Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Friday Night Salon Topics

Discussion topics for May 1:

1. The Friday Salon: should it be risky or safe? (I suppose for our purposes, here, this asks if conversation - commenting - should be risky or safe. I do a lot of "safe" commenting, rarely voicing my opinion if it is antagonistic to the poster.)

2. Political correctness & freedom of expression: to what extent does language affect culture?

3. Handshakes & foreign relations: should policy trump civility--or vice versa?

All comments are welcome - both safe and unsafe ;)

Sunday, April 26, 2009

How did you get here?

Here? As in in this closet? I can tell you I got here with no help from the margarita. (As in: Despite the margarita, I successfully made it here.) Seriously. I don't really remember the last twenty seconds. This is what happens on a day when the newscaster says (and I quote in a Vince Fontaine "hand jive announcing" tone), "Today we will probably see one of the top twelve worst storms of the season. Sustained, ground traveling tornadoes are likely, as is golf ball sized hail. Keep it tuned in to this channel (kids) to find out when and where devastation might strike at your house!" (wink and grin)

Look. We live in an age when everything is sensationalized. I think the first time I was aware of over-enthusiastic reporting about horrible happenings was when I watched us go to war with Iraq the first time - Operation Desert Storm. We watched news casts that looked like a game of Missile Command - green lines falling to the earth and then a white blast. We learned that we were fighting the inferior "scud missiles" with the more important, more American (stand at attention) "patriot missiles." In all of my pubescent wisdom and naivete, I wrote melodramatic entries in my diary about this being the "first time our country was really at war in my lifetime" (because the Cold War was so, like, totally not even a war) and "I just hoped that God would spare all of our boys from 'those people' who only knew how to make silly sounding 'scuds' and who surrendered with tears in their eyes (and sand) at the sight Old Glory." And then I would break into a tear jerking rendition of Glory Glory Hallelujah.

What a bonehead! At least I can use the "hey, I was a teenager" argument and get a reprieve for all of my adolescent years. Unfortunately, I couldn't use that excuse when FOX was interrupting the regularly scheduled programs during the second Iraq war - Operation it didn't work the first time, hey guess what, we're back!

A newscaster in Iraq wearing army desert fatigues, night goggles, and a gas mask sitting atop his head would cut-in to yell curtly into his microphone, "There are no bombs dropping at the moment. But if they were ( and he would lower his mask, breathing into it: hoooo-scheee), we would have to wear these masks and dig a trench in the ground, bury ourselves prostrate, and pray to Old Glory. (Hoooo-scheeeee) I repeat. Nothing is happening. We are not on red alert. But someday we might be (hooo-scheee). Luckily I have these night vision goggles, and through them I can clearly see (hoooo-scheee) that nothing is happening. But it might. Soon. So you in America should seek shelter." And a blinking RED crawler that indicated we were NOT on red alert would flash across the bottom of the screen, a tactic that indeed did make me seek shelter in my closet and, more importantly, a prescription for Paxil.

I wish I could say that I've grown out of the sensationalized media. I at least choose to bypass FOX, unless I'm in need of a good laugh.

But today is tornado day, and that means I get to take my laptop into my closet, sip margaritas to, er, calm down, and write. Until an actual siren goes off (the same siren that would indicate we are being bombed and need goggles and gas masks), I suppose I kind of like being here.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Hysterical

There are two events I need to mention here, in this space, whatever this space is - an immature writing (read 'whining') forum, a delicate smartassery, and/or a half-assed diary of sorts. But these two things are something I don't want to forget, so it's best that I tap them out for posterity.. or something. In no particular order (other than one first, then the other - which happens to be a particular order, though that's neither here nor there, except that it's here.. because it is..in this space, whatever this space is), here they are:

#1 I had a creative burst of energy the other day, so I went to the nearest craft store and bought the largest canvas I could afford and some découpage goup. The main reason I'm mentioning this is not so you'll have any of the following reactions:

a. Wow! She's ambitious!

b. Wow! She's insane to think she has time for an art project on top of everything else in her ridiculously disheveled life! I mean, she's got a kid now. Doesn't she know she's supposed to only bake cookies and make butterflies out of paper bags and foil? Doesn't she remember that she should only be concerned with which pair of stonewashed mom jeans rides up the highest and which canvas visor protrudes out far enough to keep the sun off of her AND Baby Jack? What the hell?

c. Wow. I hope what she has isn't contagious. Geez. I hope the découpage works for her. (Whispered) I wonder if she's told all of her partners about this..

