Wednesday, May 28, 2008: Nachos Party — It was a B–Day at McReynolds, which meant I saw all three classes back-to-back. I decided to throw my students a little end-of-the-year party. I served nachos with jalapeños, along with Coke and Sprite. We listened to music and simply enjoyed each other’s company before we said our goodbyes. They were so happy, with smiles as wide as a Cheshire cat. I didn’t realize that a nacho party would mean so much to them. They danced and played, enjoying the cheesy deliciousness, while the sounds of Tejano, Cumbia and hip-hop filled the room with a contagious energy.

At the end of the party, I passed out Jolly Ranchers. Some said, Oooh Mr. Harris, can I have such and such flavor? I just gave them a handful of whatever I grabbed from the bag. They ended up trading, but said thank you anyway. That’s all I ever needed. That’s all I ever wanted. For someone, anyone, to say Thank You.

Thursday, May 29, 2008: Awards Ceremony — The sun was shining and so were the faces of our eighth grade students, all dressed up in their Sunday best. They were proud — and so was I. They asked me a million times, Mr. Harris, am I going to get an award? I told them that I didn’t know and that they’d have to wait and see. The anticipation killed them. They were so anxious. Many of them were afraid of winning an award and having to walk on stage to receive it. I told them they should be proud. Proud of the hard work and accomplishments they’d achieved this year and that their parents came to see them walk across that stage. They just weren’t buying it.

The big moment arrived. The eighth-graders were escorted to the auditorium, their parents waiting with flashing cameras and admiration. Two and a half hours of calling names, shaking hands, smiling and passing out awards was exhausting. But it was worth every second just to see our students have their moments. This was their rite of passage into high school, from being little kids to young adults. I’m going to miss them all.

Friday, May 30, 2008: Teachers Check-Out — It was the last day for teachers, and boy did it feel good. I spent the entire morning taking down bulletin boards and student work, cleaning out my desk, boxing up books and supplies, and collecting a million and one signatures for a check-out list. We had breakfast in the cafeteria. It was our last supper, our last communion, our last congregation, so I thought. We sat around enjoying conversations with bacon and egg casserole, refried beans, stewed potatoes and tortillas.

After digesting our delicious breakfast, our principal handed out faculty and staff awards for service from 5 to 35 years, perfect attendance and being a department chairperson. The cafeteria was filled with applause and cheer. I received the Teacher of the Year award. I’m proud of this accomplishment, but being called ToY constantly is sort of embarrassing. And the principal didn’t just give an introduction, he had to throw in a small anecdote. Mr. Harris was going to leave us this year, but I’m happy to announce that he will be staying. I smiled, shook his hand and in my mind thought, No, he did not just put my business all out there. Oh well, it’s no big deal. After several interviews with scary principals and staffs, pondering thoughts, mixed emotions and numerous attempts by adoring staff and students for me to stay, I decided to continue teaching at McReynolds. Other announcements included teachers who were getting married or leaving to pursue other options.

It’s been a good year. I hope there will be more. I pray…there will be.

But this was certainly no way to end a school year. Breakfast and an awards ceremony? Come on. The party was not about to stop there. We all checked out and then congregated at a Mexican restaurant for margaritas, embarrassing moments and bountiful good times. Boy, did we go out with a BANG!

I always wondered how I would feel after the Jayhawks finally won a National Championship. I had dreamed about what it would be like since I was 6 and knew what the heck was going on.

It all started with a shot. The Jayhawks had a shot — the shot — to tie the game.

I started to think of years past. I’d seen this before: KU with the ball with a chance to tie in the tournament. There was Wayne Simien’s miss at the buzzer against Bucknell in 2005. There was Hakim Warrick’s freakishly damn long arms blocking Michael Lee’s three in the title game in 2003. In 1998, Paul Pierce had a shot to win or tie it against Rhode Island when KU lost in the second round as a one seed. In 1997 when the Jayhawks had the best team in the nation all season without a doubt, they laid a dud in the sweet 16 against Arizona, but still had a shot in the end, and Raef LaFrenze missed, of course. Cursed. Maybe. Our boys just don’t make those shots. Our seasons end in heartbreak.

