September 27, 2010
Who’da thunk that “normal” would ever become the next “cool”? Who’da thunk that the lack of stories would turn out to be the story?
But that’s exactly what happened at my 30th reunion last weekend. Much to the disappointment of my lunch mates, it was just good, old-fashioned fun and not one person left with his tail between his legs. Or anyone else’s tail, for that matter.
To sum it up and to cause Julius Caesar to suffer a slight seizure while I’m at it, we came. We saw. We concurred. And, I gotta tell you, it felt pretty damned nice.
What’s not to love about Tami covering her table with Lindt chocolates and retirement-aged whiskeys, waving down her classmates to try them together?! Who would ever complain about cracking open a cold beer or enjoying a red wine, courtesy of classmate Sharon’s Pawnee-City vineyard (SchillingBridge, the nation’s first farm winery/microbrewery, open 365 days a year, tours welcome, thank you!)?
To be sure, there was plenty of laughter. And some good-natured ribbing, too. It’s true, for instance, that, at one point, all the graduates of May Morley Elementary School (“Morley Kids CARE!”) might have flipped off their fancier friends who’d gone to Pyrtle Elementary. And it’s possible that someone—and, no, I won’t mention names because it might embarrass Chris—may have had a little gas problem when she’d bent over to put her John Hancock on the class poster.
And let me tell you, farting just never gets old. I left Country Pines in tears following the odiferous outbursts, wondering if I’d be able to drive home safely, not because I’d overdone it, but because I couldn’t get my stinking glasses to defog.
But, really, there aren't that many stories to tell. At least stories that'd end up on the news or plastered on the front page of some two-bit rag. No, it was just a really nice weekend with really nice people.
That's my story and I'm sticking with it.
Monday, September 27, 2010
E=mc Hammer
September 27, 2010
“Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be changed from one form to another.” --Albert Einstein
I’ve got energy on my brain these days. Not necessarily in my blood stream, but definitely on my brain. Following my Paris Hilton weekend of nonstop fabulosity , and knee deep in a school week that includes three nights of parent-teacher conferences and one of freshman volleyball, I’m wondering where the energy pump is and how much they charge per gallon.
It’s 5 p.m. and here I sit, in the East High gym, just under our country’s flag and to the left of the water fountain, trying to look I’m an adult. Skirt is on. Student papers in a neat pile upon the table. Snappy school bag at my feet. And, despite all the things that I’ve etched onto my calendar this past week, I’m kind of buzzing, too. Go figure.
Parent-teacher conferences always do this to me. I may wake up feeling like I’ve slept in a Buick and licked an ashtray but, by the time 4 p.m. rolls around, I’m focused and perky and mostly glad to be here. I know it’s not popular to say when I’m seated among my peers, but I kind of like parent-teacher conferences. And, if I’m going to be really honest, I almost always tear up during at least one of my parent conferences.
Now I suppose I could point to my age or the pollen or even the perpetual tickle in my nose to explain away those tears, but, really, it’s pretty terrific to be able to tell someone that their child is pretty terrific. And all that terrific-ness can make me a little weepy.
God knows what I would do if my eggs ever drop on parent-teacher conference nights. I would probably be removed by two nice gentlemen with a gurney.
For now, though, I keep my cool and count my blessings that, for some unknown reason, parent-teacher conferences increase my energy level. They fill me up and leave me buzzing, even after the kind of weekend I’ve had.
“Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be changed from one form to another.” --Albert Einstein
I’ve got energy on my brain these days. Not necessarily in my blood stream, but definitely on my brain. Following my Paris Hilton weekend of nonstop fabulosity , and knee deep in a school week that includes three nights of parent-teacher conferences and one of freshman volleyball, I’m wondering where the energy pump is and how much they charge per gallon.
It’s 5 p.m. and here I sit, in the East High gym, just under our country’s flag and to the left of the water fountain, trying to look I’m an adult. Skirt is on. Student papers in a neat pile upon the table. Snappy school bag at my feet. And, despite all the things that I’ve etched onto my calendar this past week, I’m kind of buzzing, too. Go figure.
Parent-teacher conferences always do this to me. I may wake up feeling like I’ve slept in a Buick and licked an ashtray but, by the time 4 p.m. rolls around, I’m focused and perky and mostly glad to be here. I know it’s not popular to say when I’m seated among my peers, but I kind of like parent-teacher conferences. And, if I’m going to be really honest, I almost always tear up during at least one of my parent conferences.
Now I suppose I could point to my age or the pollen or even the perpetual tickle in my nose to explain away those tears, but, really, it’s pretty terrific to be able to tell someone that their child is pretty terrific. And all that terrific-ness can make me a little weepy.
