It seemed like a typical start to the school year. I came back armed with a handful of new pens and a couple of nearly-fashionable tops I'd picked up at Shopko. Every other adult, though, seemed to have come back transformed.
It's certainly not the first time that I've been out of the loop, but it was the first time in a long time that I wondered if the bus had left without me. And that's not such a bad thing for me to wonder.
Tough? Maybe. But definitely not bad.
More friends than I can count arrived at school this year in shiny, new bodies, made even lighter by their sure-footed self confidence. These lithe beings each came to this state from varying points of origin, some spurred by dire news from their doctors, others by the barks of a personal trainer.
Me? I have arrived at this point in my life mostly through vigilant inertia.
I've had the same haircut for about 40 years. I can stretch a container of blush through most pages of a desk calendar. And most of my new clothes are green or tan, so that they may slip virtually unnoticed into their new roles in my closet.
I think my particular form of vanity comes wrapped in the strange packaging of acting like I don't care. "Acting" is the key word here.
But I have sensed a quiet stirring within me in these last few days, and I am trying hard to pay attention. Whether or not I succeed depends, in large part, upon my willingness to quit acting and start doing, one day at a time.
Today, then, I will take an extra minute or two to do up my face extra fancy, the nearly-noticeable swaths of blush announcing to the rest of the world that I do, indeed, care. And I'm not afraid to show it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Making Peace with the "S" Word
The Slut Walk.
It's a shocking name, especially for us plain-spoken Midwesterners. We don't much like to read words like this, especially in our local newspapers, much less ponder what such an event might do to our young people.
Yet, beyond its shocking title, the event's purpose is both practical and admirable. Surely, its founders proposed, we could ask better of men rather than simply demand that women change their clothes so that men may not attack them. As though men are not capable of controlling themselves.
Yes, I loathe--with every fiber of my cotton-briefed being--the tight tops and skimpy shorts that most retailers make available to girls today. And I was secretly delighted to find out last year that, on her first day of high school, my very own daughter was pulled aside and ordered to change into shorts that weren't so, well, short. It is good to have a backup band, especially when the lead singer's message is so easily discounted.
But there is another side to that coin. Our society should expect better of our young males, as well. As much as the bra-less mothers of the revolution preach about the evils of objectification, we also need someone representing the other bookend, passionately preaching to our young sons the wisdom of bodily control and respect for all.
So it was with a bit of pride that I read Eric's Facebook post yesterday, in which he listed participating in the Slut Walk as a part of his busy day. (Yes, he also went to a movie and pretended to be a Zombie, but those are not the things I'm focusing on right now, thank you).
I certainly did nothing in my parenting to raise this young man who can walk among women who are asking for better. He has always had this way of looking at the world, a way that is much more expansive and enlightened than my own bifocaled approach. I credit his teachers, his mind, his generation for fostering Eric's mindset in life.
As for the rest of us, for whom "slut" is either a bad memory or just an ugly, uncomfortable word? Maybe yesterday's Slut Walk is a wakeup call to us, a chance for us to find our rusty voices and put them to use for something that is larger than ourselves.
I, for one, could really use a focus that extends beyond the "me" of my world.
It's a shocking name, especially for us plain-spoken Midwesterners. We don't much like to read words like this, especially in our local newspapers, much less ponder what such an event might do to our young people.
Yet, beyond its shocking title, the event's purpose is both practical and admirable. Surely, its founders proposed, we could ask better of men rather than simply demand that women change their clothes so that men may not attack them. As though men are not capable of controlling themselves.
Yes, I loathe--with every fiber of my cotton-briefed being--the tight tops and skimpy shorts that most retailers make available to girls today. And I was secretly delighted to find out last year that, on her first day of high school, my very own daughter was pulled aside and ordered to change into shorts that weren't so, well, short. It is good to have a backup band, especially when the lead singer's message is so easily discounted.
But there is another side to that coin. Our society should expect better of our young males, as well. As much as the bra-less mothers of the revolution preach about the evils of objectification, we also need someone representing the other bookend, passionately preaching to our young sons the wisdom of bodily control and respect for all.
