A most portable soapbox

Saturday School attendance has dropped dramatically. Last week, I only had my three students from Yemen. We finished the lesson and spent the rest of our ninety minute block comparing and contrasting schools in America and in Yemen. The boys argued that I.S. 666 is better than the school they attended in Yemen. Yikes.

Yesterday, my sole student was Claudio. He was in one of my original groups, but stopped attending after a few sessions. My first impression of him way back when wasn’t so positive. I introduced myself and went into a spiel about the zero-tolerance discipline policy. He was speaking as I spoke, so I told him to stop talking. He muttered, “Lick my ass.” I raised my eyebrows and gave him my deadliest glare, “Don’t you EVER speak to ME like THAT. You do not have to be here.” Claudio spent the rest of the time in class trying to redeem himself by volunteering to read and answering questions.

A lot of my male students have very sexist attitudes about women. We can blame it on rap music, the men they are exposed to (usually not committed fathers or husbands), their peers, but this country isn’t good to women…still. Feminist Betty Friedan’s death didn’t get nearly as much press as that of the founder of the Crips. Or Paris Hilton’s second, less thrilling sex tape. Women get more press for taking off - scruples, tops - than gain or putting on, well, unless we’re talking pounds. The media loves to point out which woman are getting too fat.

We still overall don’t make as much money as men with the same credentials. And men are making the big decisions about women’s reproductive health and…I meant to get off the soapbox a few sentences ago, but it’s hard. My soapbox is small, but powerful - a credit card of criticism for this country, this status quo.

Back to Claudio-who-will-never-degrade-me-again. We read an article about people who live underground. We somehow got to talking about drugs and maquiladoras and his birthday. He turned 13 yesterday, and his dad called during our class to postpone the celebration plans they had made. Claudio looked disappointed. It was so great to talk to him in-depth. I love lonely Saturday school sessions. I pulled him aside later and asked if he wanted me to get him something from Taco Bell or McDonald’s for his special day. (The kids eat nasty, cold, cafeteria lunches at Saturday School). Claudio shook his head no, and wouldn’t tell me what he liked at either of the places I named. I told him not to be shy or polite. Then I asked do you like tacos? Big Macs? He finally said, “Well…I guess you can get me a Pepsi…if you want.” I got him a Pepsi with a bag of chips.

After Saturday School, I finally faced my fears and did something I’ve needed to do for a long time. I went to the dry cleaners. Somehow, I knew that once I did this, I would be a real grown-up. It was so easy, too. I took a coat and two sweaters in a bag to the Chinese lady at the counter. She appraised them and got out a receipt pad. She asked my name, and when I told her, she laughed and wrote it down with a price. Apparently my name sounds sort of like the Chinese phrase for “can’t do laundry worth a damn.” I’m going to pick up my laundered items tomorrow afternoon. I’m afraid that once you go dry clean, you can never go well, back to what I was doing - wearing dry clean only items without ever washing them. EVER. I’d just wear extra deodorant and make sure I wasn’t going to eat Roti Roll or interact with children. I practically shimmied out of the dry cleaners Pinocchio-style, “I’m a real [grown-up], Gepetto! I’ve got no strings to hold me down!”

So then I went home and read Hemingway. It rained on and off, so I put off my errand running for Sunday. I didn’t even want to put on matching clothes to procure food, so I ate from the drawer o’ goodies my parents stocked. With all the candy, cookies, and chips, I could easily operate a bodega out of my bedroom. I love care packages from Texas!

I ended the evening by watching the original Alfie with Michael Caine. The film was released in 1966, so skirt-chasing Alfie is a lot tamer than say, 50 Cent. Hell, he’s tamer than Claudio was. Nonetheless, I was disgusted by the title character. I don’t care if he questions his ways at the end or feels bad that the “bird” he knocked up had to have an abortion. What a putz. Then again, movies nowadays don’t even really show that kind of remorse or questioning of behavior/character/gender relations. And God forbid, a domestic film make abortion part of the storyline. The last movie I can think of that glossed over abortion was Coach Carter. That mention surprised me even more than the fact that I was watching such a sappy piece of crap.

Sigh. My credit card soapbox keeps reappearing in this entry. It’s everywhere I want to be…and not.

I don’t leave home without it.

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