God knows what I would do if my eggs ever drop on parent-teacher conference nights. I would probably be removed by two nice gentlemen with a gurney.
For now, though, I keep my cool and count my blessings that, for some unknown reason, parent-teacher conferences increase my energy level. They fill me up and leave me buzzing, even after the kind of weekend I’ve had.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Reunion Recollections, Part One
September 25, 2010
A building is a tenuous bond, if you consider it simply as a structure. Pop in 425 kids, though, (I heard numbers as high as 720 and as specific as 453 last night) and, suddenly, you’ve got a community. The classmates I saw at my 30th reunion last night really only had one thing in common—we’d all gone to East High School in the late 70s.
To their credit, none of my classmates look like they’re in their late 70s. And I can think of only one spouse who appeared to be in her 70s. But who am I to put limits on love?
It was great fun to catch up with people, to search their faces for their old selves—sometimes discovering, with relief, that their old selves had gone away and had been replaced with something calmer, happier, sturdier. Almost inevitably thicker.
Gone, too, were the cockadoodledoos of a 10th reunion, that loathed scientific experiment in the pecking order of humankind. Mostly, we were just glad to be alive and together. Or at least mostly together. And we weren’t terribly concerned about letting our warts show (though I’ll admit that I might have put on a little foundation and blush, just to fancy up a bit). The humor was mostly self deprecating, outing ourselves before someone else could, though no one seemed particularly interested in throwing the first stone.
Some folks arrived in predictable tribes, surrounding themselves with their long-ago peeps. Others, myself included, had no shield to hold up, walking in alone, hopeful that we’d be able to read each other’s name tags or spy a friendly face.
Some classmates I met for the first time last night, 30 years after tossing our tassels, post graduation. Ron is the first to come to mind. A police officer in Crete, we’d found each other on Facebook and then again at Bunkers, smiling at the newly-forged, albeit digital, bond we’d formed. Hats off to him for coming to his first-ever class reunion. I was glad to spend time with him.
I laughed a lot last night. Laughed at what we’d done, chuckled at what I’d become (really, when you’ve been going to East High since you were 12 years old, it starts to feel like you’ve married your cousin or something), made some new bonds in the form of ablations and graduations, divorce and death.
I’m glad I went to Bunkers last night. For one, it’s the first time I’ve ever caught a glimpse of that ritzy neighborhood. Can’t say much for the rubber-stamped sameness of their brick-and-mortar flags of wealth, but this neighborhood’s gathering place proved ample enough for the likes of us. I’m glad I woke with a fuzzy voice, evidence of too many stories told. I’m glad I ate hash browns at midnight, learning new secrets about Trish, dreaming of being related to Julie through a relative’s marriage, laughing about the shenanigans we all managed to survive 30 years ago.
A building is a tenuous bond, if you consider it simply as a structure. Pop in 425 kids, though, (I heard numbers as high as 720 and as specific as 453 last night) and, suddenly, you’ve got a community. The classmates I saw at my 30th reunion last night really only had one thing in common—we’d all gone to East High School in the late 70s.
To their credit, none of my classmates look like they’re in their late 70s. And I can think of only one spouse who appeared to be in her 70s. But who am I to put limits on love?
It was great fun to catch up with people, to search their faces for their old selves—sometimes discovering, with relief, that their old selves had gone away and had been replaced with something calmer, happier, sturdier. Almost inevitably thicker.
Gone, too, were the cockadoodledoos of a 10th reunion, that loathed scientific experiment in the pecking order of humankind. Mostly, we were just glad to be alive and together. Or at least mostly together. And we weren’t terribly concerned about letting our warts show (though I’ll admit that I might have put on a little foundation and blush, just to fancy up a bit). The humor was mostly self deprecating, outing ourselves before someone else could, though no one seemed particularly interested in throwing the first stone.
Some folks arrived in predictable tribes, surrounding themselves with their long-ago peeps. Others, myself included, had no shield to hold up, walking in alone, hopeful that we’d be able to read each other’s name tags or spy a friendly face.
Some classmates I met for the first time last night, 30 years after tossing our tassels, post graduation. Ron is the first to come to mind. A police officer in Crete, we’d found each other on Facebook and then again at Bunkers, smiling at the newly-forged, albeit digital, bond we’d formed. Hats off to him for coming to his first-ever class reunion. I was glad to spend time with him.
I laughed a lot last night. Laughed at what we’d done, chuckled at what I’d become (really, when you’ve been going to East High since you were 12 years old, it starts to feel like you’ve married your cousin or something), made some new bonds in the form of ablations and graduations, divorce and death.