So it was with a bit of pride that I read Eric's Facebook post yesterday, in which he listed participating in the Slut Walk as a part of his busy day. (Yes, he also went to a movie and pretended to be a Zombie, but those are not the things I'm focusing on right now, thank you).
I certainly did nothing in my parenting to raise this young man who can walk among women who are asking for better. He has always had this way of looking at the world, a way that is much more expansive and enlightened than my own bifocaled approach. I credit his teachers, his mind, his generation for fostering Eric's mindset in life.
As for the rest of us, for whom "slut" is either a bad memory or just an ugly, uncomfortable word? Maybe yesterday's Slut Walk is a wakeup call to us, a chance for us to find our rusty voices and put them to use for something that is larger than ourselves.
I, for one, could really use a focus that extends beyond the "me" of my world.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Making Lunch for My Daughter
This morning, just when I was threatening to make it all about me, Allison asked if I'd make her lunch. At first, I resisted, the tough-love mama just about to utter "no." And then, I decided what the heck.
What the heck, indeed.
To make something for someone else--even something as simple and dull as a school lunch--is a great way to start the day. The ignorant, occasional Buddhist in me emerged as I got lost in touching the bread, laying the slices side by side. I found myself surprisingly present as I slathered on the peanut butter and jelly, topping it with the second slice of honey wheat, cutting it carefully at an angle, to fancy it up a bit.
I felt real love as I tucked an oatmeal raisin cookie into its plastic sleeve, tucking bag into bag.
I hadn't anticipated getting so swept up in yet another sack lunch. Even as I type this, I still feel the buzz of joy that this simple act brought me this morning.
I'm so glad Allison asked, and that I gave the right answer.
What the heck, indeed.
To make something for someone else--even something as simple and dull as a school lunch--is a great way to start the day. The ignorant, occasional Buddhist in me emerged as I got lost in touching the bread, laying the slices side by side. I found myself surprisingly present as I slathered on the peanut butter and jelly, topping it with the second slice of honey wheat, cutting it carefully at an angle, to fancy it up a bit.
I felt real love as I tucked an oatmeal raisin cookie into its plastic sleeve, tucking bag into bag.
I hadn't anticipated getting so swept up in yet another sack lunch. Even as I type this, I still feel the buzz of joy that this simple act brought me this morning.
I'm so glad Allison asked, and that I gave the right answer.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Get Lost
When Eric's plane landed in Stockholm a month ago, he spent the next few hours utterly lost, truly a stranger in a strange land. His first Facebook post from Sweden, though, didn't stop with the "lost" part. It ended with him eventually finding his hostel.
It was that last sentence of his--the one in which he eventually figured things out--that kept me from fretting too much for him. Like my fretting would have done him any good any way.
I keep coming back to the idea of Eric working his way through being lost, and I've decided that getting lost may be the best way to start a vacation. Or a life. Or a day.
That's why I chose "Get Lost" as my motto for the school year. When I rolled it out to the students, I told them about Eric's experience in Sweden, but I also added that there are all kinds of ways to get lost.
I got lost in a half dozen books this summer, never once leaving my comfortable den. Knee deep in my Nordic noir, while I may have put the book aside for the afternoon, I often felt fuzzied and confused as I negotiated the chilly, murderous world of what I'd read with the steamy, sub-tropical climes of my backyard.
I got lost on the bike path, riding the same route at different times of day, taken aback by the different lighting, the different crowds, the different smells on that otherwise familiar path.
This summer, I got lost making new foods, observing new plants in the garden, discovering a family of screech owls, and moving my son into a dorm.
The beauty of getting lost is that a person sees the world differently and more deeply. Really, we should all get lost on a regular basis. Then, we could replace fear with wonder, learning to appreciate the fresh perspectives, the body come alive.
Sure, I may very well tell a student or two to "GET LOST!" this year and mean it in the most literal, hot-headed way. Mostly, though, I'm hoping my "get lost" nudges them into new territories, bumps them up against new people and perspectives, puts a new shine on their sometimes tired young lives.
I know that getting lost in Sweden already has served Eric well as he begins his new life in college. What's the worst that can happen, after all, when you've been a stranger in a strange land and have seen it through to a satisfying end?
It was that last sentence of his--the one in which he eventually figured things out--that kept me from fretting too much for him. Like my fretting would have done him any good any way.
