In a couple of weeks, my grandmother's house will be sold, for cash, to a faceless and hopefully kind and responsible family. I'm taking my kids to Florida next week for one last visit, and to help my sister pack for their move to the beach. It's a good and happy ending: Kate graduated as a nurse anesthetist and landed a great job in Port Orange. Tons of reasons to celebrate, for sure.
And yet, I am swamped in sadness. As I grow older, the endings are piling up, and will inevitably continue to do so, but this has been my home for my entire 37 years. My mother's family moved there from Chicago in the early 70s, when my grandfather got a job in Central Florida; my mother quit college to follow her two younger, developmentally disabled brothers there. She soon met my father, had me, and not soon after, my grandfather died in the garage of a massive heart attack. A few years later, I spent the night there while Kate was being born; I remember that night so vividly, the anticipation and excitement, my uncles clamoring for news of the new baby. My grandmother's toast with strawberry jam, the sound of my parents' car pulling away en route to the hospital. My grandmother died there in 2004, and I brought Sydney home there in 2005, 2 days after she was born, during our Katrina evacuation. I remember one night, 2 or 3 weeks after her birth, sitting awake and alone with my restless baby, in my grandmother's old recliner, talking to her, beseeching her, feeling her presence so acutely. Like she was sitting there with me, chatting away the lonely midnight hours.
Being musically inclined, I tend to associate memories with sounds--and Florida sounds have a unique timbre. The sound of screen doors whistling and slamming in the breeze; the crickets congregating at night; splashes and shouts from the neighbor's pool; the eerie silence of a hot summer morning. I can still hear my grandmother's voice--she always sat in her recliner directly opposite the door to the living room and would call out my name when I walked in (always without knocking). My Uncle Jimmy's sweet mumbles, Uncle Jack's catcalls. The sound of the door shutting behind me.
I've been told to remember that it's just a house, that "home is where the heart is." But what if your heart resides in a physical place? What if that place--not just the house itself, but the neighborhood, the running trail, the high school, the entire landscape--is so deeply embedded in your memory and in your person that you can't imagine it belonging to someone else? What then?
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Castles
Growing up, I always laughed at my mother's annual birthday litany. Every year, on the morning of the last day of November, she would recite the details of the day of my birth; as the years go on she does so almost apologetically, though we both know I'd be disappointed if she didn't. And of course, as these things tend to go, I've started the same tradition with my kids--though I feel a bit more justified in telling and re-telling Sydney's extraordinary story.
Ya'll know she was born 3 weeks after Katrina, right? We'd fled to Houston, 38 weeks pregnant, and settled in there for the long haul, with doctors and delivery unit tours and multiple Target runs (we'd left everything in New Orleans, except the car seat). When Hurricane Rita came to Houston, I was 3 days overdue, and we had to flee again--I remember looking back through the rear window and seeing the long line of gridlocked traffic behind us as we moved towards Arkansas. It took us 3 days to get to my mom's house in Orlando, arriving late on that Friday night; Sydney was born the very next day. When Hurricane Wilma tore through Fort Lauderdale, 6 weeks later, and destroyed the building where Cade's company had set up a temporary office, we packed up and moved back to our quiet, ruined city. The Red Cross truck brought me lunch every day, and the National Guardsmen stationed at the end of our block helped out with all sorts of post-Katrina dilemmas. It was a sad and scary time, but also a relief: it looked like our city would survive, perhaps even thrive.
January came and it was time for me to return to work. Problem was, the childcare sector in New Orleans had taken a huge hit; about 15% of the centers in operation before Katrina had survived the storm (some had flooded, others had to close due to lack of income). It felt like an impossible situation--how can you live, work, and raise a family in the city you love, when said city has no childcare? I could have chosen not to work, but as a social worker felt compelled to do so, given the enormous psychosocial tasks that lie ahead. Employing a nanny was neither cost-effective or aligned with what we wanted for our daughter--we wanted a community, wanted her in the company of other Katrina babies. Also, selfishly, I was hungry for company and community.
Luckily, I'd stumbled upon a group of parents who, in November 2005, had come together with the crazy idea of opening their own childcare center. I remember being a little mystified by the endeavor; how do you just...create something like that? Where do you even start? But they had--they had permits and licenses and a little cottage on Oak Street, and a Board of Directors and bylaws and even an Executive Director. It was the real deal.