I’m glad I went to Bunkers last night. For one, it’s the first time I’ve ever caught a glimpse of that ritzy neighborhood. Can’t say much for the rubber-stamped sameness of their brick-and-mortar flags of wealth, but this neighborhood’s gathering place proved ample enough for the likes of us. I’m glad I woke with a fuzzy voice, evidence of too many stories told. I’m glad I ate hash browns at midnight, learning new secrets about Trish, dreaming of being related to Julie through a relative’s marriage, laughing about the shenanigans we all managed to survive 30 years ago.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Don’t Call Me. I’ll Call You. Maybe.
September 19, 2010
I read an interesting statistic the other day, one that made me think I might be able to ride out the cellular storm after all. The writer of this article said that fewer phone calls are being made these days, despite the proliferation of cell phones and cell-phone plans.
Turns out, most people who buy cell phones these days get the “phone” part only because there’s no other way to get the goodies without this option. Seems texting has taken the place of talking. This could be very good news for typing teachers as well as the makers of arthritis medications.
I already knew I was a landlocked loser, still requiring rough-hewn telephone poles topped, like the brainy kid, with thick glasses—“insulators” in telephone language—in order for me to reach out and touch someone. Heck, it was only after constant harping by Allison that I recently caved and bought a cordless phone—two, actually, since no one apparently can buy just one. Of course, as I could have predicted, the home bases of these roving phones stand empty most of the time, the phones having discovered instead a comfy home under the wet towels in Allison’s room.
Yeah, I’ve got a cell phone. Let’s just say that the last time it rang (or vibrated or tootled or whatever it is that a cell phone does when activated), it scared the crap out of me. Once, when I pulled a muscle in my back, I was half tempted to ask someone to call me, just so I could rub my vibrating phone along the affected area. At 50 cents a minute, it could’ve proved to be a cheap solution to my aches and pains. But I didn’t know my own number, so my great idea was for naught.
I’m no fan of any kind of phone, really. If a call goes more than ten minutes, my ear starts to get sweaty, my mind begins wandering, and the idea of vacuuming starts to appeal to me. Still, I’m not sure what to think about this statistic concerning the slow death of the phone call.
Too many times, I’ve nearly been side swiped by someone looking at his lap rather than the road that’s in front of him. Sometimes I wish the driver in front of me was drunk rather than in a feverish, poorly-spelled “conversation” with some digital friend somewhere else. At least, then, I’d know he would wake up with a furry tongue and a sour stomach the next morning.
We cellular Luddites, though, know that there is no denying a “full circle” feel is in the air these days. We can sense that, just as our flannels and plaids have made a comeback, so, too, might the rotary-dial phone get a second chance. And, while our phones still may not ring much in that not-so-distant future, at least we’d know how to answer them if they did.
I read an interesting statistic the other day, one that made me think I might be able to ride out the cellular storm after all. The writer of this article said that fewer phone calls are being made these days, despite the proliferation of cell phones and cell-phone plans.
Turns out, most people who buy cell phones these days get the “phone” part only because there’s no other way to get the goodies without this option. Seems texting has taken the place of talking. This could be very good news for typing teachers as well as the makers of arthritis medications.
I already knew I was a landlocked loser, still requiring rough-hewn telephone poles topped, like the brainy kid, with thick glasses—“insulators” in telephone language—in order for me to reach out and touch someone. Heck, it was only after constant harping by Allison that I recently caved and bought a cordless phone—two, actually, since no one apparently can buy just one. Of course, as I could have predicted, the home bases of these roving phones stand empty most of the time, the phones having discovered instead a comfy home under the wet towels in Allison’s room.
Yeah, I’ve got a cell phone. Let’s just say that the last time it rang (or vibrated or tootled or whatever it is that a cell phone does when activated), it scared the crap out of me. Once, when I pulled a muscle in my back, I was half tempted to ask someone to call me, just so I could rub my vibrating phone along the affected area. At 50 cents a minute, it could’ve proved to be a cheap solution to my aches and pains. But I didn’t know my own number, so my great idea was for naught.
I’m no fan of any kind of phone, really. If a call goes more than ten minutes, my ear starts to get sweaty, my mind begins wandering, and the idea of vacuuming starts to appeal to me. Still, I’m not sure what to think about this statistic concerning the slow death of the phone call.
Too many times, I’ve nearly been side swiped by someone looking at his lap rather than the road that’s in front of him. Sometimes I wish the driver in front of me was drunk rather than in a feverish, poorly-spelled “conversation” with some digital friend somewhere else. At least, then, I’d know he would wake up with a furry tongue and a sour stomach the next morning.
