Kitty Litter

Don't you just hate it when you find yourself staring blankly at the screen, not wondering what to write, but because you're so full of stuff you want to write that you have no idea what to choose?

I don't want to write about work, because honestly, who cares? The last entry was already giddy and self-indulgent as it was.

So I turn to stories. Short anecdotes, each briefly describing something that gave me pause for thought. I hope they give you the same pause for thought too.

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Earlier I thrilled my English 11 class with a discussion of why we like to tell stories, and they came up with their own conclusions: we like to share, build a sense of community, laugh, sympathize, feel. Brilliant? Of course not. But what surprises me is that they do not easily fall in love with writing mainly because they don't get to read a lot. Books are expensive, few high school teachers are inspired, plus good books aren't easy to find.

This kind of discussion, one that ends with a "I never thought of that before!" moment on the part of my students, is something I will miss when I go. I only hope that at the end of the sem, I can make at least one student fall as much in love with reading as I am.

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"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Blanche DuBois

Every Christmas, I think of the time I was coming home from a friend's house in San Juan late one December night. I ran over a broken bottle of beer someone threw on the road, and blew one tire out.

I struggled to change the tire as cars sped past me on that dark road. No one stopped to help until this pushcart trundled along. The couple pushing it stopped and asked if they could help me. There they were, all their worldly possessions in a cart less than the size of my bed, and they were worried about me.

The man bent down and began to change my tire, cheerfully keeping up a stream of chatter in
which he mentioned that the garage he used to work for closed down. His wife offered me some bread, and told me to be careful when driving at night. They were far from your typical bitter poor person; no "You're rich and I'm poor" vibes came from them. Their small son asked me where I worked, and why I was out late at night, then told me that he wanted to go to school. I was feeling more and more guilty when the man straightened up, showed me his finished work, then pushed off.

I ran after them, desperately grateful for their kindness. I offered them a thousand pesos, because they were good to me, because they cared enough where others had simply passed me by. And the man laughed and told me to keep my money, because "kindness cannot be paid for. It can only be passed on." When I insisted, his wife drew back, looking insulted, and told me to go home, as it was late.

I want to think that they were rewarded somehow, somewhere, for what they did for me. I would like to think that they have a nice, small house and are celebrating this Christmas with toys for their boy, who should be happily in high school by now. And it nags at me that wishing is all I can do for them.

But I've also since learned that sometimes the best gift you can give in return is not to pester them with your gratitude. I've also helped out other people, mindful of what the man taught me, and now I understand what it's like to not want too much gratitude, to want the recipient of kindness to just go out and be kind to others as well. I don't want someone to run after me after I've already said, "You're welcome." I don't want someone who is grateful to grovel, because I feel it might demean my gift of kindness.

I think of what else they have taught me...that there truly is a reason for the season, regardless of your religion, social class, education, and other superficial barriers we erect between ourselves and others.

I hope the little boy finally got his kitten, because the last thing he told me was that once they had a home again, his parents had promised that he could keep a cat.

Like Stephen King, I hope.