No, not that kind of swag. My dreams of being a seat warmer at the Oscars went up in smoke when I rejected my Pomona acceptance. I mean swag like swagger, and I'm talking about it because my coworkers are convinced I need it. I smile too much, apparently, and that won't get me respect, or phone numbers, but that's a different story. They've even got some of the kids in on it. Today they spent fifteen minutes brainstorming ways I could dress and carry myself in the neighborhood. (Apparently skinny jeans and some sort of non-Converse brand-name shoe is the answer. And I need to learn how to walk slower. That will be hard.)
I feel looked-after. And a little bit like I'm starring on an off-brand Bravo series.
(It's all very tongue-in-cheek, but there's something in it. So far I've been taking advantage of the protective bubble I inherited from my mother, with just a touch less of the accompanying obliviousness/myopia, and I think it'll carry me through the year, but they don't know that. What they know is that when the three of us went to pick up the kids at school today the parents let us know that we can't wait for the kids outside any more. Apparently, this happened, which sent an already combustible situation through the roof. On our way back to the Center with our 24 charter school kids, a police car driving on the fast side pulled over abruptly and let us know about the Little Village one here, five minutes before, three long blocks over, and one short block up. We tightened ranks and, for once, the kids listened and walked fast.)
(Would swag save me? Probably not. But it would help a little bit the next time one of the walkover kids turns to me, seizes my hand and, clearly freaked out, asks, "Did you grow up in a good neighborhood or a bad neighborhood?" Maybe my voice wouldn't go wobbly as I said, "A good one.")
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