You’re like a Vanilla Oreo Ms. Quigley

 Disclaimer: this blog post is a fond and funny teacher memory from my second year teaching in West Philadelphia. It comes from a school where the demographics were and are still Black American. Being a white woman, I am keenly aware of the fact that my experiences with these students for the two years that I taught gave me a sliver of insight into their reality. Just because I have some experience teaching in this dynamic does not make me an expert - it gives me some experience and just a little insight. In other words, I mean no disrespect to the community I served and taught (least of all these lively students I taught and came to love) in this post as I try to convey a fond memory.

It was the fall of 2011 and I found myself in my second year teaching in West Philadelphia. I was still new to the profession - no doubt about that - but I had a few tricks up my sleeve; I had some wisdom. The operative word being: some. In my role at the school I was an English Language Arts (ELA) teacher to all the middle school grades. I provided extra support to 6th and 7th grade students who struggled in reading and writing; and I was (for lack of better words) an honors ELA teacher to the 8th graders. Because I had the luxury of small class sizes, I waited after the first couple of weeks of school before making a seating chart. In this way, I could observe student dynamics. In other words, I watched very carefully who I should sit as far away from each other as possible - for their sake and for my sanity. It was the last day of my “trial period” and I definitely got some clarity about two of my 8th grade boys.

Fifteen 8th grade students strutted into my 3rd floor classroom with overhead notes on the screen, in the front of the room, waiting for them to copy said notes in their notebooks. Most of the students found a seat rather quickly, and without much fuss - except two outspoken boys - well call them Zucchini and Romaine-Lettuce. Zucchini snagged a desk that Romaine-Lettuce apparently had his sights on. Romaine-Lettuce approaches Zucchini’s space (puffed chest and all) and says, “Yo, you be sitting in my desk!” To which Zucchini spits back with, “I don’t see yo name on it!” To which I reply to Romaine-Lettuce: “Romaine-Lettuce, there's an open desk right next to Zucchini. Why don’t you grab that one?” I then start with my lecture, and all is well in the air….for about 5 minutes.

Cue Romaine-Lettuce...“Ms. Quigs, I can’t see the board to write down all these notes, cuz SOMEBODY (as he swerves his head towards his challenger) be in my seat.” Cue another head turn and eye roll towards Zucchini. You don’t think Zucchini was about to take that line lying down do you? Nope!
With just as much aggression in his voice Zucchini fires back, with his arms held out in good challenger fashion, “Say something else and I'm about to pop your head off!” To which I defuse the situation with my mantra for that class period: “boys, boys, boys, you’re in 8th grade, you don’t want Ms. Quigley to solve your problems for you.”

Another two minutes pass before Romaine-Lettuce instigates again, with a similar overtly passive aggressive (if that makes sense) line about not being able to see the screen. And of course, Zucchini is quick with a line that is equally as defensive and aggressive. This was a verbal showdown happening in my classroom, and my patience was thin for this kind of classroom banter. But I am a woman of chances (three to be exact) and we were at strike two at this point. So, I reply the same way: “boys, boys, boys, you’re in 8th grade, you don’t want Ms. Quigley to solve your problems for you.”

And yet, another two minutes pass and Romaine-Lettuce just can’t seem to contain himself. “Oh, Ms. Quigs I wish I could see the screen, if only SOMEBODY hadn’t taken my seat!” I almost wondered at this point if his beef was about the seat, or more about not backing down from a verbal showdown. And in the same breath, Zucchini, hallars back with another hostile line; “Say one more word, and see what happens!”

And that was strike three - and my patience was gone and done!

In a series of swift, silent and stealth motions I shocked these boys and they were rendered speechless - finally! With a stack of papers in my hand and an empty desk in front of me, I slam the stack of papers on the empty desk; this is followed by my high heel shoes click-clacking across my hardwood classroom floor, before I stop dead cold in front of Romaine-Lettuce’s desk and say with a tense whisper: “get up.”

He finches his whole body in his shock and startled reaction before saying, “whaaat?”

“I didn’t stutter Romaine, I said, get, up…”

With more hesitation then I have ever seen in him, he stood up with cautious and apprehensive eyes, (almost tremblingly) not knowing what was about to happen to him. And without a word, I slid his desk down the room before stopping directly in front of the overhead screen; and before doing the same to his chair. As I take a few steps back, I look at Romaine-Lettuce, before looking at his desk that is literally front and center, and say with arm gesture, “have a seat.”

