it was GREAT.

Computer time's been so hard to come by lately that I feel like you're all getting tardy dispatches from some far-off front. BUT, the best reason not to write is that you're involved in an amazing theatre project! Am I wrong?

The portable platform was only halfway built, and we had only three sort of . . . mini-playlets written, with sketches for a few more, when Perry told us there was a guaranteed audience waiting for us near the encampment. Apparently there was some kind of massive meeting--I'm embarrassed I don't know exactly what it was, but it got most of the folks in the same outdoor area late in the afternoon, and we showed up with our half-assed plan and totally did some theatre.

It was amazing. It took everyone a while to understand what we were doing, or maybe some never really did . . . I mean, if someone showed up in a public place and started monologuing about a group of drones that take over an office building, you'd probably think mental ward before you thought agitprop. But our friend Henry wrote this great piece about being the last office worker in a sea of drones (my favorite part was that still no one would make a new pot of coffee if they emptied the carafe). And Chris and I did a short piece we'd adapted from our experience with James and Michael--with Perry and Veronica's permission, of course. For the most part, the pieces were light hearted, and I think that was a good move. No fear, right now, that no one in the camps is taking the situation seriously. But I do think it'll be helpful, eventually, for us to use the performances as communication and organizing tools.

I'm a little concerned; this thing could take over our lives, and I still have a job and two kids. It already looks like Chris isn't going to be doing many odd jobs to add to our income. Which is okay; so long as he's doing this stuff, he can bring Evan and James along and we don't have to worry about childcare. But I can't lie: it's great to be excited about something creative, no matter how humble. After we finished last night, a small handful of people offered to help out--to jazz up the platform, help set up and take down . . . one guy offered to play guitar, and one had an idea for dynamo-powered lights. aMAZing.

The best part was watching James watch us. Evan doesn't quite get it yet, but James knows his family is doing something awesome. He gave the biggest hug when we got home, even though I was dirty and stinky. I love, love, love it.

aaaa.

Just when so much great stuff was happening, I got sick. Hence, no posts. And now, too much to catch up on.

(Mom, and everyone: stomach flu, not anything respiratory. Definitely not you-know-what.)

On the theatre front: We had a meeting! The best kind of meeting! The kind where people get excited. Chris brought up the living newspapers done by the Federal Theatre Project during the Depression, and everyone started throwing out ideas. We managed to agree that we'd meet once weekly for a potluck supper, and communicate via email the rest of the time. Three of us are investigating topics for scripts, Chris is brainstorming venues, and he and Perry are constructing the moveable stage/platform/thing. And yeah, we roped Veronica and Perry into the group. I think it was nice for them to meet some folks. Veronica was a little shy; she volunteered to watch the kids (five altogether, since everyone brought theirs, eep). I'm determined that that won't fall to her every time, though. We'll take turns.

Speaking of kids . . . I ran into this post of futuryst's, and caught myself thinking about it all day. About James and Evan and how we felt when they were born, and what it's like to watch the news these days, and contemplate the survival horizon. I try not to think about it, since it freezes my heart in terror. Small steps. Everything we can manage. I guess that's why we just went ahead and had a baby eight years ago. Of course, back then things weren't as dire, but there was already reason to worry. And we worried, for sure. But we had James anyway.

It's a selfish thing, in all honesty. I just couldn't imagine a life in which we didn't have a kid. We were just going to have the one--even though I was an only child and kind of thought it sucked. I figured so long as we only had one, we'd still be helping drop the population (2 adults, 1 kid . . .) But then Evan was a surprise, and once it happened I realized how happy I was for the accident. Sigh. We're trying to raise them to be innovators, in hopes that they'll make the world a better place.

Actually, Evan put a bean up his nose today, so far up there that I thought we were going to have to go to the ER. Innovator? Maybe. Maybe he'll be a birthday party clown. God knows.

One is silver, the other gold.

I matched up with Veronica. I didn't have class yesterday, so I was watching Evan and correcting papers while Chris did some odd jobs for extra cash and James was at school. I invited her to come by, and to bring Michael so that he and James could hang out. Poor Michael's still not at school. "Poor," I guess, because he seems to miss it; he lit up when he saw James and Evan this afternoon. Educationally, I'm sure he'll figure out what he's missing; it's the social lack that must hurt. Long division and reports on war battles (is that what James is studying? Good Lord, I don't even know) he'll catch up on later.

