. Flowing champagne. The works. And, in November, I went to the 150th Anniversary Gala of the Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. Lovely dinner, great performances. Again, the works. Both events had their share of celebrities: Andrew Lloyd Webber, Simon Cowell, even royalty and red carpets. Not that I actually got to mingle directly with said celebrities or royalty. I merely got to breathe the same rarified air and drink the same champagne. And, I was not invited to the dinner after the Twelfth Night Performance. Now this isn’t about celebrity at all, because I’m not one to obsess over celebrities. But, it proves my point. Lots of people envied me getting to go to these things, and it was fun and pretty cool (how many times do you get to sit in a crowd and be addressed, “Your royal highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen”?). But all I could think was, “How come I can’t be like them?” I was able to attend the event, but not able to move in the highest circles. Thus, I was good enough to see what I was not good enough to be.

No matter what we achieve in life, it seems there’s always a level above us. And, no matter how content we may be with our achievement, as soon as the novelty wears off and we realize there is another level above us, we want that too. “How come I can’t be like them?” Another example was when I was skating. I could execute most of the basic freestyle jumps, but I lacked any true talent, and my bad knees sunk my hopes of doubles and triples pretty early (really was hoping for that double salchow). But, because I was “good enough,” I shared the freestyle ice with the girls at the rink who were really good. Thus I was good enough to see what I was not good enough to be.

The question is, is it a bad thing that we always reach for the next level? Isn’t that what life is about? Reaching for what’s just above in a constant striving for bigger and better things? After all, no one would ever achieve success if they were just content to be “good enough.” And, yet, the constant striving can take its toll. At what point do you need to examine your life and say, “Good enough is good enough.” I honestly don’t know the answer to that because I haven’t reached it yet. I’ve enjoyed some minor success in my life, but my goal has always been to make my living writing. I love teaching and would continue to do it regardless of how successful my writing was, but I feel the need to be validated as an author (writing a more regular blog would be a good start, I admit). I want to be identified as a writer first, and then a teacher. But, does there come a time when I have to hang up the quill? I don’t know.

A last reflection makes me think of the show Frasier. One of my favorite episodes is when they steal Cam Winston’s invitation to an exclusive day spa (because they didn’t get one of their own – again, good enough to see). Once they get in, they’re thrilled and so relaxed, until they see a gold door. They’re told that they have silver membership, and that the gold door is only for gold members. Well, suddenly everything they just raved about was inferior and they needed to go through the gold door. They sneak in and again are thrilled, until they see a platinum door. Well, clearly, platinum beats gold any day! Once again they sneak in. It’s like nirvana, until they see the diamond door. Even though they are told once again not to go through, they do, and bask in the warm glow of the sun, until they realize they are in the alley behind the spa, among the garbage bins. If they had just been content with what they had, they would still have been enjoying the spa, but “good enough” was not good enough.

I don’t have the answer, but my gut tells me we keep reaching, and if we end up in the dumpster, so be it – at least we’ll know we haven’t missed out on anything. But, me, I’m hoping for diamonds.