Sherron Collins got the ball in the backcourt and hesitated, and I swear he had to have heard every KU fan in the building yell, Go! What the hell was he waiting for? As he dribbled across half court, I could tell KU’s patented last-season play — the dribble handoff — was coming. Every time the Jayhawks had run that play at the end of a game it had failed. Please tell me this one was going to be different. Collins made it across half court, then he tripped, I gasped, and somehow he got the ball to Mario Chalmers for the shot. The play played out so slowly. I could tell Chalmers wasn’t hurried. He’d always been willing to take big shots. When he released the ball and as it got halfway through the air, I was at the perfect angle to see the eventual result. I knew it was in. Then it swished and it’s one of the moments in life that you’ll never forget. People will ask where were you when Mario Chalmers hit the shot, and if you’re a Kansas fan, you’ll know exactly where you were, whom you were with, what you were wearing, eating and drinking.

I was there. And we went crazy. I hugged everyone in sight. I grabbed a kid I didn’t know behind me and shook him. I picked up my buddy Thor (the name gives it away, he’s a big kid). Thor. Me. Picking up Thor. I think I kissed my buddy Ryan on the cheek. It was nuts. It was one big gay hug between the three of us boys. And we didn’t care. We loved life. We knew the game was over. No chance Memphis was going to win. This was ours. This was meant to be.
Once it was all over, I didn’t know what quite to think. I’d spent my sporting life waiting for this moment and I didn’t know how to react. I thought I’d probably cry. I’m kind of sentimental like that. Tears always used to accompany the end of the KU basketball season when I was a kid. These tears would be different, but I thought they would come.

They didn’t.

Instead, I just kind of stood and watched with a frozen smile on my face. I tried to feel something, but I couldn’t. My mouth was dry from two straight hours of yelling. I tried to cry, but I couldn’t. My body could no longer produce any fluids. My body, my head, my feelings were exhausted.

So I watched. I stood and watched others celebrate.

We stayed in our seats until the whole celebration on the court had finished. They played the alma mater and I remembered the first time I sang the alma mater as a student. It was at freshman orientation with my mom, and I looked over at her and she was bawling. She was just so happy her boy was at KU and she remembered when she was a student and it didn’t seem that long ago. The alma mater has had a soft spot in my heart ever since.

The celebration on the floor finished with the last thing you always see after the championship: One shining moment. I’ve always enjoyed the ‘One shining moment’ montage, but it’s always bittersweet because the end is some other team celebrating. I always wanted that to be MY team, and it was pretty sweet that it was. The best part was just being there with three of my favorite people in the world. I got into journalism because I wanted to go to games for free and I wanted to write about moments like Mario’s shot and in a way document sports history with my words. But, as a journalist, you have to be sort of detached. There’s no cheering in the press box. If I would have had the chance to cover that Final Four, I would have been slightly disappointed. Attending as a fan and attending with my friends is something that I will hold onto for the rest of my life. I’ll hold onto that moment, sitting in the dome watching my team celebrate and then looking at the joy in the faces’ of my buddies.

But, still, no tears.

I had told myself and my family and friends all season to enjoy the ride. I knew this year and this team could be special, but sometimes we get so stressed out about the end result that we don’t enjoy the journey. I’m guilty of this. I get so stressed out over every possession, every rebound, every call.

So I stood there after my Jayhawks had finally won the National Championship, and I tried to enjoy what was going on around me. I watched everyone hug. I took mental pictures of all the smiles.

But, still, no tears.

Then I looked over at my buddy Thor and I realized my reaction wasn’t so strange after all.

Thor sat and he looked like he had just been notified of terrible news. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked straight ahead. His mouth was open slightly and he wasn’t smiling. He was in disbelief. It was as if he couldn’t believe what he just witnessed.

I needed reassurance. I needed to feel something. So I called my mom. I share everything with my mom and I needed to share this with her. As she answered the phone, she spoke with sheer joy in her voice. I pictured her face and how she smiles and cries at the same time, which only happens when she’s proud — usually proud of her boy. And it all hit me then. Finally, I felt something. I felt warm inside. I felt a tear in my dry eyes. I knew it had happened.

I yelled out, We did it, momma! We’re champions.

And it feels amazing.

I have a new obsession. Perhaps it’s not something people usually become obsessed with, but considering my previous obsessions have included soup, researching shoes, researching purses, glowsticks and spotting celebrities, it’s not so weird for me.

So here goes:

The New York Public Library has consumed my life.

It started a few weeks ago when a friend and I were talking about books. She told me she used the library, explained the system, and that you can reserve items online, select which library you want them sent to and pick them up once they’re ready. And not just books, but DVDs too. And not just educational-learn-Spanish-historical-boring DVDs. The library has popular ones like Across the Universe and Walk the Line and P.S. I Love You and even all the Bruce Willis Die Hard movies. And they’re all free and magically wait for you in a special room.

