Funny & Warm
cozy up in October...
Twirl: My Life With Stories, Writing & Clothes
āItās funny, itās warm, itās enlightening. I love this book.ā
āSarah Smith, Executive EditorĀ PreventionĀ magazine;Ā
former Executive EditorĀ RedbookĀ magazine
The Epigraph
Prelude
In the pause between spring rain
a woman pirouettes in a field.
Her skin is a thousand mirrors.
ā Sholeh WolpeĢ
Ā
In the Beginning
It was Adam and Eve who got me interested in clothes and stories. I was around 5 or 6, and in Sunday School, listening about their exile from Eden.
Frankly, Eden terrified me. I didnāt understand what was so great about a place where animals were just walking around, and the only other person to talk to was a boy. And he had no clothes on! Where were the toys? Where was the candy? Why was a snake talking to people?
So when Eve bit that apple, I was relieved. Finally! Some- thingās about to happen! And even though I knew she wasnāt supposed to do what she did, I liked that it was the girl who did the bad thing. It was the girl who moved the story forward. My story repertoire so far consisted of Cinderella and Snow Whiteāprincesses I adored (Those dresses! Those tiaras! Those satin gloves!), but they hadnāt done anything wrong. They hadnāt really done anything. Boys were always the ones causing mischief; it was always the boys who learned the lesson. Eve knew she wasnāt supposed to eat that apple, and she did it anyway. Now what? I thought eagerly.
āAnd then they knew they were naked,ā one of the Sunday School teachers would say, and she would say it with sorrow, while I wanted to stand up and shout, āHooray! Bring on the clothes!ā Why would being aware that youāre naked be a bad thing? Why was wearing clothes a bad thing? I loved clothes.
My outfits have always been a compass; they pointed to who I could be on any given day: A red Longfellow Center T-shirt I wore on floor hockey game days made me feel strong and aggressive. A bouncy black skirt dress I wore on band concert days had me feeling classy and musical. I clipped my sunshine yellow overalls on, and I was whimsical. I zipped up a royal blue sequin spaghetti strap dress and I was sassy. Clothes meant opportunity. They meant experience. Putting together an outfit complete with accessories gave me control. I got to decide who I wanted to be; I got to decide what story I wanted to walk around in.
I worried it was wrong to point out this curious rumination I had about Eve, so I decided to keep it to myself.
One afternoon, years later, when I was flipping through an InStyleĀ® magazine, I stopped on a perfume advertisement. There were a man and a woman on the page, but my eyes went to the woman, who was holding a green apple. I canāt re- member whether the apple had been bitten or if she was about to take a bite. It didnāt matter. From the look on her face, she knew exactly what she was doing. She looked beau- tiful and powerful, and it was the man who looked utterly powerless. He also knew what she was doing and, right or wrong, he wanted a part of it.
This was not the Eve I grew up with, but she was the Eve I remembered, and it was uncomfortableālike hearing a secret told publiclyāto see her. Still, I wanted to step into that story. I wanted to try that power on. I wanted to bite the apple. Like Eve, I wanted to be the one who moved the story forward.
Chapter 1 ā¢ Trying to Hold Fire
I am standing on Interstate 94, because my car is on fire.
I was driving home from my teaching job in Detroit when symbols I didnāt recognize lit up the dashboard. Then, the steering wheel started shaking, and the lights in the car blinked on and off like a last call at a bar. Finally, smoke billowed out from the hood and also into the car. Still driving, I called my husband, Jesse, and told him what was going on. The dialogue went something like this:
Jesse: Hello?
Me: THE CAR IS ON FIRE!
Jesse: What?
Me: THE CAR! ITāS ON FIRE!
Jesse, who is a scientist and quite a rational fellow, basing all decisions on sturdy facts and well-researched theories, attempted to ask me a series of questions to determine whether the car was, in fact, on fire. He couldāve been in the car with me, seeing for himself, and it wouldnāt have made a difference. I was living the car fire narrative.
āPull over and call 911,ā Jesse said, because I wouldnāt or couldnāt give him answers to any other questions (although, the fact that I was in the car and still driving probably tipped him off that I might have been exaggerating).
Now, as semi trucks and cars zoom past me creating a wind so strong I can barely stand, Iām surprised how long itās taking for anyone to get here. Did the cops not hear my tone of voice when I called?
Iām a safe enough distance from the car in case it blows up, but the smoke has ceased and the orange flames I was sure I felt at my feet while driving are not there. Except for the traffic creating a breeze, so that the wildflowers Iām standing next to endlessly cower and right themselves, nothing is happening.
