In my new capacity as childcare provider i have acquired a new facet to my identity: mealtime police. That's right, twice a day i hover over tender youths just trying to eat their ground beef with rice, scrutinizing, criticizing, providing strong reminders and meting out consequences to offenders.

My first shift in this position occurs at lunch time, just after the kids have finished their outdoor playtime and had 'circle time' where they sing a round of songs and have a story read/told to them. One by one they then file into the lunchroom where they sit in chairs with their names labeled in pastel handmade cards taped to the backs. Meanwhile i stand over them with hawk eyes, my hands clasped as a gesture to remind them of the desired, 'waiting for lunch and blessing' position. It is here that my jursidiction begins. Frequently a child will come marching in, waving his/her little arms in all directions, chanting, dancing, or otherwise acting childishly (appropriate as it may be). "No, that's not how we enter the lunchroom, go back and let's try it again...Carolina lets show the others how a big girl behaves...Ruben, feet under the table!" All this with the standard, semi-sing-songy voice under which any child with half a mind can sense agitation or unrest in a 'teacher' (which is what i am, when they can't remember my name). I then leave the room full of squriming tots to pray with the teacher whilst i put on oven mits and ready the food such that i can come bursting through the doors when i hear the last of the blessing. This is done with expediency to avoid any catastrophic deviations of attention between the time blessing commences and the time the food arrives (15-30 seconds). After delivering i end up at my own little table, my own little island where the 'big kids' (age 4) sit. Often times i will open with a comment regarding an individual child's behavior, citing it as a reason for being served first or last. Serving order is a very important distinction at the big kids table. After the food is served we must endure a sometimes hellish period known in the field as 'no talking time'. During this time i resort to any means necessary, icy stares, plate revocation, sanctions on seconds, anything. Amazingly, day after day it almost never fails that at least one of the children persist in gabbing through the dead zone and officer Derek must resort to penal measures. Meanwhile i must also monitor other variables: elbows, fingers on the plate, licking the plate, licking the fingers, bad posture, footsie...the list of offenses is long and uncompromising. Few people know what it feels like to be evil until they've taken food directly from the place of a child who looks genuinely sad about it. I toss in my bed at night.

After no talking time ends often the children will burst into general utterances in sheer relief and celebration of talking. This leads to a new stipulation: the 'no silliness' clause. While talking is permissible, if this talking does not involve words, sense, or restraint it just doesn't cut the mustard. This comprises roughly the last 10 minutes of the meal and is generally more enjoyable for all, despite the fact that it is most likely singularly responsible for doubling the amount of food that goes on the floor. Slowly, after i dish out seconds and we've managed to maintain an acceptable level of conversation the children will finish and must ask, "may i please be excused from the table?" Whereupon i reply, "Yes you may, and don't forget to push your chair in!"

It should be noted that with each citation i writhe a bit inside. This because i myself was every meal-manners enthusiasts' worst nightmare in my younger years. I recall slouching and slumping with my legs dangling every way but beneath the table, bits of food on my face and clothing from having dropped it from my hands on the way to my mouth. My plate was surrounded with crumbs and bits of sauce and any tablecloth was doomed. I recall being sufficiently nagged about this, to no avail. My messiness was my pride and no degree of parental intervention was going to change that...

At 3 i have to do it all over again with Oscar after he comes home from school. He alleges that he doesn't eat in school which means we've always got a little leftover plate set aside for him when he arrives. Methodically we sit down together at the kitchen table, say again another songy blessing and i hover heavily while he displays etiquette exemplary of any 3rd grader. Every now and again i have to push his legs back under or nudge his elbows down, but each day brings improvement.

At the end of the day when the badge comes off and the dishes are done i then find myself huddled in the kitchen eating peanut butter with a spoon at 11pm thinking to myself, 'do it again, and the plate goes bye-bye'.

