Returning to the Scene

Update:

I went back for my second CrossFit class last Tuesday.
It's Sunday and I am still having trouble using my hand to push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

It's a sad, sad state of affairs.

I won't go into details of the workout, but let's just say it was like water-boarding without the fun.

I spoke with my husband after Tuesday's class and he reminded me that CrossFit is training for Marines... Marines who are 18 years old.  Mike then asked me, "How old is everyone in your class?" I hadn't thought about it until he asked. "I don't know," I said, "20's, 30's... I think I'm the oldest."

Yes, 45 is a lot older than 18.
There was a pause that gave me pause.
Maybe I didn't think this through as thoroughly as I should have.

...

I spoke to my parents on the phone the following day.  The second day of recovery is the worst.  I described the hour-long class to them, and after the snickering laughter (and do not judge my parents' support of me on this story, please), there was a pause (again!).  My father then said, "Well, we called to get your social security number for your life insurance policy, but obviously we'll be outliving you, so this is a moot point."

Lovely.

At school, I tried to explain what I was doing in CrossFit to my students (because I couldn't move and needed help) and Dylana said, "Why didn't you just LEAVE? Why did you stay?" The whole class turned to me and waited for the logical answer I didn't have.

There was that pause again.
Ugh.

...

Here's the thing.

I don't believe I'm 45.  I don't.  Come on. How many of you really identify with your age in years?  Anyone?! I understand those YouTube videos of some senior citizen standing up to kick some hoodlum's *ss.  I get it. (Did you see the guy take down a thug on a NYC crosstown bus?)


Here are the other things.

• I have a hot, fit husband who's older than I am.  
• My brother runs faster and longer than I do and he has a hot, fit doctor wife. 
• One of my closest female friends (and athletic partner) is 28.  
• I try and hang with some majorly competitive male friends who do ultra triathlons.  
• I come from a previous career in theater and those people are AGELESS. 

Most importantly, though, here's the final thing.

I believe I can be more than I am now.  After all, we are our stories.  If the story I tell myself is that I'm mid-40's and I should be winding down, well, then there's a Snuggie and a Barcalounger waiting for me.

So, I'm going to continue to return to the scene.  It may only be once a week.  It may be a humbling beat-down every single time.  Who am I kidding?  It WILL be a humbling beat-down every single time.  But I will continue to return.

I want to write my own story.

A Second Chance

Riding my bicycle this morning, I spotted him.

Prophet.

If you've read the previous blog entry, you'll know that Prophet is my neighborhood homeless friend.  I've been wondering about him a lot lately.  Today, he finally appeared, not at the park where I've normally seen him, but a block away at the corner of 135th and Frederick Douglass.  His back was to me, but I knew it was him.   There he was, that gentle giant, head to toe in black rags and a giant dark blanket around him like a royal cloak.

I couldn't contain myself.  "Prophet!"  I yelled.  He turned and lit up with a smile to match mine.  I stopped my bicycle in front of him and he reached out for my hands.
"I have missed you!" he said.
"I've missed you, too." And I had. "Where have you been?"
"Oh, here and over at mbrrrbbmm."  I didn't get the word, but he gestured across the street.
"I've been looking for you at the park."
"Oh, I will be there later."
"How are you?" I asked.
"Wonderful.  Wonderful!  But you. How are you? How have you been?  Are you well?" He peppered me with questions.
"I'm great, and I'm so glad to see you again." Everything felt lighter.

We stood for a moment smiling, holding each other's hands.  Then Prophet said...

"When you are ready.  Please come."

"I will, I will," I nodded and I really meant it. He nodded back.  I shifted on my bike and got back on the road.

Two hours later, as I rode back uptown, I started thinking of questions I wanted to ask him.  I wanted to hear his story, wanted to hear his thoughts and ideas.  I was ready - finally - to stop and talk. The park appeared in the distance and I surveyed the park benches.  I slowed down and scanned the area.  I searched of Prophet, but there was no sign of him.