The petals on the wildflowers barely move; itās the stem that does all the work and I think that these flowers must have tremendous roots to withstand this relentless whipping wind.
I think about pulling a flower from the dirt to study its roots, but I donāt. For one thing, lifting it means I kill it. For another, I donāt want to step into the dirt with high heels.
The shoes are a neutral faux suede from a brand called Chinese Laundry. I bought them with a royal blue pair of heels on my birthday a couple of years ago. Both pairs boast a heel that I like to call, āstand up and pay attentionā height. Which is one reason I bought them. My posture is better when Iām wearing heels, my strut more assured.
The neutral pair, I knew, would go with everything, and I figured the royal blue pair would provide a nice pop to an otherwise dull outfit. Those blue shoes were electric and, putting them on, Iād feel like I was lightning.
I hadnāt worn the royal blue heels in a while. As a matter of fact, since I started teaching in Detroit, the shoes were still in a cardboard box waiting to be unpacked. Weād recently made a move from Maryland to Michigan and I hadnāt taken them out, because for some reason I felt like Iād reveal something I wasnāt ready to reveal. Or maybe I didnāt want to. Maybe I thought imagining myself as lightning was foolish and childish.
I donāt know, but I took what I thought was essential out of the box, and thatās why Iām wearing the neutral shoes. Standing on the side of the road, I have them on with a pair of maroon slouch pants, a white T-shirt, a necklace that matches the heels, and a retro turquoise leather jacket.
I look at the car that, by now, appears just fine and not at all like it was about to burst into flames as Iād convinced myself it would. I survey the traffic, looking hopefully for emergency lights, but I see nothing except slowing, gathering cars telling me rush hour is beginning. Soon, the wildflowers will get a reprieve from the vehiclesā wind. I turn my attention to the weeds again and try to imagine Iām in a garden or backyard and not standing on the side of the interstate.
My heels are killing me. I want to take them off, but not only would that look ridiculous, I wonāt be able to put them back on. I donāt understand whatās happening. These are my comfy heels.
It didnāt used to be this way. I could wear heels and teach like it was nothing, but since Iāve taken this job in Detroit, I can barely make it to 2:30. I donāt know whatās changed, or whatās changing, but I feel like Iāve lost something. I no longer carry lightning.
In Detroit, I teach 6th grade English and since school began weāve been reading The Lightning Thief. I donāt love the story. I think thereās too much action that simply overtakes the characters, fast. However, any student Iāve taught recently, including my 6th graders, loves Percy Jackson, so I do my best to make the story come alive for them. Weāre about six chapters in, so today I thought itād be fun to do a little review game. Percy Jackson, the main character in the story, learns he is the son of Poseidon. Poseidon and Zeus are in a fight over a lightning bolt and Percy is supposed to get it back. So the object of the English hour when my kids come to see me is to obtain lightning bolts by completing a certain amount of tasks. I have a vocabulary station, a theme station, a Greek mythology station, but my favorite is the summary station. Weāve been practicing articulating the gist of a sentence, then a paragraph, then a page, and now I want them to tell me the gist of each chapter. I have the students complete a worksheet taking note of what each chapter is about, and then they have to write a poem, rap, or song about the first six chapters.
I have four English classes, and all of them wanted to do this station first. My classroom turned into a room of beatsā hands and fists smacking out rhythms, bodies swaying side to side to catch the beat and match words to it. It gave me shivers to watch. Many of my students are struggling readers. Every day, we read The Lightning Thief out loud and so many raise their hands enthusiastically because they want to read and of course I let them, but we all hear how physically exhausting it is to put together letters. Today though, in my classroom-turned-rap-studio, the students became artists: fluid and striking, dropping rhymes about Percy and his mom, Percy and Grover, Percy and Poseidon, Percy and Medusa.
One set of boys stole the show. They were a group of three: one who has trouble writing a sentence, another who is bright but spends his energy doing everything he can to hide that fact, and the third has never stopped talking long enough to write his name on his assignments. Throughout the hour, they were huddled up in a corner mumbling and writing and pounding out a rhythm so intricate I knew poetry was happening.
When it was their turn to perform, they rapped a set of about six couplets that summarized the book, and then bounced out the refrain: Iām a half-blood, Iām a half-blood.
It was brilliant because Percy Jackson learning he is half- god, half-mortal is the crux of the story. What will he do now that he understands who he is? What do we do once we know who we are?
It only took one refrain for the rest of the class to join in. I felt like a VIP in a private concert. We got louder (obviously) and rowdier, and kids in the hallway even stopped by, nodding their heads to the beat or raising a hand in the air.
