Say My Name, Say My Name

I realized the other day how much I say Henry's name. Not just when he's in trouble, with the shocked stage whisper: "Henry Oscar McCannell." But when I see him first thing in the morning. When it's time to take a nap. When he says, "Mommy?" ("Mama" just disappeared and I already miss it). When I make up songs about him. I say his name so much that when I call him anything else (Honey, Pumpkin Pie, Silly Monkey, etc.) he says, "No, I'm Henry."

But, I guess what brought this to my attention was the realization of how infrequently I hear my own name. And when I do it's rarely when someone is talking to me, but more likely about me. I'll catch Jared on the phone making plans with his family and saying he's going to check with me. The girls call me "Mrs. McCannell" which still doesn't sound like my name, so that doesn't count. Adults don't usually greet each other by name, but the cafeteria is full of "Hi Henry"s when we walk in.

In San Francisco, with my mother and father and brother, it felt like they said my name a lot. In a good way. And each time it was a brief jolt of shock, followed by comfort. Like when it's really sticky hot out and a wisp of wind brushes across your arms and shoulders. Unexpected and lingering. I'm reminded of my mom telling me how older people don't get touched very much. People stop hugging them or holding their hand. My mom used to rub my grandmother's back when she sat next to her. And I try to do this with Henry, holding his feet, kneading his legs and smoothing his hair. Hearing my name from my family is like that. My father, with one arm around my shoulders, saying, "Kelli, it's so good to see you." My mother, pushing my face into her chest and thumping my back, "Kelli, I've missed you." My brother, leaning down from the upstairs of his apartment "Kelli, do you want lemonade?"

When I worked at a movie theater in college, I used to get annoyed at customers who'd use my name. "Hello, uh, Kelli, this popcorn is stale." "Excuse me, Kelli, the theater is too cold." "Hi, Kelli, would you recommend the hot dogs?" But they didn't know me, they didn't count. They didn't get to pretend we are intimate and throw out my name like it's natural. To avoid their stranger-Kelli-usage, I'd wear someone else's nametag and smile when they said the wrong name. It was my little bite of enjoyment.

I've watched enough cop shows to know that using someone's name is a technique in familiarity. Something to make serial killers relate to their victims. A word to keep someone from jumping off a building. What Jason Bourne always wanted to know about himself. And psychology is silly in that way. How applicable it is to everything. We think we are above techniques of name repetition, personality mirroring, and never breaking off a handshake. But when people we care about use our words back to us, say our name or put a hand on our arm (in a non-creeper way), it works. We feel paid attention to. Touched.

Advisee Reports

It's time for my advisee reports again. And because five new Norwegian girls arrived, my advisee list is up to ten. They have their homeroom advisors and their international student advisor and their academic advisor and me, their residential advisor. That's a lot of advising. I tell the girls that we are just hoping they like one of us enough to ask questions when they come up.

Every six weeks or so, we send reports home to their parents. We include academic, citizenship and extra-curricular comments. Some of them flow easily, the Brazilian girl who stops by the desk when she comes in from school every day. The prefect who I work with on duty and everyone knows. And sitting behind the duty desk as the girls come home from school tells me a lot. I see who is friends with who. And who immediately signs out to go meet up with her boyfriend, the kid with glasses waiting outside behind a tree until he hears the slam of our front door. I see who had a rotten day of classes by how quickly they ask for the kitchen key and how many bags of microwave popcorn they bring. I see who is in sports, their marroon and white uniforms with the outline of a husky head. I see who is excited by what activities, grabbing nearby dry erase markers to make sure their name is at the top of the list for a Portland Mall trip. I see who must hate the cafeteria food because they'd rather walk every day (sometimes in 30degree weather) to go to the Chinese food restaurant four blocks away.

But even then, there are the ones who slip by. The quiet, hidden girls who whisper past my door on the way to morning meeting and are a blur sneaking home from school. They disappear in classes and blend in the cafeteria. They have friends, giggle with their roommates at night, and sign up for dinner and a movie trips. But they don't seek out adults. At least not me. And when I knock on their doors to chat, their eyes take up half their face like cartoon animals facing a demon.