Slowly, slowly we are making progress with the people caddy-corner to us. When we first moved in i could sense a definite tension, an uncertainty that said in a glance what much of the neighborhood was probably thinking, "who? Why? If you're not with us, you're against us." For me as a male the energy was particular. I pose a threat, an economic threat in that i might be here to push people out of the neighborhood with my big, white money. A sexual threat in that i might be here to poach women with my big, white wallet. A social threat in that i might be the watchful eye of 'the man', a little sentry monitoring the potentially unlawful goings-on in the neighborhood. For females of course, there is a whole new dynamic in play. Women are less of a threat than a challenge. The handbook advises loose, baggy clothing. Nothing should closely reveal her form. This is considered a sexual invite and will significantly increase the risk of unwanted attention.

Caddy-corner to us is a group of people, often largely comprised of males who are usually out in front of the house with their car-stereos blasting and an observer might notice people pulling up frequently for brief stops and then driving off. I haven't heard through the grapevine that it is a known drug house, as is the house around the corner where the people in the yard always seem to be screaming, although the stuff is pretty prevalent around here. Nothing could compare to the Mission district in San Francisco however where every ten steps i was getting shady side-looks and attempts at eye contact from guys in puffy coats. Anyway, i digress. As time has passed, this big group of guys that i wouldn't mess with has slowly come to realize who we are and who we know. I speculate that our presence at such events as neighborhood watch meetings, community healing groups and school board meetings gets out. Not to mention five years and two houses into the neighborhood has left a pretty significant dent in our status. Now the guys are cat-calling with a bit of in-joke humor, "Hey baby, I have a college education! I'm actually a really nice guy, I promise! See, I can make you laugh!" Meanwhile i get the subtle but vastly important nods of recognition as i pass by that clarify that the assumptions of disrespect often held in passing between Caucasians and African Americans are aside. Sometimes even the elder women will give me an enthusiastic 'hello' from the porch. This is a significant development. Especially friendly are our next door neighbors. One of our neighbors are also the parents of a young girl in our care and they never miss an opportunity to give a warm hello or tell us how much they appreciate and respect the work we are doing.

So the hood is finally cool with derek and the Sophia 06' crew. This deserves a glass of wine. Goodnight.

In Waldorf education (and i'm sure other forms, i hope this view is not exclusive to Waldorf,) it is understood that the task of the kindergarten educator is the most demanding of all. The reason for this is that the teacher, (and i'm sure this applies to the next few grades as well,) must embody her teachings more than just teaching them. While children may be simple their powers of perception are amongst the strongest of any living being. While their inner worlds of thought may be undeveloped it leaves much room for engagement in the external world and as a consequence they have almost psychic abilities in terms of being able to read the thoughts and emotional states of the people in their midst. In our training we are taught to be highly guarded in our reactions to the children as their sensitivity is so extreme, especially in the case of emotionally damaged children. If even the slightest flicker of displeasure flits through my mind i can see it on the face of the child i am addressing, even if i am trying my hardest to maintain composure (and for those of you who know me, i'm kind of a laid-back person). As a tool for self-reflection, children are amazing. They will give back just what you give to them, if you know how to read it.

Equally, we must approach each individual child in every day bearing in mind that in the twelve hours since we've last seen them they may have experienced considerable trauma that they may not be able to articulate in their underdeveloped tongues. Earlier this week the children from a particular family seemed to have an unusual amount of moodiness and meltdowns. While children do have their days, we would later come to find out the previous night all of them witnessed their older sister attacking their stepfather. It is frequent that the children may spend several nights in a row in different houses or miss meals. For those below the age of six who are struggling to understand whether or not the world is a safe and secure place, this can be very unsettling. While at first glance the children appear relatively average - all doing the universal dance of youth with their shrieks and games and mini-crises, they are all holding in their little beings the weight of an often unforgiving world, waiting for a chance to heal.

To supplement this understanding of the children we have weekly meetings and continuing education pieces that keep us up to date on family histories, dealing with trauma, child development, nutrition, schedules and related topics. As needed we are given progress reports on individual children and asked to report progress that we have observed. The end result of all of this is a continuously vigilant program that pays close attention to each child and updates how s/he is worked with according to his/her needs at a given time. At the helm of this is Carol, who with her years of experience in education ranging from public school to Montessori to Waldorf education and beyond she provides a lucid, thoughtful outlook on the work. In addition she meets every other week with each intern in order to assess personal progress and assist with individual challenges/concerns.

