Angelina's Big Gun

"Wow, that's a big gun!"

The minute I heard my four year old, "T", say this on our walk home from school this afternoon, my split second reaction was that someone walking toward us had a gun.

It's been eight years since I was robbed in my neighborhood and the cold feeling of a metal pistol stuck in my chest, right over my heart, is not something I care to ever experience again. So I immediately snatched up my child and prepared to run into the street shouting, "Fire".

But unlike eight years ago when I could clearly see two guys running up on me in t-shirts and baseball caps, tattoos covering the skin on their necks, there was not even anyone else walking on our side of the street. And on the other side of the street I could only see another mother and her child.

I didn't have to ask my son what he was talking about though because his eyes were trained on the building to our right. "Whoa, that's a cool gun!"

My eyes followed his gaze and I saw the (see above photo) five-foot tall posters for the upcoming Morgan Freeman, Angelina Jolie, and James McAvoy action flick, "Wanted".

Now, "Wanted" is definitely on my list of films to check out this summer, mostly because every time I see the slick preview for it, I get all, "Whew, that looks awesome!" and, "Angelina is hawt!" Plus, Morgan's acting is always a fave of mine and McAvoy is pretty easy on the eyes and a good actor as well.

Indeed, I plan to see the film sometime in the next three weeks while I'm away in the Midwest, preferably someplace where one measly movie ticket isn't almost $13 like it is at my local theater. However, just because I want to go see this flick, that doesn't mean I want my kids to see these gun glorifying advertisements, especially when they're a mere block away from my child's school.

My first thoughts were, yes that is a big gun. A larger than life gun. The handle is almost as wide as Angelina's arm. I know she's skinny and all, but dang, that's just ridiculously massive. I'll admit I was pretty shocked to see such an advertisement up where kids can see it.

But I didn't need to share all those thoughts with T so I just told him, "Oh no, honey. Guns are not cool and I don't like that picture because guns are very dangerous and they hurt people. Remember, you should never touch one."

"Well that woman's got one and so does that guy!" The sass in his voice matched the gleam in his eyes. "And they look cool!"

We had to talk, yet again, about how guns and gun toys are not OK and that being cool and looking cool is not the end all, be all. But I felt like he's saying, "Mommy, you're such a hypocrite. You wanna go see this movie with guns precisely because you think it looks cool, yet you're telling me that guns are not cool and being cool is not important."

He's right. But I'm also not four and I know the difference between movies and real life. And even though I want to go see the film, I'm not OK with advertisements for an "R"-rated movie being put up a block away from a school where kids can see them.

Then I looked next to the "Wanted" advertisement and saw the ginormous Heineken ads. Clearly, the road from bad to worse is quite, quite short in my neck of the woods. I guess just having guns up there on prominent display isn't enough. Kids in my neighborhood need to be exposed to both guns and booze on their way to and from school.

Gosh, I wonder if gigantic ads featuring guns and liquor are a block away from a school over in Pacific Palisades where Governor Schwarzenegger's family lives. Do they have to see this kind of crap on their way home from school?

What do you think?

I'd hop in the car and go do some investigative reporting for y'all but 1) it's the end of rush hour so it'd take me like an hour to get over there and 2) regular unleaded is up to $4.69 a gallon at the gas station by my house.

As you can see, I'll have to pass on a Palisades road trip. BUT, I'll hazard a guess that no, they don't have to see such things over there. Lucky them.

I know in a week this advertisement will be replaced with something else but honestly, I'm tired of the endless parade of age-inappropriate stuff being shoved down my kid's throats by the billboards in my neighborhood. I plan to email this photo to City Council President, Eric Garcetti's office. Garcetti doesn't live too far away from me. I wonder if he'll have any issues with Angelina, her gun and the beer being strategically placed where every child strolling to school can see.

I'll just have to wait for his office's response. In the meantime, I wonder what would happen if someone in the neighborhood were to decide to take this poster down on their own?

Trash, Cosmotrash and Glamourous Trash...Thank God It's Friday

I don't know about you but my week's felt seriously long. Dealing with trash, bees, a lock down at my kids school yesterday afternoon right at dismissal...ugh!

If you're unfamiliar with lock downs, that's what happens when an armed bandit is running around the neighborhood. The cops call the school and tell them to lock all the doors so that no one comes inside and shoots anybody.