We cellular Luddites, though, know that there is no denying a “full circle” feel is in the air these days. We can sense that, just as our flannels and plaids have made a comeback, so, too, might the rotary-dial phone get a second chance. And, while our phones still may not ring much in that not-so-distant future, at least we’d know how to answer them if they did.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Rush Limbaugh's Not the Only Big, Fat Idiot. . . !
September 13, 2010
Woke up bone tired this morning. Of course, when you wake before even the owls give a hoot then what do you expect? But because today is Monday, the fatigue seemed heavier, my mind fuzzier than they would have on a draggy Thursday or Friday.
Turned out, all that bone-tired fatigue made me kind of funny, though.
In talking with my newspaper students about AP style rules this morning, I blundered and bobbled and blah-blahed my way through one wrong example after another, all the while, giggling alongside my students. And by the time I talked about attribution and how one might describe Mama Cass choking to death on a turkey sandwich, well, the “lesson” was pretty much over, and the Vegas act was in full swing.
By the time class was over, we felt pretty darned good in each other’s company, glad to be there, sharing goofiness and not really worrying too much about the details. That doesn’t mean we didn’t work hard, though. We just enjoyed ourselves along the way.
Odd as it sounds, I think this is one of my gifts—being willing to be goofy in front of others. It’s an unusual kind of binder, sometimes lashing out against me rather than bringing us together, if the act is too obscure, too absurd. But mostly, my willingness to be goofy, to not fret screwing up publicly, to enjoy the “wonder where this is going” mentality of a rambling sentence, has served me well in life.
Bottom line? I think bottoms are still funny. And I can never turn my back on a clever turn of phrase. Puns are like daily vitamins for me, my insurance against the bleak reality of headline news. I will not make fun of people, unless they’re my people. And then? Well, God help my children, that’s all I can say.
I’m not sure what it says about me, this willingness to play the fool. What does it mean that Jill and I couldn’t just pick up Allison and Bailey at the mall? Why, for instance, did we need a cheesy theme song, half cracked windows and a well-tested horn when we pulled up beside the food court? That Allison longed for suicide and spoke of her science teacher who was standing close by, well, that just made the whole thing kind of perversely perfect. In fact, I consider it the high point of my weekend.
And who can say why I donned my old clown outfit when my friend Allison’s birthday rolled around, heading downtown to her bank where I pretended to be a clown for hire?
I don’t know what made me walk into the bank president’s office, asking for Allison because “this is the room she said she worked in.” But it was really, really fun. And Allison still works there, so it must not have been too terrible.
If goofiness is the upbeat, sunny side of my middle-aged insomnia, if lack of sleep is what it takes to connect with my students on the most banal, idiotic level, then so be it. I’ll take that over a generational disconnect any day.
Woke up bone tired this morning. Of course, when you wake before even the owls give a hoot then what do you expect? But because today is Monday, the fatigue seemed heavier, my mind fuzzier than they would have on a draggy Thursday or Friday.
Turned out, all that bone-tired fatigue made me kind of funny, though.
In talking with my newspaper students about AP style rules this morning, I blundered and bobbled and blah-blahed my way through one wrong example after another, all the while, giggling alongside my students. And by the time I talked about attribution and how one might describe Mama Cass choking to death on a turkey sandwich, well, the “lesson” was pretty much over, and the Vegas act was in full swing.
By the time class was over, we felt pretty darned good in each other’s company, glad to be there, sharing goofiness and not really worrying too much about the details. That doesn’t mean we didn’t work hard, though. We just enjoyed ourselves along the way.
Odd as it sounds, I think this is one of my gifts—being willing to be goofy in front of others. It’s an unusual kind of binder, sometimes lashing out against me rather than bringing us together, if the act is too obscure, too absurd. But mostly, my willingness to be goofy, to not fret screwing up publicly, to enjoy the “wonder where this is going” mentality of a rambling sentence, has served me well in life.
Bottom line? I think bottoms are still funny. And I can never turn my back on a clever turn of phrase. Puns are like daily vitamins for me, my insurance against the bleak reality of headline news. I will not make fun of people, unless they’re my people. And then? Well, God help my children, that’s all I can say.
I’m not sure what it says about me, this willingness to play the fool. What does it mean that Jill and I couldn’t just pick up Allison and Bailey at the mall? Why, for instance, did we need a cheesy theme song, half cracked windows and a well-tested horn when we pulled up beside the food court? That Allison longed for suicide and spoke of her science teacher who was standing close by, well, that just made the whole thing kind of perversely perfect. In fact, I consider it the high point of my weekend.
