Presente Paul Harrington

11th Grade was the year we did clinical rotations at the county hospital as part of our medical magnet program. We went to the hospital twice a week for half of the school day. So our English and History classes were double blocked on two other days of the week, and Fridays, we followed a normal schedule. 

That year was Mr. Harrington's first year. He told us that on our first day. He also told us that he was a recovering drug addict. That last bit of information was something I will never forget. You see, my dad was an alcoholic, but talking about dad being an alcoholic wasn't something we did. People were not supposed to know about Dad's habits. People were not supposed to know the type of man he became when he got drunk. We were supposed to look put together and happy and turn in all of our assignments on time and get good grades. So to have this man tell us that upon first meeting us was a bit of a shock to me. He earned a ton of respect from me. Yeah, I acted like an asshat sometimes, but still, I knew he was the real deal. He was able to beat his addiction, something I saw my dad say he would do and try to do but fail every single time. 

Mr. Harrington, no matter how bad we were, never yelled at us. Instead, he met our teenage stupidity with wit. 

I always tell the story about that one time my classmate, Adrian, asked, "Mr. Harrington, did Jesus give you those boots?" 

And Mr. Harrington, without missing a beat said, "Why, yes, Adrian, yes He did." 

Scrolling through my Facebook feed today, I found out Mr. Harrington passed away. Two friends had shared a post from someone else who had gone to school with us and ended up working with Mr. Harrington since he went on to become a Vice Principal and ultimately, a Principal. He ended his post with a phrase that I had forgotten about but brought back all the feels, "Please open your historical hearts and your historical souls to page..."

Thank you for instilling in me the values of being an informed citizen not only of the current political landscape, but of the past, that voting matters, and that overcoming our past is possible. May your rest is peace, Mr. Harrington. 

Post Valentine's Day

2/13/2016

For Valentine's Day, I took D.S.A. to watch Deadpool. We got into a big fight after the movie. I took my pillow and phone charger and went to sleep in the spare room that night. That was the beginning of the end.

2/14/2018

I was "seeing" some guy I met on eHarmony. He sent me chocolate covered strawberries to work that arrived before Valentine's Day, on a day I wasn't at the office. But, I loved him. I wanted so badly for things to work out between us because he seemed like the type of guy I had always wanted. However, by this point in our "relationship," I had an unsettling feeling about the future. I often woke up in the middle of the night with a knot of anxiety burning in my stomach. I tried to run it away, but it persisted.

Any time I got a text from him, the anxiety kicked up a notch. In the months that followed, it grew worse. My moods swung up and down depending on if I had heard from him. When summer was approaching, I was afraid of being home because I felt like all I would do was obsess about the status of our "relationship."

When my birthday rolled around that year, he forgot. I knew he was going to forget because he hadn't asked me what I was planning to do or anything. Fortunately, my sister-in-law and the kids came to visit, so it was a distraction. And my wonderful friend Jocelyn planned a day of day drinking and fun. When I told him it was my birthday, he tried to make up for it by sending me an e-card, but it was too late. I had been living with that anxiety since the start of the new year, and I was tired. For the rest of my birthday, I ignored his texts. The next day, I broke it off with him.

Hurting, lonely, and sad, I joined the apps again. And not two weeks later, I met, as my best friend calls him, Mr. Noodles. We met on a Sunday, the following Saturday, we met up for ramen, hence the name Mr. Noodles, and we went to see Solo. On the 4th of July, he drove through the rain to make me dinner and watch a Jurassic Park marathon.

When he got here, he backed up his car against the wooden fence which is a big no-no in my complex. His car got towed. Because of past experiences, I felt like it was my fault. I drove him in silence to get his car. He was upset, but he never acted upset towards me just himself. That was a first for me.

2/14/2020

I'm still seeing Mr. Noodles, but we don't spend Valentine's Day together. Last year, it was a work day for both of us. The next day, he came over and brought me a giant blue dog I named Elvis, a big heart with candy, and flowers. This year, we were both too tired. I actually suggested he stay home, and we catch up today. He asked where I wanted to eat for dinner. I replied, "I'm picking up some shrimp to make shrimp scampi for dinner."