With confused and shocked eyes of what just happened, he takes his seat - front and center, and smack dab in front of the projector screen, as he now has no issue seeing what notes to take down. Actually, he had to cock his head all the way backward to see the screen of notes a mere foot or two away from his face, and transcribe his notes in his notebook. 

“I just solved your problem for you Romaine-Lettuce- you’re welcome.”

In unison, the rest of his classmates, bury their faces in their arms in failed attempts to muffle their laughter from the sight they just witnessed. One of their biggest class clown instigators was just put in his place and silenced. My alter ego was dusting off my shoulder - certainly a proud classroom management moment for me.

Now the kicker to this moment was after the fact as the class period ended, and my students were changing classes. Three other students (neither Romaine-Lettuce or Zucchini) approach me to offer their praises to me.

With books in their hands, and raised eyebrows, they say with a sigh, “Ms. Quigs, we gotta tell ya something. We weren't sure ‘bout ya. Ya know, ya be white - no offense or nothin’ - but ya know? Anyhow, Ms. Quigley, ya got a lil ghetto in ya! Ya be like a vanilla Oreo - white on the outside, but there be a lil chocolate ghetto on ya inside!” I chucked with a grin as I corked my head to the side, “I’ll take that as a compliment- I suppose - thank you.”

And I still (to this day) take that as a compliment.

There Was a Teacher Who Swallowed a Fly

In an art classroom not too far away, 

a room full of 4th graders lay victim and prey; 

to a redheaded teacher; 

who wasn't in the mood to play.  

She grew tired of their tomfoolery as they yarn weaved, on a beautiful Tuesday.  

Turning her facade over, 

to a side that was intimidating and less than okay, 

she quieted them down 

before she could say; 

And just then as she had her lecture on play, 

a fly flew in her mouth and she went grey! 

Gagging and hacking through her throat, 

she put up quite the display! 

The children were a riot 

as they almost hollered hooray; 

as their redheaded teacher became the victim (not them), 

and saved and made their day!  

And then they recited to me: "There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, my oh my, I think she might die!" 

***insert eye roll***

“Well, excuse me kids, but I’m still well into my heyday,  

Now get back to work on your art projects okay?!” 

Timeout

I reached ten years of teaching last spring, and never did fathom I’d be in the middle of a pandemic where I couldn’t even hit up a bar and raise a toast with a room full of friends and family to memorialize the milestone. It goes without saying that these times of COVID-19 are truly historic and unlike any other pandemic in history. I can’t stress how humbling (in the worst way possible) it’s been as a teacher to navigate a virtual classroom. Instead of my school days filled with recess duty, making copies, and dealing with 10 kids at a time needing a potty break; instead my days are filled with zoom meetings, reminding kids to stay muted, blindly teaching to a shared screen as I run the risk of not gaging their understanding by sheer facial expression, and talking them through a litany of online platforms all for different uses, and begging them (sometimes threatening them) to keep track of each username, password and codes. “Ask me one more time for your username and see what happens to the marble jar kids.” Little do they know is their precious marble jar they fill to get an ice cream party, has a direct correlation to my metaphorical mental marbles. But I digress. 

Like all teachers out there I’ve been faced with a different kind of classroom and the challenge of how to manage said challenges. I don’t worry about a kid getting out of their seat without permission, or side conversations while I’m teaching. But now that unmute button has become my demise. My patience for this reached it’s boiling point back in May. We were three months in the stay at home order and it was all I could do to just push through the last month of school. 

Make no mistake, I like to think of myself as a fairly modern teacher, and I never thought I’d go “old school” and put a kid in timeout.  But you know, desperate times call for desperate measures; and I’d venture to say these COVID times are fairly desperate. Insert shoulder shrug. 

It was the afternoon zoom reading session when we were doing a read aloud of our class book we were on. Like all zoom sessions, I started with the golden rule of zoom: don’t unmute yourself unless invited or called on. Well, most kids got this golden rule: don’t unmute yourselves. Alas there’s always that one; we’ll call him Grap. Oh Grap was attention starved. And don’t get me wrong, this kid is a sweetheart through and through with a heart of gold, but he is a kid who loves attention, who was also stuck at home, while every other member of his family navigated their own zoom schedules. Poor kid, my heart went out to him - just not this day. 