No. Hopefully you didn't respond in any of those ways, though I would be sort of cosmically impressed if choice b was your word for word response.

I am telling you this because I want to actually follow through on the project. So if in a week or four if I haven't mentioned it again, come and kick my ass. I mean, please remind me that I was ambitious once, and that if I don't follow through, Obama might hug Hugo Chavez next time, thus causing the collapse of the universe as we know it, and we'll be left with Newt Gingrich sticking out his tongue and then singing "I told you so, I told you so! Rick Perry and I totally knew this would happen!" as we all implode together - except for Texas which will find a way to secede from total world destruction.

#2 I went to hear David Sedaris give a book reading last night at SMU. I've thought about how I would write about the experience, but every time I try to put it into words, it sounds like Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live when he was all, "Remember that one time, when David Sedaris read his stories and was funny and stuff. Um.D'you remember that? It. was. AWESOME!" But nobody remembered, or if they did, it was vaguely.. So, I decided I'm not even going to try, except to say that

It. was. AWESOME!

He's my hero. This was my first formal reading (the informal one being the time Naomi Shihab-Nye came to my classroom to speak to my students and give a writing workshop(!)), and it was better than I could've imagined. Well, OK. It might have been better if, say, Billy Crudup was sitting next to me, trying to distract me in some outrageously flirtatious way. Oh and if there were Merlot available.. And chocolate. Or maybe if all of a sudden everyone collectively reached into their pockets, finding in them all the keys to world peace and ones that would forever end world hunger, and then they were willing to match those keys to their respective locks.. That would've been cool. But apart from those things, it was the best it could be.

Rich is just glad I didn't make good on my promise and try to turn David Sedaris straight. I did wear my red stilettos and sassy undies just in case.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Dr. Manhattan, Meet Ethel Merman

You know those really violent movies that involve so much brutality that it is a relief for there to be dialogue in between butcherings so that one can breathe a sigh of relief and loosen the white knuckle grip one has on the sticky movie chair arm rest? This was not that movie. This one had no rest between butcherings. It was dialogue dubbed over brutal chainsaw dismemberings - social commentary woven amidst the hacking of meat cleavers into brains and women being raped and/or shot in the face.

It was the first date they had had in a while.

He had assured her that it wouldn't be bad. "It might even be funny, " he said. "Not at all like Sin City or Kill Bill- much less violent. Trust me."

She had finally found her voice after sitting through such heinous atrocity, and was trying to decide how sincere he was in his repeated, pleading apologies. "I'm so sorry," he whispered scene after scene, "I promise I didn't know." And then after, "Let's go somewhere nice - anywhere you want - have some wine and something lovely. We can hang out.. talk."

She said, " but you said.." and then repeated the "it might even be funny" part of his speech.

"I didn't know."

That's the reason why it was ridiculously funny for them to be eating in the restaurant they were in - classy and expensive as seen in the absurdly large wine glasses that held splashes of twenty dollars-a-sip Cabernets. "Look for the legs," they were taught, "after you smell the cork, swirl the glass, and inhale the aromas." She knew that they were out of place. They weren't like these patrons. They weren't dressed up enough, plus they were still covered in the filth of the movie. She imagined that everyone who looked in their direction knew this about them as they were being paraded to their table in the back of the restaurant.

He tried to ease the moment by ordering wine and sitting on her side of the table with her. She tried to be rational - it was a good movie overall, just little too much violence. Yes. Focus on the message.. um.. that humanity will eventually fail, even if people are willing to sacrifice a few (millions) for the many (billions). Or maybe the message was that good guys are actually warped, desperate people who can only play at being good.. What was the point in good guys existing? This wasn't going well.

He interrupted her train of thought.

"So, I know you think there isn't just one soul mate for each person, because what if that person is in Bangladesh and you are here and you never meet," he said. "You think you could probably make it work with lots of people. Right?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, curious. Her attention turned to making a list of people she knew with whom she might have "made it work".

"I think I was Ethel Merman in a previous life, although it wouldn't have been a previous life because she was living at the same time as me. Do you think you could be married to Ethel Merman?" He then broken into a much too perfect chorus - "Everything's coming up roses.."

She smiled, in spite of herself.

"There it is," he said, referring to her smile. "You're going to write about this, aren't you?"

