K1., my teacher neighbor, was on a panel with another woman, presenting to some muckety-mucks in their school district. K1. is White, her co-presenter is Black. Before becoming a teacher, K1. worked in historic preservation, protecting old buildings. Now she protects people. If social justice warriors were an organized army with uniforms and insignia, she’d be wearing the chevrons of a corporal or sergeant. She’s tough, she’s not afraid of a fight, and she leads the skirmishes.

She’s telling me about the conference as we sit on her new porch and drink a Kölsch. Battles require blunt instruments, and the rules of war generally demand that she see things in black and white.

“We made talked about Black girls and how they get disciplined way more than any other group in school. And we all know why, it’s obvious. Skin color.”

In Trinidad, the population is divided nearly equally between Afro-Caribbeans and Indians. Leading up to the general election in 2010, a company connected to Cambridge Analytica ran a campaign to encourage the young people not to vote. Their message, served up via social media chicanery, was that the best way to fight corrupt politics was to stay out of it altogether: Boycott the vote. It caught fire, and protestors took to the streets. The genius was in spreading the message to all young people and letting the cultural differences inherent in the two groups play out. The young Afro-Caribbeans, as expected, shunned the polls. The young Indians, who belong to a culture where parental authority ranks high, protested then did what their parents told them to do—they voted. The Indian candidate whose party had funded the campaign won.

I don’t talk about this with my neighbor, but I think about it. Now she’s telling me something else about the conference, a remark made by her colleague. It’s the first time since I’ve known her that I hear doubt in her voice.

“The other presenter pulled me aside and said, ‘Can you please stop criticizing the administration? I’m going to be the one to pay the price.'” K1. looks at me, abashed. “I never thought of it that way. And I don’t even remember what I said that was critical. I mean, I was being honest.” She gives a short laugh. She reminds me that she’s always honest, something I already know about her. “I never thought it was something that could hurt someone.”

So many things to talk about! And everything having to do with others, not me. Friends and neighbors, mostly. Conversations I’m itching to record (and share here, but why? Because my personal notebooks are messy and devolve too quickly into a spiral of self-inspection, getting narrower and narrower the more I write. Which gets boring). Is it ethical? But then, is anybody going to read this anyhow? If a conversation (monologue) takes place in a woods and no one is around to hear it, did it happen?

Maybe just a little scratch.

K1. is a teacher and sits on the state’s “court,” which means she and eight others spend one day a month hearing testimony from teachers who’ve run afoul of the education board. A few days ago a teacher was on trial for multiple DUIs, all issued during the year just after her abusive husband left her. It went to criminal court and she was placed under house arrest. She’d never been a drinker before this, and she hasn’t had a drink since the third and final DUI.

“And have you told your students what you did?” the prosecutor shouted.

“No.”

“Why not? You’re supposed to be a role model!”

Huh.