So our reading time starts, and not 5 minutes in (in the midst of reading) we all hear a voice that must’ve been the twin of Mickey Mouse. Yes, image a high pitch friendly voice that just blurts out “HI EVERYONE,” just for kicks and giggles. Me: “Grap, you have to stay muted.”

Grap: (in a sweet voice) sorrrrrrrrrry

We proceed to read, and not 10 minutes later I swear we’re getting a guest appearance from The Mickey Mouse Club again with the same line. And I tell this kid again, (now with a tinge of annoyance), to stay muted when it’s not his turn to read. The sweet apology comes shortly after. “Sorrrrry.” 

He strikes again, now not 7 minutes later, and...I...was...done! Without a single word, I hit my book down on the table in front of me, I told the student who was reading to stop as I sat in front of the screen and crossed my arms complete with a glare that would cut anyone in half. My father told me I have eyes that could kill, and those dagger eyes were out.  All of a sudden this sweet Mickey impersonator went silent, and cut his video. He could feel the heat from the zoom screen and he was in the hot seat. All the while, all his counterparts knew it too, as the 10 year old OMG faces graced my zoom screen, complete with their hands over their mouths. 

“Oh no, don’t you dare hide behind a no video!  Show your face now Grap. He timidly starts his video again, as he shows half his face in the screen, proceeding with another but more sincere “sorrrrry.” 

Oh no, we’re wayyyy past sorry dude! I told you twice before this last time to stay muted while someone else is reading. So ya know what Grap? You see your bed behind you? Go sit on your bed, and read along from there. And don’t you dare get up; don’t you dare raise your hand; you will not be called on to read; and you have no questions. If I see you move from that bed; if you move from sitting criss cross applesauce; if I even hear you breath I will call your mother on the spot in front of all your friends and let her know how disruptive you’ve been and how a virtual timeout on your bed wasn’t enough to keep you quite. Do you understand me Grap? *Cue terrified face and nodding head.* “Good, now go sit in timeout.” 

Now the one thing I appreciated from this was the handful of parents who happen to hear this and get a chuckle outta my virtual classroom management skills. Oh, you can bet I love a good dust your shoulder off, teacher victory moment. 

The Three Men I’ve Loved

The classic adage states: “it is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.” While there may lay truth to this saying, it begs the question of comfort or consolation. 

Now as a single woman in my early 30s, in the 21st century, recently out of a breakup I feel a bit like the protege of Carry Bradshaw’s character from Sex and the City: a wounded yet still somewhat hopeful romantic just aimlessly looking for my person in what seems like a dating apacolps of swiping, ghosts and more misses than hits. This isn’t how I pictured where I’d be at 33 years old. It’s a far cry from is as a matter of fact. Yet here I am, trying to make sense of it. 

In the midst of my daily work commute, and in between teaching students about double digit multiplication and the California regions, I got to thinking about my dating history. From the handfuls of weirdo first dates; the douchebags that reveal themselves after a few dates; and the no rhyme or reason ghosts that don’t call back, there are three men in my time of dating that have stood out. And these three men, I have indeed loved, and each one has been vastly different from the last. 

The first man I’ve loved, we’ll call him John. John was a classic story of unrequited love. I was in the college, as a junior transfer to San Francisco State University.  Not two weeks after my mom moved me up to the hilly city, John (a friend from SoCal) moved to the east bay for a job. He was a familiar face that was comforting as I navigated living in a city of strangers and living outside my parents' place for the first time. We were the best of friends, and spent lots of time together. We even trained for our first half marathon together with a couple other familiar faces. I even met and vetted some of his lady suiters. In the midst of my first year of living in San Francisco, and much to my dismay, I fell for John. Confessing my feelings to John was one of the most nerve racking things I’ve done. And not because I was fearful of rejection, but because I knew rejection was imminent. Yet, even when he didn’t return my feelings, I don’t regret sharing mine with him. Thankfully, and to his credit he was a perfect gentleman about my declaration and confession. It took awhile for me to be okay; and even for John and I to be okay. Yet with most things of the heart it took a decent amount of time for that to happen. Now over a decade later, I look to John as a close long standing friend and often refer to him as a big brother from another mother. Our resilience in the face of strain, speaks highly of the kind of friendship we have, and the kind of people we both are. 

John taught me friendship of the most loyal kind. 