It is sometimes their personalities that are shy and sometimes their limited English keeps them shadowy. But either way, I have to find something to tell their parents that proves I pay attention to them. One of the other supervisors was writing a report about one of the new girls, and asked me, "Don't you think parents get tired of hearing, 'Your daughter is awesome.'?" I immediately answered no. Any healthy parent relishes hearing how much the world appreciates their child as much as they do. And other parents could take it as compliment meant solely for them and how their child must have gotten all their glowing qualities from their parents.

I email their teachers. I corner them after school. In my head, I include things their parents wouldn't want to know.
"Kitty is a very bright girl. Her teachers are impressed with her college-level writing. I'm so sorry I made her puke in my car that one time."
"Paula's English is impressive, especially for only having study it for the past year. I hope she hasn't learned the word for moth to tell you about that weird infestation of them in her bathroom. It's all cleared up now."
"Louise has an infectious laugh and you made the right decision not letting her spend the weekend in Boston with her older, married, online boyfriend in early September."
"Mary struggles with her English, but with more practice, I know she will improve. That is, if the ghost in her room doesn't suck out her soul."

They may not want to hear those things, but it would sure make it easier on me to include the good stuff.

Adventures in Babysitting

Remember that movie from 1987? While I'm not being chased by mobsters or have had to sing my way out of a blues club (yet), I feel like I could star in the remake.

Here're the adventures since my last blog...

• three more trips to doctors' offices with girls and Henry... good times.
• trying to convince a room full of foreign students that Halloween can be fun and then convince them I'm not insane when I show up as the Count to our Halloween dinner party.
• chaperoning a dinner/movie trip only to find my bus won't start, maintenance is called, of course it starts just fine for him and we're heading home, their faces lit with iPhones and earbud chords like tiny, white braids from their heads, when a boy tells me he left his wallet in the theater.
• emailing parents across the globe to ask them if it's okay for their teenage (15-18) daughter and her boyfriend to spend a week in a hotel in New York (or Boston or Portland etc.) over Thanksgiving break and them telling me, yep, of course, why not.
• putting my years of hair dyeing experience to good practice because my Russian student trusts me more than her English and put her butt-length hair in my plastic-gloved hands to make her a brunette.
• moving the tables and chairs and couches out of the big lounge to get 40 minutes of Just Dance in with a co-worker while the students are still in classes, only to have them come home and find us in the middle of a California Girls routine in old T-shirts and faded yoga pants with sweaty foreheads.
• Henry running out the screen door (in his new Thomas underwear; naked; barefoot; in various stages of disarray) to follow a girl up to her room; into the lounge; down to the kitchen where they feed him sugary treats and Doritos and flavored water and I chase after him and say, "Henry, that's not yours" when I really mean "DON'T EAT MORE CRAPPY FOOD" and they say, "Oh, that's okay, Mrs. McCannell. I gave it to him."
• performing a room search with the Dean of Discipline (not his actual title, but should be) and finding Prada shoes, an Armani Exchange belt, three bottles of Dior cologne, disposable boxers, a large wad of cash and thousands of dollars in eletronic equipment, but only two cigarettes.
• a hurricane (which barely touched us, but still seems worth mentioning)
• a girl (the only one without a roommate) saying she wants to move rooms because she's terrified to live alone even though we let her keep the light on and when I told my boss about it he said, yes, that's where the ghost lives, (which is incidentally right above our bedroom) and then the other woman who's worked at the school forever saying, yes, but they're all nice ghosts.

Whaddaya think - do I get my own sitcom?

Fox Sweaters.

