At this time of year, many people are thinking about spirits, ghosts and ghouls.  Spooky haunted houses, scary noises and images of skeletons populate our communities.  But for me, this time of year is meant to honor those who have come before me-the spirits who made me who I am, and who continue to inspire me long after they’ve left this world.  Dia de los Muertos, celebrated on November 1-2, is a Mexican holiday celebrated all over the world to honor and remember family and friends who have died.  Sugar skulls, photographs, favorite foods, marigolds, candles and special artifacts create altars eclectically magical and stunning to see.  To me, their beauty is worthy of year long display.

What altars do you use in your life?

One moment it’s just a peaceful walk down the Santa Cruz beach with two of my best girlfriends.  The sun is slipping towards the horizon, the gulls are out, and most of the beach-goers have gone home.  Thoughtful conversation bounces back and forth like a Brahms lullaby, and I am happy and content. Just a few more steps and I’ll be back at the house, glass of wine in hand, firmly and finally planted in a lounge chair to watch the sunset.  Sleepily, I move towards our peaceful haven.

Oh no. Not so fast.  Here come girlfriends two and three, grins blazing, heading for the Boardwalk.  Suddenly I’m climbing stairs, leaving my tranquil little happy zone to be slapped in the face by humanity.  Blaring carny rides, flashing lights, and the succulent smells of potato on a stick instantly awaken my senses.  And to my despair, tickets are waved in my face.  Yep, the Giant Dipper and I are about to meet, whether I like it or not.  There’s no turning back now.

We squish into line amongst the teenagers, twenty somethings – no ‘mature’ ladies in sight.  My heart pounds as I consider what is before me.  One of the oldest wooden rollercoasters in the west coast is about to do me in.  And having just confessed my lack of fear to my girlfriends the night before, now is definitely not the time to run crying back to the shore. I’m in it.  Televised images of those who have gone before taunt me.  I can’t do this.  I will die. Barf.  Fall out.  I’m only 5’2″-these things aren’t made for little people like me.  1/2 mile of track at 55 mph?  I’m doomed.

Girlfriends two and three, obviously trying to relive some long dead teenage dreams, insist on the front cars. Really?  Are you kidding me?  Reluctantly I climb in and search for the seatbelt, the foot rest, the shoulder brace-anything to keep me inside this rickety structure for the next minutes of eternity.

Ugh!  We jolt out of the gate with a start that would make any jockey lose their seating.  Into the dark tunnel we spin.  Ok. I can do this.  Not so bad….here we go uppppppp-that means we are going to come down…this is the part where I defy the laws of gravity and fall out of my seat, right?  This bar won’t hold me in…who the hell thinks this is fun anyways? AHHHHHHH!

 Really?  With one final grunt the car lurches to a stop.  Dazed, I climb out of the car and trip to the walkway, realizing that I had been holding my breath for the last two minutes of terror.  My ribs scream with pain as I make my way down and out like a drunken sailor.  I keep going, one foot then another, until I spill back onto the strand.  I’m in one piece.  I made it.

Gratefully I reenter the sand, happy to leave the lights behind me.  Suddenly I notice that the moon has risen, the tide has come in, and I breathe deeply.  As I climb the hillside toward home, the carnival lights dim and flicker out.  The Boardwalk has closed down, but I didn’t miss the ride.

Some say life is like a roller coaster, and today I would have to agree.  We never know what is around the next bend, or over the next hill.  But maybe really the question is are we just along for the ride?  Do you pay your dues, take your ticket and get on thinking you know what to expect?  Or do you hide at the entrance, sure you’re not strong enough, smart enough, or brave enough to take what’s thrown at you?

Now I know.  I’m grabbing the next ticket, racing to the front, and climbing aboard.  Only the strong survive, after all.

“We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.”
― Maya Angelou, The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou

When I first started teaching I worked in a rough neighborhood.  It was completely different from where I grew up-no long, winding bike paths, well manicured little league fields, or bountiful Farmer’s Markets.  There was no nearby college, rich with cultural opportunities, nor any kids hanging out at the public library.  Instead, there was concrete, apartments, iron gates and bars on windows.  There were grassy areas devoid of dogs on leashes or children on swings.  It was different, and I was a bit intimidated.

May 4, 1983:

Thong Hy Huynh was a new kid in town.  His family had recently immigrated from Vietnam, hoping for a better life. He was quiet-in fact, so quiet that I never even met him. I never knew his name until the day he was killed on campus.

On that day, life in our idyllic little town changed forever.  One minute we were walking to Home Ec during our senior year, preparing for another period of delightful cooking instruction.  The next minute, total chaos erupted just around the corner from our classroom.  People were screaming and a huge crowd hovered near the art room.  For a moment I thought it must be just another fight-not that fighting was an everyday occurrence.  But the teacher’s grave expressions and composed panic told me this was more-much more.

Thong was different.  He didn’t speak English fluently, and had seen horrors in his native country we can only imagine.  At that moment on May 4, he was defending a friend who was being tormented by a red haired, light skinned bully.  Words were exchanged, and before anyone knew it Thong was down, stabbed and bleeding to death.

Eight years after his death, I remember what I felt when I began teaching in my new community.  I felt different.  I was out of my comfort zone.  I felt scared and insecure.  But after a few weeks, I felt myself relaxing. I felt the love and trust of my students and their parents as they realized my care was genuine, and my passion for teaching began to override my fears of being ‘different’.

I don’t think it was until then, years after Thong died, that I really realized what Maya Angelou was saying.  And now, when my daughter walks past his memorial plaque at the high school I hope she understands.  Actually, I know she understands.  Because what I learned from Thong and my students is a part of me, and the message flows from my heart and actions into my children at home and at school.  We ARE more alike than we know, and being different is what makes life such a beautiful experience.