It took a few months of ramp-building and teacher-hiring and painting and collecting second-hand toys and furniture, but a little less than a year after the storm, Abeona House opened. Here's a picture of Sydney from the opening day.
On the first anniversary, we had a "birthday" party and unveiled our fancy new sign:
Just after our second anniversary, I joined the Board of Directors. I was immediately surprised by the challenges that remained, and impressed by the creativity and resourcefulness of the community. It was obvious, early on, that we'd have to get bigger if we wanted to survive--but expansion still seemed like a pipe dream.
Meanwhile, Sydney thrived, and Evan was born (those 2 events are not connected, trust me).
Abeona House thrived, too. We had Mardi Gras and Halloween parades, art shows and concerts in the backyard. Sydney graduated and moved on to Big School, I witnessed her self-possession and compassion in that new environment, and I knew it was in large part because of her time at Abeona House. (How do I know this? Because I help out a lot with teacher interviews, after they've gone through 2 rounds of in-class observations, and the vast majority of them tell me, unprompted, how kind and confident and imaginative the kids are. I call that empirical evidence.)
2 years ago this April, I took the reins as Board Chair, with some trepidation but also with resolve. In that first meeting we all agreed that it was time to expand, and made that our 2-year goal. 7 months later, we moved into a new building across town, where we doubled in size, hired a chef and added a farm-to-table food program, and set about the business of becoming what we had always been poised to be: a model of early childhood education in New Orleans.
Emmy, our Founding Director (look at her! Isn't she awesome?!)
and Aliza, the Center Director (here she is with Sydney at the "old Abeona")
have spent the last several years creating a program that is thoughtful rather than reactive, that emphasizes mutual respect among teachers, children, and families, and that strives to make children both visible and responsible. So much of the success of this work is dependent upon the teachers, and though I know I'm biased, I truly believe we have the best group of teachers on the planet. They love our children, they spend hours developing projects and documenting--they are rock stars.
Here is Evan's teacher, Ms. Jaime, and the letter she wrote for his documentation binder after she first started at Abeona House:
Can you read that without getting a little weepy? Didn't think so.
Ms. Nicole was Sydney's teacher at the Old Abeona, and though she doesn't teach in Evan's classroom, she does come to his soccer games.
These teachers work tirelessly and with exceptional dedication, because they love our kids and they believe in Abeona House. I love them. Don't you love them?
On top of the stellar pedagogy and exceptional teaching staff, Abeona House is committed to improving the quality of early childhood education throughout the New Orleans community. This isn't some silly mission-statement jargon that we have to come up with for a brochure; this is the real deal. So what does that mean? It means our Director has spearheaded the formation of a Shared Services Alliance that will help strengthen business development for childcare centers in the GNO region. It means our center has undertaken the formidable task of earning stars under the state's Quality Rating System, which requires teachers to earn credentials in early childhood education (this in turn means books and coursework, as well as tax credits for teachers and families). It means that our food program, which emphasizes fresh, healthful, locally-grown meals (think black bean empanadas with homemade yogurt cheese and chickpea and sweet potato gumbo--yes, the kids eat this stuff!) is garnering attention from other centers, and we're working towards sharing resources and knowledge with them. It means that we're dedicated to improving the quality of life for teachers, children, and families throughout our region, not just in theory, but in practice.
Last year we created the Ira Herman Scholarship Fund, which provides tuition assistance to families in need of support. Remember Aliza? We love her. The fund is named after her father, who was a huge supporter of our school and who passed away last year. This fund is supported entirely through fundraising events, like the upcoming Reggio Run, where parents, teachers, and alums collect pledges to run, jog, or walk the Crescent City Classic 10k (on March 30th this year). Last year we raised $13,000 for the school--this year we hope to raise $15,000.