I was disappointed but not disheartened.  I'm looking forward to that talk.  We all need something to look forward to.

Not 20 anymore. Not even close.

I have to type quickly, because my muscles are starting to seize up and I'm not sure how long I have.

Do you hear that?  That's the sound of muscles screaming.  I never knew they did that.  They do.  Oh, they do~

I took my first CrossFit class tonight.

Have you heard of CrossFit?  You essentially pay someone to put you into traction.  That's probably unfair, because if I were in better shape, maybe I wouldn't be in such trouble now.  But here's the thing.  I  think - well, I thought - that I am in relatively decent shape.  I run!  I cycle! I ski!  I don't double over after walking up four flights of stairs!  I was sure I could hold my own in a one hour CrossFit class.  Puh-lease.

And then I met Syn at CrossFit Harlem.
There's a reason that their logo includes a skeleton.

The WOD (Workout of the Day) was "cardio," and when Syn wrote that on the blackboard, I inwardly exhaled.  Cardio is mine. I own cardio.

Ha!

First, we ran two laps around the armory next door.  Easy, breezy, beautiful.  I started feeling cocky.  I got this, I smirked.

Uh-oh.  Then we did cardio with weights, and not just my usual 3-5 pounds... no.  Syn gave me a 35 lb. bar with 15 lbs. on each side (that's 65 lbs. for my fellow lazy mathematicians).  I had to take that from chest to over my head 100 times in 6 minutes.  I'll tell you, time has never been so relative.  I'd read on the CrossFit Harlem website NOT to complain and NOT to give up, so I was prepared.  I lifted that bar 12 whole times over my head and then struggled to lift it the remaining 88 times about 3 inches off my chest, but I did it. Humbling.

p.s. The woman in front of me did a full 100 like she was brushing her teeth.  I'll be so sore tomorrow I won't be able to brush mine without whimpering.

Oh, but we weren't done with that bar yet.  Syn had us take the plate weight off, so that we were left with the weight bar.  We had to hold the bar at our chests and go down into a squat, and stay there until all nine of us had been checked for form.  I don't squat that low to tie a shoe anymore.  Every part of me was shaking. I was hoping that alone was the exercise, but at this point, I knew better.  Syn yelled at the other newbie and I was relieved that someone else was the last of the herd.  Terrible, but true.  Thank God for a weaker one!

Sure enough, there was more.  This was our starting position for the next 100. Our next round was to be lifting the bar from a low squat to up over our heads in a popcorn-popping, cardio-fast motion.  FAST!  Syn said to keep track of our number.  I may have miscounted.  A couple of the consecutive numbers in my head may have stuck together so that one lift over my head counted for two.  When I put down my bar after 100, it may have been a creative 100, but I will tell you, I am guilt-free.

Next up. Syn told us to grab weight vests.  I leaned down to pick one up with one hand, because really, what's it going to weigh?  20 lbs. tops, right?  Try 50.  I couldn't lift the thing over my head by myself, especially after the weightapalooza I'd just experienced.  I can't remember the name of the woman who helped me because I was delirious, but someone strapped me in, and we then had to run another 3 laps around the armory.

I managed to not finish in last place, which I felt was a huge coup.  I was so high at the end of the class that my body hadn't registered the impending pain.CrossFit Harlem did ask me to sign a waiver AFTER the class, and I could barely move my arms, but I still felt (or didn't feel) pretty good.

So, what did I decide to do?  That's right... jog on home.  I made it two blocks and then slowed to a lope.

I waddled up the 3 flights to our apartment, B-lined to the bathroom for ibuprofen, then collapsed.

Mike brought home a half-case of tequila and asked me to store the bottles above the kitchen cabinets.  I've never, ever come so close to dropping those bottles, which I must say are the closest things to children that I'll ever know.  But tonight, it was dangerous.  Dangerous!