"Probably,"she acknowledged, though she hadn't really processed the moment fully.

"Damn. I wish I had picked to be the reincarnation of someone who had a penis, then." He smirked at her and then hugged her. "I really am sorry."

"It's OK," she said. "Don't worry about it, Ethel."

Thursday, April 9, 2009

This is real, y'all

Needless to say, I was a bit unnerved when I opened my work email and found this staring at me. My first reaction was to run, but when I calmed down I started laughing - but sort of cautiously, a "he he he" with my eyebrows raised in concern, my senses on full alert .

This lovely picture was shared by one of my esteemed colleagues,Willy, who suggested that it would be fun to create our own captions as sort of a contest. A contest for what, I still don't know. His caption example was, "the family that slays together, stays together".

So, now that I've scarred you, I open the contest to you, friends. Leave me your thoughts or a caption.. if you aren't to wigged out, that is.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Gay is the New Black

I saw in my peripheral vision something fly across the classroom, hit the trash can, and knock it over, spilling trash across the floor. "Damn it," I thought mid-lecture, "why do they always have to do that shit? When will they freaking grow up?" I was lucky I didn't say that sentence out loud because that would've made twice in two weeks I would have cursed in class.

The first time happened last Monday when two 18 year olds were playing grab ass- as in slapping at each other, calling each other names, and trying to take each other's pens. They were doing this as I was giving directions on appropriate behavior in an assembly - the one we were about to attend. My actual words were, as I pointed in the air, at their behavior, "OK, that shit can't happen. It has to stop. NOW." Immediately they tried to escalate the situation by saying, "You can't say that to us. You don't have the right and we weren't doing anything wrong." What they don't know is they got the nice version of what I really wanted to say which was far more brutal and inappropriate. But I backed down. They were right. I shouldn't have cursed. But I was right, too. They shouldn't have taken me to that level of frustration.

Needless to say, my blood pressure has been a bit elevated lately, so when I saw the object- which I later learned was a water bottle- fly across the room and the trash strewn across the floor, I was pissed. I was acutely cognizant of what my reaction should be seeing as it was being monitored by 25 people who were waiting for a theatrical temper tantrum. So as not to give in, I calmly asked the kid to pick up the trash and then stay after class to pick up the rest of the room. My tone was measured. I tried to remember that I like the kid and anyway we had eight weeks left to survive each other. I took a breath, proud that I hadn't lost it, and continued with my lecture. I noticed that there were some whispers in that area of the room, so I raised my voice over them, as usual, and tried to finish out the class without losing my temper.

When the bell rang, I reminded the offender that he needed to stay after and pick up. He was shaking. He said, "Mrs. Haag. I don't know if I should say anything or not because it's all stupid high school drama, but you should know that if the girl sitting next to me were a boy, I would've punched her in the fucking face! I mean it. And I apologize for throwing the water bottle and for knocking over the trash. It wasn't the right thing to do. But it kept me from hitting her. And I really wanted to fucking hit her!"

"OK." I said as calmly as I could, "I appreciate that you're apologizing to me, but what exactly is going on?"

"Look," he said, "I'm friends with John (who sits behind him in class) and you know he's gay. I don't care about that. I like him. We're friends and we hang out outside of school sometimes and it's fine because we're friends and I don't care what people say about it. "

"That's great," I said. "So, what's the issue?"

"I mostly don't care what people say. But they get mean, and take it too far. They all joke that I want to bang him and stuff. Whatever. That's stupid. They can make fun of me all they want, but today that girl crossed a line. She started drawing pictures of me banging him. She wouldn't shut up, calling me a faggot fucker and stuff. I lost it, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have thrown the water, but I had had enough."

I paused to get my brain wrapped around the enormity of what he was saying. All that came out was,"I'm sorry." And I was. In the second it took for me to process, I realized I was sorry - sorry that I didn't hear the conversation or catch the girl drawing the pictures; sorry that I punished the reaction, rather than catching the real deviant; sorry that John was sitting next to the girl, knowing what the joke was, but allowing it to happen because in our society it is OK to make fun of gay people. It's just another day for him. I was really sorry. And then I was sick.