The second man I’ve loved, we’ll call him Charles. Charles was a classic story of love at first sight, and a Prince Charming by most modern definitions. Charles and I matched on Eharmony some years ago. Even the mere sight of his profile smile and stance got me reeled in. Hook line and sinker, and I was a goner! After the back and forth message dance, we met a week later for our first date. Despite my confidence and experience dating, I was nervous as I hadn’t been in a long time. And after a five hour first date that flew by with him ending it with a walk to my car, and asking me to go to Mass, I keeled over with my hand to my chest in an enthusiastic “yasss!”  A man who wants to take me to church? Sign me up! The man wined and dined me; he made all the moves; and was the first man I had brought home to meet the family since high school. He footed every bill, and showered me with gifts, flowers and all the words any girl would want to hear. He was sincere, heartfelt, classy and gentlemanly. A single look from him would make me weak at the knees and melt. Charles was the first time my heart felt at home. It was a surreal feeling, and one that’s hard to explain or rationalize, but if you know the feeling, you just know. 

Like most things that seem too good to be true, it sadly was the case with Charles. Months into a relationship with me, he came to realize he jumped the gun with me too quickly after a previous relationship (yes, I was his rebound girl...don’t ever be anyone’s rebound). I was shocked and shattered when he broke my heart in his car, in the parking garage on the eve of my 31st birthday.  The last time I ever saw or heard from Charles was the afternoon after, as he took me to a painfully romantic lunch overlooking Newport Beach, and he dropped me off at my place as we stood with solemn dispositions in my driveway. And after we said our final goodbyes I turned away from him and his car and walked with a heavy heart to my doorstep before collapsing and erupting in tears after closing the door with a broken heart. It took me a very long time to heal from that heartbreak. 

It’s incredible after all we shared that I haven’t seen or ran into him since that last goodbye. Just like that he was gone, disappeared from my life, never to be seen again; except his memory that remained like a ghost lurking to torment me with it’s unrelenting reminders of his trace. For some time after the breakup, I almost wondered, did it even happen? Was it real or just a dream? And with time, my heart did in fact heal and I was able to move past it. I knew I had reached that final point of healing when I stumbled upon an old necklace he gave me, and the sight and memories that ensued didn’t bring a tear to my eye. After selling it on Poshmark to some woman in Alabama without any hesitation, I knew my heart had healed. I was finally and truly free. Time really does heal all wounds. 

Charles taught me what it feels like to have your heart feel at home; he taught me what I deserve and how I deserve to be treated (well, aside from the whole birthday breakup timing); he taught me the magic in romance and the butterflies that follow from a connection that’s difficult to put into words. 

Bear with me as this is starting to sound a lot like an Ariana Grande song. 

Now the third and final man I’ve loved is quite different from the other two. But all three of them are not like the others, so touché. We’ll call this man Daniel. My story with Daniel is an on again/off again sort of a story. We met by chance when a friend of mine dragged me to a Catholic mixer of sorts in LA on a summer night over a year ago. At the closing of the evening he approached me and the chemistry was instant when we both quickly discovered we’re both Catholic school teachers; and one of his colleagues was a classmate of mine from grad school. Like most savvy men in this modern world, he was smooth to find me on Facebook, and we hit it off. Daniel, certainly made some grand gestures; and sure was a sucker for these gestures. He showed me what a man of action and service looks like.  And for the first time in a long time I felt I could be myself with someone romantically. I didn’t have to put up a facade, and I could really be vulnerable with my insecurities. It felt natural to be with Daniel; it felt good to be with Daniel; there was no fluff, no smoke and mirrors with Daniel, but it felt the most real and honest scenario. I felt the most comfortable with him. 

Believe me when I say, I’ve never been a proponent for the whole on again/off again relationships, but I was certainly eating my words in this case. After breaking up, moving on, and several months passing by, Daniel popped back in my head, and I could not shake it for the life of me; I fought it for over a month. So despite any other dating move I’ve made, or despite better judgement, I reached out, and we reconnected. And while I wasn’t sure what to expect in this uncharted territory, it was a great reunion. If I’m being honest, we were both pleasantly surprised how we just picked up right where we left off. And why wouldn’t we? There wasn’t any dramatic end to our initial breakup. So why wouldn’t our reunion be anything but good natured? To quote a line from How I Met Your Mother, “when you date someone a second time around, you aren’t starting over, you're picking up where you left off.” And that was indeed the case for Daniel and me. Regardless, of the stigma of “getting back together,” it was so good to reconnect, and it felt great to be in his presence again, and catch up over the past few months. Having dated before, there was a new sense of steady awareness of each other, and how to operate. And after some more months of being together and dating, and doing all the things we used to do, it felt comforting and familiar. I was pleased that some things were indeed different (on both ends), and I was content with taking it slow and steady. I enjoyed the similar humor and silly antics we both did to each other. The daily teacher rants or stories from his school and mine was comforting to share and we definitely appreciated the fellow teacher venting partner. 

