jferravilla

This is the opening scene for Conversate followed by the description of the high school that figures strongly in this memoir. She stood over me, mid afternoon sun seeping through the cheap plastic blinds, both hands firmly clamped over my right breast, leaning her full weight on my chest. I was the last appointment of this midweek day at the Whittier Breast Center. I had just had a punch biopsy for suspected breast cancer. As the doctor had explained, the procedure would remove a sample of tissue that would be analyzed to determine the grade and type of cancer. A tiny metal clip would also be inserted to help guide future diagnostic tests and surgical procedures. The biopsy itself, though uncomfortable because of the contortions needed for correct positioning, had been painless. What neither the doctor nor I had anticipated was nicking an artery in my breast that was at present bleeding profusely and with abandon. She smiled tiredly at me, shifting her weight slightly. “Sorry, hope I’m not hurting you too much.” Immobilized on the gurney, my hospital robe open and spilling onto the floor to allow maximum room for medical attention, I smiled back. “No worries,” I answered. No worries was a phrase I used a lot. In my classroom, at the grocery store, when I bumped into someone, or they let the door fall back on me. It was a reflexive phrase I employed far too often, and it struck me just then how absurd an answer it was in the present circumstances. The nurse pulled her hands back and inspected my chest. The doctor appeared at my side and looked down at my mangled breast. Her face creased in that look that medical professionals sometimes get when they don’t like what they see. There was also just the slightest hint of disappointment, had she had plans on that Wednesday night? Was I interfering with a dinner date, or a late afternoon stop at the grocery store? A sunset walk at the beach? “OK, let’s try this,” she muttered, disappearing behind me. Afraid to move lest I somehow turn the spigot of blood from gushing to tidal, I waited, eyes trained on the ceiling, my back beginning cramp. She reappeared, EpiPen in hand. I looked at her quizzically. Epinephrine, she explained, was sometimes used to constrict blood vessels and stop excessive bleeding. She plunged the needle into my breast, both she and the nurse looking on expectantly. I don’t remember how long it took for the EpiPen to take effect but the bleeding did eventually stop. I must have gingerly slipped my shirt back on, pulled my pants and shoes on, shifted my purse to the other shoulder, and driven myself home that day, but those details are lost to me now. That was the beginning of an arduous journey I had not seen coming, and one that would lead to profound changes with repercussions that would affect my boys, dissolve my marriage, and bring unexpected connections into my life. The 2019-2020 school year would be beginning in just a few weeks. In typical Southern California fashion, the weather was blistering hot. Steam rose off the pavement, and the air undulated as I watched the road through my windshield. The morning’s coolness had quickly worn off, and now the sun bore down almost angrily, scorching everything in its path. I had been planning to go into my classroom in early August, to prepare for my upcoming French and ELD classes. I was beginning my third year at John Glenn High School in Norwalk, California. Glenn, as students and staff referred to it simply, was a 40 acre campus set at the far end of an odd mix of buildings on Shoemaker Avenue. Apartments and a church on one side, a Starbucks and Circle K at the end of the street where it intersects with Rosecrants. Tire shops and factories in between, and directly across from Glenn, improbably, a nine hole golf course. Large nets circle the golf course, keeping errant golf balls from crashing through windshields in the school’s parking lot. Over the years, like many public high schools in California, Glenn’s enrollment had been steadily decreasing. Online classes and home schooling were making inroads, and though the pandemic was a few months away, severely reducing student enrollment even further, Glenn would never return to the numbers it had enjoyed in the 80’s and 90’s. It was now a fairly small school with a student population hovering just above 1,000. Glenn’s students are primarily Latino, with Mexico being most heavily represented and students coming from Guatemala, El Salvador, Peru, and Columbia. Glenn is one of three high schools in the Norwalk-La Mirada Unified School District. La Mirada High School caters to the more affluent families in the city of La Mirada, while Glenn and Norwalk High School serve Norwalk residents. Norwalk is a working class community and Glenn’s families are on the lower end of the socio-economic indicators for the area. I had been looking forward to starting the year teaching French 1 and 2, and English Language Development 1 and 2. The summer had been short, punctuated by my oldest son’s month away at the University of San Diego as part of the COSMO program. 