I collected myself and continued, "It's not OK, the way she treated you, or how any of the others treat you regarding John. You're a really good person to still be his friend and hang out with him anyway. Tell her next time that it's not OK." In my anger, I said something I shouldn't have, but that I still think was necessary to the point. I said, "Tell her to replace the word "faggot" with "nigger" to show her how absolutely WRONG it is to be so racist/sexist! Ask her if she would ever say 'nigger fucker,' that of course she wouldn't because she learned a long time ago that saying such racist, hateful things is not OK. Tell her that saying "faggot fucker" is just as wrong, and hopefully she'll think about it next time. It's ignorant."

We both calmed down, and he apologized again and then went to his next class.

That would be the end of the story, except that there has to be a "now what" on my part. And really. Now what? What is my responsibility with this? What is the follow up action? I have eight weeks left with these kids. It is times like these when writing papers and reading novels seems ridiculous in the face of all the other things they need to learn - like tolerance, for example. I hate the word tolerance because there is a connotation that one is "putting up with" people who are different, tolerating them. Really what I want to teach them is how to love people and their differences.

But I'll settle for tolerance.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Can we go back?

As we were settling in to our salon circle Friday night and the first question of the evening, "Will Localism replace Globalism?" was posed, the moderator asked if any of us had heard of the current Localism movements that are popping up everywhere, especially in Europe. I absently nodded, because I have - NewSov - and then quickly realized that I was the only one in the room nodding when the moderator turned to me and asked me to speak. As happens every time I open my mouth without being completely prepared, I was outlining the tenents of Local Sovereignty, as I understand them, and got lost in a little maze of rhetoric.

It turns out clarification was needed.

Most of the folks in the circle talked about Localism in nostalgic terms - the communities they remembered as children - the ones that included the baker, the butcher, the shoe-string salesman, and the nosy neighbor in curlers, peeking out from behind the curtains of her front window. They embraced glimmering memories of communities in which everyone helped one other with everything - where they bought local produce when it was in season. "We only had strawberries sometimes," one said, her eyes glazed over, "when gardener Jim got around to picking them. We made jam and shared it with our neighbors. We fed each other's children and attended ballgames together." Globalism, for many, was a dirty word. It is what tore the roots out from under them, a corporate rape that led to the flightiness of the youth of America (literally and figuratively) and the disconnect among people. "They don't understand what it means to take care of your neighbor," some said, "and the big corporations want to bulldoze our communities and make our kids text each other instead of saying 'good morning'! We have to wage civic battles just to keep our neighborhoods from turning into malls and our kids into zombies!"

I'm a bit tongue in cheek as I relay this story, only because I feel that anything through the lens of nostalgia is a little bit skewed. Yes, people had their very own neighborhood hat maker, but they also had no concept of diversity. Often people who "moved in" to their neighborhoods felt unwelcome. Plus, globalism allows for (ones who can afford it) to have strawberries year round, especially since gardener Jim, it turns out, has two other (secret) families in Utah, is a drunk, and isn't home often. The gorgeous strawberries rot on the vine most seasons.

I suppose, in a nutshell, for many Localism is synonymous with words like community, sharing, and sameness; whereas Globalism is about capital, individual experience (which is translated into selfishness), and diversity - or at least a brief encounter with diversity. I know this is simplistic, but it leads me to the questions I hope you (the experts) can answer:

1. To what extent is democracy tied to Localism, and in the vision, how do communities making democratic decisions work with other communities who make different ones? Who oversees and moderates among them so that harmony is shared equally in and among each locale (without fostering an us v. them mentality)?

2. To what extent is capital a part of the Localism equation? (To me, the question of Globalism and Localism is very much tied to money, as is democracy.)

3. Does Localism exclude Globalism or can we benefit - all the good - from both? (Friedman's "Glocalisation" idea comes to mind, thanks to a rather enthusiastic salon goer.)

Please help me to understand Localism sans nostalgia

Friday, April 3, 2009

Salon

When was the last time you had a genuine conversation--an experience not of mere self-assertion but of speaking and listening as though you had something both to offer and to receive? Our habits of language define us, but the pace of our lives is such that the simple gestures of listening carefully and speaking prudently are amazingly rare. The Friday Night Salon aims at being an alternative to the urban rush that denies the civilizing graces of community. We begin with good food and drink, then take our places in a circle for discussion about a variety of relevant, substantial topics. It's a welcome way to end the workweek.

Discussion topics for April 3:
1. Will Localism replace Globalism? (Leftover from last month, but still a worthy topic)
2. Of what value to culture is the expert?
3. The Friday Salon: should it be risky or safe?