There's a Chinese girl in the dorm who's dating a Chinese boy from another dorm. It's her second boyfriend this year. The first had a reputation. This one wears matching clothes with her. Yes. Matching. Not similar colors. Not similar styles. The EXACT SAME sweater and the EXACT SAME sweat pants. The sweater is pencil-lead gray with the silouette of a white fox wrapped around the bottom left side. Apparently this is common in Asian fashion. No, not fox sweaters. Couples with matching clothing. From Huffpost women:

 

In eastern Asia, where PDA is still a taboo, couples have taken to synchronizing their outfits to display their affection. The trend is so popular that stores are starting to make outfits sold in pairs, and pictures of couples dressed identically have overtaken fashion magazines. When a couple who've been dressing the same break up, the clothes aren't worn again, which, on one hand, kind of sucks, but on the other hand ... POST-BREAKUP SHOPPING SPREE!!!!! We can sort of see the appeal.

While the idea of a couple wearing identical Bermuda shorts might make you want to gag, consider the alternative: couples swapping spit on the subway. Honestly, that's way worse than matching graphic hoodies.

 

With that explanation, this doesn't seem that weird to me. Am I rushing out to buy a matching LLBean outfit for Jared and me? No. But it does seem sort of sweet to see 15-year-old love. They wear them to the cafeteria. He wears his when he comes to visit her at the dorm, two teenagers snuggled as close as they can get in front of me on hard, scratchy dorm couches while he pretends he'd rather be talking to her than playing Super Mario Brothers on our big screen.

 

I just googled that sweater and (!!!!!!!) it's $495. They've been dating for a month. Tops. Sure, we know the odds are great they aren't going to get married. Or maybe even last until winter break. But matching clothing ($500 matching clothing, no less) adds a new level of committment to the relationship. It's a branding of sorts. I don't know that Jared and I could agree every morning on what we would wear. We can't even figure out a Halloween costume!

 

I have so many questions about this trend. Do they text each other in the morning with "fox swtr, gry swt pnts?" Or is it settled the night before? Who picks out the outfits originally? Who buys them? How long does this continue into the relationship? Is it a honeymoon phase type of thing or does it carry over into long term love? Does anyone ever keep the clothing from a past relationship? Is this offensive to the next person they date? Do people ever stay together because their favorite article of clothing happens to match the jerk they are dating? What if one person loses/gains a bunch of weight? Do they force their partner to abandon that piece of clothing?

 

And here's a question. What sort of weird things do Americans do like this?

 

47% Henry.

When I found out I was pregnant with Henry, I was unemployed with no health insurance. The next morning, I called a hotline and within a half hour, I had an appointment at a community clinic the next day and an appointment at the health & human services office to sign up for Medi-Cal later in the week.

My first job out of college was the Outreach Coordinator for the American Red Cross WIC Program. It was my job to not only know the WIC program, but to know all the community partners that provide resources for women and families. Even with this knowledge (I worked there for two years) and the years of nonprofit work after (six more years), I had a roughish time navigating the system.  

After confirming the pregnancy at the clinic, they set me up with appointments: five of them a month. Two with the doctor/nurse. One with the nutritionist. One with the social worker. One with the prenatal counselor. And at each appointment, I waited a least an hour, even when I arrived on time. If I’d had a job, a job that didn’t have healthcare and would require me to go to the clinic, I can’t imagine my employer would have allowed me to leave once a week for two hours for an appointment.

To sign up for Medi-Cal, the original woman on the phone told me the six pieces of paperwork I needed to bring with me to the appointment. Again I waited over an hour in a room filled (FILLED) with people. Lines so long by 8am that some of them wouldn’t be seen that day. I was called to three different windows and then sat behind a scratched desk and handed over the pieces of required paperwork, proof I was desperate. And after an hour in that back room, it was declared that I would most likely (it was still not for sure) receive assistance.

After this was settled and I’d attended a month of appointments, I signed up for the WIC program, returning to the office I once made bulletin boards in and counseled participants. They gave me vouchers for healthy foods and I took them to the grocery store each week. Jared and I studied the list of acceptable and unacceptable types of orange juice and peanut butter and inevitably were told at the cash register that we’d chosen the wrong one. Half of the cashiers were assholes about it and the other half treated us like normal customers.

I’m not trying to complain about what a pain in the ass all this was. I’m still extremely grateful for the help I received during a joyful, but stressful time. I was lucky and had a healthy baby. I had prenatal care, was able to transfer to a birthing center and then the hospital where Henry was born. I’m still “friends” with other women from my birth classes on Facebook. Did I feel entitled to the care? To the resources? No. But on some level, I think those resources are somewhat like insurance. You pay into them, you contribute to society, and when you need them, they are there.