The thing is, Mr. Noodles and I don't need Valentine's Day. He brings me flowers just because. When he buys me gifts, they're the things I talk about wanting. He makes me dinner often or makes breakfast so that I'm not slaving away when I get back from a run. If I tell him I don't feel like doing anything, he's okay with that.

Maybe because we've both had difficult relationships in the past, we don't expect a whole lot from one another.

In all the time we've been together, we've never really had a fight. There are things we disagree on, but it's not a big enough deal to get angry at one another. Maybe that's bad, but it doesn't feel like it.

I always know exactly where I stand with him, and that's so nice. He never causes me any anxiety. And, I really appreciated him understanding that I needed some rest yesterday.

Paying It Forward

There isn't anything specific Jorge did like serving at a soup kitchen every Thanksgiving or donating X amount of money each year, but he was a generous guy. If he ever saw someone in need and he could help, he did. I remember him stopping to pick older people up from the side of the road because he was concerned about them walking for long distances in the desert heat. 

Messing with Mota #1

If you know me, then you know that I love to laugh. If I'm not finding a reason to laugh, then there is something truly wrong with me. The love of laughing, as you might guess, is a result of Jorge's influence on me. 

#2

Going on a car ride when I was a little kid was always the most exciting thing. Often times, we rode the bus or walked anywhere we went because my mom didn't drive. Because my dad's job was driving a taxi, often times he wasn't home and if he was, he was either sleeping or drunk. When we did family things, it was often just my mom and us kids. 

Musical Links

Growing up, my mom always said that when someone died, you were supposed to be in luto, grief. You were supposed to wear black, not partake in any types of festivities, and not play any music. But how can I not listen to music when it was such a big part of my relationship with my brother.

Career Moves

The fall of 2016, the same semester I stopped teaching 7th graders, I started teaching an evening class at one of the local community colleges. It was one of those sort of things that is put out there and then it just happens. It was one of those sort of things that I will later think back on and feel like it was fate intervening. 

Since fall of 2016, every Monday and Wednesday, I rush off my day job campus like a bat out of hell to get to my college class. Some days, the days feel so long. I get so drowsy on my drive. I often stop to get tea in some variety to caffeinate me enough to deliver my evening performance. When class starts, I dig deep and pull out all the energy I can muster to teach. I always try to give my students my all. 

Lately, my evening gig has been my saving grace. Even though I know I'll be exhausted by the end of the night, I look forward to teaching. I look forward to seeing my students and talking to them about reading strategies or sharing interesting articles with them. 

All this is causing me to truly question whether or not I want to begin the graduate program I was accepted to. My graduate degree will be in educational management which will take me further away from students. I could be an assistant principal or work in an administration level job writing curriculum. And, I just don't know if this is the right move for me. So many people tell me I'd be so good at any of those jobs. But then, there's that feeling I get when I teach my students and build those relationships with them. I miss that so much. 

I want to get to a point in life where I don't have to work two jobs. But will moving up in the public school system be right? 

Resilience

I've had a lot of time to reflect recently, and I can't stop coming back to this idea of human resilience.  

Over the last week, I've had time to go through my journals and have seen how I've processed my grief the last several months. I've seen how I've sometimes been stopped cold by my good friend and others soared past it. These days, it feels like I'm in a better place. Guilt and hurt make fewer cameos while perspective and empathy play the staring roles.  

I used to often wonder why. Why did he have to die? There are so many people that are in worse condition, and he was the chosen one. But the truth is, I don't know how bad it was because I tried to stay out of his life. Although I still cared about him after our break up, I know that he still loved me, and I felt like being an active participant in his life could keep him from moving on. I wanted more than anything for him to find someone that loved him how he loved me. Someone who could give him the children he so longed for. 

Instead, I was given complete freedom from him. I was taught to truly put my well-being before anyone else. And I was given opportunities to change the course of my life from the black abyss I often saw as my only future. 