Anyway, the bottom line is... I'm tightening up like the Tin Man.  I can't move.  I did manage to mix a margarita for myself, and thankfully my mouth is operable even as the rest of my body is shutting down.

Have I mentioned that I haven't planned for my classes tomorrow?
SMACK.

High school and gym class and swimsuits, oh my~

Want to deal a cruel fate to a self-conscious high school girl?  Schedule her for gym class first period... and require her to take a swimming unit.  

Want to double down?  Make her stand poolside in her bathing suit in a line with other girls, and put windows EVERYWHERE around the pool.  Make it inviting for students in the courtyard outside and in the gymnasium above to peer (and leer) inside.  

Want to break her bank?  Make the attendance line alphabetical so that Derby stands next to Douglas.

Make her stand next to Kelly Derby.

WOW!

Kelly Derby was God’s perfect form.  I’m pretty sure that Kelly Derby in a bathing suit was on the list of Top 100 Things You Should See Before You Die.  I mean, at the time, Kelly Derby in a bathing suit made me WANT to die, but I still appreciated (and hated) the reality. 

She was stunning. 

Me? I looked like a tongue depressor next to Kelly Derby.  In all honesty, I looked like a tongue depressor anywhere, but especially next to Kelly Derby, and there was no place to hide.  Gawkers looked through the windows from the basketball courts above and the courtyard outside.  

God, I hated Kelly Derby in those moments, because I wanted to be her so much.

The power that girl had!

What did I have?

I actually had a diversion. I should have realized what I realize now: no pair of those eyes were on me.  I should have taken comfort in the fact that Kelly Derby was the star of that show. I should have been grateful for the space of not being watched so that I could just be... me.  I didn't have to think about impressing anyone or being anything.  I had some time to be clumsy and awkward and silly and embarrassing, because honestly, no one was expecting me to be sexy and well-poised and perfect.

How I wish I had thought of it that way, but I didn’t.  I was too busy being devastated how I was being seen in relation to this stunning girl.

My senior year in high school, my English teacher stopped me one day on the way out of class.  We had been reading Sister Carrie, and the book spends time talking about Carrie's "simple beauty," which, let's face it, is another way of saying, she was a tongue depressor. Anyway, he said to me, "I'm so glad you never thought you were beautiful."  And I thought at the time, What kind of comment is that?!  


Simple had its advantage.

Prophet

I first noticed him a couple of summers ago. I was riding my bicycle downtown, and he was sitting on a wooden bench on the sidewalk in front of St. Nicholas Park.  This giant, onyx-black man dressed in layers of dark not-quite-raggedy rags and sat statue still, seeming to take the world in with the fewest movements possible.  There was a peacefulness to him.  He seemed... content.  It struck me as odd, because by all appearances, he looked homeless. (The clothes hinted at it, but the overflowing shopping cart next to him confirmed it.)  The homeless in New York City generally don't look content. Desperate, haunted, down on their luck, even strung out, yes, but not content.  


And as I continued on my way, I felt a slight lift; a little buoyancy. Odd.


After that first spotting, I started to look for him whenever I went by the park.  He was often right where I expected to see him, calm and still. 


For weeks I just took him in silently, but finally, I broke the barrier.  One day, I cycled by and yelled, "Hello!"  I raised my hand from the handlebar and gave a wave.  He lifted his head up in recognition and beamed the most beautiful, open smile. It seemed almost as though he had spotted me too over the past couple of weeks.  Maybe the watcher had been the watched!  Whatever the case, interaction had been established.


I looked forward to seeing him.  Our exchanges were so mutually enjoyable, like that of two old friends.   I would spot him and yell my "Hello!"  and we would both wave, and always, I left feeling lighter - happier.


One morning I was on my way to cycle with a friend before church, and I spotted him.  I waved and yelled hello, but this time, I turned around and cycled back.  I parked my bike at the curb and walked over to him.  He opened his arms wide, and without hesitation, I accepted his embrace.  And I know this seems crazy because even as I write it, I cringe a bit.  I mean, you have to be careful in the world today.  Don't let your guard down, and certainly not for a homeless stranger whom you know NOTHING about. He is a big, big man.  Who's to say he couldn't have just snapped my neck like a twig?  In almost every way, it was the most ridiculous thing to do.  Why would anyone be stupid enough to risk it?