Without disclosing too much information, the relationship was good, and I’d argue it was better the second time around. We didn’t have any dramatic argumentments; and neither one of us lied, cheated or stole from each other. We genuinely enjoyed each other’s company, and had plenty in common, not least of all the attraction. But much to my dismay, he broke it off for reasons that I’m still trying to come to terms with and accept. And it wasn’t until being in the shadow of this recent breakup, I came to realize that I am in love with Daniel. Great, after the fact, I figure this out - fantastic! 

Daniel taught me more than I can put into words. He taught me how a man can take care of me physically; how his actions speak louder than his words; and he showed me how a man can go out of his way for me. He taught me a level of intimacy that comes with insecurities, personal demons, and overall health; and the rawness and sincerity that can come with it. It was a gift to see just how wonderful that level of intimacy can be.

Now don’t get it twisted, by no means was our relationship a bed of roses, or some unrealistic fairy tale where he swept me off my feet, but there was still goodness between us and our relationship. I cannot speak for Daniel, but for me, it was the hardest I worked mentally and emotionally in a relationship, and with that, and for what it’s worth I treasure my time more because of it. Despite the end of our run, and even our second run, it was still worth it and worth wide, and there were plenty of moments that were fulfilling.  In the midst of the hurt and heartbreak I bear, you’d think I’d regret our second go around. Simply put: I don’t. Something drew me back to him, and while I may not understand why, I have to put my faith and trust that there was a purpose for our reunion. While he brought goodness to my life for the time we were together, and what he taught me about relationships, I know (at the risk of stroking my own ego) I know I brought a level of reciprocity to him and taught him a thing or two in our process as well. 

With all sincerity, I wish him nothing but the very best. The man is a good guy, with a good heart; he’s just not my guy. C’est la vie! Perhaps one day in the distant future, once our time isn’t a bittersweet memory, but a just a fond memory, we will run into each other, and we’ll talk fondly with each other before wishing each other goodwill. 

There ya have it, three very different men, and three times I’ve fallen in love. They say that third times a charm, well I’m hoping for me, the fourth time will be forever. So wherever my forever man is I hope he can have the friendship John gave me; the romance Charles gave me; and the real intimacy and acts of service Daniel showed me.

So while I don’t exactly appreciate the old adage of “it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." I rather cling to the revised phrase by Hunter Hayes, “it’s better to have loved and lost, than lost the nerve to even try.” So while I’m doing the work to take care of myself post breakup and heartbreak, I remind myself in the midst of the process, this too shall pass. The clouds will clear and the sun will shine again, and life does indeed go on. 

Give it Time

As an early 30 something year old woman, I’m no stranger to dating, relationships and breakups.  And while it may be cliche, this timeless adage remains true: time heals all things. The words of this saying rained heavy and true for me recently.

It was over the summer, and I found myself spring cleaning; in the summer. Go figure. As I was going through drawers and cabinets in this seasonal purge, I stumbled on something; something I buried deep in the depths of my room. It was something I forgot I even had, and it was something that held so much hurt. It was a necklace an ex boyfriend gave me a couple of years ago. Something so small, held so much meaning, and once brought me so much joy; and yet conversely in the aftermath and shambles of the sudden and dramatic breakup, caused me deep and immense pain.

For a while, I kept the necklace out on my dresser where all my other jewelry sat. It posed both as a symbol of false hope, and a dagger of pain of what once was. Admittingly, I allowed this symbol to sit on my dresser and remind me of the hurt for far too long.  At some point, I went through a purge of the relationship: I threw away the love notes, and deleted all the text messages and pictures we had together. But that necklace - it remained. I shoved it in shoe box that sat in the back of my cabinet closet. For a while, I forgot about it. And as it does, life went on.