Good morning, children. No, no, we’re not doing vocabulary yet. Adam, do you need a tissue? Remember we talked about where our fingers belong? I’d like to talk to you all about something. Janie and Timmy, please stop whispering and pay attention. There’s something that you, my beloved and exasperating eight-year-olds, need to know about me. You see, I’ve been pulled over while driving drunk and given a DUI. What’s a DUI? Umm, okay, thank you, Billy, for sharing that about your dad but let’s leave it at that. So yes, class, Billy explained it well. I got three of these DUIs over a few bad months. Simon, please sit still. And I’ve been on house arrest ever since. And in therapy, which is helping me immensely. If you want to read all about it, ask your parents to pull up the transcript of my trial at the education board. The prosecutor insisted I go into details. Remember those bruises I used to have and I told you I fell while I was rollerskating? Well, I don’t roller skate, I don’t even own a pair of roller skates. I got hurt because my husband hit me. That’s right, Gerard, thank you for reminding us that boys should never, ever hit girls. And that’s true for you girls, too, you should never hit boys. Basically none of you should be hitting anyone. Why did my husband hit me? That’s a good question, children, but I don’t know the answer. I’ve been in therapy this whole school year trying to figure things out. Why didn’t I leave after the first time? Was it low self-esteem on my part? Am I chronically attracted to men who abuse? Do I send off some signal to attract them? And why did I spin out of control when he left me? Shouldn’t I have been happy? Which I was, children, I don’t want to confuse you, I was thrilled that he was gone but also terrified at the same time. My world was turned upside-down. My kids were angry with me because they didn’t understand why he left. And he wasn’t paying child support. I love my job teaching but it’s not exactly lucrative. What’s “lucrative”? Well, I’d say most other professions, like being a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer. Oh, sorry, you meant what does “lucrative” mean? Well-paid. Anyhow, the prosecutor wanted to make sure you all knew about my depravity before he “yanks” (his word, gleefully uttered multiple times) my license and I lose the right to teach you. He also made the video of my arrest public. He’s looking out for your welfare, children. Let’s think of this as a teachable moment. What happens when trauma drives us to do something stupid and reckless? That’s right, children. We will be arrested, serve our sentence, and, if we’re a teacher, meekly submit to public scrutiny of our innermost demons in the scant hope that we’ll be allowed to continue teaching before that hope is dashed and our license is revoked forever. Oh, and a little vicious verbal bullying by the board-appointed “prosecutor.” Please take out a piece of paper. Time for our spelling test. This will be the last one before your new teacher takes over.

Here’s what happens when you find an old blog you started years ago, after intervening years of studying, rather obsessively (wastefully? real-work-avoidingly?), the art of sentence structure, and you think, hey, girl, you already knew how to put sentences together.

Here’s what happens when you recognize, well hey there, only three posts, but they’re not total crap.

No! Here’s what happens when you realize they’re more than “not crap.” That you like what you wrote all those years ago. (To be precise: “years ago” in this case means approximately four, maybe five years. Or three. (Warning, girl: Dates will change if you migrate your site again—even on a teeny mewling baby of a site.)

Well, then, what happens? Set the stage: you’re lying on the couch, it’s Saturday, grotesquely hot outside for June, Covid has wound down—you don’t remember the last time you wore a mask, maybe two weeks ago? (should you worry that events jostle around in your mind, untethered to specific dates? Covid fog? other fog?)–you’re reading something interesting but not enough to keep you completely awake on this hot afternoon, until you feel a gentle rumble, it lasts several seconds. Earthquakes are like a tonic to a sleepy brain, and your attention prickles back to life. Have the neighbors felt it? S. across the street is baking, all sounds and vibrations (same thing, right?) drowned out by her standing mixer and Led Zeppelin on the speakers; R. next door jokes that it was his push-ups that shook the ground; K., who lives catty-corner and suffers from anxiety that sets up its own continuous psychic vibrations, felt nothing but her dog, a nervous little Chihuahua (like dog, like owner) freaked out, so that’s good, the neighbors believe you now that it’s been verified by Mittens. Imagining earthquakes isn’t something you want to be known for. Thought honestly, you feel them far more often than you like to admit.

The excitement passes and leaves clear wakefulness in its wake. The wake that wakes—like an Irish wake! No. Focus. Good. Let’s do something productive. Check tasks off the list. A little IT clean-up (God, how did it come to this? so much screen time! like tending to a needy toddler, one that throws tantrums and has its own language which you’re supposed to understand and gets sick all the damn time). One thing leads to another and here you are, back at the old forgotten blog.

And suddenly the lazy doldrums are gone. The earthquake (it was real, right?) sent out a little frisson of excitement, but this, stumbling on this little underfed baby of a blog, this trumps a mini, barely-there earthquake any day. It’s yourself from three or four or five years ago giving a little wave, hey, girl! nice to see you again, let’s get reacquainted! Better—let’s do some writing of our own! Express our own thoughts and ideas and words. Ghostwriting is great, but have you lost yourself a bit in the process? Have all these other voices drowned out your own? Well, then, welcome back.