One of my favorite quotes of all time is from Henry David Thoreau: "If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them." 7 years ago, we built a castle on the remains of a ruined city, and I'm happy to say our foundation is growing stronger and stronger. We've created a fantastic program that is changing the face of early childhood education here in NOLA, and I could not be any prouder of what we've accomplished. My tenure on the Board is up next month, and Evan will graduate in May (sniff), but I have no doubt that our family will be connected to Abeona House for many years to come. At the risk of sounding grandiose (what the hell, why not), I truly believe that this is how healthy communities are built: through citizen engagement, creativity, and dedication, one project, one family at a time.
If you love our family, if I've sold you on this place and what we do, please consider sponsoring my run on March 30th. If you're so inclined, you can do so through the website (www.abeonahouse.org) or, if you're still paying for stamps, by mailing a check to the Center (3401 Canal Street, New Orleans, LA 70119). It's tax-deductible. It's for the children. And I'll love you forever.
Your Friend,
Chrissie
Ya'll know she was born 3 weeks after Katrina, right? We'd fled to Houston, 38 weeks pregnant, and settled in there for the long haul, with doctors and delivery unit tours and multiple Target runs (we'd left everything in New Orleans, except the car seat). When Hurricane Rita came to Houston, I was 3 days overdue, and we had to flee again--I remember looking back through the rear window and seeing the long line of gridlocked traffic behind us as we moved towards Arkansas. It took us 3 days to get to my mom's house in Orlando, arriving late on that Friday night; Sydney was born the very next day. When Hurricane Wilma tore through Fort Lauderdale, 6 weeks later, and destroyed the building where Cade's company had set up a temporary office, we packed up and moved back to our quiet, ruined city. The Red Cross truck brought me lunch every day, and the National Guardsmen stationed at the end of our block helped out with all sorts of post-Katrina dilemmas. It was a sad and scary time, but also a relief: it looked like our city would survive, perhaps even thrive.
 |
| Look at those cheeks. |
Luckily, I'd stumbled upon a group of parents who, in November 2005, had come together with the crazy idea of opening their own childcare center. I remember being a little mystified by the endeavor; how do you just...create something like that? Where do you even start? But they had--they had permits and licenses and a little cottage on Oak Street, and a Board of Directors and bylaws and even an Executive Director. It was the real deal.
It took a few months of ramp-building and teacher-hiring and painting and collecting second-hand toys and furniture, but a little less than a year after the storm, Abeona House opened. Here's a picture of Sydney from the opening day.
On the first anniversary, we had a "birthday" party and unveiled our fancy new sign:
 |
| There was also ice cream. |
Just after our second anniversary, I joined the Board of Directors. I was immediately surprised by the challenges that remained, and impressed by the creativity and resourcefulness of the community. It was obvious, early on, that we'd have to get bigger if we wanted to survive--but expansion still seemed like a pipe dream.
 |
| Taken seconds before he spewed in her face. |
 |
| Syd and Ms. Alli |
Emmy, our Founding Director (look at her! Isn't she awesome?!)
 |
| Totally awesome. |
and Aliza, the Center Director (here she is with Sydney at the "old Abeona")
 |
| Also awesome. |
Here is Evan's teacher, Ms. Jaime, and the letter she wrote for his documentation binder after she first started at Abeona House:
Dear Evan,
Since I'm the new preschool teacher, it has taken a while for the classroom to become comfortable with me; it's tough for me too. I know it's hard for you to fully trust me as your teacher and caretaker. I understand it takes a while to build a bond and I want you to know that I love you, and I care so much about you. I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything and everything! I want you to know you can find comfort in my arms when you feel sad or really happy. You are so unique and special. I think you are very sweet and caring to your friends. You are such a funny boy with a silly personality! I see you coming around; I can't wait until you are ready for me to fully be a part of your life.
Love,
Ms. Jaime
Can you read that without getting a little weepy? Didn't think so.
Ms. Nicole was Sydney's teacher at the Old Abeona, and though she doesn't teach in Evan's classroom, she does come to his soccer games.
 |
| Evan loves Ms. Cole |
On top of the stellar pedagogy and exceptional teaching staff, Abeona House is committed to improving the quality of early childhood education throughout the New Orleans community. This isn't some silly mission-statement jargon that we have to come up with for a brochure; this is the real deal. So what does that mean? It means our Director has spearheaded the formation of a Shared Services Alliance that will help strengthen business development for childcare centers in the GNO region. It means our center has undertaken the formidable task of earning stars under the state's Quality Rating System, which requires teachers to earn credentials in early childhood education (this in turn means books and coursework, as well as tax credits for teachers and families). It means that our food program, which emphasizes fresh, healthful, locally-grown meals (think black bean empanadas with homemade yogurt cheese and chickpea and sweet potato gumbo--yes, the kids eat this stuff!) is garnering attention from other centers, and we're working towards sharing resources and knowledge with them. It means that we're dedicated to improving the quality of life for teachers, children, and families throughout our region, not just in theory, but in practice.
