After taking my oldest son to school yesterday, I headed straight to Bryce Resort. I was the first person there and only a few more showed up afterward. I strapped on my snowboard and hit the absolute beginner magic carpet. I kept falling off at the end of the bell. I switched to my goofy stance and it seemed to be better. I learned to skate with one foot first.

My lesson plan was to learn the heel and toe brakes, but it didn’t turn out that way. The board didn’t go straight down for me to learn to brake. So I had to go wherever the board took me. I fell quite a bit the first two hours. I switched to skiing. I had new skis and boots. The boots killed my feet. I need to get them molded.

I went back to snowboarding in the afternoon. I started to get the link turns using Malcom Moore’s lever techniques. I left the resort around 2:30 pm because I was completely beat. Even though I fell on my butt a lot, my butt was not in pain thanks to Bodyprox protective padded shorts. The shoulders and my knees were so painful afterward. I couldn’t do much else for the rest of the night.

O Love this happened or it did not.
In a room with green walls

my son was born. The cord was torn
too soon, so they cut off

his head to save his heart. He lived
for a long time.

For a long time there was no breath or cry.
When finally he spoke,

he spoke the wide, whorled leaves of corn.
He spoke the crickets

in clusters beneath the sheaves, he sang
the soil in. He sang the wind

in the dune and hush of ebb tide. Some say
he died. Some say he died.

Rebecca Foust

I could hear something from the kitchen
where I stood paring apples for the pie
planned to mark the moment
of my 10-year-old’s playdate, his first
since the move and our first time
with a troop of boys over to trample
the flowerbeds, tear down the old treehouse
and, whooping and laughing,
strip the citrus trees bare. Boys will be boys,
I thought, so so so seduced by the plural-
my son for this day not alone,
but this sound was different.
Not the glorious cacophony
of boys-being-boys, but just one boy-my boy-
lying face down in the dirt
while a hail of green oranges rained down.

I helped him up, wiped his face,
and broke up the circle of boys,
boys with eyes cast down and sometimes
sickled sideways to wink or grin in a way
they thought I couldn’t see. I had a choice
then: make a scene and send them home?
Or, somehow allow them to stay?

There was the pie, and the desolate day ahead,
the desolate tomorrow, and the chain
of desolate yesterdays slung slack behind.

There was my son for whom,
it being his first playdate since the move,
this was a normal playdate, and who,
when I asked, said, You can’t
send them home-they’re my friends!
There was the ER Doc who’d told me
to go home where no one would have to try
to save him, and his nurse, whose glass voice
asked me twice, have you ever prayed?
I needed them on board, and later, the teachers
who wanted to transfer or expel him.
His Sunday-night stomachaches, and the time
I saw him at recess in the bushes, hiding
his eyes so he would not be seen.

So there was all that, and the here-and-now
of a child unable to fathom malice or guile
and able to forgive anyone of anything.
There was also the pie. And, God forgive me,
I let those boys stay.
I practically begged them to stay.

Rebecca Foust

I made soup tonight, with cabbage, chard
and thyme picked outside our back door.
For this moment the room is warm and light,
and I can presume you safe somewhere.
I know the night lives inside you. I know
we made mistakes, dividing you, and hiding
you from inside. I know a trans girl
was knifed last week, another set aflame,
and that these things happen all the time.
I know I lack the words, or all the words
I say are wrong. I know I’ll call, and you
won’t answer, and still I’ll call. I want to tell you
you are loved with all I have, recklessly,
and with abandon, loved the way the cabbage
in my garden near-inverts itself, splayed
to catch each last ray of sun. And how
the feeling furling-in only makes the heart
more dense and green. Tonight it seems like
something one could bear.

Guess what, Dad and I finally figured out Pandora,
and after all those years of silence, our old music
fills the air. It fills the air, and somehow, here,
at this instant and for this instant only
—perhaps three bars—what I recall equals all I feel,
and I remember all the words.

Rebecca Foust

Xuân’s Spanish teacher informed me about an incident happened at school. He and his classmate wandered around the fourth-grade area instead of going to their class. When asked what they were doing, they explained that they were lost. Xuân said that his classmate motioned him to go along; therefore, they walked around the school and they were late for class.

I spoke to Xuân immediately after school and he told me what happened. I wrote a response to his teacher:

Dear Sra. D,

Thank you for bringing the incident to our attention. We spoke to Xuan this evening and he told us that he followed his classmate’s command because his classmate would “kick my butt hard” if he didn’t. Xuan revealed that whenever he didn’t do what his classmate wanted him to do, he would kicked him on his butt. One time, his classmate kicked him and he told him to stop, but he just laughed and kicked him again.

We are quite concerned about these incidents and Xuan only told us after we brought up today’s event. Would you please talk to Xuan and his classmate to make sure these incidents won’t happen again? We fully understand if you cannot intervene in this situation and we are willing to talk to the kid’s parents to resolve the issue.

Of course, this isn’t an excuse for Xuan’s misjudgment. He needs to make better choices next time.

We appreciate your support.

Regards,
Donny Trương

His teacher took a swift action and reported back to us that she had talked to both of them. In her email, she wrote:

According to Xuan, his classmate did not say the words, ‘I will kick your butt.’, but he has done this action more than once.