For an aspiring counselor such as myself, Carol is a priceless resource in an equally incredible work environment. Her genuine commitment to the work, insuring that each person on the team is given the resources to provide the best quality care within their capacities is an opportunity almost tantamount to apprencticeship. Due to the complexities of the work, much of our training must needs be 'on the job'. This can be powerful when the 'job' is so very delicate. While mistakes are unavoidable, one must try extra hard to avoid them and strive never to repeat them. All in all however, at the end of the day when the last enthusiastic little hand has waved goodbye to you and toddled off into the sunset, it really often feels like we're just playin' with kids.

This weekend was our first experience of 'Respite Care'. In Sophia language, this refers to a service provided by the organization in which children come and stay in the living space with the interns in an informal environment from Friday evening to Sunday morning. This provides a positive, safe environment for the children as well as an opportunity for their overworked parents to have a bit of peace and quiet, aka, 'respite'.
On Friday as we are wrapping up with daily duties, sweeping floors flecked with bits of graham cracker and play-dough, mopping pee-pee out of bathroom corners, stocking diapers and prepping cradles and changing trashes the children begin to arrive. A good part of the closing duties on this day, however, are devoted to preparing the spaces for the arrival of the young ones. This will include laying out in array a large assortment of games, books, beading kits and knitting options. Likewise the spare bedrooms are stocked with fresh bedding,bathrobes, slippers, etc. By 6 PM the children who will be staying for the weekend have usually arrived in full. The children who come for respite care will often not be the same children with whom we work during the week. Often times the children will be older, either elder siblings of the younger ones we are working with or Sophia Project alum (graduation occurring in kindergarten). This time our guests were six girls - four 11 year olds and two 7 year olds. This effectively doubled the amount of females in my house for about 36 hours. When i ascended the stairs the girls were somewhat cautiously playing a few of the games that had been layed out. A girl with braids and bobbles sat with feet dangling off the couch across the checker board from a 24 year old intern contemplating her next move intently. Another girl for whom sitting still did not seem an interest moved quickly about the house, dipping into this game or that conversation, ever flitting from chair to couch to floor to chair. As the night wore on however, caution slowly made its way to the wind and we were soon immersed in a full-on cutthroat game of bingo. Two ostentatious 11-year-olds ran the game, alternately spinning the big ball cage and calling out numbers with enough energy to deserve a backup band. As the tension mounted (as any experienced bingo afficianado knows will happen in the later stages of the game) sometimes our callers would burst into uncontrollable giggling fits or rambunctious dialogues, complementing eachother with theatrical perfection. By the end of the night we were all huddled around the TV watching "The Little Mermaid" with bowls of ice cream and all was well with the world.

The following day would be an adventure, beginning with a full pancake-and-egg brunch that would lead into continuous game playing and activity doing, interspersed with trips out of the house. The first such excursion took us to the Berkeley skating rink were we had an idyllic time slipping about the ice with the girls in our mittens and hats, falling over ourselves to the sound of our favorite hits from the 90s and today pumping through the house stereo. In moments of exhaustion some opted to step out and sit by the fireplace that was lit in the lobby or sip low-grade cocoa from the machine down the hall. A little girl with braids and big eyes would take me gloved hand-in-hand and insist that we go fast. When the announcement came to clear the rink so that they could resurface the ice, we all draped ourselves over the rail and watched the zamboni make its rounds. Leaving the rink, we were treated to the smell of dry, crushed leaves underfoot in the considerably more pronounced Berkeley Autumn. (In Oakland, 'foliage' is an all-but-foreign concept.)

Most of the girls we hosted during the weekend were alum of the Sophia Project, all having experienced forms of abuse and often still living in environments where such things were possible. In them you could see the forces at work, the attitudes of culture and experience fighting for identity interspersed with moments of genuine etiquette and reverence. I could at once be called a loser by one of the girls directly after having been asked if she 'could please be excused from the table.' As a male my place in all of this was distinct as many of the girls have had horrible histories with men, and i would be asked either to be especially warm or maintain a respectful sense of space between individuals respectively. Throughout the weekend i was briefed on how to do this and with whom. While my relationship to the girls was slower to ignite than with my female coworkers, by the end of the weekend i felt i had made a certain if minor connection to each of them.