Anyway, Veronica was in pretty good spirits. We talked about a lot of stuff--I'd forgotten that, how much there is to catch up on with someone you've just met. I told stories about college I'd practically forgotten I knew. She's hilarious, and smart, and a great vegetarian cook. We hung out drinking tea and listening to the kids play until I heard Evan getting grumpy, which meant it was time to eat and I hadn't planned anything. Veronica whipped through my kitchen and put me to work slicing an onion while she did something with lentils that amazed me and James. We'd already eaten by the time Chris and Perry got in, around the same time, each one dirty and tired. Chris had been helping at a construction site, and it turned out Perry had been doing similar work across town--and was paid less. Chris is seeing if he can get him on his team at the site tomorrow. I have to teach most of the day, but Veronica offered to take Evan and pick James up from school. This is great--otherwise Chris would probably have to say no to the day's work; usually he stays home the days I have class. I'm already thinking about what we might do with the cash.

Perry and Veronica didn't get ready to go until the boys got sleepy. I wondered where they were going to, but we'd all been having so much fun I didn't want to remind them of any misfortune, or remind everyone of the disparity between our full-but-snug apartment and their . . . campsite? van? I know they're not in a refugee center, because it came up when we told them about the theatre thing. They liked the idea--I think both because the prospect of doing something for the refugees felt good, but also because it cemented that they weren't there yet, in the camps, and maybe won't have to go. If Perry can get enough work, if they can find a place to live . . . Jesus. I think we're living on the edge, and then imagine the four of us in a van with an ice chest and a Coleman stove.

Anyway, Perry offered to help construct some kind of moveable, portable stage platform--something we could hang a few lights from, something that would mark a performance space as special (maybe more importantly, something that'll fit in the trunk of our subcompact). We're having some theatre folk over for dinner day after tomorrow . . . I think this is really happening. I also think I'm serving them that lentil dish, if Veronica can help me make it. So good.

That conversation again

We had that conversation again, my mother and I. She keeps dropping hints about us moving back down to Olympia and staying with them. I can't tell if it's just that these are relatively uncertain times, or she's lonely, or if she's really worried about ReDS. I mean, we're all worried. And I don't think being in a smaller town provides much relief from that anxiety. It's not like my hometown is an isolated wilderness. It just lacks what a city lacks: theatre, museums, ethiopian food . . .

This is where my mother points out that we no longer go to the theatre, to museums, etc. And she's right; we don't have much money for babysitters. But Chris got a long email from a friend yesterday about matters theatrical, one that I found sort of exciting in spite of myself. A lot of our circle of friends are actors, directors, or playwrights (or some mixed-bag of the three), and as the last seven or so years have gone by, we've seen more and more of them drop off the radar as far as the theatre scene goes. There's a lot to worry about right now, and blowing $120 at seattle rep to see a play doesn't seem to be high on anyone's priority list. There never was much acting work, but now? Chris is lucky if he gets a regional commercial once in a while, and spends the rest of his time doing odd jobs and taking care of James and Evan.

Anyway, his friend Brian finally got tired of theatre being "missing" from his life, and is starting a volunteer group to take shows to the refugee camps. Chris got pretty excited. I can remember day when working in filthy conditions for no pay would have been something he called the union about, but today I saw his eyes light up at the thought of being a creative performing artist again. We both got excited, honestly. Going into refugee camps with a production of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is probably the opposite of what my mother had in mind when she suggested we leave the city for the comparative saftey of a small town, but it sounds like something we can do to help.

(I'm kidding; we won't be doing Albee. I think.)

Final note: there was a letter pushed under our door over the weekend--from Veronica. It was beautifully written, a thank-you for having taken in her son, even just for an afternoon. I have an inkling that they haven't always encountered the best in the people they've run into on their journey to here, and it made me grateful I'd been able to be (for the most part) my best self during the Michael/James issue. She left an email address; sounds like she doesn't get to check very often, but I'm thinking of inviting her over for coffee. Jasmine might be able to wear some of the stuff Evan's outgrown, for one thing, and we really don't have space to keep old baby clothes around for no reason. Or maybe I'm just hungry to have coffee with a friend. Either way, I'm hoping she'll say yes.

Not James, Michael.

Sorry--I meant to post right after we got home last night, but everyone was so exhausted that bedtime became both more difficult and more critical . . . But. After eating something, Chris, James, Not James, Evan and I went out for a walk with Norbert. We'd decided to walk toward the school, thinking anyone who'd lost a kid there might have a similar plan. I got Chris to walk ahead with the boys, and tried to talk to our poor lost boy one-on-one. After we'd dropped behind the others a bit, he softened. He would only tell me about his family, not their names--his mom, formerly a journalist; his dad, who used to be a handyman in their apartment building; and his sister, who's a little older than Evan. They came from the east coast after both his parents lost their jobs in rapid succession. They had to leave the apartment building where his dad was a super, and without anywhere to go, they just got in the car. They drove to Minneapolis first, where his mom has a sister, but apparently family wasn't in a position to help. Gas prices being what they are, they had to stop a lot; his dad took on odd jobs while his mom took care of them. They camped whenever they could--actually, as awful as the uprooting and uncertainty sounded, he was clearly enamored of the camping, and of seeing the country. I'm sure there was some dark stuff, too, but we didn't get to that.