Last year we created the Ira Herman Scholarship Fund, which provides tuition assistance to families in need of support. Remember Aliza? We love her. The fund is named after her father, who was a huge supporter of our school and who passed away last year. This fund is supported entirely through fundraising events, like the upcoming Reggio Run, where parents, teachers, and alums collect pledges to run, jog, or walk the Crescent City Classic 10k (on March 30th this year). Last year we raised $13,000 for the school--this year we hope to raise $15,000.
 |
| 2010 Reggio Run |
If you love our family, if I've sold you on this place and what we do, please consider sponsoring my run on March 30th. If you're so inclined, you can do so through the website (www.abeonahouse.org) or, if you're still paying for stamps, by mailing a check to the Center (3401 Canal Street, New Orleans, LA 70119). It's tax-deductible. It's for the children. And I'll love you forever.
Your Friend,
Chrissie
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Fiercely
5 years ago, on Valentine's Day, my Uncle Jimmy died. He wasn't old, or sick; he choked on a sandwich in the bathroom of the sheltered workshop where he spent his weekdays. His life started out difficult and ended sadly, but these days, on February 14th, when I think of him and his legacy, I'm reminded of the absolute power of pure and simple love.
Both of my mother's brothers were born with Fragile X syndrome, a genetic condition that mostly affects males (since the mutation is carried on the X chromosome, females can be carriers but have a "normal" X to make up for it). My Uncle Jack is older, and less severely impacted: he can write simple words, and operate basic appliances, and groom himself and cook (he's also obsessed with show tunes, but that's another story). Jimmy was born small, and as an infant had difficulty latching and sucking, so my mother--who was 11 years older--spent the first several months of his life spoon-feeding him sips of milk until his tiny muscles got the hang of sustenance. From there, their bond was indestructible; they adored each other. In the 1960s, before all the nifty advances in genetic research and testing, when people with intellectual and developmental disabilities were called "retarded" and relegated to sub-human status, there was little room in polite suburban Chicago society for a family like theirs--yet my mom's stories of childhood are like anyone else's, filled with sibling rivalries and escapades. But Jimmy was the baby of the family, my mother his protector, so when my grandfather's job took them to Central Florida, my mother left college and followed them to the Sunshine State.
Jimmy had a lopsided smile and a habit of close-talking; he'd get right up in your face and ask you questions in his incongruously soft voice (he grew to be a very large man). His questions usually centered around whether or not you'd drive him to the store for a "beer," a tradition that started when my father, during visits to my grandparents' house, would inevitably make a run to the 7-Eleven, taking Jimmy along with him. Jimmy didn't drink alcohol, but long after my parents were divorced, my Dad would stop by and take him for a ride to the store for a soda.
Jimmy called me "Snork," because that was the sound he heard me make when I was a baby. He loved to bowl, and was of such powerful stature that everyone in his general radius would reflexively recoil when he sauntered up to the lane with his bowling ball. He was a man's man, he loved tools and could often be seen walking around the house in his toolbelt. He was in the garage workshop when my grandfather died there, instantaneously, of a massive heart attack; Jimmy was never really the same after that.
My uncles lived with my grandmother until she died in 2004, at which point they went to live in a group home. They worked during the week at a sheltered workshop--which sounds awful and sweat-shoppy, but was actually a hugely rewarding experience for them, for a long time--and one day, Jimmy went into the bathroom to eat his lunch (he had a tendency to be secretive around food) and they found him, a while later, unconscious on the floor. He was taken to the ICU, where my mother lay next to him until they discontinued life support.