16 at the time, Julien was spending four weeks studying math and science and rooming in a campus dorm. My younger son Mateo, aged 10, and I had enjoyed low key days of picnics, trips to the beach, and visits to Baskin Robbins. But the final days of summer were stretching before us, numbered and finite. I didn’t mind. Like I did every year, I looked forward to starting a new school year. I loved most aspects of teaching. I spent an inordinate amount of time scrolling through Pinterest and Facebook, combing posts for classroom decor ideas, lesson plans, and potential language projects. My classroom was right in the center of the campus, affording me a central place to interact with students and staff. Though reserved and shy in adult company, I enjoyed talking with students and had picked up the habit of standing at my door to greet kids as they came in. There were always campus wanderers, taking the extended route to the bathroom, or a guidance counselor walking hurriedly from one side of the campus to the other. Security routinely maneuvered their golf cart down the hallways, lifting an arm in greeting and expertly avoiding students in their path. Concrete benches flanked my classroom doors, giving students a place to sit and eat their snack or lunch. On occasion, my own students would sit on those benches working on a project or doing a communication activity. From my door, I could see most of the campus: the admin office, the library, the counselor’s office, the main walkway, the security station, and the water drainage pipes that ran through the middle of campus under a bed of concrete. What I had not yet discovered was that an enormous family of skunks, well over thirty of them, lived in those drainage pipes. They took shelter from the hundreds of feet walking over them, the raised voices trading jokes and insults, the thud of backpacks hitting the ground. They only ventured out at night, once most of the humans had gone home. I had seen them first hand one night, around 10 pm, helping security put away tables and chairs from a Homecoming celebration held outside, no budget for an indoor venue. Thirty little bodies, their trademark white stripes bifurcating their backs and bushy tails swaying from side to side, made their way out of the pipes and spread across the campus. Us humans gave them a wide berth but they were utterly non-plussed by our presence. This explained the paw prints I often found around the metal trash cans in the early morning. Most of the kids did not know about the skunks and would have had no cause to suspect their presence given their nocturnal nature, but I loved the idea of life under the ground we walked on. Like a reassuring presence you can’t see but know is there.

Pre-Event Assignments: Part 1 Assignment 1: The Act Of Story Statement Memoir: Conversate details an urban high school teacher’s battle with breast cancer and the unexpected emotional healing that occurred for both students and her as the school put aside racial and cultural differences to show support. Conversate explores the power of conversations held at the classroom door and their ability to transcend societal roles to foster healing. John Glenn High School in Norwalk, California, is a grimy, faded relic of the 60’s. Serving a primarily Latino population whose average income and student test scores fall far below the national average, Glenn is home to the most needy and underserved of the Norwalk-La Mirada Unified School District. Migrant and homeless students, incarcerated parents, domestic violence, gangs, and drugs are part of daily life. In the fall of 2018, French teacher Madame V is diagnosed with breast cancer. Through the establishment of relationships via conversations at the door and in the hallways, students allow themselves to show vulnerability and love, bringing the school together to support Madame V in her battle. Consequently, both students and Madame V undergo profound internal change, understanding the power of human connection. Assignment 2: The Antagonist Plots The Points Though I know the antagonist is to be a fictional character, there is no one antagonist in this memoir. John Glenn High School itself is the antagonist. Openly considered the lowest priority of all the schools in the district, Glenn has long been neglected and referred to as a “ghetto”. Security is kept busy breaking up fights, admin is constantly searching backpacks for drugs, and teachers fight an endless battle against apathy. In educational jargon, headwinds are those factors that make student success difficult such as being homeless, not having access to food at home, not being fluent in English, working an after school job, caring for parents or siblings, brushes with the law, etc. Glenn students face more headwinds in their daily lives than most typical teenagers. The culture of Glenn is to keep hardship and vulnerability under wraps, and there is an almost tangible despair that hangs over the campus. Glenn was the site of a murder-suicide in 1997 and the ghost of that incident seems to linger in the buildings and classrooms. Assignment 3: Conjuring Your Break-out Title Conversate is the term high school kids use to designate the act of conversing. Through the thousands