I keep coming back to the idea of Eric working his way through being lost, and I've decided that getting lost may be the best way to start a vacation. Or a life. Or a day.
That's why I chose "Get Lost" as my motto for the school year. When I rolled it out to the students, I told them about Eric's experience in Sweden, but I also added that there are all kinds of ways to get lost.
I got lost in a half dozen books this summer, never once leaving my comfortable den. Knee deep in my Nordic noir, while I may have put the book aside for the afternoon, I often felt fuzzied and confused as I negotiated the chilly, murderous world of what I'd read with the steamy, sub-tropical climes of my backyard.
I got lost on the bike path, riding the same route at different times of day, taken aback by the different lighting, the different crowds, the different smells on that otherwise familiar path.
This summer, I got lost making new foods, observing new plants in the garden, discovering a family of screech owls, and moving my son into a dorm.
The beauty of getting lost is that a person sees the world differently and more deeply. Really, we should all get lost on a regular basis. Then, we could replace fear with wonder, learning to appreciate the fresh perspectives, the body come alive.
Sure, I may very well tell a student or two to "GET LOST!" this year and mean it in the most literal, hot-headed way. Mostly, though, I'm hoping my "get lost" nudges them into new territories, bumps them up against new people and perspectives, puts a new shine on their sometimes tired young lives.
I know that getting lost in Sweden already has served Eric well as he begins his new life in college. What's the worst that can happen, after all, when you've been a stranger in a strange land and have seen it through to a satisfying end?
Monday, August 15, 2011
School Days, School Daze
I used to be a bit of a wanderer. Take my big debut to May Morley Elementary School one fine May day in the mid '60s. Having just mastered whistling on my commutes to Merry Manor Preschool, I figured I was a shoo-in for the next big thing--elementary school.
Mrs. Marsh, however, thought that--like a fine wine--I could use another year to mellow. Apparently, she was bothered by my propensity to stand up and move around during her rousing explanation of how bathroom breaks worked at the elementary level.
Not much more than a wispy, pinched woman, Mrs. Marsh nonetheless held the cards to my future. And my card was not would not be pulled. At least that year.
By 1973, I would find myself hovering on the brink of junior high, haunted by undocumented rumors of hallway stabbings and sexual trysts too boggling even for my youngest-of-five mind.
Alas, despite those tawdry tales, I managed to make it through East Junior-Senior High Educational Complex without so much as a single sighting of some punk's blade, much less an R-rated close encounter of the sexual kind. Such rumors often end in this way--with a sigh and a tinge of disappointment.
Talk about a complex. . . .
Standing at the brink of my 21st year as a paid employee at East High ("junior" and "complex" having long been pried off the building's face), I think it's important that I recall both Mrs. Marsh and hallway stabbings. Both are reminders of the heightened state of concern that accompanies most kids to their new schools.
Tomorrow, about 300 kids will enter East's doors for the first time, most of them hoping not to see something that reads like a storyline from "CSI: Miami" or "Jersey Shore." They are scared to death by the prospect of getting lost. Most have been awakened in the middle of the night (much like myself, though for different reasons) by nightmares of unreliable locker combinations and towering, cranky senior athletes with a penchant for pranks.
If I forget the sweaty-lipped realities of these new students, I could slip into a hum-drum mentality that does little to soothe the savage freshman beast or light the upperclass fires.
No, it's important for me to push aside these ho-hum tendencies and, instead, view the beginning of the school year for what it really is--a beginning, not just another bleary-edged day in a long continuum that, eventually, leads towards a well-earned retirement.
Mrs. Marsh, however, thought that--like a fine wine--I could use another year to mellow. Apparently, she was bothered by my propensity to stand up and move around during her rousing explanation of how bathroom breaks worked at the elementary level.
Not much more than a wispy, pinched woman, Mrs. Marsh nonetheless held the cards to my future. And my card was not would not be pulled. At least that year.
By 1973, I would find myself hovering on the brink of junior high, haunted by undocumented rumors of hallway stabbings and sexual trysts too boggling even for my youngest-of-five mind.
Alas, despite those tawdry tales, I managed to make it through East Junior-Senior High Educational Complex without so much as a single sighting of some punk's blade, much less an R-rated close encounter of the sexual kind. Such rumors often end in this way--with a sigh and a tinge of disappointment.