I flew home for his funeral, 4 months pregnant with Evan, and I was terrified. I was afraid of how my Uncle Jack would deal, how my mom would handle the loss. I was not prepared for what happened at the church, the standing room only, the absolute flood of people who came out to pay tribute to his life. My Dad was a pallbearer, and I saw him cry for the second time in my life. Fr. Robert, a long-term family friend and Franciscan priest, came from out of town to stand at the altar, though it wasn't his church. People from Jimmy's workshop, his bowling league, old friends of ours from St. Mary Magdalen, tons of people I didn't know clogged the aisles and the back of the church. And outside, in the parking lot, I met a young man who was sobbing; when I introduced myself he threw his arms around me and said "I just loved him so much." I found out later that he was the manager of the group home where Jimmy had lived.
At the funeral, my mom gave the eulogy. At one point she told the audience that as a child I told her I loved being with my uncles, because they were always happy to see me. And they were; the summers and holidays and weekends I spent with them were filled with love and acceptance and fun. I miss his crooked smile, I miss taking him for a beer. I miss watching him sidle up next to my mom, seeing her cradle his head in the crook of her neck, witnessing that perfect bond, that pure affection.
We're all a little cynical these days about this holiday, but I'm reminded of how important it is to love someone fiercely, to love them wholly, to do it because it's important, and it's beautiful, and in the end, it's all there is.
Both of my mother's brothers were born with Fragile X syndrome, a genetic condition that mostly affects males (since the mutation is carried on the X chromosome, females can be carriers but have a "normal" X to make up for it). My Uncle Jack is older, and less severely impacted: he can write simple words, and operate basic appliances, and groom himself and cook (he's also obsessed with show tunes, but that's another story). Jimmy was born small, and as an infant had difficulty latching and sucking, so my mother--who was 11 years older--spent the first several months of his life spoon-feeding him sips of milk until his tiny muscles got the hang of sustenance. From there, their bond was indestructible; they adored each other. In the 1960s, before all the nifty advances in genetic research and testing, when people with intellectual and developmental disabilities were called "retarded" and relegated to sub-human status, there was little room in polite suburban Chicago society for a family like theirs--yet my mom's stories of childhood are like anyone else's, filled with sibling rivalries and escapades. But Jimmy was the baby of the family, my mother his protector, so when my grandfather's job took them to Central Florida, my mother left college and followed them to the Sunshine State.
Jimmy had a lopsided smile and a habit of close-talking; he'd get right up in your face and ask you questions in his incongruously soft voice (he grew to be a very large man). His questions usually centered around whether or not you'd drive him to the store for a "beer," a tradition that started when my father, during visits to my grandparents' house, would inevitably make a run to the 7-Eleven, taking Jimmy along with him. Jimmy didn't drink alcohol, but long after my parents were divorced, my Dad would stop by and take him for a ride to the store for a soda.
Jimmy called me "Snork," because that was the sound he heard me make when I was a baby. He loved to bowl, and was of such powerful stature that everyone in his general radius would reflexively recoil when he sauntered up to the lane with his bowling ball. He was a man's man, he loved tools and could often be seen walking around the house in his toolbelt. He was in the garage workshop when my grandfather died there, instantaneously, of a massive heart attack; Jimmy was never really the same after that.
My uncles lived with my grandmother until she died in 2004, at which point they went to live in a group home. They worked during the week at a sheltered workshop--which sounds awful and sweat-shoppy, but was actually a hugely rewarding experience for them, for a long time--and one day, Jimmy went into the bathroom to eat his lunch (he had a tendency to be secretive around food) and they found him, a while later, unconscious on the floor. He was taken to the ICU, where my mother lay next to him until they discontinued life support.
I flew home for his funeral, 4 months pregnant with Evan, and I was terrified. I was afraid of how my Uncle Jack would deal, how my mom would handle the loss. I was not prepared for what happened at the church, the standing room only, the absolute flood of people who came out to pay tribute to his life. My Dad was a pallbearer, and I saw him cry for the second time in my life. Fr. Robert, a long-term family friend and Franciscan priest, came from out of town to stand at the altar, though it wasn't his church. People from Jimmy's workshop, his bowling league, old friends of ours from St. Mary Magdalen, tons of people I didn't know clogged the aisles and the back of the church. And outside, in the parking lot, I met a young man who was sobbing; when I introduced myself he threw his arms around me and said "I just loved him so much." I found out later that he was the manager of the group home where Jimmy had lived.