Months after the breakup, I still found myself heartbroken, and struggling to allow myself to feel or even love again. No man I went out with once or twice even came close to the pedestal I held my ex on. I built up that metaphoric wall, and I cut men off left and right. I would rip men apart if they even so slightly offended me. As current jargon goes: I became a bit of a savage. It was a pattern (if I’m honest) I was in denial of.  And as much as I’m embarrassed to admit it, this common thought ran through my head: “how will I ever find another man that comes close to him?” Hopelessness and severe heartbreak was the cloud that followed me.

Now, as I found myself time and space later, stumbling on this necklace, in a routine summer cleaning session, the pain that I once felt at the sight of this necklace was all but gone - in its entirety.  The memory of him and the relationship blew into my consciousness, and for the first time I didn’t feel a dagger to my gut, and the act of holding back tears wasn’t the dance I did. Rather, I stood in gratitude of him and our time together. And the sentimental value I held to this necklace was finally gone. This distinct thought ran through my head: “yea, that happened; it was good while it lasted; it hurt like hell when it ended, but now it’s done...it’s finally done.” And in that exact moment, and with no hesitation of sentimental value, I posted that necklace for sale online and shipped it off to a woman in Georgia within the same week. My hands were finally clean of the heartbreak. Finally.

Now either by chance or circumstance, I met and quickly started dating someone new around the time I finally let that piece of jewelry go. And despite my previous protest of any other suitor, I allowed this man to stick around for a while longer than one or two dates. In good old fashion - fashion - we met in person, at a young adult mixer of sorts, that a girlfriend of mine dragged me to.  And although I protested driving through an hour of LA traffic to get to this function, it was a pleasant surprise to meet this man by the end of the evening.

I was pretending to be interested in some of the pamphlets in the back of the room, as I waited for my wing woman to come out from the bathroom, when he approached me and struck up a conversation. There was instant chemistry as we quickly learned that we are both Catholic school teachers and one of his colleagues was a classmate of mine from grad school at LMU, and a rapid exchange of teacher tales proceeded the small world connection. And in good 21st century fashion, the man looked me up on Facebook the next day, and the rest is history.

As our relationship developed and grew, he surprised me with his acts of service. Helping me set up my classroom, coming to my aid after a knee injury, and a somewhat grand gesture of friendly peer pressure at a karaoke night were just some of the ways he wooed me, made me feel safe, and I felt I could finally trust again. I finally felt like I could let that wall down. And as all relationships do, we went through highs and lows. He shared pieces about his life story and demons he battles with me, as I did as well. I affectionately annoyed him with videos and pictures on our dates, and I enjoyed watching his epic lip singing and ridiculous valley girl accents, and we each would vent or share a laugh from our teacher chronicles from the day.  Our date nights in, with take out, microwaveable popcorn, and a movie as I fell asleep in his arms; trying to keep up with his 6’3 height on any afternoon weekend hike; lesson planning or grading side by side; or trying to get that white boy to dance with me and some coworkers on a few occasions will always be a fond memory for me.

And even though we didn’t last, I don’t regret the time we had together. I needed him for that time, and at the risk of sounding arrogant, perhaps he needed me as well. While we both are great individuals, there were issues of compatibility we both realized some time in. And while the end of our relationship held hurt, and some anger for me, in how he handled a situation, I’m grateful for the last peaceful conversation we had before wishing each other well and going our separate ways. When it comes down to it, our time ran its course, and we had to count our losses.

As I’ve hit milestones of this breakup it’s taken me a bit off guard, and yes it’s caused me some tears; though I’m not ashamed to have cried. In the words of Usher, sometimes you just gotta let it burn. In the meantime I’ve kept busy with what I love doing and those who love me close.

And while there are still unanswered questions in my head, I realized I had to let those lingering questions go. I realized, as much as I wanted more clarity (because who doesn’t like more clarity) at the heart of the questions it really didn’t matter what his answers were. In the words of someone I look to as a father figure at work, he said to me: “Babzy, you’re too much of a gem to worry or waste your time thinking about his answers or reasons why. Because really, why does it matter? And what would it change?” It was then, I realized my own sense of closure came from my ability to decide I don’t need his answers. It wouldn’t define or change my view of myself or my sense of self worth; and it certainly won’t dictate my ability to move forward and meet someone new. It was in this realization, I found a moment of personal growth and confidence.