I’m writing about this now because I'm pissed off and scared. Because I’ve been watching the presidential debates and reading all the articles posted on Facebook (okay, not all of them) and hearing the discussion of the candidates. And President Obama repeatedly says they have a “fundamentally different” approach to the job. This, above all other things, summarizes it for me. For a while there, I was part of the 47%. I had my son as one of the 47%. Did I feel entitled to jump through hoops to get help when I really needed it? No. But I was thankful. Do I feel offended when a man who wants to lead our country infers, no, blatantly states to the people he wants to impress the most that half of our country is victims who will never help themselves and want to take advantage of the rest of the country? Yes. And disgusted. Mitt Romney is a mean girl. His presidency will not be about leadership and strength, but about power and suppression.

As anyone who’s ever stepped outside their front door knows all people are imperfect. We bite our nails or snap at people when we’re tired or forget to give the courtesy wave while driving. We can be selfish and unforgiving; short-sighted and unprofessional; or petty and cold. We can even be quiet during a presidential debate or not accomplish everything we set out to during a presidential campaign. But if we can, for the most part, be kind and patient with our words, gather as much information as we can to make prudent decisions, and keep the least of our people on the top of our minds, that’s pretty impressive. That deserves another go. That’s everything I would want my 47% son to be.

Root Canals and Cow Fields

Yesterday I took a girl to the dentist. We'll call her Kitty. She's the second girl in two weeks to have tooth issues. I hadn't spent much time with her before this and I know she struggles with English, so I was a little anxious. The dentist's office was in Hartland, a neighboring town only ten minutes away.

I'm normally very good with directions. Honestly.

The building wasn't marked. I mean, no address, no sign, no nothing. I went past it, turned around, couldn't find it and finally called the office. It was right across the street from where I parked to call them. I was not inspiring confidence in Kitty.

We went inside. The dentist takes some X-rays and then called me back.

"There's a lot happening here," he said, waving his hand in front of the X-rays. Diagnosis: one root canal, one filling and "maybe more." He gave us a referral and a prescription and sent us on our way.

In the car in the parking lot, I try to translate what just happened. Kitty's eyes were large and her hands almost shaking. She was afraid it would hurt and I told her she'll feel much better afterwards. She asked again and squinched up her face then typed something into her iphone.

"Will they have this?" she asked, showing me her phone. Under some Chinese characters in the Google translator it said: anesthesia.

"Of course!" I almost yelled and told her all about the numbing they will do.

She seemed happy after that so I started the car. It was 10:56am. Feeling chatty, I asked her about if she wanted to go to college and what she wanted to study. We talked about her parents and I felt like I was learning a lot about her. Learning so much, in fact, I wasn't paying attention. There weren't many turns to get there, so I'm not sure how I ended up on the wrong path. New England back roads in Fall look similar. Cows. Fields. Green. Trees. It took me a little while to realize I wasn't on the right road. But I figured if I just drove, I'd see something familiar. I saw a Route 152 sign (the road I drove in on) and took it. Again, it took me awhile to realize I wasn't on the right road. Too long.

"How close are we to school?" Kitty asked.
"Oh.... ten minutes?" I guessed, hoping I wasn't lying too much.

I saw a sign for Cambridge, a city I've only ever heard of as being in Massachusetts and pulled over. At this point, I noticed my gas tank was almost empty. No gas light yet. I pulled out my cell phone to call Jared. No reception. I carry the duty phone for work and tried that. When I told him where I was, from his pause I could tell he had never heard of Cambridge, Maine.

"I'm on 152. Going north, I think."
"Go south," he said.

At this point, Kitty was leaning against the door.
"I feel dizzy," she told me.
I rolled down her window a few inches. Have I already mentioned it was raining?