At the funeral, my mom gave the eulogy. At one point she told the audience that as a child I told her I loved being with my uncles, because they were always happy to see me. And they were; the summers and holidays and weekends I spent with them were filled with love and acceptance and fun. I miss his crooked smile, I miss taking him for a beer. I miss watching him sidle up next to my mom, seeing her cradle his head in the crook of her neck, witnessing that perfect bond, that pure affection.
We're all a little cynical these days about this holiday, but I'm reminded of how important it is to love someone fiercely, to love them wholly, to do it because it's important, and it's beautiful, and in the end, it's all there is.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Phat
We are Mardi Gras.
Our fingernails are dirty and we have too many swords.
We are Mardi Gras.
We want that cup, but when the boy behind us steals it, we let it go. And we hand him the next cups we catch, because we're cool that way.
We are Mardi Gras.
Our homework is half-done, and our Moms don't care.
We are Mardi Gras.
We know the rhythms: drop back to the curb for the marching bands, rush forward once they're past. But not too far forward. Let the riders know you're there.
We are Mardi Gras.
When that awesome throw comes flying, the one we've been waiting for, and it rolls under the float, we wait. We know better.
We are Mardi Gras.
Our siblings are smaller, and quieter; we know what they like. We yell for them.
We are Mardi Gras.
We never throw coins at Flambeaux. We hand them bills, and make sure our hair doesn't catch.
We are Mardi Gras.
We link arms and sing pop songs en route to the parades. We are young, like this night, full of possibility and joy.
We are Mardi Gras.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Lines for Winter
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.
--Mark Strand
Saturday, October 20, 2012
The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
--Ellen Bass
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
--Ellen Bass
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Goal
Of the many things I never imagined myself doing in my late 30s, coaching soccer is right up there at the top of the list--alongside things like performing interpretive skate-dances to humiliate my daughter and her friends and explaining to my son why his penis "pokes out" in the morning. But here I am, a few weeks shy of 37, and I've somehow ended up as not only a coach, but the U-8 league coordinator, in possession of a large Adidas duffle bag, a clipboard, several extra balls, and a newly-developed penchant for saying things like "hustle" and "drop back."
When I first enrolled Sydney in soccer, I checked the "Assistant Coach" box on the registration form, because I am just that stupid. A few days later, the league commissioner called and left me a voicemail, explaining that they were short a few head coaches and would I be interested in stepping up? "It's not that big a deal," said he. "The game really teaches itself." Because I am not always completely dense, I understood that to mean "We are desperate to recruit the requisite number of suckers and we will say anything to persuade you. Sucker." I ignored the voicemail, knowing that if I returned the call I would end up not only agreeing to coach, but to manage their website or oversee the maintenance of the playing fields for the next twenty years. That's how these types of conversations tend to go. But he tricked me by calling back, from a different number, and I unwittingly answered, and the next thing I knew I was sweating my way through a coaches' clinic, dribbling through "minefields" and going 1 v 1 against men who I had just seen neck-trapping their kids' balls. I told myself that I was doing it for Sydney, which I was: I knew she would be less ambivalent about playing if I coached her team. Also, I am a total sucker.
The U-6 draft, where all the coaches (me and 15 soccer dads) took turns selecting players from the roster to assemble our teams, was eye-opening: I watched the more veteran coaches choose players based on age (the older the better) and then, it seemed, on the ethnicity suggested by the surname. But the season turned out fine; Sydney enjoyed it immensely and the whole team had fun. My learning curve was huge, but I do enjoy a challenge, and I'll admit to being a little sad when the season ended. But mostly I was relieved, since Sydney would be moving up to U-8 in the Spring and there was no way in hell I could ever be persuaded to coach in U-8.
When the voicemails started coming, I studiously ignored them. I braced myself for battle. Sydney was firmly committed to the sport; my job was done. They didn't need me! Look at all those dudes with their bulging calves and their Pumas! They could totally handle it.