So now you know, I'm not always the sharpest tack.
Close friends will say I'm hopelessly optimistic and incredibly naive.  That's fair.  
But the life I am blessed with is only possible through these qualities.


Let's get back to the story.  My friend Lindsey is a REAL writer, and in real writing when you digress from the action of a story, it's called a stop pause or a stop gap. (Right, Linds?)  It's not good to get too far off-course.  Umberto Eco can do that stuff, but not a little blog writer like me.


So, yes, I hugged this homeless stranger. The gentle giant enveloped me.  He was warm and smelled of something like cinnamon. Everything about that moment was comforting and safe.  Who knew? I laughed and he released me.  


"What is your name?"  I asked him. "It's only right that we should have a proper introduction."
He replied in a think accent.  Jamaican, maybe?  I couldn't understand so I asked him again.
"My name is Prophet,"  he smiled.
Now it was my turn to beam. 
Prophet. 
"Nice to meet you, Prophet.  I'm Stephanie."  We shook hands.  
"We must talk.  Can you stay and talk?" Prophet asked.
"Oh, no, not today.  I'm on my way to meet a friend, but yes, let's talk another time."
"I will tell you my story," he said.
"I'd like that, Prophet," I replied.  I let go of his hand and headed back to my bicycle.
"Be careful," he said.


(Oh, it's too late for that now, isn't it?)


I've seen Prophet several times since then.  Sometimes I've just waved on the way by, and sometimes we've shared a quick hug. Always he asks when we will talk and always, I've been on my way to somewhere else. 


I think about that sometimes.  I'm delaying listening to Prophet.  Hmmm.  


I haven't seen Prophet since the colder months, but I've started to keep an eye out for him again.  I wait with anticipation.  Part of me worries that he's been okay, and part of me thinks he can manage just fine without my concern. 


I think about Prophet on this Easter weekend.  Funny where we find our prophets. This one has come in the lowliest form, he travels alone or with others like him, but he is open and inviting and generous of spirit.  He seems to live right in the present, always willing to stop and just be grateful for what and who is right in front of him. And he wants me to hear his story.


May you find your very own prophet.

Clarity at 6:31 Still Comes Too Late

(I wrote this during summer 2010 with the NYC Writing Project, a branch of National Writing Project. That amazing group of writers/educators still inspire me to try and write every day.
I experienced this GodSmack that summer.)

“Clarity at 6:31 Still Comes Too Late”

I had turned my alarm off last night, because, sweet Saturday, I was planning on sleeping until I slipped from slumber.

Didn't happen.

6:28am: the apartment buzzer squawks.

?

Could it be FedEx already?  Who has a package?  Probably for Sharon downstairs.  Ugh, I hate when they mix up our buzzers.  Let me just - let me untangle myself from the sheets and see if I can see anything from the front window.  Holy cow, the living room is stifling.  Oooh, shut the bedroom door; don't let the A/C out.  

Wobble, wobble, swerve, oof. My foot stubs into the floorboard like a sloppy kiss.  The morning stumbles have me careening like a cliched drunken sailor. I lunge toward the couch, arms outstretched to catch myself in case depth perception tricks me.

Hmm.  Can't see a truck out front and can't see directly down to who's...

SQUAWK!
Again?

I go to the buzzer box.  I do not stub my foot - an indicator that I am cresting consciousness.

"Who is it?" (Can the person downstairs hear the edginess I have purposely peppered onto these three words? I have been awakened against my will!)

A woman's voice. "Sorry to come by so early but I have some murmurmrrmmmrmr bbbmmmrm."

"You have what?"

"Oh my, I'm just getting static on this end," she says.