Um, why haven’t I been taking advantage of this?

I’d actually had a library card for nearly a year but hadn’t used it. Once I was no longer subletting and had an official lease, one of my top priorities was obtaining a library card. I’d heard the NYPL was notorious for requiring multiple forms to prove that you were a resident. As soon as I’d received official mail at my new apartment, I applied for a card (the only mail I received at my previous apartment was cards from my mom and aunts. Not exactly anything I’d see the library embracing). So with a bill in hand and a permanent address, I researched how to obtain a card. And all I ended up having to do was fill out an online form. No need for a passport or Social Security card or driver’s license to prove my identity. No need for a pay stub or health insurance statement or bill proving my residence in New York City. Just a mailbox.

My card (wallet-sized and key ring-attachable versions) arrived two weeks later. I immediately felt a sense of belonging and entitlement. Yes. I am a New Yorker. I may use the library. I am reader, watch me borrow. But I tacked it up on my bulletin board for safe keeping, more something that I looked at and admired than actually used. I left my book acquisitions to Amazon.com. The thought of going into an actual New York public library just seemed too daunting (this coming from the same person who avoided the main library in college until her fifth year because she never took a free tour freshman year and didn’t want to get lost or ask for help).

Enter my friend and her tutorial that has revolutionized my life. Once I got back home, I opened my Amazon wish list and looked them up on the library’s website. All the books I’d been hesitant to buy were perfect candidates for borrowing. No commitment or financial obligations. Why hadn’t I realized this earlier? I kept finding items and requesting them. An Inconvenient Truth? I felt out of the loop for not knowing what all the Al Gore jokes were about. Requested. A book by a new author whose writing I wasn’t sure I would like? Requested.

Before I knew it, I’d hit the library’s 15-item request limit. Even though I was in waiting lists for all of them (sometimes the 438th person in line), I wasn’t allowed to request any more. I was stunned. Then I noticed the list feature, basically like Amazon’s wish list. You don’t actually request an item, but you keep it saved in your account. An hour later, my list was 19 items strong.

I obsessively checked the status of my account, waiting for any item to go from Held to Ready to Be Picked Up. I kept refreshing the library’s site, which was incredibly annoying because I had to retype my lengthy ID and password each time.

The waiting killed me.

Then one morning I woke up to an e-mail that An Inconvenient Truth was waiting for me. At last. My time has come. I wrote down the library’s entrance even though the cross streets were just a few blocks from work. I went during lunch and became nervous entering. The security woman yelled at me because I hadn’t let her look through my purse before I headed toward the doors. Ah! I didn’t see any sign that said items had to be inspected. All the while I kept looking in front of and around me to figure out where things were. I wanted to look like I belonged there, like I was a seasoned library user. I ended up looking like a wide-eyed illiterate.

A lovely lady at the help desk directed me diagonally and through a room to where the items are held. I read the instructional sign on how to find my DVD and looked at all the card numbers scrupulously but couldn’t find it. Had I requested it be sent to the wrong library? Did someone else take it before I got here? What did I do wrong?

Finally, I asked an employee for help. I’d arrived so soon after I’d received my notification e-mail that although my DVD was in fact in the hold room, it hadn’t been put on the shelf yet and was in a special cart. Whew. I waited in line, checked out my DVD and returned to work, happy that libraries were in existence and that I actually used them.

Before I left work, I was still obsessively checking my library account. Another item was available for me even though I hadn’t received an e-mail. Was it weird to visit the library twice in a day? I decided that while I did think it was odd, I didn’t care. Thinking of the bag check lady, I left An Inconvenient Truth in a desk drawer at work. I didn’t want to explain that I had just checked the DVD out that afternoon but was back again to pick something else up. Even if I got through the entrance lady OK, there was still another guy at the exit looking at items and check out receipts. So sacrificed An Inconvenient Truth in order to pick up Brokeback Mountain.

Now that I had two items checked out, I had free space to add more holds. I carefully weighed books versus DVDs and the wait time for each. You can’t check DVDs out as long, but they have hundreds of people in line. If I end up with three books checked out at once, there’s no way I’ll be able to read them all in a timely manner. Finally I settled on a DVD with a minimal wait and a book with a longer one.

The library had not alerted me that another item was ready, but my diligence checking my account status told me my first book was waiting. It was my third visit in 24 hours and this time I had the system down. The book was waiting on the shelf, but even if it hadn’t been, I knew where the special cart was.

