The Problem with Onesies

We just got back from our first content-sponsored excursion-- a 3 night camping trip at a reservoir hours from home. We were off to study climate change's impact on water, observe the reservoirs and watershed, talk about how climate changes could have had an influence Colorado's wildfires, and recent flooding. And, of course, learn how to camp.

At our first learning session, an expert showed us how to measure how much water was pouring into the reservoir, and talked about how some reservoirs actually saved Denver from flooding. Students looked at tools, wrote down equations, and got to measure the rate of the stream. That's when, let's call her Magda, decided she really had to go to the bathroom.

But we were in the middle of nowhere. There were no toilets-- not even pit toilets. Nothing for miles and miles. Her teacher, Ms. T, said to her, "Well, you have two options-- you can hold it, or I can help you go behind that bush-- if you want."

Magda said no-- she was NOT going behind a bush. But then began to squirm. The potty dance was epic. Okay, she said, I changed my mind. I need to go. Now.

Ms. T took her across the bridge, behind the giant tangle of bushes and assisted as Magda began to take off all of her layers-- including those on top. Why was she removing her jacket and sweater to pee? Because, you see, under everything, she was wearing a onesie.

Everything had to go.

Panicked, Magda started jumping up and down, layers falling like autumn leaves. "Stop bouncing!" called Ms. T. "Its going to make it worse! You're going to pee yourself!" Magda paused. Got silent.

"Too late."

Frantically, Ms. T helped Magda remove the rest of her items. "Use the dry parts to wipe yourself clean," she said, and ran to get a plastic bag to put the soiled onsie in. When she returned, Magda was still standing there. Buck naked. Behind the bush.

She handed Ms. T the urine-soaked onesie. "What should I do now?" she asked. Hiding her bewilderment, in a gentle voice, Ms. T answered, "Well.... you should probably put your clothes back on."

Gangland

Over the intercom,  our principal started to speak. The heat was too oppressive, crayons were melting at some schools, and our district was letting kids from our school go at 11:30. The kids let out a celebratory cheer (as did the teachers). It was Friday, and we were all a bit exhausted.

The kids, some meandering, some exuberant, left the building, and then we got an announcement-- we were to all meet briefly. With a raised eyebrow, my science partner and I ambled down the foyer to join the circle of teachers, administrators and support staff. The air was tense, voices a buzz.

While it was true that the heat was overwhelming (I had been spraying my kids in the face with a water bottle for weeks), the temperature was a cover story. The truth? The school was worried about a bloodbath.

The weekend previous, there was a party. Mostly Bloods, a few Crips. Rumbling started, some harsh words said, and a young, teenage kid, shot and killed. Fallen from his bicycle into the street. Bled to death.

His funeral was that Friday, and his gang wanted revenge. The rival high school, where many of the opposite gang members went to school, lit up Facebook with threats, timelines, locations.

Our mission? Getting all of the kids home and out of the way, so none would be tempted to be part of the potential brutality that was scheduled around the time of our school's normal release.

As I left the school, one of my favorites stopped me. "Go home, Miss," she said. "And don't come back to this neighborhood tonight. If you live close, stay inside. It isn't safe here right now."

Shaking and pale, she continued. "All of this is stupid. When will it end? They kill us, we kill them, it goes over and over, revenge and more revenge until all of my male relatives are dead. Until everyone's dead. It's not worth it."

I gave her a hug, gave her my cell phone number. I went home, I checked the news, and I hoped that all of my kids would be safe.