Huh, you're going to get a lot more than that in a second, I think. I poke the buzzer with bullying intention.

"YOU. HAVE. WHAT?"  
That'll show her.

"Mrbbbrrm mrmrbbrr  I'll just leave it blpppblp brrrp.."
She is speaking a mishmosh of real words and humming consonants and I don't understand. That is a ridiculous thing to do.
To teach her a lesson, I'm now going to ignore her.

I release myself from the buzzer box and skip a little. Oooh!  Bedroom feels good.  Oooh, bed feels niiiiice. Snuggle, snuggle, snuggle.

SQUAWK!!!

(She's joking, right?)
I bang my fists on the mattress.
I am not getting out of this bed.  
I am not.
I am not.
I am not!
My heart's knocking.  
How dare she?  This is my Saturday and it's... it's now 6:30!  It's 6:30 and I should not feel my heart knocking!  I should be fast asleep!
I am not getting out of this bed.
BUT
Someone needs to tell her a thing or two.
You don't just go around ringing buzzers and talking in consonants whenever you feel like it.  
This is a society- there are RULES.

Look what she has made me do!  I am out of bed and scrambling for the scrunched up skort on the floor. I am back to the blast of the hot air, fly-falling down the three flights of stairs, flinging open the front door and -

She is petite and perfectly manicured.  This beautiful deer has obviously been up for HOURS and looks fresher than I will be able to muster by the afternoon today... maybe ever. She blinks her saucer eyes in such surprise.

"Oh,” she gasps, and her mouth is a perfect circle. “Oh my.”
(Only as I am in front of her is she now using all her vowels)
“I’m really sorry to disturb you so early,” she rapid-fire hyperventilates, “but I have big bags of clothing to drop off and - "

And I think I understand.

"You want the Reverend's house next door."

The saucer eyes widen to full dinner plates.
"Oh, I am so sorry.  I am so sorry!"
"It's all right," I say, but I make sure she knows it's not.
I turn from this woman with such annoyance and disgust
because she woke me up with a squawk, ripped me from cool dreams, and spoke in a language I couldn't understand.
I close the door with every bit of disdain I can muster.
I have been inconvenienced and it is a shameful, egregious act that has been committed upon me.

I fling myself back into bed and force myself to relax and return to bliss.  
I WILL RELAX.
I WILL LET GO.

Stupid lady.
Stupid generous lady.  
Stupid generous lady, donating clothing to people in need.
That's just downright inconsiderate of her, being so loving at 6:28am.
That's just...

oh.
...
...

OH.
Now I am the one with the wide-open eyes.
...

I get out of bed.

I am finally,

fully,

AWAKE.




(Smack.)

The Joke That Slipped Away

Your material can be great, your timing can be spot on, but if you don't have the audience,
ya got nothin'.


Ten years ago...

It was afternoon rush hour in early fall.  I was crossing New York City's 5th Avenue at 42nd Street.  In the middle of 5th Avenue, I swear to you, I slipped and skidded, almost landing flat on my rump.  I jerked up, looked back and what did I see?


A banana peel.

I actually slipped on a banana peel.  I lived the perfect joke!  Who gets these kinds of moments?

Problem was, everyone around me was too busy to acknowledge it.

I held my arms out, imploring to the rushing masses.

"Come on, really?  No one saw that?" I turned around, trying to find a pair of eyes to meet mine. "NO ONE is gonna laugh at that?"

No one would even look at me, let alone crack a smile. The intersection of 42nd and 5th had never seemed so quiet.

What's a girl to do?

I stood alone in the middle of the street, threw my head back and laughed.  I laughed like a hard summer storm. Life gave me a banana peel and by God, I was going to appreciate it.

It sure would have been nice to share the moment, but my audience of one sufficed. Sometimes there are moments that you must embrace for yourself, by yourself.  The material was great, the timing was spot on, and I was all I needed.

I laughed heartily... but quickly. Let's remember, the traffic lights aren't timed for comedy, and those cabs, they'll smack a girl.