After I retrieved Dreamers of the Day, I decided to explore the library. I vaguely remembered a book on my list that it was in the art section on the third floor. I looked at the call numbers, something I really haven’t thought about since elementary school, and tried to remember what some of my books were. Soon enough I found typography and design…and then I saw a book that was on my list. I didn’t even have to wait for a spot on my hold list to open up. I could just take it. Right now. So I did. My happiness was off the charts. I found a book! Without any help! On my way to the elevator, I found art-related pamphlets, including a call number cheat sheet, further ensuring that I wouldn’t need to ask for help in the future.

I returned to the office to share my wonderful lunch break experience (and pamphlets) with my co-workers. Of course they made fun of me, but I didn’t care. My library-high was still soaring.

Unlike my previous obsessions, the library has turned out to provide me with a lot more than researching skills or colorful accessories. I’ve had to overcome fears of new and unknown situations (which I’m sure the library still has plenty in store for me); I’m able to further explore my interests without having to consider money or space in my bookshelf; and I’m managing my time better because I have deadlines. Instead of starting a book and letting it rest on my shelf for months before debating whether I should force myself to finish it or bury it in the closet, I now have set parameters. If I don’t like it, I can just return it. And as someone who is 438^th in line for something, I want to be prompt and considerate with my materials so that other people who also want to enjoy them aren’t waiting excessively.

With two books checked out and eight more items waiting for me upon my return from Memorial Day weekend, I’ve got my hands full. Hopefully once the allure of the library system wears off a bit, I’ll become better at restraining myself from reserving so many things at once. But I won’t rule out that I’ll screw something up, bring a checked out book with me to pick up another or break some sort of record for the number of visits in a week.

It was just a last thought as she walked out the door.

She wanted to recognize each staff member in class the next day. In high school, if a student has to choose between a certificate of recognition or a cupcake, the cupcake wins every time. With this in mind, Bailey was headed home to bake something… something special and individual for each of her staff members. She planned to hand out it out publicly, in class, the next day, along with a compliment for each. I was curious what she would make.

Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh… my… gosh.

Bailey, who was the editor-in-chief of the yearbook, walked into my classroom the next day. She stood, shoulders defeated, in the hallway that leads into my suite of rooms, whispering to herself.

Oh gosh.

She had forgotten to bake the night before. She had nothing to hand out with her verbal compliments and thanks.

Slowly her shoulders straightened. She moved toward her seat at the front of the room.

I’ll figure something out.

She had three class periods until yearbook and no shopping or baking opportunities. I had no idea what she would do.

She walked into class smiling at the beginning of fourth hour. I asked her if she had a plan.

You’ll see.

She pulled three cellophane-wrapped packages out of her bag.

Graham crackers.

I’ve never really seen high school students get excited about graham crackers… plain graham crackers. No cinnamon sugar, no chocolate covering. Just plain ol’ graham crackers.

She moved to the front of the classroom as soon as we finished roll call.

Today, I want to recognize the people who have contributed to the book this year. When I call your name, I want you to step forward because today I’m handing out… She paused dramatically and waggled the graham crackers in the air.

… the Grammies.

There was the brief moment of silence. That breathless moment in which a group decision is made without discussion.

And then smiles bloomed on faces across the classroom and laughter bubbled.

As a teacher, and as a parent, I tend to be quick to criticize, to find fault. I am much slower to compliment, to find the small improvement, to recognize the effort that it took to produce a mediocre photo or story or design.

It’s so important as teachers… and as people… that we remember that it’s not the gift, but the message that counts. I mean, seriously, who rewards people by handing out graham crackers? When I put fuzzy stickers on graded papers, why do my students peel them off and stick them to their shirts… or their foreheads? I mean, c’mon, 16-year-olds craving fuzzy stickers?

I can usually decide who I want to acknowledge or thank or recognize, but so often, I put it off. I think I will write the perfect note on a beautifully designed Hallmark thank you card. But after a few days pass, I decide it’s too late and never quite manage to get it done. I forget that more important than the perfect card is recognition of a job well done, or a job done better than last time.

Each day, my students remind me of something I used to know. Today the lesson was in social math:

1 box of graham crackers (feel free to substitute this ingredient )

+ 36 students (the number isn’t important but a one-to-one ratio of ingredients is critical)

+ 36 concrete, heartfelt compliments

1 room full of smiles

I am in a relationship with The West Wing.