Talk about a complex. . . .
Standing at the brink of my 21st year as a paid employee at East High ("junior" and "complex" having long been pried off the building's face), I think it's important that I recall both Mrs. Marsh and hallway stabbings. Both are reminders of the heightened state of concern that accompanies most kids to their new schools.
Tomorrow, about 300 kids will enter East's doors for the first time, most of them hoping not to see something that reads like a storyline from "CSI: Miami" or "Jersey Shore." They are scared to death by the prospect of getting lost. Most have been awakened in the middle of the night (much like myself, though for different reasons) by nightmares of unreliable locker combinations and towering, cranky senior athletes with a penchant for pranks.
If I forget the sweaty-lipped realities of these new students, I could slip into a hum-drum mentality that does little to soothe the savage freshman beast or light the upperclass fires.
No, it's important for me to push aside these ho-hum tendencies and, instead, view the beginning of the school year for what it really is--a beginning, not just another bleary-edged day in a long continuum that, eventually, leads towards a well-earned retirement.
Friday, August 12, 2011
To My Son
I woke up missing you this morning, even though I could hear your lean body shuffle atop the sheets of your bed.
I woke up missing you, even though I could hear your steady breathing, even though I could recall our late-night, mumbled conversation about the poetry slam at a local coffee shop.
I will miss you even more now, because, despite the last-place finish, you found such satisfaction and joy from it all.
. . .who would not love a person who enjoys the road more than the endpoint?
You are equal parts of integrity, honesty, curiosity. Some days, I fear you will see my ruse and turn your back on me.
Yes, I woke missing you today. But I will swallow that longing, hide it away so that you can be free to go and live your life, without lugging along my luggage, too.
I think that I will look for a portable piece of you to carry around in my pocket today, something to ease the ache a bit.
I woke up missing you, even though I could hear your steady breathing, even though I could recall our late-night, mumbled conversation about the poetry slam at a local coffee shop.
I will miss you even more now, because, despite the last-place finish, you found such satisfaction and joy from it all.
. . .who would not love a person who enjoys the road more than the endpoint?
You are equal parts of integrity, honesty, curiosity. Some days, I fear you will see my ruse and turn your back on me.
Yes, I woke missing you today. But I will swallow that longing, hide it away so that you can be free to go and live your life, without lugging along my luggage, too.
I think that I will look for a portable piece of you to carry around in my pocket today, something to ease the ache a bit.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Tyra's Got Nothing on Me!
Truth be told, I'm a fashion hypocrite, a complicated combination of caring and not caring.
Consider the tragic "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972". . . .
I'd just arrived at school, wearing my tan pants that pretty much went with everything. I'd just walked into Mrs. Sorensen's classroom and bent down to tie my shoe.
An audible "rip" told me that more than just my shoe required my immediate attention.
The tear was impressive, running a good half foot in length, and revealing both my unshaved upper leg and my comfortable cotton briefs. Not exactly a 4th-grade boy's dream come true, but noteworthy nonetheless.
It never dawned on me to call my mom for backup (see "not caring") although I did think it was important to tuck in a yellow piece of construction paper that, while not a perfect match with the tan pants, might buy me some time as curious eyes tried to interpret what exactly they were seeing (see "caring").
I spent the day repositioning that construction paper (see "caring"), eventually settling on some well-placed staples to help keep down the seismic shifts of my temporary patch (see "[possibly] not caring").
And, things have not really improved since then.
My seventh-grade Class Officer photo in the yearbook shows that, while I embraced the natural, snappy look of a jean vest and Birkenstocks (see "caring"), my chlorine-stripped hair looked more like a Swedish ski jump than human locks (see "not caring").
I have spent most of my life, in fact, with that same haircut, a 'do that can be achieved with a single sweep of a Flow Bee (see "not caring"), and requires, at most, one passing of the hairbrush each day (again, see "not caring").
I am, however, more than willing to buy expensive shoes (see "caring"), especially now that my dogs have started barking. And, considering that I grew up in trendy clothes from Hovland-Swanson (my mom's insistence, though still a version of "caring,"), I am not averse to dropping a pretty dime on a good-looking shirt or pair of pants (yet again, people, more "caring!").