I found a passion for running which led to some weight loss and being physically active in a way I hadn't been in years. When I was heavier, I remember getting motion sickness in the swimming pool. On the Fourth of July, I swam back and forth several times in my sister's pool and chased around four giggly girls who claimed I was a shark for at least twenty minutes and didn't feel a rumbling of motion sickness. I've seen my mile/minutes time decrease as the year of running has progressed. I like how when I look in the mirror before my shower; my belly is where it was when I used to suck in my gut. And when I smile real big, you hardly see my double chin. When friends suggest doing something physically challenging, there's no longer that fear that maybe I'm too fat to do it. My last doctor's visit was very positive. She was so happy with my weight loss, and all my labs came back normal. I find myself standing taller and looking brighter with a healthy glow from all all the sun I get. If it hadn't been for Daniel, I don't know that I would be so committed to my running. 

In early May, my oldest sister's husband passed away. Like Daniel, he'd had an illness that he chose not to taper with consistent doctor visits and lifestyle changes. The time we spent in El Paso with her was a blur. My other sister and I were there for everything from the moment we arrived--the meeting with the funeral home, the meeting with the people from the cemetery, the visits from family and friends asking "what happened?" I hated having to see her retell the story every time. Part of me wanted to record her telling it, so she didn't have to do it every time someone new came by. I didn't want to see her break every time. It shattered my heart when my niece came home from work crying because so many people had gone into the store where she worked to tell her they knew her dad and were sorry for her loss. What I remember most clearly from that time was the overwhelming feeling of helplessness I felt at the funeral because there wasn't anything I could say or do to make the process easier for them. They are going to be broken for a long time because grief hangs around as long as it feels like. It annoys me to see people comment their sadness on my sister's status when she posts something about Joe. I always want to tell them that they just need to love and support her. She doesn't need to know how much they are hurting because it really can't compare to what she and her girls feel. Had I not had a recent experience with it, then I don't think I would know this. 

So, I keep moving through this with my shoulders squared back and my head a little higher because that's the only way. I see these life challenges as an opportunity to learn and lead a happier life. And right now, I think that true happiness is most certainly going to be a constant in my life because my spirit is resilient.   

DSA

The day I found out he had passed, I was on my way to a U of H football game. We bought season tickets because of him. He loved football. As I took the exit toward the university, the radio screen on my car displayed his mom’s name. I quickly answered her call to be greeted by his aunt. She asked how I was and then said, “I have some bad news for you honey. Daniel passed away.” I asked what happened and how his parents were and we hung up.

After we got off the phone, my friend called me, and we talked for a bit. I tell him almost everything, but I didn’t tell him about Daniel. I couldn’t. I knew that once I did, it was going to be real.

I got to the place where I park and sat there for a bit. Then, it all sank in. I texted my sister, and I called another friend to tell her. I cried some. And then, I got out of my car and walked to the stadium. I was grateful that it was bright out because my sunglasses could help cover up the tears.

When I got to the stadium, I sat in the stands, where he always liked to sit, and tried to keep calm. It was hard because all I could think about was how his aunt said he’d been dead some time before anyone found him. And although I never would have wished for this to happen, a part of me kind of expected it. Being at the game helped me feel closer to him. I know he would have wanted me to make it to the game. It felt like the best way to honor him was to be there.

In the coming days, I couldn’t understand how the world could go on as if he had never existed. I would go to the park and get on the bike path I like to run and feel the tears just stream from my eyes. Once I’d get back to my car, I was so exhausted that I didn’t feel anything anymore.

At his funeral, the minister didn’t really know anything about him. He shared stories Daniel’s family had told him, but he didn’t really honor his life. He didn’t talk about how patient he was when Gabi asked him about football. Or how he loved to surprise people in any way he could. How he had wanted so badly to be a father. How he had loved me so much even after I had broken his heart.

He was buried in an Eagles jersey which was fitting because he was their biggest fan. But he looked nothing like I remembered him. I touched his chest and it felt hollow. The only thing that felt the same was his big beard that I never cared for. But I was happy to caress it one last time.

It was hard to go around town because everywhere, there was a reminder of him. The pizza place he loved. The place we’d go get shaved ice from. The store where he worked. The movie theater we always went to. The hospital we were at when he was diagnosed with diabetes. The park where I was so angry with him and decided I was done. The store he went to buy crappy food he could fix because we were broken up.