It’s not a healthy one. I’m not consistent, and I can’t devote the time it deserves. It’s an unbalanced relationship, in which The West Wing is always at 100 percent, always inspiring, always delivered punctually by Netflix — whereas I’m too poor to get more than two DVDs a month, too busy to hang out often. We met through a mutual friend about a year and a half ago, but didn’t really start getting involved until this spring. I think about it all the time.

My love of The West Wing, no matter how strong, is nothing compared to the love some of my most-loved friends have for it. I have superclose friends who have never seen the show; I have been-through-a-lot-together friends who have barely heard of it; I have those long-term ones who could predict my reaction to anything who would be bored to pieces watching it. But in an odd pattern, those friends whom I just adore, who delight me every time we speak and whom I just get a kick out of — they love, love The West Wing.

My friend Michele introduced me to the show in the winter of 2006-07, when I lived with her for three weeks in Portland, Ore. She’s a long-term friend who could predict my reaction to almost anything — but we’ve lived thousands of miles apart for years now and seldom talk. I’d known for a long time about her devotion to WW — she told me, circa 2004, that she’d printed off the episode list and was crossing them off as she watched them, making sure she caught them all. Freak, I said.

In Portland, I had an internship and had to awaken around 5 every morning to catch the necessary buses. Michele and I would stay up late anyway, as she’d go through the boxed set and pick out the most touching, intense, beautiful, illustrative episodes. I remember one night sitting there, late, tears running down my face, awash in goosebumps, making weird gasping noises as Donna Moss called her old English teacher from the Oval Office.

I swore I’d get real into it after that, but that last semester of college was frantically busy too. Then I had training for an internship, but there, my friend Kate and I talked about the show. She loved it too. She could scarcely be more different from me, and we have radically different beliefs on a lot of the big ones — but she’s crazy-awesome fun and makes terrific, compassionate conversation; she makes me laugh hard and often; and she’s a hell of a travel companion. I get a kick out of Kate.

I remembered Jacky (yes, fans, ThisOrdinaryDay.com’s Jacky!) telling me that she adored the show in the fall of 2006, when we lived together for a semester. I once changed my Facebook picture to Allison Janney, and she promptly wrote a long, sentimental post about the show on my wall. I’ve only known Jacky a few years, but she has the personality equivalent of the bright bubble that brings in Glenda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz; she’s a vessel of sparkles and goodness and can make your dead witch curl up and shrink under your crashed house. What? Anyway, we’re total BFF.

My friend Brian and I, when we studied abroad, gave each other the title “Italy BFF.” He is a WW buff, a sentimental goof about it, a real true fan. He’s in law school now, and I’d put my contact with him at about three times a year, but the kid is a riot and he hemorrhages personal secrets when we do talk.

The WW and I had a turning point last winter. I was back home for Christmas, and one night, Michele, her brother Adam, and my friend Matt and I went out. My friendship with Matt has endured more time, distance, calamity, frustration, thrill and expensive wine than any other, yet it stands, anchored deep. Matt has been a long-term devotee of the show. And his devotion is academic (he could probably cite the names of the actors of the smallest roles, offer an analysis of any season, write a paper on Bartlet Foreign Policy in the World Today) but also real good old-fashioned love for something smart and classy and wonderful and brilliant.

Michele had just got Adam into the show and they were having marathon sessions during winter break. So our conversation turned to WW, and because Michele and Matt know it best (obsessively), they dominated, cutting each other off enthusiastically, agreeing loudly and emphatically, trading did-you-know-of-course-you-did tidbits. I watched, in love with them both.

A few weeks later Michele flew out to visit me. She brought some DVDs — she doesn’t travel without them, no joke — and in between touristy things and Chili’s we “worked” and “had important meetings,” aka, holed up in my room and watched episode after episode. Her laptop overheated on top of bedsheets, so we set it up on a trash can, where it got more air.

And after that, I fell. Hard. I subscribed to Netflix just to get the show. I started at the beginning, and in three months have just started Season 2. But every time I watch it, I end up text messaging Michele or Matt; I shake my head in amazement at the integrity of the characters and the snappiness of the writing. I am getting my roommate Ashley into it, and we park ourselves on the couch with snacks and watch three or four episodes at a time.

The West Wing traces through my adult life. It represents bright dots on a timeline, time when I bonded with new friends and met up again with old ones. It marks my journey leftward from the right side of the political spectrum. It represents the desire to be a person who knows things and speaks well, an expert in something. It highlights commonality with people I love dearly who are very far away. So even though I’m not good at this relationship, I know that it’s built to last. The West Wing and I are in it for the long haul.