of brief and some of the longer conversations had in doorways and hallways, relationships of trust were built. Those snippets of conversation paved the road for compassion and empathy, enabling powerful expressions of love and support when they were needed. After breast cancer, I continued the conversations in writing once a year, addressing all students through the school platform on October 1st (the start of Breast Cancer Awareness Month). Once An Eagle - eagles are the Glenn logo. “Once an eagle, always an eagle.” That sentence is often used in graduation speeches and retirement parties at Glenn. Eagles are the quintessential American emblem. Eagles represent power and acuity, strength and freedom. All those qualities are needed to battle a major physical illness and navigate a difficult school environment. Libellule - the French word for dragonfly. Dragonflies are a symbol of transformation and rebirth. During diagnosis, treatment, and the aftermath, dragonflies were omnipresent in my life. To this day, they are a reminder of hardship transcended for me. Assignment 4: Two Smart Comparables Reaching for Normal: A Mother's Memoir of Raising a Child with Brain Cancer and Chronic Illness by Amy Daniels This memoir describes the diagnosis and devastating setback of a child’s battle with cancer as told through her mom’s voice. Though I have not read this novel, the description touches on maintaining a facade of normalcy while undergoing extreme hardship. In my case, I found myself doing the same for my sons and for my students, but it was the kids and adults who saw through this brought me to a place of emotional transparency. The Book of Separation by Tova Mirvis Though Tova’s story revolves around questioning and ultimately breaking free of a relationship and faith that were not aligned to who she was rather than a triumph over a physical breakdown, the themes of relying on inner strength and forging your own path despite what your external world is expecting of you resonates with me. Cancer does not end with treatment, it is the catalyst for change and redirection, much like Tova’s decision to divorce and leave her church. Assignment 5: Hook Line and Core Wound Unexpectedly diagnosed with breast cancer at the start of the school year, a language teacher finds the courage and strength to face her diagnosis from an unlikely source: the students and staff of an underperforming, down on its luck school, John Glenn High School. Assignment 6: Other Matters of Conflict: Two More Levels Inner conflict - I doubted I was worthy enough of the love shown to me while I faced breast cancer, and questioned my inner strength. Self-worth in all forms, from romantic relationships to the ability to heal and advocate for myself has been a theme in this lifetime. How I connected with others before, during, and after breast cancer, at Glenn, set the foundation change I did not think myself capable of. Secondary conflict - through the words and actions of the Glenn community, I realized I had been short-changing myself. They showed me love and compassion, why wasn’t I showing that to myself? Why was I staying in a relationship that wasn’t right for me? Assignment 7: Story Setting John Glenn High School, established in 1962 was named for astronaut John H. Glenn who was the first American to orbit the Earth. His picture hangs in the school lobby when he came to visit the school in the 1970s. It is a sprawling 40 acre campus with dilapidated classrooms that have not been renovated in many years. The bathrooms walls are grimy and covered in graffiti, sinks stained and chipped. The stairs to the second floor hallways are wickedly slippery and dangerous when it rains. A family of 30 skunks lives on the campus, hiding in the drainage pipes that run through the center of campus and appearing at dusk when most of the humans have gone home. There is a dark, dense energy about the school that is tangible the minute you step foot on the yellowed grass. The classrooms are small and cramped, with high ceilings that leak during El Niño years. District maintenance has cut down the few remaining trees that provided color and shade. The large library with its eagle mural sits empty most days, hundreds of books filling its dusty shelves that no one will check out. Up on one of the rooftops, students have stashed their vaping pens and the day’s supply of drugs to be sold. My classroom is open and light. I chose it for this reason when the foreign language department was moved to the 1800 wing to make space for county programs. But my walls remain somewhat bare, I can’t lift my right arm high enough to hold the stapler at the right angle to attach brightly colored strips of paper to my bulletin boards. I don’t have the strength on my right side. Behind my desk are pictures of graduating seniors given to me proudly on their last day of school. And there is the picture of me when I returned from surgery, dressed in pink, surrounded by students also dressed in pink, all smiling for the camera, my silicone breast inserts leaving sweat streaks on my shirt. This classroom is my quiet space, my respite from the relentless need of Glenn.