That said, as I type this, I'm wearing flip flops, comfortable cotton briefs (see "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972"), a man's button-up shirt and a pair of shorts held together with a really big safety pin (see, "not caring," perhaps ad infinitum).
While most of my friends assume that I swing only for the "not caring" team, though, I thought it was important to show that I am, in fact, a complicated fashion beast, one not entirely appeased by a season-end bargain and a handful of staples.
Consider the tragic "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972". . . .
I'd just arrived at school, wearing my tan pants that pretty much went with everything. I'd just walked into Mrs. Sorensen's classroom and bent down to tie my shoe.
An audible "rip" told me that more than just my shoe required my immediate attention.
The tear was impressive, running a good half foot in length, and revealing both my unshaved upper leg and my comfortable cotton briefs. Not exactly a 4th-grade boy's dream come true, but noteworthy nonetheless.
It never dawned on me to call my mom for backup (see "not caring") although I did think it was important to tuck in a yellow piece of construction paper that, while not a perfect match with the tan pants, might buy me some time as curious eyes tried to interpret what exactly they were seeing (see "caring").
I spent the day repositioning that construction paper (see "caring"), eventually settling on some well-placed staples to help keep down the seismic shifts of my temporary patch (see "[possibly] not caring").
And, things have not really improved since then.
My seventh-grade Class Officer photo in the yearbook shows that, while I embraced the natural, snappy look of a jean vest and Birkenstocks (see "caring"), my chlorine-stripped hair looked more like a Swedish ski jump than human locks (see "not caring").
I have spent most of my life, in fact, with that same haircut, a 'do that can be achieved with a single sweep of a Flow Bee (see "not caring"), and requires, at most, one passing of the hairbrush each day (again, see "not caring").
I am, however, more than willing to buy expensive shoes (see "caring"), especially now that my dogs have started barking. And, considering that I grew up in trendy clothes from Hovland-Swanson (my mom's insistence, though still a version of "caring,"), I am not averse to dropping a pretty dime on a good-looking shirt or pair of pants (yet again, people, more "caring!").
That said, as I type this, I'm wearing flip flops, comfortable cotton briefs (see "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972"), a man's button-up shirt and a pair of shorts held together with a really big safety pin (see, "not caring," perhaps ad infinitum).
While most of my friends assume that I swing only for the "not caring" team, though, I thought it was important to show that I am, in fact, a complicated fashion beast, one not entirely appeased by a season-end bargain and a handful of staples.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Won't You Be My Neighbor? ...Yeah, Even You!
In his book "Mere Christianity," C.S. Lewis talks about the wisdom of the Catholic Church in using geography to determine which church a person attends. It may not be comfortable to pray next to the person whose dog is eating your roses or whose muffler wakes you each morning, but it is good to.
I've been thinking a lot about geography lately, because I just returned from Boston, where six friends gathered, mostly to be silly. Three of us became friends over 40 years ago simply because we happened to live near each other. That geographic bond is a powerful one, and I feel especially lucky that so many of the people I grew up with still remain important in my life today.
Drive through it today and my childhood neighborhood may not even register a blip on your brain. The houses are of mixed style, ranging from ranch to split level, with a two-story colonial thrown in here and there. Sure, there's the Pink Lady's house, still mired in mauve, right down to its outdoor furniture. And, nearby, there's the strange, boxy house that is rumored to have a pool inside.
But, mostly, it was the people who set us apart--or, rather, who brought us together. Some days, I think there must have been something in the water that created so many excellent people in such a small area. Sure, by the time I was in high school, there often was something in the water, but that's another story.
This is a story of lifelong friendship. This is a story of the super-glue bond of geography, holding people together despite politics and religion, despite buck teeth and B.O.
In light of the fiasco that is Washington politics, where silly little boys and girls are more apt to pick up fistfuls of gravel rather than handfuls of hammers and nails, I'm wondering if everyone wouldn't benefit from a little C.S. Lewis wisdom.
What if we really couldn't choose our friends or our churches, our problems or our solutions? What if the only way through this world was together, neighbor and neighbor, held to one another by nothing more than gravity and the desire to live?