At first, the guilt was overwhelming. But I know I couldn’t have kept him alive. He wasn’t willing to take care of himself. That was one of the reasons I wanted to end things. It was too much to have to take care of him and myself. I just couldn’t anymore.

As is the case with all grief, the sadness started to dissipate. I found things that helped me cope, like jogging. I threw myself into work. I prayed a rosary for nine days. I created a profile on a dating site and went on a couple dates.

But as is also the case with grief, sometimes it catches me off guard. I’ll be walking through a store and hear a song that he liked and the tears come. I hold them back until I’m able to get to my car and let it out.

After his passing, my mom said that his death will forever mark my life. I had to buy a new journal because I couldn’t keep writing in the one that I talked about our breakup and how free I felt. Now, my freedom is tainted with the sadness of his death.

El día de los muertos, I was overwhelmed with sadness. I cried myself to sleep that night. I’m sure there will be more nights like that. Losing someone that was such a big part of your life for so long isn’t easy, even if they weren’t part of your life anymore.

El Final

Things had not been going well for a long time. It seemed that time only exacerbated the issue instead of fixing it. Even when we dealt with the problems head on, we didn't seem to come to a compromise. He wanted more of this and I wanted more of that, but neither of us wanted to budge.

As I was clearing out a shelf on a bookcase, I came across a journal from six years before that discussed the same problem. It was a moment of clarity for me. One that helped me become brave and say the words that I'd been needing to say for years: It's time we go our separate ways. 

Saying these words to him made me sad and angry. I'd put all my chips on this guy, and he failed to believe in the hope I had in him. In the hope that we could make it work and be those people that stay together forever because, despite his fear of marriage, I hung around. Eventually though, those words made me feel brave and liberated, like a true-life feminist. 

Telling people about the break up resulted in heads cocked to the side and looks of pity because most people knew we'd been together for so long and imagined we'd be together forever. I'd always give them my best smile and tell them I was fine. 

When he finally moved out, I stopped by to pick up the key from under the mat before going back to my sister's for the weekend. There were tears when I read the heartfelt note his mom had left, but then, much like Mrs. Mallard in a Story of an Hour, I took a deep breath and imagined the possibilities my life held again.

Fat

Hi, my name's Georgina, and I'm fat.

I've been fat my entire life. I came into this world weighing a whopping twelve pounds. I slimmed down once I started walking, but by the time I was in third grade, I was fat again. My clothes came from the husky section of Sears or Penny's. 

I remember my godmother telling my mom that she should really do something about my weight. I remember my mom putting me on a diet, but it only lasted a few days. 

I was signed up for kid's nutrition classes as a kid. I would even walk to them on my own. I remember hating PE, especially when I had to do sit ups because I couldn't even do one. There was that one time in sixth grade where that kid counted them anyway. When he told Coach I'd done 30, she didn't even question him. I still wonder why he did that. 

I remember going to a doctor, when I was in 7th grade, who told me that if I kept going the way I was, I wouldn't be able to walk through the door when I turned 18. Then, as I was walking out, he and his fat wife were scarfing down a pizza. He was also fat. 

After said visit, I took up biking. I would ride my bike against the wind and uphill in hopes of getting him to shut his mouth. I dreaded going to the doctor after that. In fact, I went to see him once more until I was able to convince my mom to take me back to the clinic where I took the nutrition classes.

Sometime in high school, I went to see a nutritionist. She taught me a lot about eating healthy and exercising. I kept up with the plan for her sake. That didn't last long. 

After high school, I really got into fitness. At first, it was because I thought it would gain me male attention. Then, it became a kind of obsession. I started working out--walking and Tae Bo. Then, my mom convinced me to join a gym. The gym membership came with a few sessions with a trainer. I learned a little bit about weight lifting. My obsession grew. I stopped eating full meals, limiting my intake to a PB & J sandwich and an orange a day. I worked out five to six days a week. I had 1,200 calorie days and 800 calorie days which meant I couldn't move on from cardio until I burnt that number of calories. 