And who can say why I donned my old clown outfit when my friend Allison’s birthday rolled around, heading downtown to her bank where I pretended to be a clown for hire?
I don’t know what made me walk into the bank president’s office, asking for Allison because “this is the room she said she worked in.” But it was really, really fun. And Allison still works there, so it must not have been too terrible.
If goofiness is the upbeat, sunny side of my middle-aged insomnia, if lack of sleep is what it takes to connect with my students on the most banal, idiotic level, then so be it. I’ll take that over a generational disconnect any day.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Tissues Behind Issues, Part 2
September 12, 2010
Tissues Behind Issues, Part 2
There are things I meant to say in yesterday’s writing that inspired it but did not bubble up to the inky surface in time to make it onto my digital tablet. These are those thoughts.
First, there are universal truths; truths that wend their way through all beings, and that, at face value, seem almost simple. Love one another. Do good. Be kind. No one religion or faith has the corner on that market. But none of these become capital “T” truths without first being forged through complexity and, perhaps, hardship.
I don’t really begin to Love Others until I start to care for the person who drives me cuckoo. I don’t really begin to Do Good until I do good under the veil of darkness, alone and tempted to do otherwise. And I am not Kind until I can put aside the desire to use others for my own gain, even when they may benefit from my words or actions.
Essentially, I cannot own any truths until I attach them, in practice, to others. Preferably, others who do not vote like or look like or sound like or live like me. Ideally, people who just plain don’t like me.
It’s quite possible, then, that, at age 48, there is not a lot of Truth in my life. But that doesn’t mean I quit looking. And listening.
So, what happens when I begin to look and listen? I find that capital “T” truth in a person like “Jose.” That’s what I meant when I said I need tissue behind the issues. Too often, when I scan the morning’s headlines, I am confronted—affronted, really—by people who scream too much, hurt too much, insist too much. Invariably, it seems that they have forgotten to find the human tissue behind their issues, instead giving themselves over to platitudes and theories, while people with real faces, real lives, are hurt by their hatred.
A truth that cannot stand up to honest interaction with another being is not much of a truth after all. Much like a god who requires constant defending or a border that requires taller fences and additional armed forces or an idea that requires endless amendments. A truth that has been forged outside of relationships is nothing more than a floppy, self-conscious half thought. It has not been tested in the fires.
When my students write opinions, I tell them to write so well that even those with whom they disagree will find themselves nodding in agreement at some point or another.
Ultimately, we must be willing to test our theories in the realm of everyday living. We must be willing to turn our backs on arguments that have left out the element of human interaction, the complexity of life itself. We must be willing to seek out human tissue when an issue comes knocking. And then we must be willing to give ourselves over to it, to turn around and change our minds and our lives, to turn the small “t” into a capital one.
Tissues Behind Issues, Part 2
There are things I meant to say in yesterday’s writing that inspired it but did not bubble up to the inky surface in time to make it onto my digital tablet. These are those thoughts.
First, there are universal truths; truths that wend their way through all beings, and that, at face value, seem almost simple. Love one another. Do good. Be kind. No one religion or faith has the corner on that market. But none of these become capital “T” truths without first being forged through complexity and, perhaps, hardship.
I don’t really begin to Love Others until I start to care for the person who drives me cuckoo. I don’t really begin to Do Good until I do good under the veil of darkness, alone and tempted to do otherwise. And I am not Kind until I can put aside the desire to use others for my own gain, even when they may benefit from my words or actions.
Essentially, I cannot own any truths until I attach them, in practice, to others. Preferably, others who do not vote like or look like or sound like or live like me. Ideally, people who just plain don’t like me.
It’s quite possible, then, that, at age 48, there is not a lot of Truth in my life. But that doesn’t mean I quit looking. And listening.
So, what happens when I begin to look and listen? I find that capital “T” truth in a person like “Jose.” That’s what I meant when I said I need tissue behind the issues. Too often, when I scan the morning’s headlines, I am confronted—affronted, really—by people who scream too much, hurt too much, insist too much. Invariably, it seems that they have forgotten to find the human tissue behind their issues, instead giving themselves over to platitudes and theories, while people with real faces, real lives, are hurt by their hatred.
A truth that cannot stand up to honest interaction with another being is not much of a truth after all. Much like a god who requires constant defending or a border that requires taller fences and additional armed forces or an idea that requires endless amendments. A truth that has been forged outside of relationships is nothing more than a floppy, self-conscious half thought. It has not been tested in the fires.