She leaned her head against the cool glass and silent plops of water started pooling in the armrest. I turned the car around and headed back through the orange and yellow and naked trees. The sloping hills and L turns. It would have been an incredibly, beautiful, scenic, idyllic ride if I didn't have a student in pain over a root canal, feeling dizzy, while it rained (both inside my car and out), on a back road in rural Maine with no cell service while running out of gas.

Forty-five minutes after leaving the dentist's office, I found the road I was supposed to be on. Kitty was half-sleeping, half-clutching her stomach at that point. I noticed her fist was clenched. We hadn't spoken since Cambridge.

"Are you okay?" I asked.
She nodded.

I breathed easier when I drove past the golf course and the tractor store. Through the neighborhood where some friends of ours live and Henry and I found the snapping turtle that one time. I was beyond relieved to drive through Hawthorne Park where they take the little league pictures and saw the Post Office up ahead. But as I turned a corner, maybe two minutes away from home, Kitty said, "Can you stop the car?"

I pulled over right away (right in front of a puddle, of course). She grabbed at the door and I fumbled with those stupid, automatic locks I'm always yelling at Jared about. At first she just leaned her head out and then jumped out all together. Wearing only a thin, white hoodie, Kitty stood in the rain, in the weeds, and puked.

I. Felt. Horrible.
Sooooooooo horrible.

"Sorry," she said when she got back in the car after maybe five minutes.
"No, I'm sorry," I told her.

Minutes later I dropped her off in front of the dorm and she bowed, slightly, as she got out of the car.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. McCannell," she said.
"Sorry again, Kitty!" I said, almost crying.
She shook her head and ran for the door. It was 12:10. I'd made her miss lunch.

And today she had a root canal.

Current City

Had lunch with another new (to me) faculty member today. When I told him where I was from he said, "Oh man, Maine must be a culture shock then?"

I've been asked this a lot. And, while it was shocking for the lady at the bank drive-through to know my son had been to the emergency room without me even knowing her name, the answer is not really. I've been thinking about how Facebook words it: Current City. Because I like thesaurus.com, I looked up "current" (see definition at the end). Present. Now.

I think more and more, like fashions, hobbies, friends, sleeping habits, food tastes and musical preferences, it's good for cities to be different at different times in your life. Would I have liked getting a divorce and trying to date in my late 20s in Pittsfield? Maybe not. But does it suit me now? Yes. Sometimes you need a place to be slower because life is fast no matter where you are. And maybe it takes living in traffic to appreciate long, snaking freeways when you can rarely see more than three cars at a time but you're bookended with thickets of deep green. And the flatline weather with a range of twenty degrees makes sticky sun, chameleon leaves and bare trees feel like something is happening. Time is moving and you can actually mark it.

Life doesn't feel slower here. My days are still filled with meetings and work and Henry and the girls and co-workers and eating and shortened conversations with Jared right before we both fall asleep. But now every day has breakfast, lunch and dinner and I don't have to do the dishes. I can go to the doctor or get my teeth cleaned and not worry about the bills. I can call my father-in-law with less than half an hour notice and drop-off Henry while I run an errand. I can go to Trivia Night on Thursdays at Mainely Brews with my coworkers (our team is named "Yes We Are!" and we won last week!!) and earn points for knowing Bruce Willis's three daughters names: Rumer, Tallulah and Scout.

Is it different? Yes. Do I miss San Diego things? Yes. But this is my current city. My size right now. It fits.

Main Entry:	current [kur-uhnt, kuhr-] Show IPA/ˈkɜrənt, ˈkʌr-/ Show Spelled
Part of Speech:	adjective
Definition:	contemporary; common
Synonyms:	accepted, accustomed, afoot, circulating, common knowledge, customary, cutting-edge, doing, existent, extant, fad, fashionable, general, going around, hot*, in, in circulation, in progress, in the mainstream, in the news, in use, in vogue, instant, leading-edge, mod, modern, now*, on front burner, ongoing, popular, present, present-day, prevailing, prevalent, rampant, regnant, rife, ruling, state-of-the-art, swinging, topical, trendy, up-to-date, widespread
Antonyms:	antiquated, old, old-fashioned, past, uncommon, uncontemporary