I've been thinking a lot about geography lately, because I just returned from Boston, where six friends gathered, mostly to be silly. Three of us became friends over 40 years ago simply because we happened to live near each other. That geographic bond is a powerful one, and I feel especially lucky that so many of the people I grew up with still remain important in my life today.
Drive through it today and my childhood neighborhood may not even register a blip on your brain. The houses are of mixed style, ranging from ranch to split level, with a two-story colonial thrown in here and there. Sure, there's the Pink Lady's house, still mired in mauve, right down to its outdoor furniture. And, nearby, there's the strange, boxy house that is rumored to have a pool inside.
But, mostly, it was the people who set us apart--or, rather, who brought us together. Some days, I think there must have been something in the water that created so many excellent people in such a small area. Sure, by the time I was in high school, there often was something in the water, but that's another story.
This is a story of lifelong friendship. This is a story of the super-glue bond of geography, holding people together despite politics and religion, despite buck teeth and B.O.
In light of the fiasco that is Washington politics, where silly little boys and girls are more apt to pick up fistfuls of gravel rather than handfuls of hammers and nails, I'm wondering if everyone wouldn't benefit from a little C.S. Lewis wisdom.
What if we really couldn't choose our friends or our churches, our problems or our solutions? What if the only way through this world was together, neighbor and neighbor, held to one another by nothing more than gravity and the desire to live?
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
My Road to Driver's Education
Our driveway will be the death of me. Or, at the very least, of my car. Especially now that Allison is licensed and eager to get some time behind the wheel.
The more time she gets behind the wheel, it seems, the further away I get from my goal of snagging the "Most Excellent Parent of the Millennium" trophy.
. . . as though such a downward-spiraling thing is even possible.
This morning, for instance, long before the first cardinal had yet to even try out his first yawn, there I was, frantically explaining to Allison the difference between "hard right" and "hard left," all the while eyeballing our disastrous trajectory in the rearview.
Allison's actually a very good driver, aside from that pesky 30-foot stretch of driveway cement, where she tends to hug the edges the way a 15-year-old boy hugs his date on the dance floor. She generally is a careful, aware and confident driver. But between that skinny-jeans, rearview-sucking garage of ours and its cursedly narrow driveway, we are perpetually bereft of visions of a future, simply by the act of leaving our home.
Frankly, it's enough to make a mom feel a bit verklempt, even at 5:15 a.m., when a ridiculously-early cheerleading practice at Lincoln High School propels us into the larger universe.
And, this morning, that sting of my impatience was somehow heightened, knowing that I'd be returning to work a few hours later.
This is the bane of being a teacher by trade--that continual reminder of just how inadequate you are at it, especially when the walls happen to be your own rather than those of some handsomely-subsidized government building with the name "High" stamped on it.
Apparently, I save my "best" for other people's children, settling, instead, on "just shy of a Social Services intervention" when I'm amongst my own.
The more time she gets behind the wheel, it seems, the further away I get from my goal of snagging the "Most Excellent Parent of the Millennium" trophy.
. . . as though such a downward-spiraling thing is even possible.
This morning, for instance, long before the first cardinal had yet to even try out his first yawn, there I was, frantically explaining to Allison the difference between "hard right" and "hard left," all the while eyeballing our disastrous trajectory in the rearview.
Allison's actually a very good driver, aside from that pesky 30-foot stretch of driveway cement, where she tends to hug the edges the way a 15-year-old boy hugs his date on the dance floor. She generally is a careful, aware and confident driver. But between that skinny-jeans, rearview-sucking garage of ours and its cursedly narrow driveway, we are perpetually bereft of visions of a future, simply by the act of leaving our home.
Frankly, it's enough to make a mom feel a bit verklempt, even at 5:15 a.m., when a ridiculously-early cheerleading practice at Lincoln High School propels us into the larger universe.
And, this morning, that sting of my impatience was somehow heightened, knowing that I'd be returning to work a few hours later.
This is the bane of being a teacher by trade--that continual reminder of just how inadequate you are at it, especially when the walls happen to be your own rather than those of some handsomely-subsidized government building with the name "High" stamped on it.
Apparently, I save my "best" for other people's children, settling, instead, on "just shy of a Social Services intervention" when I'm amongst my own.
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