What Would Picasso Do?

or "Artist Spends Birthday Party In Solitary Confinement"

It was my 8th birthday party.

When I was 7-going-on-8, I was creative. Yes, I used to be creative, before society slapped it out of me.  Right before my big transition from 7 to 8 years old, I had been toying around with marshmallows, toothpicks, and little metallic-looking sugar pearls. (Did you know that they're called "dragees"?)
After painstaking minutes of working with these materials, I created little marshmallow robot men, and naturally, I fancied myself an artist.  I mean, face it, my work was extraordinary.  Do you know any kid that has made a marshmallow robot man with metallic dragees?  Right; you don't.  Not one.  No kid you know has ever done that. Well, I did it unassisted.  On my own. No mentor or guide for me. I was a lone wolf, like Picasso.  P. Cass. Oh!

And that's exactly why I knew that my birthday party guests would positively prefer my special prizes over the store-bought junk my mom had bought for the party.  Seriously, what 8-year-old girl wants a decorative hand mirror when she can have an edible work of art made exclusively by the guest of honor?

But mom ruined everything.

Here's how it went down.

We played a game.  I think it was Kathy Goodall who won. (She was so lucky!)
Kathy got to pick her prize, and Mom held out the options.  In order to speed the process along and to help Kathy make the right choice, I elbowed my way in and shoved that mass-manufactured crap out of the way.  I presented my precious marshmallow robot men, knowing that anyone with half a brain and a fraction of good taste would make the right choice.

Kathy hemmed.
My mother hawed.

Kathy may have mumbled that she wanted the hand mirror. Okay, let's face it, Kathy Goodall was still 7 and her taste wasn't so good.  That's why she needed me as an older and more worldly friend to help her make good choices.  Some of us have that gift, and it's our burden - nay, our responsibility - to share it.  Kathy had asked for the mirror and my mother, not understanding the gravity of the moment, the moment of introducing someone to the world of ART, tried to hand the mirror to Kathy over my marshmallow robot man.

This is where it gets a little fuzzy.

I'm pretty sure that I grabbed onto the mirror and yanked it out of Kathy's hands.  I'm pretty sure I thrust a marshmallow robot man into that void, that artless place that needed so desperately to be filled in Kathy Goodall.  What a good friend I was!

But then, I remember my mother doing the unforgivable.  I remember her performing a reverse grab and yank.  She grabbed that soft, white, heavenly piece of art out of Kathy's hands, yanked the mirror back from me, and switched the two before I could say "Picasso."

I may have started to yell.
I may have had an (artistic) tantrum.

Next thing I knew, my mother sent me to my room.
I got sent to my room at my own birthday party.


An artist leads a lonely existence, my friends.

SMACK.

There are no losers? HA.

There are no losers?  HA.

Devoted Readers (all four of you), a story:

I began playing league softball in spring of 4th grade.  Our town had Lassie League, an all-girls community league of teams named after Native American tribes.  (How interesting that our middle-upper class Connecticut suburb named sports teams after those nice Native American folks. Celebrating diversity in a place that had none! Future story awaits.)  Anyway, lucky for me, my best friend Laura and I ended up on Cherokee together.  It was our first year of the organized sport, so our coaches had us split the (fake) position of shortfield, the (imagined) spot between first and second base.  There wasn't a whole lot of action there, so it was a good (fake) position for beginners.  Laura usually played four innings and I struggled through three. My friend took to the game quickly, and by the next year, she was playing shortstop on our new team, Sioux.  I, on the other hand, was bumbling, awkward, and inconsistent. I hoped to deflect negative opinion of me by working the team with funny bits and stupid impersonation voices, and generally, I got teammates to laugh.

A score is a score, dear readers.  This lesson has stayed with me my entire life.

At the end of the season, our coaches took the team to some fun spot like Playland.  We ate junk food, threatened to vomit on each other on the roller coaster, and lost money trying to win cheap toys by playing cheap games.  The day was good, but then came the cookout and the official awards ceremony.