I successfully dodged multiple recruiting entities for a couple of weeks, and I thought they had finally given up when I got a phone call in the middle of a busy clinical day from a number I didn't recognize. The commissioner was on the line, his voice thick with congestion. He coughed loudly into the receiver. "It's really not a big difference from U-6," he croaked. "But I really can't do it this season," I replied. "I'm really very busy." There was a pause on the other end; a child cried. "I'm sorry, can you say that again?" he said. "We all have bronchitis here and this fever is making me a little out of it." I realized I'd been beaten. "Send me the details," I said, and hung up the phone, realizing in that moment that I am a person who will never be able to say no.
While the U-6 draft had been a little disorienting, the U-8 draft was downright frightening. Once again, I was the only woman in the room, and I watched the men (mostly dads who did not have sons) debate the relative merits of the players (6 and 7 year-old girls) as if they were auctioning cattle or something. The therapist in me recognized all the uncomfortably hostile dynamics swirling around that dark little room, and when I realized I had ended up with a team full of young players, several of whom were openly disparaged by the veteran coaches ("she looks like she's never seen a soccer ball before"), I experienced a surge of resolve. We will be the Bad News Bears. We will suck, we will persevere, and then we will dominate.
And that's pretty much what happened. We lost every single game, but kept working on finding open space and passing and holding positions, and in the very last game, we dominated. Like a switch had been thrown, every single player on that team played very good soccer; they passed, they attacked and defended, they scored. There was one player in particular, a shy girl who cried at the beginning of every practice and game and who often seemed lost on the field, who made tremendous progress. At the beginning of the last game I took her aside and told her that if she played aggressively, I knew she would score a goal (she had never done so, and desperately wanted to). And she did, she scored, and her parents cried on the sidelines, and I knew in that moment that I would coach soccer for as long as they would allow me to do it.
This season, I didn't hesitate to sign on to coach; I no longer needed to be persuaded. So when the call from the commissioner came, I cheerfully answered, expecting to hear some details about clinics or drafts or something. "So, we're really trying to recruit more women coaches for the girl's leagues..." he began. "Excellent!" I said. "That's fantastic!" "...And we think that having a woman as the league coordinator would really help."
"..."
"It's not really that big a commitment."
"I'm really very busy, you know."
"All you have to do is make sure we have enough coaches, and run the grading and the draft, and then make sure the season runs smoothly and everyone is following the rules and such."
What he neglected to mention at this point was that league coordinators get free beer from the concession stand. I found this out later, after I had agreed to the job, and I guess if he knew me better he would have led with that perk instead of the whole "step up for the good of all women" thing. Either way, I got suckered again, and am once again proceeding with gasping, stumbling steps up a steep learning curve. I'm learning that some men really don't like when a woman is in charge, and they will get downright nasty about it, but that they will yield when that woman shows no mercy and no patience for the nonsense they try to throw at her. I learned that in an Olympic year, every kid suddenly wants to play soccer, and that instead of 8 teams you can expect to have 12 in each league, and as league coordinator you will spend every second of your non-existent free time recruiting additional coaches and trying to usher 105 children through grading drills. I've learned that it is in fact an excellent thing for these girls to see a woman in charge--especially when that woman is also not afraid to hug them on the field when they score.
But perhaps most important of all, I've learned not to be shy about saying "I'm the league coordinator" when the kids at the concession stand try to charge me for my beer.
When I first enrolled Sydney in soccer, I checked the "Assistant Coach" box on the registration form, because I am just that stupid. A few days later, the league commissioner called and left me a voicemail, explaining that they were short a few head coaches and would I be interested in stepping up? "It's not that big a deal," said he. "The game really teaches itself." Because I am not always completely dense, I understood that to mean "We are desperate to recruit the requisite number of suckers and we will say anything to persuade you. Sucker." I ignored the voicemail, knowing that if I returned the call I would end up not only agreeing to coach, but to manage their website or oversee the maintenance of the playing fields for the next twenty years. That's how these types of conversations tend to go. But he tricked me by calling back, from a different number, and I unwittingly answered, and the next thing I knew I was sweating my way through a coaches' clinic, dribbling through "minefields" and going 1 v 1 against men who I had just seen neck-trapping their kids' balls. I told myself that I was doing it for Sydney, which I was: I knew she would be less ambivalent about playing if I coached her team. Also, I am a total sucker.