When my students write opinions, I tell them to write so well that even those with whom they disagree will find themselves nodding in agreement at some point or another.
Ultimately, we must be willing to test our theories in the realm of everyday living. We must be willing to turn our backs on arguments that have left out the element of human interaction, the complexity of life itself. We must be willing to seek out human tissue when an issue comes knocking. And then we must be willing to give ourselves over to it, to turn around and change our minds and our lives, to turn the small “t” into a capital one.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Why We Need Faces Behind All Those Issues
September 11, 2010
“You have never tasted anything like it.”
The words happily tumbled from “Jose’s” mouth, one caught upon the other, as he tells us about the back-breaking work of picking coffee beans on his grandmother’s farm in El Salvador.
“My brother and I were like mules, hauling these incredibly heavy bags back to her house,” he said. But even “Jose” knew what the payoff would be. He knew she would roast and then hand grind those beans, turning them into the finest cup of joe a person could imagine.
“Oh my God, it was so good,” he sighs, bringing the imaginary cup to his lips, eyes closed, a smile stretching across his face.
Every issue needs some tissue—human tissue, that is. For me, then, the immigration issue has taken on the face of “Jose,” the 17-year-old East senior who has more charm packed into his milk-chocolate skin than the night sky has stars. I have known—and enjoyed—“Jose” for three years now, his face a regular presence in the East High library, where he moves from table to table, hassling the freshmen, recommending a move on a chess board, plunking out an assignment on a computer.
But these last two weeks, I have come to know more about him than I ever could have imagined. I have learned that “Jose” and his immediate family crossed the U.S. border—uninvited--five years ago, when he was 12, his parents driven by the desire to provide their two sons with a good education.
I have learned about the myriad kinds of mangoes that grow just outside his grandmother’s door, one with a milky-white pulp that feels like sandpaper against the tongue. I have learned that, when a village of 25 is celebrating something special, the best way to kill a cow, tied with a rope to a tree, is to draw the machete quickly along its neck.
“If you don’t like blood, you would not want to be there when the cow is killed,” he recalls. “You have never seen so much blood. But he dies quickly.”
I have learned that, for someone who loves to learn, a young man who dreams of working in medicine, acquiring a Social Security number can be as daunting as attempting the peak of the Himalayas, an insurmountable goal seemingly beyond one’s reach.
I have learned that following the speed limit is about more than just safety, especially if you don’t have a license.
Ironically, if “Jose’s” dreams are to come true, if he can find a way to go to college in this country that has become his own, he will never again taste his grandmother’s coffee or bite into a mango freshly plucked from the tree out back. For “Jose’s” dreams to come true, he must lose his past and all the people he has left behind in the hills of El Salvador.
On this day when we mourn the loss of our own—three thousand who died in three places, some whose skin was brown, whose faith was not Christian, whose families are not from here—I thought it was important to talk about “Jose,” a student I have come to love, a human being who possesses gifts and knowledge, stories and dreams, just like the rest of us.
“You have never tasted anything like it.”
The words happily tumbled from “Jose’s” mouth, one caught upon the other, as he tells us about the back-breaking work of picking coffee beans on his grandmother’s farm in El Salvador.
“My brother and I were like mules, hauling these incredibly heavy bags back to her house,” he said. But even “Jose” knew what the payoff would be. He knew she would roast and then hand grind those beans, turning them into the finest cup of joe a person could imagine.
“Oh my God, it was so good,” he sighs, bringing the imaginary cup to his lips, eyes closed, a smile stretching across his face.
Every issue needs some tissue—human tissue, that is. For me, then, the immigration issue has taken on the face of “Jose,” the 17-year-old East senior who has more charm packed into his milk-chocolate skin than the night sky has stars. I have known—and enjoyed—“Jose” for three years now, his face a regular presence in the East High library, where he moves from table to table, hassling the freshmen, recommending a move on a chess board, plunking out an assignment on a computer.
But these last two weeks, I have come to know more about him than I ever could have imagined. I have learned that “Jose” and his immediate family crossed the U.S. border—uninvited--five years ago, when he was 12, his parents driven by the desire to provide their two sons with a good education.
I have learned about the myriad kinds of mangoes that grow just outside his grandmother’s door, one with a milky-white pulp that feels like sandpaper against the tongue. I have learned that, when a village of 25 is celebrating something special, the best way to kill a cow, tied with a rope to a tree, is to draw the machete quickly along its neck.
“If you don’t like blood, you would not want to be there when the cow is killed,” he recalls. “You have never seen so much blood. But he dies quickly.”
