In America

I cut wildly long passages from de Toqueville. Yes, it’s great for our juniors to read historical sources on the American character, but seriously, have you read de Toqueville? Whew. I added little pictures where we stopped during reading to answer questions such as, “Are Americans greedy or generous?” “Do Americans work too much, or rest too much?” We had gone over our personal opinions of those questions before we began.

I was proud of how I had transformed huge, dense blocks of text into something my students could reasonably engage with.

Twenty-fourish hours later, the kids had gone home, and teachers were having meetings and hoping meetings would end. Our particular meeting had ended, and my head was still full of everything I agreed with, and disagreed with, but it had gone from rattling around inside to settling into the compost pile of the brain.

“We are on a lockdown for the entire building. Please stay in your classrooms until you are notified.”

We share a building with another school. We are the little sister in the basement. So while our students were gone, theirs were still in class. Thank God our kids were gone. Trying to keep our sophomores in the room was already a struggle.

I went down to the office to tell the printer to go on and print the lessons for next week. While the machine pumps out papers, I sometimes practice ballet tiptoes, or kicks, or balance on one foot. Our two secretaries were chatting, and keeping an eye on their monitors, which showed four camera angles. Nothing to see, so far.

“I saw a lady go out to a school bus,” one secretary said.

“Maybe she was telling them they weren’t going to load busses yet,” I said.

“They should be able to use the radios for that,” a secretary said.

“Oh, yeah, I guess so.”

I looked out the window to the school’s courtyard, and seeing nothing, I pulled the slats closed.

I took my copies back to my room, where I began stapling my students’ packets because I hadn’t figured out to send my need for staples to the big printer.

What happened next?

Information trickled. “There are cops,” someone said. I peeked out my basement window, and saw two police cars stationed at a corner across the street.

And then what happened? I don’t know. My assistant and I hoped we would get to go home on time. We had another half hour before our quitting time, anyway.

Later it trickled, “Someone got shot.”

“All clear,” the intercom said. And I went.

I looked up the news: a football player shot and killed just up the hill from us.

I canceled my dental surgery and made a massage appointment instead.

The next day at school, I did what I know how to do, from mentoring and experience. I quickly and clearly told the kids what had happened, and told them the police were on it, and I felt safe at school, and I would keep them safe.

“I’m going to have a panic attack,” one kid said.

She went to the social worker.

That day, rumor reached me that the shooter was one of our students. It wasn’t a kid we knew well. It was a kid who had been struggling to stay still. A kid who was already on our radar as far as needing particular attention, a more specific behavior plan.

I’m numb with these things. I gave and got hugs from other teachers, but none of the news felt alive to me. It felt fuzzy and blunt.

I did feeling something, though: a recurring tension headache that had been with me for a week already. I had been looking up youtube videos by physical therapists. They helped a lot, but they didn’t knock the thing out forever. I did my usual yoga. Heat patches. Still it came back again and again.

A few of the kids who were in class with the rumor-had-it shooter talked quietly. “I heard [kid] got arrested,” one said. “Gonna get a lot of years.” “…will have to go redo all of school.” “I hope it’s not….”

“Me, too,” I said.

I find the building where this randomly found massage would be administered. It had been built in the ’70s, with a flat roof and open stairs. One side of the building had a sign for Legal Aid, and the other side had a sign for whatever Guardians is, and a bigger sign that said, “NO WEAPONS.”

I had driven a few miles north and east to Independence, Missouri, home of Harry S. Truman (the “S” doesn’t stand for anything). I was walking distance from the courthouse square and the soda shop where Truman once swept the floor.

At the very end of one hallway, I saw there was a sign hung that said, “Healing happens here.” There was no other signage. There wasn’t even a handle on the door. I pushed. Inside it was very dark except for a deep pink light, plush furniture, a desk. I sat down.

Someone poked a head out. “Could you wait in the hall, please?” she said.

I went to the hall and sat on a plastic chair. I was early.

She opened the door at my appointment time. “Come in.” She was short and a bit round, in sweatpants and a tank top. It occurred to me that when I booked this massage, the agreement had stated that if things got sexual, the massage would be ended immediately, and I thought, shit, man. This is her gig, waiting for strangers and hoping they don’t try to introduce her to their hard dicks?

“Just take off your necklace and glasses,” she said. “You don’t have to take your dress off.”

I figured I might, so she could access my back and shoulders, but hey, that was okay.

The room smelled a tiny bit feet-ish, or possibly mildew-ish. I’m not too good at identifying smells.

I got on the table, feeling weird being still dressed under the sheet.

“You ready?” she said.

“Yes!”

As we got started, she fired off many questions without sensitivity or comment. “You ever have a shoulder injury?”

“No.”

“You’re the one with menstrual-related headaches?”

“No,” I said, flattered she thought I still menstruated. “My headaches are from tension in my neck and head.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. “Relax your neck more.”

I should relax my neck? I thought that was her job. If I could relax my neck, I wouldn’t be here.

I didn’t take this too hard, though. I had paid someone to help heal me. I was glad to be there. An imperfect massage is a thousand times better than no massage.

“Do you have these headaches all the time?”

“No, just sometimes.”

“How long ago was your last massage?”

“I don’t know, a couple of months ago.”

After the questions ended, I could relax better into being massaged. At one point, she turned a steam machine onto my face. “Warm steam,” she said.

It felt like a dragon was breathing hard, and onto my face. I thought, I wonder if this thing gets cleaned. I wonder if I’m breathing in mold and other horrors. But again, I wasn’t too upset about it.

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m a teacher.”

(No follow up questions, which is rare.)

“Do you have trouble with your sinuses?”

“Nope,” I said.

When she was done, she said, “You should get massages about once a month to keep your neck and shoulders more relaxed. What I did today should help your headache, but your shoulders are still full of knots.”

She didn’t say, “And you should come back here,” or “And I can do that for you.”

I had already paid and tipped.

As I stepped out the door, she said, “Nice to meet you.”

Usually they offer you water and warn you to drink a lot of water, or you will turn into dust or something, because massages magically drain you of moisture.

I walked to the car in that post-massage daze, and sat there a minute, thinking about what to do next. I saw my massage person walk out to an old, busted-up white minivan, and I thought, I hope she isn’t being trafficked.

I found a spot around the corner to get a coffee and write. When I opened the door, a dulcimer’s notes were all pulled, introducing me like a cartoon character. “Wow,” I said. “It makes me feel like I’m a character in a telenovella,” the barista said.

I chose a shortbread and a latte.

Got to reading, and typing.

The owner came in with a box of jars. The owner and the barista started chatting about their kids. Then dreams of acting. “I had a friend who did an audition for ‘Guiding Light,’ and he’s going out to California for three weeks,” one guy said.

The owner brought a cup of water over to me and set it on my table.

Small, very small things, but as my headache reappeared, having someone notice I could use some water, and give it to me, that felt really good.