(All replies welcome!) :)

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

This is not a pretty post

"Oh hey, did you hear they sentenced Melanie Goodwin's murderer?" Rich casually said in passing on Monday.

I casually replied, "Really? What'd he get?"

"Life in prison, seeing as Mexico won't extradite criminals unless they take the death penalty off the table. Otherwise I think they would've gone with that."

"Hm," I said and then continued making our dinner salad.

The weight of that conversation didn't hit me until the next morning when I started sobbing on my way to work. For those of you who are new to my blog, I guess I should say that Melanie and her brother were students at my school when I taught junior high. They weren't in my class, but they were on my creative problem solving team. I even gave them rides home from school if practice ran late. Her brother's team went to state and won second place that year. That meant the Goodwins, along with the other team families, traveled out of town with us. They stayed in the same hotel and ate and the same places. I spent a lot of time with the Goodwin kids, and when they went to high school and I changed jobs, I would see the Goodwin kids, especially Melanie, around at various school competitions and whatnot.

"Hey, Mrs. Haag! Remember me, Melanie!?" she would ask with a bounce in her voice. It was almost a joke the way she said it, but she also didn't want me to feel uncomfortable, as sometimes is the exchange between a student who has "grown-up and changed" and a teacher who has feverishly learned and stored thousands of names and faces from year to year. If you've ever been a teacher, you understand the anxiety associated with seeing kids out of context (or worse, seeing the parents you met a only a few times) and trying to age them in your mind and then attach a name. It's nearly impossible unless the kid was especially memorable.

"Of course I do," I would say. And I did because Melanie had such a contagious enthusiasm. I adored her and her brother. They were very memorable.

Melanie was murdered in September of 2007. She was 19. Her parents now believe that she was forced into his car against her will. He raped her. He murdered her. He dumped her body behind a building and set it on fire. He ran to Mexico where he was apprehended and then extradited here to be tried and now convicted. There is a video of him at the place where she was abducted. There is a video of him dumping her body and setting it on fire. He's guilty. He's guilty. He's guilty.

On and off throughout my life I have wrestled with the legality of the death penalty, especially since I live a mere four hours away from Huntsville, the execution capitol of the western world (statistically this is true). I understand that my state (pompously) executes too many innocent victims; the statistics are horrifying. I think about human rights issues, the families of the criminals, the costs (execution costs more than keeping the criminal in prison for life because of appeal costs), the methods. I find it's easy to take a stance or to simply debate and qualify one's position on an issue when it's from a distance. It's far too easy to feel self-righteous about those conclusions, justified through whatever lens one assigns them - religion, politics, capital.. This is not one of those times for me.

I watched a video clip of the moms - Melanie's and the murderer's - hugging after the trial concluded, sobbing in each other's arms. The news reporter stated that both were mothers who had lost their children. The report then cut to Melanie's dad in an interview after the trial. He said that it's all really unfair, that "had the death penalty been able to play, they would've gone for that."

"Oh my God, yes," was my reaction. That asshole - the one who is obviously guilty as seen on numerous security cameras - the one who took pictures of himself with her camera the night he murdered her - the one I'll be feeding and clothing through my tax dollars.. Him. That asshole deserves to be taken against his will. He deserves to be afraid for his life beyond any rational comprehension. He deserves to NEVER get to speak to his family again. He deserves to be raped and tortured and mocked. He deserves to be strangled, his lifeless body dumped, drowned in gasoline and lit on fire - desecrated. He deserves to die.

Fuck human rights today.

And forgiveness.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Friday Night Salon Topics

Discussion topics for May 1:

1. The Friday Salon: should it be risky or safe? (I suppose for our purposes, here, this asks if conversation - commenting - should be risky or safe. I do a lot of "safe" commenting, rarely voicing my opinion if it is antagonistic to the poster.)

2. Political correctness & freedom of expression: to what extent does language affect culture?

3. Handshakes & foreign relations: should policy trump civility--or vice versa?

All comments are welcome - both safe and unsafe ;)

Sunday, April 26, 2009

How did you get here?