I have learned that, for someone who loves to learn, a young man who dreams of working in medicine, acquiring a Social Security number can be as daunting as attempting the peak of the Himalayas, an insurmountable goal seemingly beyond one’s reach.
I have learned that following the speed limit is about more than just safety, especially if you don’t have a license.
Ironically, if “Jose’s” dreams are to come true, if he can find a way to go to college in this country that has become his own, he will never again taste his grandmother’s coffee or bite into a mango freshly plucked from the tree out back. For “Jose’s” dreams to come true, he must lose his past and all the people he has left behind in the hills of El Salvador.
On this day when we mourn the loss of our own—three thousand who died in three places, some whose skin was brown, whose faith was not Christian, whose families are not from here—I thought it was important to talk about “Jose,” a student I have come to love, a human being who possesses gifts and knowledge, stories and dreams, just like the rest of us.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Scrabble-icious! Why You Should LIke This Game, Too!
September 6, 2010
People may think that Scrabble is just a game for dweebs or old people, but they are seriously mistaken. Nay, Scrabble has become a mentor to me, a life coach that gently directs me as I wander through this world, pondering how on earth any word beginning with a “q” wouldn’t need a “u” along the way.
Thanks to Scrabble, I now know that, while there certainly is a place for raw talent in this world, luck is the passenger sitting just across the aisle. It is luck, after all, that directs our blind hands to the blanks, the good vowels (a,e o) and just enough “s” and “t” tiles to keep things interesting. Scrabble also has taught me that a good attitude can turn a lousy Scrabble rack into something feigning respectability. Ah, but even that can only take you so far, thus the reason that, come day’s end, the girl with a boob job knows what’s real and what isn’t.
Scrabble literally has helped me scrabble through those hard times when the tiles just aren’t working for me. It has instilled a confidence in me that hope rests just around the corner, in that next handful of wooden tiles that tickles my roaming fingers.
This old-fashioned game has reminded me of the importance of not doing important things. This lesson alone justifies the nominal expense of a Scrabble board. It is a lesson that more people these days ought to learn. When I sit down to a Scrabble game with Kristie and Jill, the urgency leaves my body. I forget about what I need to do, and focus instead on what I want to do…namely, kick their sorry asses into a sad pulp of misspelled acts of desperation. More often than not, when we’ve placed that last tile and tallied the final score, the question isn’t “What are you going to do now?” but rather “How about a quick second game?”
Scrabble has taught me not to worry about meanings as much as I need to worry about spellings. After all, who gives a rip what a faqir is if we’ve got the tiles to spell it? This “don’t worry, be happy” attitude invariably spills over to other areas of my life, though, fortunately, not so much in the kitchen, where mistaken details can be fatal.
Most folks can’t believe that Kristie and Jill and I—fairly respectable professor, nurse and teacher by day—make room to play this game each weekend, often twice within that time. Me? I can’t believe that more people don’t make time to play. It’s been a lifesaver for me.
People may think that Scrabble is just a game for dweebs or old people, but they are seriously mistaken. Nay, Scrabble has become a mentor to me, a life coach that gently directs me as I wander through this world, pondering how on earth any word beginning with a “q” wouldn’t need a “u” along the way.
Thanks to Scrabble, I now know that, while there certainly is a place for raw talent in this world, luck is the passenger sitting just across the aisle. It is luck, after all, that directs our blind hands to the blanks, the good vowels (a,e o) and just enough “s” and “t” tiles to keep things interesting. Scrabble also has taught me that a good attitude can turn a lousy Scrabble rack into something feigning respectability. Ah, but even that can only take you so far, thus the reason that, come day’s end, the girl with a boob job knows what’s real and what isn’t.
Scrabble literally has helped me scrabble through those hard times when the tiles just aren’t working for me. It has instilled a confidence in me that hope rests just around the corner, in that next handful of wooden tiles that tickles my roaming fingers.
This old-fashioned game has reminded me of the importance of not doing important things. This lesson alone justifies the nominal expense of a Scrabble board. It is a lesson that more people these days ought to learn. When I sit down to a Scrabble game with Kristie and Jill, the urgency leaves my body. I forget about what I need to do, and focus instead on what I want to do…namely, kick their sorry asses into a sad pulp of misspelled acts of desperation. More often than not, when we’ve placed that last tile and tallied the final score, the question isn’t “What are you going to do now?” but rather “How about a quick second game?”
Scrabble has taught me not to worry about meanings as much as I need to worry about spellings. After all, who gives a rip what a faqir is if we’ve got the tiles to spell it? This “don’t worry, be happy” attitude invariably spills over to other areas of my life, though, fortunately, not so much in the kitchen, where mistaken details can be fatal.
