Roots Stretching

Aversion of my story:
In 1981 my parents and I escaped communist Poland three days before martial law was imposed. They left behind communism and they left behind families that didn't accept them for who they were. I grew up learning to be different and independent, knowing I can't rely on my roots to accept me.
The child of two bad fruits.
I didn't return to my country of birth until I was in the 8th grade. Until that time, I lived in Germany, Louisiana and Chicago. Everywhere I went, there were things about me that didn't fit in. My parents 'talked funny.' The food I ate was 'weird.' When I finally returned to Poland for the first time I saw faces that looked like mine, I ate food I thought was amazing, I met people who were nice to me just because I was family. But still, I was an outsider there. I spoke Polish with an American accent (even though it's my first language). I dressed differently.

But there was always one place that I felt fully at home, accepted, fully in touch with my roots, my mole, and that was in my grandfather's garden. I remember literally laying on the ground of his garden, close to the roots, dreaming up silly crossbreeds of the many fruits and veggies he already grew in his garden. My Grandfather has since died and I've since lived in lots more places. And now, moving to Hawaii, everything looks different, smells different, the air feels different from anything I've ever experienced.

I am most definitely an outsider. Again.

But still, somehow, I'm overwhelmed here by that same feeling I had hanging out with my Grampa, eating his strawberries halfway around the Earth... I think sometimes roots travel and stretch father than we can imagine.

Fruitcake Lady

Just watch the whole thing. It's totally worth it.

I got physically pushed at work twice in the last five days. Once with scissors. Oh man.

Stupid Entry about another Stupid Sunset

Driving home from work on Friday, from a job that sometimes feels evil (but with small, few, and far between fuckin' awesome moments), I got pissed at my husband. Sometime in the super spottey AT&T service spots I managed to get pissed at him. Something. I don't remember, something about running errands, or running the house, or running to Waimea. Something. And I turned a corner and saw a stupid sunset. Stupid sunsets. They are so often reproduced. So many stupid photographs of sunsets, paintings, poems. They're all stupid because the real deal is indescribable. I had no choice but to stop being pissed during my commute. I felt so diminished by it, like I could have driven my car right off the face of the water and that would have been the happiest way to go. Maybe I get pissed for no reason a lot. Maybe where I live makes me kiss my husband more.

First Trip Back

Vegas was my first trip back to the mainland after moving to Hawaii. All the people around me sounded different, robotic, but with an endearing sense of urgency. That prescribed, presumptuous hospitality. "May I help you?" "Thank you for shopping with us." City people were newly foreign to me. They sounded different and all looked different. Different clothes. I wished I could get pants with such a wide leg. A shirt as well tailored as that. A pair of shoes that would be 'just so.' The whole time I was there I felt I didn't look to strangers as the person I really was on my mushy insides. I wished I could construct myself externally more easily.
Fuck it.
I'll learn to sew and focus on the internal.
Yeah?

Dirty Vegas

Las Vegas is amazingly dirty. Everything is oozing with that wonderful mixed fragrance of alcohol sweat, ashtrays, and pollution stench. I saw a pregnant woman at a slot machine. Everything has rhinestones on it. I'm currently enjoying a view of another dirty hotel and a parking lot through a window smudged and smeared with I-don't-know-what. It's both sick and strangely cool. Tomorrow, after the convention, I venture out off the strip to hunt for a good thrift shop.

I'm here for a national conference for teachers. So far several speakers have tried to motivate me to motivate my students by asking me to pretend I enjoy their presentation, that I am amazed and so jazzed by their smart solutions to minor classroom problems. So much so that I can't hold back an "Oh yeah!" I feel like the only sober audience member of an infomercial, looking around in amazement at everyone's burnt out reflexive over-enthusiasm.

Creepy.

One woman, both weak and energetic, made a sad sad argument about the connection/s between math and science: it consisted only of everyone putting on a latex glove before drawing perpendicular lines over a drawing of the human heart. That's all she had.

Depressing.

My hand smelled like latex all day... Every session I have to introduce myself to my 'neighbors,' say where I teach, and hear "Ohhh waaaaw. You're from Hawaaaiii! She's from Hawaaaiii!"

'Well. I'm not FROM there.' God.

MGM Grand Signature Tower Penthouse Suite!!

I'm in Las Vegas for a Special education conference. When we got to our hotel at 2am they were overbooked so they sent us to the 38th floor of the MGM Grand Signature Tower Suites for one night (for a Grand total of 6 hours). They didn't just send us to the penthouse level, but to the Uber-penthouse level (as you can see in the picture 'UPH'). It's amazing how quickly a girl can spoil.