Here? As in in this closet? I can tell you I got here with no help from the margarita. (As in: Despite the margarita, I successfully made it here.) Seriously. I don't really remember the last twenty seconds. This is what happens on a day when the newscaster says (and I quote in a Vince Fontaine "hand jive announcing" tone), "Today we will probably see one of the top twelve worst storms of the season. Sustained, ground traveling tornadoes are likely, as is golf ball sized hail. Keep it tuned in to this channel (kids) to find out when and where devastation might strike at your house!" (wink and grin)

Look. We live in an age when everything is sensationalized. I think the first time I was aware of over-enthusiastic reporting about horrible happenings was when I watched us go to war with Iraq the first time - Operation Desert Storm. We watched news casts that looked like a game of Missile Command - green lines falling to the earth and then a white blast. We learned that we were fighting the inferior "scud missiles" with the more important, more American (stand at attention) "patriot missiles." In all of my pubescent wisdom and naivete, I wrote melodramatic entries in my diary about this being the "first time our country was really at war in my lifetime" (because the Cold War was so, like, totally not even a war) and "I just hoped that God would spare all of our boys from 'those people' who only knew how to make silly sounding 'scuds' and who surrendered with tears in their eyes (and sand) at the sight Old Glory." And then I would break into a tear jerking rendition of Glory Glory Hallelujah.

What a bonehead! At least I can use the "hey, I was a teenager" argument and get a reprieve for all of my adolescent years. Unfortunately, I couldn't use that excuse when FOX was interrupting the regularly scheduled programs during the second Iraq war - Operation it didn't work the first time, hey guess what, we're back!

A newscaster in Iraq wearing army desert fatigues, night goggles, and a gas mask sitting atop his head would cut-in to yell curtly into his microphone, "There are no bombs dropping at the moment. But if they were ( and he would lower his mask, breathing into it: hoooo-scheee), we would have to wear these masks and dig a trench in the ground, bury ourselves prostrate, and pray to Old Glory. (Hoooo-scheeeee) I repeat. Nothing is happening. We are not on red alert. But someday we might be (hooo-scheee). Luckily I have these night vision goggles, and through them I can clearly see (hoooo-scheee) that nothing is happening. But it might. Soon. So you in America should seek shelter." And a blinking RED crawler that indicated we were NOT on red alert would flash across the bottom of the screen, a tactic that indeed did make me seek shelter in my closet and, more importantly, a prescription for Paxil.

I wish I could say that I've grown out of the sensationalized media. I at least choose to bypass FOX, unless I'm in need of a good laugh.

But today is tornado day, and that means I get to take my laptop into my closet, sip margaritas to, er, calm down, and write. Until an actual siren goes off (the same siren that would indicate we are being bombed and need goggles and gas masks), I suppose I kind of like being here.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Hysterical

There are two events I need to mention here, in this space, whatever this space is - an immature writing (read 'whining') forum, a delicate smartassery, and/or a half-assed diary of sorts. But these two things are something I don't want to forget, so it's best that I tap them out for posterity.. or something. In no particular order (other than one first, then the other - which happens to be a particular order, though that's neither here nor there, except that it's here.. because it is..in this space, whatever this space is), here they are:

#1 I had a creative burst of energy the other day, so I went to the nearest craft store and bought the largest canvas I could afford and some découpage goup. The main reason I'm mentioning this is not so you'll have any of the following reactions:

a. Wow! She's ambitious!

b. Wow! She's insane to think she has time for an art project on top of everything else in her ridiculously disheveled life! I mean, she's got a kid now. Doesn't she know she's supposed to only bake cookies and make butterflies out of paper bags and foil? Doesn't she remember that she should only be concerned with which pair of stonewashed mom jeans rides up the highest and which canvas visor protrudes out far enough to keep the sun off of her AND Baby Jack? What the hell?

c. Wow. I hope what she has isn't contagious. Geez. I hope the découpage works for her. (Whispered) I wonder if she's told all of her partners about this..

No. Hopefully you didn't respond in any of those ways, though I would be sort of cosmically impressed if choice b was your word for word response.

I am telling you this because I want to actually follow through on the project. So if in a week or four if I haven't mentioned it again, come and kick my ass. I mean, please remind me that I was ambitious once, and that if I don't follow through, Obama might hug Hugo Chavez next time, thus causing the collapse of the universe as we know it, and we'll be left with Newt Gingrich sticking out his tongue and then singing "I told you so, I told you so! Rick Perry and I totally knew this would happen!" as we all implode together - except for Texas which will find a way to secede from total world destruction.