Most folks can’t believe that Kristie and Jill and I—fairly respectable professor, nurse and teacher by day—make room to play this game each weekend, often twice within that time. Me? I can’t believe that more people don’t make time to play. It’s been a lifesaver for me.
Friday, September 3, 2010
SIGNS OF MY IMMINENT DEMISE
September 3, 2010
SIGNS OF MY IMMINENT DEMISE
1. Last night I went to bed at 9 and woke for the day at 2:14 a.m.
2. I repeatedly wear clothes with built-in stains and missing buttons, assuming I can fool people each time just by uttering “What the heck?! When did THAT happen?”
3. I’m excited to buy windows for our house.
4. I’d rather lay on the couch than go out on a Friday night. And a Saturday night. And a Sunday night. And a . . . .
5. I say words like “skeedaddle” and “dadblasted” and “fiddlesticks” on a regular basis.
6. I spend more time plucking than shaving.
7. I care more about keggling than keggers.
8. I choose shoes for their support not their style.
9. I don’t really get the new “bromance” genre of movies. Too much cussing and nudity.
10. Compound interest gets me hot.
SIGNS OF MY IMMINENT DEMISE
1. Last night I went to bed at 9 and woke for the day at 2:14 a.m.
2. I repeatedly wear clothes with built-in stains and missing buttons, assuming I can fool people each time just by uttering “What the heck?! When did THAT happen?”
3. I’m excited to buy windows for our house.
4. I’d rather lay on the couch than go out on a Friday night. And a Saturday night. And a Sunday night. And a . . . .
5. I say words like “skeedaddle” and “dadblasted” and “fiddlesticks” on a regular basis.
6. I spend more time plucking than shaving.
7. I care more about keggling than keggers.
8. I choose shoes for their support not their style.
9. I don’t really get the new “bromance” genre of movies. Too much cussing and nudity.
10. Compound interest gets me hot.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
And so begins the magical season. . .
September 2, 2010
Why is it that a change in seasons can make things all shiny and new again? I felt Fall on our patio furniture this evening, its cool breath clinging to the seat of my chair, and I was instantly changed by it. It was as though the air had rewired my brain, filling its files with all things “autumn.” Suddenly, I can’t wait to wear jeans again. And Mark is fawning over thoughts of once again donning his fleece man vest.
Just like that, there are fires to stoke and soups to simmer, blankets to unfold and pumpkins to carve.
This sloughing off of heat and humidity, this need to turn our backs on sweat and cicadas, makes the seasonal transition to fall perhaps the most magical one of all. And we are rewarded with refreshing, indescribable beauty. Flocks of grackles start gathering on the treetops, discussing their routes to winter homes in far-off places. Black swallowtails languish over the asters that are just now gearing up for their own big show. Cool breezes sneak into our bedrooms, shuffling the blinds as they weave their way to our grateful bodies.
It’s odd that this is such a beautiful time of year, given that so much death is just around the corner. Everything seems to be humming just a little louder, huddling a little closer, gathering up just a little more for the future. And as the chlorophyll starts to leach from our sunset maple’s leaves, even that death will be beautiful, like its namesake.
It is time for our kind to make nests again. And so, I forage for warm things—both physical and emotion—to build up around me. To keep my brood safe and close again.
Why is it that a change in seasons can make things all shiny and new again? I felt Fall on our patio furniture this evening, its cool breath clinging to the seat of my chair, and I was instantly changed by it. It was as though the air had rewired my brain, filling its files with all things “autumn.” Suddenly, I can’t wait to wear jeans again. And Mark is fawning over thoughts of once again donning his fleece man vest.
Just like that, there are fires to stoke and soups to simmer, blankets to unfold and pumpkins to carve.
This sloughing off of heat and humidity, this need to turn our backs on sweat and cicadas, makes the seasonal transition to fall perhaps the most magical one of all. And we are rewarded with refreshing, indescribable beauty. Flocks of grackles start gathering on the treetops, discussing their routes to winter homes in far-off places. Black swallowtails languish over the asters that are just now gearing up for their own big show. Cool breezes sneak into our bedrooms, shuffling the blinds as they weave their way to our grateful bodies.
It’s odd that this is such a beautiful time of year, given that so much death is just around the corner. Everything seems to be humming just a little louder, huddling a little closer, gathering up just a little more for the future. And as the chlorophyll starts to leach from our sunset maple’s leaves, even that death will be beautiful, like its namesake.
It is time for our kind to make nests again. And so, I forage for warm things—both physical and emotion—to build up around me. To keep my brood safe and close again.
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