Now as I compare my inner thoughts, I feel a very distinct difference in the way I feel now (post breakup), then from when I felt two years ago as I held that necklace (post breakup).  The overwhelming sense of content, peace and gratitude now, is a far cry from the feeling of despair and hopelessness I felt nearly two years ago, in the shambles of my breakup with necklace boy.  And that right there is growth in emotional and mental maturity. Forgive me as I dust off my shoulder in pride for myself.

They say you learn more about what you’re looking for in a partner after each breakup. But I can’t help but think after each significant breakup I’ve had, I gain a new sense of clarity of who I am, what’s important to me, and the person I want to become. In two words: self awareness.

While there are still moments this man crosses my mind, and at moments it’s been tough, heavy thoughts haven’t prevailed or clouded my days. They simply pass. The hurt and anger that was once there, has been replaced with serenity and forgiveness. There is strength and wisdom as I turn to people I trust to confide in, and I feel cool, calm and collected. Instead of feeling: “how will I ever find someone again,” I instead feel: “I know there’s someone else out there for me, it’s just a matter of time.” Am I ready to go back on the market now? Well that’s debatable, but I’m taking it in strides. But again the timeless adage rains true: time has healed.

Remind Me of Myself

Would you

would you please

please remind me of the things,

the things that inspire me to

...write...

That gift is now but a distant tease.

Remind me

remind me of

what stirs

what stirs my soul

to dig & dive deep

deep in my heart & mind

and let thoughts churn,

churn before I

...write...

For alas the thoughts,

the thoughts & words

...words...

that once

once upon a time

would flood my mind,

they are now

now but a fleeting whisper,

a whisper that

that I can’t,

can’t seem to decipher

decipher or decode.

For my thoughtful gaze once

once upon a time flooded on the drop

drop of a dime.

I’ve forgot how to

how to decipher or decode those

those fleeting

fleeting thoughts into

into words & wishful wisdom

...words…

that I use to

use to construct with ease.

What happened to my ability to

...write..?

That gift, it’s like,

like a not so distant dream.

Those inspiring and

thought

provoking

...words...

have all but vanished.

Those vulnerable and honest

confessions

honest at times to a

fault

have escaped me.

Its absence is a silent & ghostful grip

grip on my memory,

and

and it’s choking me.

Where have those

...words...

those words gone?

They have

have all but disappeared?

Those words

words that would

that would cut to the

heart

the heart of the matter

and speak of grit

grit & grime

grime & slime

And from

from time to time

even offend others

or move them

move them from something

something universal

of something human

of some common human

human struggle

or even bring

bring tears

tears to the eyes

eyes of others.

and touch something

something within

within the core of their

heart

& perhaps even

the

core of their soul.

Those words

those words are

are but a fleeting memory

memory of

me.

I can’t even grasp

grasp them anymore.

Where have they

have they

Gone?

Perhaps they’re playing hide & seek?

Yet finding them appears to be bleak.

Where have

have they

hidden?

They are just

just a fleeting

fleeting memory.

A memory that I

that I once could mold

could mold & mend.

I use to do

do so with ease.

Those allusive

...words...

Those allusive

...words...

they tease me.  

they allude it’s presence

to me.

They linger

they linger & lurch

and tease me,

tease me of

of a former self.

of myself.

I long for those

those half one liners

and those

those full one liners

that would cross

cross my mind.

They’d cross & grace

grace my conscience with

with the flow of the wind.

Or as a ray of grace

grace illuminated a patch

a patch of grass

grass through the

the tree branches

on a afternoon

afternoon jog.

Or when those grace filled

grace filled words

words would flood

flood my mind

my mind with a simple

chat

with a

friend

a friend that’d utter some

some profound

profound wisdom.

And my mind

my mind would

race

race & scramble

as I’d strain

strain to retain those

those words &

wisdom.

I miss it.

I miss the poetic

the poetic thoughts

thoughts that would

that would downpour

downpour my keyboard

as I sipped

sipped on a latte

with earphones in

earphones in while

while Alanis Morissette

Miss Morissette sang

sang about

irony.

As I sit & wonder

Wonder & ponder

ponder & struggle

To write,

I can’t help but consider

How long this

block

will last?

For it’s been near a

year…

A year since I’ve been able to

...write...

But mostly I wonder

I wonder

will I ever find

find that gift

gift to write

write

ever

again?