#2 I went to hear David Sedaris give a book reading last night at SMU. I've thought about how I would write about the experience, but every time I try to put it into words, it sounds like Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live when he was all, "Remember that one time, when David Sedaris read his stories and was funny and stuff. Um.D'you remember that? It. was. AWESOME!" But nobody remembered, or if they did, it was vaguely.. So, I decided I'm not even going to try, except to say that

It. was. AWESOME!

He's my hero. This was my first formal reading (the informal one being the time Naomi Shihab-Nye came to my classroom to speak to my students and give a writing workshop(!)), and it was better than I could've imagined. Well, OK. It might have been better if, say, Billy Crudup was sitting next to me, trying to distract me in some outrageously flirtatious way. Oh and if there were Merlot available.. And chocolate. Or maybe if all of a sudden everyone collectively reached into their pockets, finding in them all the keys to world peace and ones that would forever end world hunger, and then they were willing to match those keys to their respective locks.. That would've been cool. But apart from those things, it was the best it could be.

Rich is just glad I didn't make good on my promise and try to turn David Sedaris straight. I did wear my red stilettos and sassy undies just in case.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Dr. Manhattan, Meet Ethel Merman

You know those really violent movies that involve so much brutality that it is a relief for there to be dialogue in between butcherings so that one can breathe a sigh of relief and loosen the white knuckle grip one has on the sticky movie chair arm rest? This was not that movie. This one had no rest between butcherings. It was dialogue dubbed over brutal chainsaw dismemberings - social commentary woven amidst the hacking of meat cleavers into brains and women being raped and/or shot in the face.

It was the first date they had had in a while.

He had assured her that it wouldn't be bad. "It might even be funny, " he said. "Not at all like Sin City or Kill Bill- much less violent. Trust me."

She had finally found her voice after sitting through such heinous atrocity, and was trying to decide how sincere he was in his repeated, pleading apologies. "I'm so sorry," he whispered scene after scene, "I promise I didn't know." And then after, "Let's go somewhere nice - anywhere you want - have some wine and something lovely. We can hang out.. talk."

She said, " but you said.." and then repeated the "it might even be funny" part of his speech.

"I didn't know."

That's the reason why it was ridiculously funny for them to be eating in the restaurant they were in - classy and expensive as seen in the absurdly large wine glasses that held splashes of twenty dollars-a-sip Cabernets. "Look for the legs," they were taught, "after you smell the cork, swirl the glass, and inhale the aromas." She knew that they were out of place. They weren't like these patrons. They weren't dressed up enough, plus they were still covered in the filth of the movie. She imagined that everyone who looked in their direction knew this about them as they were being paraded to their table in the back of the restaurant.

He tried to ease the moment by ordering wine and sitting on her side of the table with her. She tried to be rational - it was a good movie overall, just little too much violence. Yes. Focus on the message.. um.. that humanity will eventually fail, even if people are willing to sacrifice a few (millions) for the many (billions). Or maybe the message was that good guys are actually warped, desperate people who can only play at being good.. What was the point in good guys existing? This wasn't going well.

He interrupted her train of thought.

"So, I know you think there isn't just one soul mate for each person, because what if that person is in Bangladesh and you are here and you never meet," he said. "You think you could probably make it work with lots of people. Right?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, curious. Her attention turned to making a list of people she knew with whom she might have "made it work".

"I think I was Ethel Merman in a previous life, although it wouldn't have been a previous life because she was living at the same time as me. Do you think you could be married to Ethel Merman?" He then broken into a much too perfect chorus - "Everything's coming up roses.."

She smiled, in spite of herself.

"There it is," he said, referring to her smile. "You're going to write about this, aren't you?"

"Probably,"she acknowledged, though she hadn't really processed the moment fully.

"Damn. I wish I had picked to be the reincarnation of someone who had a penis, then." He smirked at her and then hugged her. "I really am sorry."

"It's OK," she said. "Don't worry about it, Ethel."

Thursday, April 9, 2009

This is real, y'all

Needless to say, I was a bit unnerved when I opened my work email and found this staring at me. My first reaction was to run, but when I calmed down I started laughing - but sort of cautiously, a "he he he" with my eyebrows raised in concern, my senses on full alert .

This lovely picture was shared by one of my esteemed colleagues,Willy, who suggested that it would be fun to create our own captions as sort of a contest. A contest for what, I still don't know. His caption example was, "the family that slays together, stays together".

