In addition to the below exciting update, I have been using my xanga as a journal in a writing class during the month of June. It's a class for teachers that I have co-directed at a local university for the past three summers. I am about to go through and make some of those posts available. The dates will be old, but the content will be new to my site, back to about June 7.

(Inspired from the chapter "School Lunches" in Bird by Bird.)

I think back to elementary school....I usually didn't take a sandwhich for lunch. Most kids in my class ate the same thing I ate...the hot lunch served by the school cafeteria. But there was still regulation. While we were all served the same basic things, some foods were okay to be seen eating off your tray....pizza, hamburgers, french fries, mashed potatoes, chicken nuggets, and those little apple sticks. Fresh fruit was okay as long as you were low-key about it. But you never ate a vegetable off your tray, except the previously mentioned potato products.  

Our principal was rumored to be a descendant of a Nazi general. Mr. Davis policed the cafeteria each day during lunch. "No voices above a whisper! Eat your food! Use your manners!" This was not social time. Your seat was assigned, usually according to the first letter of your last name. I would love to see Mr. Davis' reaction to the cafeterias I've been in today. I'd love to see him even try to get control of the kids. He'd probably be strung up by his feet from some tree on the playground, with his pockets stuffed with brocolli. 

But we didn't dare get out of line. The principal's office was a place you didn't want to go. For any reason. He wasn't the kind of guy who stood at the door greeting children with a smile and a "Good morning." No kids ran to hug him or show him a good grade. You tried desperately to remain under the radar, hoping he didn't even know your name, that he had no reason to. Looking back, I realize it was a small town. He knew all of our names and our parents' names, and everything else he wanted to know.

I still remember the first time I was sent there, in seventh grade. My arch enemy, Tammy Davis, had struck again. This time, she had gone too far. She had come up behind me in P.E. during a tortured game of volleyball and yanked down my shorts in front of everyone. I ran to the dressing room, mortified. Everyone knew what happened. I mean, come on, they saw it. Apparently Coach Rankhorn was yelling at Tammy or something. Her friends cornered me in the dressing room. I was ordered to tell "them" that it was an accident, that Tammy didn't mean it.  "She'll get in trouble," they cried. "Good," I replied, "she should." I don't remember the exact threat after that, but I remember thinking I didn't have a choice.

Then I was summoned to the office. I walked as slowly as possible wondering what would happen to me. He questioned me about what happened. I decided to tell the truth, despite the locker room warning. I would like to say I spoke boldly, but I whispered my testimony, much like a timid mouse. It didn't matter. The Nazi said it was my word against hers (refusing to question all the many witnesses) and there was really nothing to be done. My mom even tried to intervene without success. No surprise...our teachers did nothing about bullies. I did bravely face the smirks in the hallways from the rich girls.

I decided to handle it myself. A few days later Tammy struck again as we lined up in music class. I don't remember the teasing words that came out of her mouth, but I do remember the shocked look on her face when the little puny girl known as bird legs shoved her up against the wall, informing her I'd enough...there would be no more pusing me around, no more teasing. If she was that tough, then she could prove it to everyone today. Apparently, she wasn't that tough. She tried tattling, but Mrs. Couch said with a smirk that she hadn't seen anything so it was her word against mine.

It wasn't the end of the bullying, but Tammy never bothered me again. Most importantly, I had changed. I couldn't stop the bullies of the world, but I could be a girl that could handle herself.

Go back to sleep little ones,
The sun is not yet up.
the moon is still out.

Sleep little ones,
Mommy's not yet rested,
Mommy's not yet done.

Sleep little ones,
For as you sleep, mommy sleeps,
As you wake, mommy wakes.

So sleep little ones.

A not too great attempt at poetry....