OH BOY! I was bursting for my award.  I knew it would be great.

Everyone got one.
Julie Johnson was MVP.  (Duh.)
I'm pretty sure Laura took Best Back-up.
The coaches went through our entire roster and gave out softball-related awards:
Most Home Runs
Best Fielder
Best Pitcher
Most RBIs
Most Improved
Best Arm

And finally, they got to me.  My award?
Friendliest.

Friendliest.

Actually, the bright gold foil paper medallion says "FRIENDLIEST!" (exclamation point). I still have the ribbon; it's here to my right, tacked up in the computer armoire, so I'm being exact. Check it out for yourself.  I just figured out how to add a photo to my blog post.

Now, I have always been someone who believes that leveling the field and taking away all sense of competition is a bad idea.  There are winners and losers in life.  There are.  Sometimes I've been really blessed to be a winner, but more often, I've been blessed to be a loser.  Losing has taught me far more than winning has.  Yay for losing!

So, what are we doing to children, pretending that life is fair and equal?  What kind of fall are we setting them up for if we always allow them to win?   Shouldn't we teach them that sometimes there's no award?  Sometimes you just don't deserve it.  You didn't earn it.  Nope.

I had no business getting an award for softball. Shouldn't my coaches have left it at that and left me empty-handed?

And yet, here's the fish-smack. I didn't get an award for softball.  My coaches highlighted something else about me that day.  I was a loser at softball, but that didn't mean I had to be a loser.

I am firmly committed to this idea that not everyone gets to win all of the time, but I am so grateful that my softball coaches let everyone win that day.  At the time, I really thought that FRIENDLIEST! was a great award.  By God, I WAS FRIENDLIEST!  I was a mediocre-at-best softball player, but who cares?  In the big game of life, I got an award that would take me a lot farther than lame ol' Best Arm.  So, even though I was a loser, I didn't feel like one that day, and it was a great thing.

You've Come A Long Way, Baby?

Before I was a teacher, I was an actor.  It’s something I usually only share with students when I know that they have a particular interest in theater themselves.  Early in the year, my after-school intervention group expressed an interest in doing literacy through acting and scene work.  The small cohort asked questions about my theater past, and I sprinkled them with answers, and that had been that.

A month ago, our school’s house decided to really celebrate the performing arts.  Each teacher was asked to choose a musical poster to hang outside the classroom door. I chose Miss Saigon, because I had been in the show on Broadway on on tour.  Many teachers put up a blurb explaining why they chose their poster, but I put up a photo from one of my performances.  One student noticed the photo and asked me about it.  I told him about it in passing.  But information travels fast through 7th grade, and it wasn’t long until I had inquiring minds at my classroom door, looking for answers of their own.

“Ms. Douglas, that’s you in that picture outside?”

“Yup.”

“You were in the show?”

“Yup.”

“When?”

“Back before I was a teacher.”

“That picture is really you?”

“Yeah, here...” I went over to my bookshelf and grabbed a folder.  My Miss Saigon press folder is a sleek, glossy thing with various programs, articles, and photos from the show.  I also keep old headshots from over the years in it.  After passing around the photos from the show, the students pointed to my headshots and I spread them out on the table. 

“When was that?” Chayanne asked, pointing to the most recent shots.  

“Oh gosh, 12, 13...14 years ago?”

The boys leaned in. The three photos showed me at my very best.  They were seemingly effortless shots, but in reality were attained through a few hours with a professional photographer, a makeup artist, and several wardrobe and location changes.  As an adult, I’d never looked better... or paid more to look that way.  But as I looked at the photos with them, I felt a certain amount of pride for that period in my life, and for being that woman in those pictures.  

Chayanne looked across the pictures for a long time.  He traded several glances between the photos and me before he spoke.  

“Ms. Douglas,” he finally said, “No offense, but... what happened?”

Smack.