The U-6 draft, where all the coaches (me and 15 soccer dads) took turns selecting players from the roster to assemble our teams, was eye-opening: I watched the more veteran coaches choose players based on age (the older the better) and then, it seemed, on the ethnicity suggested by the surname. But the season turned out fine; Sydney enjoyed it immensely and the whole team had fun. My learning curve was huge, but I do enjoy a challenge, and I'll admit to being a little sad when the season ended. But mostly I was relieved, since Sydney would be moving up to U-8 in the Spring and there was no way in hell I could ever be persuaded to coach in U-8.
When the voicemails started coming, I studiously ignored them. I braced myself for battle. Sydney was firmly committed to the sport; my job was done. They didn't need me! Look at all those dudes with their bulging calves and their Pumas! They could totally handle it.
I successfully dodged multiple recruiting entities for a couple of weeks, and I thought they had finally given up when I got a phone call in the middle of a busy clinical day from a number I didn't recognize. The commissioner was on the line, his voice thick with congestion. He coughed loudly into the receiver. "It's really not a big difference from U-6," he croaked. "But I really can't do it this season," I replied. "I'm really very busy." There was a pause on the other end; a child cried. "I'm sorry, can you say that again?" he said. "We all have bronchitis here and this fever is making me a little out of it." I realized I'd been beaten. "Send me the details," I said, and hung up the phone, realizing in that moment that I am a person who will never be able to say no.
While the U-6 draft had been a little disorienting, the U-8 draft was downright frightening. Once again, I was the only woman in the room, and I watched the men (mostly dads who did not have sons) debate the relative merits of the players (6 and 7 year-old girls) as if they were auctioning cattle or something. The therapist in me recognized all the uncomfortably hostile dynamics swirling around that dark little room, and when I realized I had ended up with a team full of young players, several of whom were openly disparaged by the veteran coaches ("she looks like she's never seen a soccer ball before"), I experienced a surge of resolve. We will be the Bad News Bears. We will suck, we will persevere, and then we will dominate.
And that's pretty much what happened. We lost every single game, but kept working on finding open space and passing and holding positions, and in the very last game, we dominated. Like a switch had been thrown, every single player on that team played very good soccer; they passed, they attacked and defended, they scored. There was one player in particular, a shy girl who cried at the beginning of every practice and game and who often seemed lost on the field, who made tremendous progress. At the beginning of the last game I took her aside and told her that if she played aggressively, I knew she would score a goal (she had never done so, and desperately wanted to). And she did, she scored, and her parents cried on the sidelines, and I knew in that moment that I would coach soccer for as long as they would allow me to do it.
This season, I didn't hesitate to sign on to coach; I no longer needed to be persuaded. So when the call from the commissioner came, I cheerfully answered, expecting to hear some details about clinics or drafts or something. "So, we're really trying to recruit more women coaches for the girl's leagues..." he began. "Excellent!" I said. "That's fantastic!" "...And we think that having a woman as the league coordinator would really help."
"..."
"It's not really that big a commitment."
"I'm really very busy, you know."
"All you have to do is make sure we have enough coaches, and run the grading and the draft, and then make sure the season runs smoothly and everyone is following the rules and such."
What he neglected to mention at this point was that league coordinators get free beer from the concession stand. I found this out later, after I had agreed to the job, and I guess if he knew me better he would have led with that perk instead of the whole "step up for the good of all women" thing. Either way, I got suckered again, and am once again proceeding with gasping, stumbling steps up a steep learning curve. I'm learning that some men really don't like when a woman is in charge, and they will get downright nasty about it, but that they will yield when that woman shows no mercy and no patience for the nonsense they try to throw at her. I learned that in an Olympic year, every kid suddenly wants to play soccer, and that instead of 8 teams you can expect to have 12 in each league, and as league coordinator you will spend every second of your non-existent free time recruiting additional coaches and trying to usher 105 children through grading drills. I've learned that it is in fact an excellent thing for these girls to see a woman in charge--especially when that woman is also not afraid to hug them on the field when they score.
But perhaps most important of all, I've learned not to be shy about saying "I'm the league coordinator" when the kids at the concession stand try to charge me for my beer.
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