His name is Michael. Which I still might not know, except that as he was telling me excitedly about the night he heard racoons outside their tent, Michael's father started running toward us, yelling his name.

I've been writing about all of this with a certain nonchalance, minimizing for the audience some of the less attractive feelings--my initial, protective anger at the idea that anyone messed with James's identity; my concern over having a stranger in our living room, even a relatively harmless ten-year-old; my negative feelings about anyone who'd put their kid in this position. Watching this man find his lost son, though: woah. I defy anyone to watch that happen with dry cheeks. I immediately thought of what it would be like to lose track of James or Evan, even for an hour. God help me.

Anyway, he's Michael. His dad is Perry; eventually his mom, Veronica, caught up to us, too, with Jasmine strapped to her back in a carrier. Despite the weirdness of the situation, I liked them immediately--maybe mostly because they could hardly make eye contact with us, they were so worried/overjoyed about their kid. After the awkward flurry of bear hugs, weeping and introductions, Perry took me aside. "I owe you an apology," he said, and told the story of how they came to the decision to try to stay in Seattle and get their kids into school. "We're tired of moving," he said--and his voice sounded so weary, I believed it. Without a permanent address, they'd had trouble getting Michael registered for a decent school--the district wanted to send them to the school that's been set up for refugee families, and I don't blame them for wanting to avoid that at all costs. I've seen the place on the news . . . big tents, no books, kids that can barely be kept fed, let alone engaged and learning. He told me that the guy he'd bought the ID from had told him that the real James Byrne had moved away the previous week, and that Michael would be able to slip in undetected. Which, frankly, was almost the case--I still can't believe that no one noticed that a dark-haired ten-year-old was standing in for my tow-headed, eight-year-old son. Apparently the class is up to sixty now, and the aides circulate in and out all the time.

We ended up enviting them back to our place for tea. Given the happenings, I could tell Chris was wary of connecting with them, but we did a little married-person-telepathy, and he relented. We talked later that evening about how glad we were--Perry and Veronica were amazing. Like friends we would have made in college: funny, wry, intelligent, fun-loving. When the tea was finished, Chris uncorked one of the two bottles of wine we'd been saving for an occasion (not that it's anything special, the wine; just something we put away back with grocery money wasn't quite as tight). It was late before we realized it. Michael had fallen asleep next to Norbert on the floor. I jumped up to offer to drive them home, but I watched Perry and Veronica do some telepathy of their own, and turn us down firmly. Not ready, I guess, to show us where the live . . . which I think is either out of their car or in one of the camps. I get that, I guess. I'm not sure I'd broadcast it to new friends, either. I stopped Veronica on the way out, though, and told her we'd like to see them again, and help out if we could. With child care, maybe some communal dinners, whatever. I gave her my cell number, and made her promise to call. She said she would; I guess we'll see.

Will the real James Byrne please stand up?

I came home from a day of teaching to find my husband Chris watching our two kids . . . and one of someone else's. Apparently, when James got to school today, his ID card wouldn't swipe. He dutifully took himself to the office, but it was a ridiculous amount of time before someone realized his card had been hacked. They tracked down the "other" James Byrne in social studies; he's probably a couple years older than J., with dark hair and eyes. His ID card looks just like James's--except for the picture, of course. The school seemed flummoxed. Apparently this has only happened a few times in the district, and always with older kids. They got James into class just fine, but no one knew what to do with not-James--who I can't call by his real name because he won't tell us what it is. I guess I don't blame him. They kept him in the office until school let out, at which point J. came back to the office, looking for him. My sweet kid. He was worried about him. Not-James wouldn't tell anyone anything about his family--sacred, I guess, that they'd get in trouble for the hack. I wonder how much they paid for him to get a shot at going to a decent suburban school. He didn't seem to think anyone was going to come to get him.

Anyway, James called Chris, and he went over to check on things. The school didn't want to release a child to a stranger, so Chris and James waited with him for an hour, until the office was closing down. The administrative guy didn't seem to know what to do with a kid no one would claim, so he eventually shrugged his shoulders and let Chris and James walk out with him.

He's sitting at the table, writing in a notebook. I can't tell what's the weirdest thing about this situation--that no one noticed the wrong James Byrne was in the third grade? That this kid-who-is-not-my-kid is here writing a paragraph about the American Revolution at the kitchen table? That, strangely, my younger son Evan is completely in love with him (I mean, really. Evan won't share his food with anyone, but he just finished giving not-James two entire graham crackers, piece by piece. It's the only time I've seen N-J smile since I got home)?

We're going to eat something, and then we'll figure out what to do. Chris has been holding off on calling the police in hopes that N-J will eventually spill enough for us to get him home. I hope so. I don't relish handing anyone over to child services.