I was not sure if she misread my message; therefore, I wanted to clarify:

Dear Sra. D,

Thank you for addressing the issue.

I would like to make a clarification. I did not quote Xuan’s classmate saying, “I will kick your butt,” in my previous response. I was quoting Xuan telling me, “kick my butt hard.” To put his words in context, here’s what Xuan said to me: “If I didn’t follow him, he would kick my butt hard.” It’s a minor detail, but I don’t want you to misunderstand my message.

I appreciate your swift action on this matter. I hope you have a wonderful weekend and enjoy the World Cup if you’re into soccer.

Regards,
Donny Trương

I must confess. I defend Xuân more than his brothers. When he was younger, he defended himself. He would fight back when other kids attacked him, but he hasn’t done so in the past few years. Even Vương has been punching and kicking him, he just cried. I am fine with him being non-violence, but I am also kind of worried that he is not defending himself. Đạo and Đán picked on him constantly and they drove me crazy. No matter how many times I had explained to Đạo and Đán about caring and protecting their little brothers, my words seemed to go in one ear and right out the other. I yelled, punished, and banned them from their digital devices when they picked on Xuân. They are starting to get it now. Đán said, “Xuân is my golden child and we shouldn’t mess with him.” I am glad he recognized that. I love all my boys, but I have a bit more empathy toward Xuân. I don’t want people to pick on him.

“Barn’s burnt down-now I can see the moon.” –Mizuta Masahide

It’s 52 o’clock & the Project of You
has begun anew: quit drinking
again, start jogging. Floss. Get a clue
about what-it-all-means, what you
mean to do. Wake before noon
now & then. Mend the broken yolk
of your mind; bail its sunk boat.
Meditate. And for God’s sake, eat
more fruit. See the dentist & proctologist;
have some fun. Commit at least one
unoriginal sin (with a condom, please,
& without a gun). Go to the barn, burn
it down, burn the day. Then you can
see the moon, without yourself in the way.

Rebecca Foust

This past Wednesday was my last day at work for 2022. I won’t be back to work until January 9, 2023. Yesterday was my mother’s second death anniversary. I spent the day quietly praying and remembering her. Last night I had trouble sleeping; therefore; I cancelled my snowboarding plan at Bryce Resort. After taking Đạo, my oldest son, to school, I drove back home trying to catch some sleep. I woke up around 10 am and watched the World Cup on Telemundo.

We will be taking a skiing trip in Vermont next Saturday at Okemo Ski Resort, but I wanted to hit the slopes early to test out the techniques I have been learning in my basement. I recently discovered Malcolm Moore’s YouTube Channel. His lever technique seems promising. I also wanted to apply his ski-pole drill. I am hopeful that I will be able to learn snowboarding on my own this season. My goal is to brake on my toes and heels and to link turns. I might take a trip to Bryce on Monday to give snowboarding a shot.

It would be fun to be able to switch from skiing to snowboarding and vice versa. We’ll see how the snowboarding challenge goes.

Merriam-Webster defines bánh mì as:

a usually spicy sandwich in Vietnamese cuisine consisting of a split baguette filled typically with meat (such as pork or chicken) and pickled vegetables (such as carrot and daikon) and garnished with cilantro and often cucumbers

Bánh mì simply means baguette. What Merriam-Webster describing is bánh mì thịt, which translates as baguette with meat.

I wrote to Xuân’s English teacher:

Dear Mrs. H,

I hope you had a great Thanksgiving break. I love the song, “Give Thanks,” you had written and performed. What a beautiful way to teach kids about gratitude.

I am writing to you because I am quite concerned about Xuan’s reading. He seems to be regressing in his reading level. He used to be able to sound out words with three letters, but these days he seems to have trouble reading words with three and four letters. He could barely get through a simple sentence. I am trying to help him at home, but I am not seeing any progress.

Is it normal for his age and level? Or does he seem to be behind? What do you think? Do you have any suggestions? Should he get extra help?

Thanks in advance and looking forward to hearing from you.

Regards,
Donny Trương

Maybe I am getting impatient with Xuân’s reading, but I am seeing the same patterns with Xuân and his older brother. Đán ran into similar issue where he couldn’t recognize the same word we just read a second ago. Đán can read fine now, but he only reads when he has to. I would like to help Xuân to become a better reader so he could enjoy reading since I love reading.

My wife bought The Big Book of Reading Comprehension Activities, Grade 1, by Hannah Braun M.Ed., for Xuân to learn at home. We have been going through two readings a day and Xuân seems to enjoy doing the exercises.

Xuân bought a diary book with a lock at his school book fair. I asked him to write down the Scout oath, law, motto, and outdoor code. He was struggling to remember the Scout laws, but writing them down has helped him memorized them. I am planning on helping him writing a daily journey in his journal similar to what I am doing with my blog. I am hoping to improve his writing skills as well.

I was thirteen, and there was a boy’s
mouth where my legs met. My heart beat

like a bird caught in a bag, let’s say
for her plumage. I could smell his want,

thirteen and there was a boy, and I became
something salt and sweet

where my legs met. My heart like a bird
swelled and split

the clear air with its song. I was the must,
the first press wine,

thirteen, and only this boy and the needles
under the pines,

that cedar bed, fragrant and ancient as dust
and where my legs met-thirst-

a boy, my heart like a bright, caught bird.

Rebecca Foust