Iād been with these kids for over a month and today was my favorite day. Today, it felt like we not only held lightning but threw it and set the room on fire. Today was the first time since I started this job that my heels didnāt hurt.
Now Iām standing on the side of the road with the wild- flowers and my car thatās clearly not on fire, and my feet hurt. Not only that, this jacket is too hot, and I hate these pants. The white T-shirt, the oldest thing I have on, is the only part of my outfit I like. Iāve had this shirt since my youngest, Harper, was born. It is almost a decade old, and I would wear it every day if I could. When I get home, Iām ripping off all these clothes except this shirt, and Iām putting on jeans and Converse.
I think about the refrain my students came up with. Itās catchy and bouncy, and impossible not to bop your head along with. The boys couldāve made this rap angry or sad. After all, up until this point, Percy had no idea who his father was and why he left in the first place. Not only does Percy have to go on this ridiculous journey, but his mother, in an attempt to push Percy to safety, was attacked by a minotaur and turned into gold dust. Plus, Percy is only half-godāhe doesnāt really fit in with humans, and he doesnāt really fit in with gods.
Many of my students know about fathers leaving. They know about mothersā desperate attempts to push their children into the world while at the same time trying to keep them safe. They know about the impossible quest to hunt for what shines, without a complete understanding of what it is they are doing. This rap couldāve been beyond depressing, but my students made it powerful. They celebrated Percy. He is a conqueror. He is a hero. They identify with Percy, and so this means they are conquerors and heroes, too.
Despite the bad taste that The Lightning Thief leaves in my mouth, what I love about the story is that it is Percy Jacksonās weaknesses that make him a hero. Heās been diagnosed with dyslexia and ADHD. Heās been told he has a temper. However, when he finds out who he is, he begins to understand that these can be used as strengths. This is what I want my students to relate toāthat their weaknesses can be used for good once they have a better understanding of themselves.
I wrap my arms around my belly as if Iām cold. I take a deep breath and hold it. Someone told me once this was a good way to calm down. It never works. I take a deep breath anyway. I smell the wildflowers.
Jesse shows up in our red Jeep. I watch as he slows, headed for where Iām standing. I take a few steps backward to give him room and watch his face to determine if heās mad at me. He looks serious, studious.
When Jesse steps out of my car, his work shirtsleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up, and his tie is loose.
āWhat happened?ā he asks, looking back and forth from me to the car.
āI donāt know,ā I mumble. āThere was all this smoke, and the steering wheel froze, and the interior lights were blinking on and off.ā
āSounds like the engine died,ā he says.
āNot a fire, then?ā I say.
āNot a fire,ā he confirms, and takes out his phone.
I climb into the Jeep and wait.
Why did I overreact? I think, as I watch Jesse scroll through his phone, probably to call a tow truck. Why was this story so easy for me to step into?
I think back on the last two hours. Symbols on the dash- board lit up in the parking lot of school when I turned the key in the ignition. I ignored them. I couldāve called Jesse then. I couldāve taken a picture and showed him. I didnāt though, because I canāt stand to be at this school any longer then necessary. I wanted to come home.
Normally, after teaching, Iām happy to stay in the class- room and straighten up, and get ready for the next dayās lesson. I like the empty quiet and the evidence that so much was going on here earlier: broken pencils, crumpled-up notebook paper. Even reading silly cartoons or phrases on desks makes me happy.
Not here, though. All I feel here is the necessity to rush. I understand now that if I am going to make it in this school, I have to do things quickly: think, plan lessons, grade, and, most importantly, all of it has to be successful. There is no opportunity to linger. There is no margin for mistake, or failure. I watch Jesse on the phone, and I realize now that the car fire story was easy for me to believe because itās how I feel. I am the fire, or Iām trying to hold fire, or I am on fire.
Jesse gets into the car and puts a hand on my leg.
āYou okay?ā he asks.
āI donāt know,ā I say, looking out the window at the wildflowers. āIām sorry,ā I offer.
The tow truck arrives, as does an emergency vehicle, and I grimace at the frantic 911 call I made earlier. While one guy hooks up our dead car to the truck, another talks to Jesse and I through the window of the Jeep. āNo fire,ā Jesse tells the emergency responder. āThe engine died.ā
Jesse follows the tow truck into traffic. I kick my heels off onto the car floor and throw my jacket into the back seat. I cross my legs and play with a loose thread on my pants. I look out the window again at the wildflowers. I donāt have roots like them. My spine doesnāt feel stable enough to be whipped around like that all day. Tears well as I think about Jesseās words to the responder: No fire. The engine died.