Helicopters were circling overhead as I sprinted to the school. Fortunately, I got to there right when they were about to shut the doors so I got locked inside instead of outside.

We were locked up for a good twenty minutes before the "all clear" was given. I went and got my son who wanted to know if I'd seen the bad guys. Um, no. Fortunately not. Of course, on our way home we strolled our way past trash and bee central -- and suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. It was the assistant principal at the school and he was talking to someone about getting everything cleaned up! Whoo hoo! Is that good news or what? See, all y'all who checked the "keep dreaming" option on my poll just needed to have a little more faith.

Happy about this development, and eternally grateful to Alejandra in Eric Garcetti's office, I came home and got to talking to a friend who suggested that I take that Myers Briggs personality test over again. She wanted to see how my personality's changed since I've been working from home and being the neighborhood vigilante. Last year, I was an INFP - an "Introverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving" person. This meant that I was supposedly a "healer" type. And my, "tranquil, reserved exterior masks a passionate inner life". I could also find the good in anyone and devote myself selflessly to a cause.

I guess all that's over since I'm now an ISFP , an "Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving" person. I've also switched from being a "healer" type to being an "artisan" type. Now I'm lighthearted, easygoing and completely in tune with all my senses. One site told me that essentially, I've gone from being Mother Teresa's apprentice to being Jacqueline Onassis. I guess that's a good thing. But, then again, yet another place said that this is the "crackpot" personality. Great.

Or maybe someone is trying to turn me into a crackpot. For example, did you know that the October issue of Glamour magazine is it's "1st annual figure flattery issue"?

Yeah, I didn't know that either until a copy of the 340 page glossy mysteriously arrived in my mailbox yesterday. My name and address are on the label, but I have not subscribed.

Perhaps it's a gift from someone? Yeah, someone who wants to turn me into a dumb bimbo! Someone who thinks I need to learn, "101 Ways to Dress Your Body Better" and, "39 Sexy Things To Do With Your Hair".

I'll admit, in my efforts to get bees removed and trash cleaned up around my neighborhood, I have probably been slacking in the hot, sexy hair department. Yes, maybe the owner of the corner store down the hill is sick of seeing me with my hair slicked back into a granny bun and so decided to gift me with a subscription.

Or maybe someone somehow found out about the bowl of Breyer's Triple Chocolate ice cream that I ate the other night and now thinks I need to brush up on, "The Secret Reasons Women Gain Weight and How to Stop". Or maybe someone figured I needed to lighten up a bit and read all about, "The Guys Who Can't Stop Fantasizing About You".

Really, are women supposed to care about stupid crap like this? Just imagine, if I was focused so much on fantasies and the, "12 Things No One Ever Tells You About Sex," then there might not be people cleaning up the mess by my son's school right now.

**Update: It must have been wishful thinking on my part. I just came back from the school and nothing's cleaned. But they put some pesticide on the tree where the bees came out. Oh, and my son's teacher only got paid $10 because LAUSD screwed up the checks. Nothing like working for a whole month and then getting paid $10!**

So yes, after all this "trash" I think I'm going curl up on my couch tonight, watch some movies and order some red curry with tofu from my favorite Thai restaurant in LA, Leela Thai.

Yum.

I'll leave you with a song that's appropriate given the week I've had. I used to have quite a lovely collection of techno records. One of them, "Cosmotrash", was by an artist called Trashman. I have fond memories of dancing to this back in '92/'93 at the old Kaboom nightclub in Chicago. Unfortunately, someone stole the record from me in '96 and I've never been able to get another copy. So, imagine my surprise at finding it on YouTube last night! And isn't it a wonderful thing that I'm tech savvy enough to know how to rip the audio?

Take a listen - don't be scared, it's a great record to dance to. It's a very Friday night record. Back in the day I used to speed it up considerably on my turntables. Hmm...I wonder what my personality type was back then?

Code Yellow

In my first year of teaching in Compton, I had a whole lot to learn, just like any beginning teacher. I had to figure out how to plan lessons that were so engaging and interesting that my students didn't want to talk or misbehave because they were too busy learning. I had to learn that I didn't need to assign thirty math problems as homework when five would suffice. And I had to learn what to do during a "code yellow".