During my gym days, I could bench 65 lbs, leg press 260 lbs, calf raise 300 lbs...I felt like a bad ass. I would run, stair climb, bike, row. I remember one day, one of the trainers came by while I was on the stair climber after some time on the treadmill and said, "Wow, you're really fit." I went five minutes longer that day.

And yet, the smallest I ever got to was 190 lbs, a size 16. That's still 50 lbs overweight according to the BMI chart. 

I ended up getting sick--gallbladder. It screwed everything up. Also, I got a full time job which didn't allow me to work out as much. Then, I moved away for college which caused some weight gain. And when I started teaching, I got fat again. 

Throughout all of this, I was never comfortable in my own skin. Even when I was my thinnest, I would pull and prod at my belly thinking if only I could lose x more pounds. Why? Because I was so trained to think that fat=bad.

Now, I'm 36. I'm 5'8" and I weight 278 lbs. And you know what? I don't care. As long as my doc is good with my lab work, I don't fret about the number on the scale. 

These days, I eat better because it makes me feel good. I exercise because I like feeling agile. I wear clothes that I think look good on me and make me feel confident. So, if someone doesn't like my fat body, they can look elsewhere.

Year Eleven: The Year of the Marigold

Today marks the end of my eleventh year teaching. If you had told me during my first year that I would still be teaching after eleven years, I don’t know that I would have believed you.

Coming to Terms

I was looking through an old journal a few weeks ago and came across this:

To Eight-Year-Old Georgina...

Dear Eight-Year-Old Georgina,

Finding this note at the bottom of your yellow basket that you bought from Mrs. Yeager at the start of the school year seemed like an odd thing to you. At first, you looked around before opening it, hoping it was a note from your best friend Lydia or that kid you have a crush on in class. When you realized it was from your future self, you were weirded out a bit, but you’ve always had the ability to believe in things that are not concrete. You even played with the idea that you wrote it for fun and forgot about it, but the handwriting and vocabulary should let you know that this is legit.

Absence

In the time that I've been gone, I haven't done too many exciting things.

The Power of Literature

With the end of the Potter series looming at the end of the week, and the Twilight series final movie installments just around the turn of the calendar, some people are saying good-bye to their childhood literature comforts.


It’s moments like this that I like to step back and people watch. And I can’t help get emotional. Not because I’m sad that it’s the end of the series, but because of the immense power literature holds over people.

As a lover of words and stories, I have always found comfort in stories, poetry, and my own words. For so long, I felt like I was the only one who felt this need to live between the pages of Superfudge, wishing Ivon Villa from Desert Blood:The Juarez Murders really existed so I could call her up and chat, wondering what people said about the Buendias in Macondo, creating my own world in which I was whoever I wanted to be at the moments. But as I’ve taken my wonky path through life, I’ve found other people like me.

It’s incredible how the simple act of opening a book can change a person forever. And that, is not only why I love reading and writing, but also why I don’t ever want to stop teaching.

I Think...

Petite Rocollections of Jorge

We’re in the toy section at Winn’s next to the Diary Queen on Alameda Ave. Jorge is 13 and I’d just turned 5.

“¿Cúal quieres?”

I look at my options. Rainbow Bright is cool, but Lurky is just so cool. He’s brown and furry and would probably make an awesome pillow. After some thought, I decide on Lurky.

I watch him shell out the $17 for it and feel somewhat embarrassed that he would spend so much money on me, but at the same time so special.

Catching Up-A Long One

So much has gone on lately, but I haven’t had the will to sit and type about it. Sometimes I wish I could get back into the blogging groove and write an entry at least once a week. Other times, I sort of forget about my blog altogether.


It’s just weird, you know? How much do you tell? How much do I want to tell?


I do think that I should start updating once a week. Work it into my schedule like I do with my grading—I hang out on Friday afternoon to get all caught up.


So in an effort to get this all up to date, I offer to you a bulleted list:

Babies, babies, babies

It seems like everyone is having a baby these days. It's kind of exciting to welcome all these new little people to the world.

I don't have much else. I just thought I'd post something since I came on here to change my profile pic. That's the longest I've had my hair in years. Locks of Love, here I come!