This year I rented a house with three other guys in one of the ritzy areas of Houston. The place we got was just absurd. I think if you add up the square footage of the closets and bathrooms of this three-story house it would dwarf the total living area of every place I had during college.

When we moved in, one of my friends came to see the place. Her first words were This is all yours? Like, you aren’t just renting one of the floors? Once her incredulity died down a bit, she became more assertive. This is the nicest place of anyone I know. Even adults. Old people. And you have it. Is this going to be the best year of your life or what?

I thought that an odd question. I don’t usually put too much stock in “best time of your life” thoughts in general, because someone is always saying that some time or other is the best time. In my experience, that either leads to people living in anticipation for the upcoming best time or living in back in some period that already passed. In both cases, now pretty much sucks by comparison, and who wants to hear that? So I said, I don’t know. I mean, it could be.

No, she asserted. This place is amazing. You are living with your best friends. You can have people over, have parties and do amazing things. MAKE this the best year of your life. I liked that. It is probably a good way to live life. This year is going to be the best year of my life! I’ve done my best to make this year the best possible, but there are a couple of things I missed.

You see, the house has a pool. When we moved in, the pool was a big bragging point. We got a new place. It’s crazy. It has a chandelier in a BATHROOM.

WHAT?!! people would answer. And it has a pool, we would add. At this point the conversation would be over because of jealousy.

This jealousy was misplaced. Having a pool is great, but it also means that you have to take care of it. Taking care of a pool is actually a pretty big deal. There are chemicals that are regularly required. You must monitor the pH level of the water constantly to ensure that things won’t start growing. If things start growing, you need to buy other special chemicals to kill the growing things, because the regular chemicals that are supposed to prevent growing things apparently can’t do the job. And, of course, you have to skim it. And maybe scrub it.

All of these things take time, and I was busy; busy living in this amazing house and trying to have the best year of my life. So you see where this is going. The upkeep on the pool began to dwindle. It really began to lag. And by “lag,” I mean “it ceased.” In fact, the upkeep became straight up unkempt. Slowly but surely, our pool mutated into a pond.

Honestly, I didn’t think too much of it. Swimming in a pool does is not exactly pivotal to experiencing the “best year of my life” so it was easy to ignore. Yes, the swamp-like smells were a small cause for alarm. Yes, the leaves and twigs that accumulated at the bottom were disconcerting. Yes, seeing fish swimming in the pool (after my parents bought 12 goldfish and freed them into our pond) was weird. But I was living! There were grades and lesson plans and parties and bike rides and games and movies and conversations and everything else under the sun to do and who wants to think about this giant swamp of a pond of a pool with live fish that was in my courtyard?

My lease ends June 30. School ends June 1, which means that my roommates and I are largely taking to the road, to see, explore and recover from teaching. The pool needs to be fixed. The owners of the house would not be amused to find a swamp instead of a pool, especially one containing goldfish (numbering in the thousands after spawning), spiders and bugs. Drastic measures are required when faced with such a daunting situation. My house scheduled the Essex Vacay Day. To clean the pool.

Cleaning the pool tested our resolve, our ingenuity and our safety precautions. We pumped the water out. We tried to power wash the algae stained sides. The power washer did not make a visible affect. We raked leaves. We swept up muck. We caught goldfish and gave them to students. Eventually, with only 10 inches of water left in the bottom of the pool and toilet-bowl-like stains around the entire side, we applied chemicals. Liberally. We donned masks and goggles. Mr. S and I grabbed hoses. Mr. F grabbed a bottle of chemicals. He proceeded to dump the chemicals on the pool wall and run away while the fumes spread; we sprayed down the wall. After a total of 26 (26!) hours, our pool was refilled.

Cleaning that pool was horrible. It still smells horrible. Thousands of baby goldfish are dead because of the chemicals. Mr. F burned his toe with the stuff. The experience definitely was not fun or exciting or fulfilling or beautiful like so many other memories from my year at Essex. But the redemption of the pool was still integral to my amazing year. In my rush of life, I let a piece of my world fall into decay. Things grew there, but they were out of place. To get things back to equilibrium, a significant and painful change had to occur. Things died.

For all our work, the natural pool order is not yet restored. Maybe it will never be back to the way it was. From my landlady’s point of view, this is not a good thing. From another point of view, this disaster was just part of what made this year so great. I shared this year with amazing people. I shared a horrible decision with them, creating a cesspool of neglect. But, and this is the important part, I also shared a day rectifying that decision, a day spent giving us a chance to move on, to grow and to become wiser. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t change a thing. Next time though, I think I will hire a pool boy.