I had never heard of a code yellow before that simmering hot August of 1998, my first in Los Angeles. However, I soon learned that if there was someone shooting in the neighborhood around the school, or if someone came on campus and started shooting, that was a code yellow. If this happened, the school bells would ring in a particular sequence and I was to shut the doors to the classroom and have the students get down onto the floor and stay there till an "all-clear" bell rang. We did not have a PA system at my school so those bells were everything. I remember being very worried that I'd mix the sequence of code yellow bells up with the sequence that meant it was a fire drill. I did not want to be the teacher who took her students outside for a fire drill when they should have been inside for a code yellow.

We'd have unannounced code yellow drills just like we had fire drills and earthquake drills (another new thing for a non-California native). The first time a code yellow drill happened, my third graders immediately recognized the sequence of bells and told me that it was indeed a code yellow and not the fire bells. I immediately ran to shut the classroom door and then turned around to my students. I saw them there, flat on their bellies, so innocent yet so hard in their nonchalance. A few boys were discussing wrestling, arguing over Triple H being better than The Rock. Some of the girls were singing a Spice Girl tune. I shushed them frantically. Maybe the gunman would think there was no one inside if we were all quiet. One student, Santiago, told me, "Don't worry. It's just a drill."

Santi then launched into a story of some of the violence that he'd heard about and seen in the neighborhood. Two minutes later, every student wanted to chime in and share their story. They told me of folks they knew who'd been shot, a cousin who had a gun, random gunshots they'd heard in the middle of the night. One boy told of seeing a gun down in one of the curbside drainage ditches. He'd tried to lower himself into the ditch to get the gun but he hadn't been able to reach it.

A moment later, there was a banging on the door and a voice telling me to open up. I recognized the voice of my principal and remembered her serious instructions that no one was supposed to open their doors, no matter what, until we heard the all-clear bells. I didn't open the door and then, fortunately, the all-clear bells sounded a few minutes later.

Sometimes when I'd get to talking with people, you know the business man sitting next to me on a flight to Chicago or the woman relaxing in a cafe, sipping a latte, I'd mention that I was a teacher in Compton. I inevitably would hear something like, "Oh, you must go to work in a bullet-proof vest." That kind of comment used to infuriate me when I worked in Compton and it still does. It represents all of the images and stereotypes about poor communities of color in the United States.

The truth is, if blacks and Latinos get shot in Compton or Philly or DC, on a daily basis, we are not, for the most part, shocked and outraged. We are not calling for more gun control. We are not questioning why someone didn't notice a troubled kid earlier. Heck, I'll tell you what happens to troubled kids in low-income areas. They drop out or are pushed out of school by teachers that don't want to deal with them. And if that troubled kid gets shot, well, that's life in the hood, right? The unsaid message is that that kid brought it on themselves. You know, they were probably involved in drugs or gangs and that's the way it goes. If only they'd stayed in school...and worked harder than they did, right?

How easy it is to forget what that kid would be like if they didn't have to experience years of code yellows, whether real or practice.

Those code yellow drills repeated themselves regularly over the years I taught in Compton. Those drills, and what I knew people thought and expected of my students, were a reminder of why I needed to work so hard as a teacher, why my students deserved the same education as kids in wealthy areas. So, I learned to lay on the floor and continue the lesson I'd been teaching. I'd ask my students comprehension questions about the story we were reading. I'd give them math problems to work out in their heads.

We'd also talk about college and how it was a wonderful place to go. I'd tell them about how colleges have beautiful green grassy lawns where you can relax and be whoever you want to be. I'd tell them how you get to live in a dorm and listen to loud music and go to great parties and stay up all night without parents there to supervise. I'd tell them that they could go to class and learn about whatever they wanted to learn about and not have to worry about people shooting up the neighborhood or coming on campus with a gun. One time a student asked if there were really no code yellows in college. I confidently rolled my eyes and replied, "No, there aren't code yellow drills in college! People don't shoot each other at college."

It's strange to think that if I was still teaching, I wouldn't be able to say that now. I'd always be remembering that some crazy person could potentially walk into their college classroom and murder them, erasing years of hopes, hard work, dreams and determination.

Thankfully, the thing is that in the years I taught in Compton, my school never had a real code yellow. No one ever walked onto campus and shot up the school. But we were always prepared because of the realities around us.

The reality of violence, sadly enough, is everywhere now. Truly, there is no safe space anymore in the United States.