So, now that I've scarred you, I open the contest to you, friends. Leave me your thoughts or a caption.. if you aren't to wigged out, that is.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Gay is the New Black

I saw in my peripheral vision something fly across the classroom, hit the trash can, and knock it over, spilling trash across the floor. "Damn it," I thought mid-lecture, "why do they always have to do that shit? When will they freaking grow up?" I was lucky I didn't say that sentence out loud because that would've made twice in two weeks I would have cursed in class.

The first time happened last Monday when two 18 year olds were playing grab ass- as in slapping at each other, calling each other names, and trying to take each other's pens. They were doing this as I was giving directions on appropriate behavior in an assembly - the one we were about to attend. My actual words were, as I pointed in the air, at their behavior, "OK, that shit can't happen. It has to stop. NOW." Immediately they tried to escalate the situation by saying, "You can't say that to us. You don't have the right and we weren't doing anything wrong." What they don't know is they got the nice version of what I really wanted to say which was far more brutal and inappropriate. But I backed down. They were right. I shouldn't have cursed. But I was right, too. They shouldn't have taken me to that level of frustration.

Needless to say, my blood pressure has been a bit elevated lately, so when I saw the object- which I later learned was a water bottle- fly across the room and the trash strewn across the floor, I was pissed. I was acutely cognizant of what my reaction should be seeing as it was being monitored by 25 people who were waiting for a theatrical temper tantrum. So as not to give in, I calmly asked the kid to pick up the trash and then stay after class to pick up the rest of the room. My tone was measured. I tried to remember that I like the kid and anyway we had eight weeks left to survive each other. I took a breath, proud that I hadn't lost it, and continued with my lecture. I noticed that there were some whispers in that area of the room, so I raised my voice over them, as usual, and tried to finish out the class without losing my temper.

When the bell rang, I reminded the offender that he needed to stay after and pick up. He was shaking. He said, "Mrs. Haag. I don't know if I should say anything or not because it's all stupid high school drama, but you should know that if the girl sitting next to me were a boy, I would've punched her in the fucking face! I mean it. And I apologize for throwing the water bottle and for knocking over the trash. It wasn't the right thing to do. But it kept me from hitting her. And I really wanted to fucking hit her!"

"OK." I said as calmly as I could, "I appreciate that you're apologizing to me, but what exactly is going on?"

"Look," he said, "I'm friends with John (who sits behind him in class) and you know he's gay. I don't care about that. I like him. We're friends and we hang out outside of school sometimes and it's fine because we're friends and I don't care what people say about it. "

"That's great," I said. "So, what's the issue?"

"I mostly don't care what people say. But they get mean, and take it too far. They all joke that I want to bang him and stuff. Whatever. That's stupid. They can make fun of me all they want, but today that girl crossed a line. She started drawing pictures of me banging him. She wouldn't shut up, calling me a faggot fucker and stuff. I lost it, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have thrown the water, but I had had enough."

I paused to get my brain wrapped around the enormity of what he was saying. All that came out was,"I'm sorry." And I was. In the second it took for me to process, I realized I was sorry - sorry that I didn't hear the conversation or catch the girl drawing the pictures; sorry that I punished the reaction, rather than catching the real deviant; sorry that John was sitting next to the girl, knowing what the joke was, but allowing it to happen because in our society it is OK to make fun of gay people. It's just another day for him. I was really sorry. And then I was sick.

I collected myself and continued, "It's not OK, the way she treated you, or how any of the others treat you regarding John. You're a really good person to still be his friend and hang out with him anyway. Tell her next time that it's not OK." In my anger, I said something I shouldn't have, but that I still think was necessary to the point. I said, "Tell her to replace the word "faggot" with "nigger" to show her how absolutely WRONG it is to be so racist/sexist! Ask her if she would ever say 'nigger fucker,' that of course she wouldn't because she learned a long time ago that saying such racist, hateful things is not OK. Tell her that saying "faggot fucker" is just as wrong, and hopefully she'll think about it next time. It's ignorant."

We both calmed down, and he apologized again and then went to his next class.

That would be the end of the story, except that there has to be a "now what" on my part. And really. Now what? What is my responsibility with this? What is the follow up action? I have eight weeks left with these kids. It is times like these when writing papers and reading novels seems ridiculous in the face of all the other things they need to learn - like tolerance, for example. I hate the word tolerance because there is a connotation that one is "putting up with" people who are different, tolerating them. Really what I want to teach them is how to love people and their differences.

But I'll settle for tolerance.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Can we go back?

As we were settling in to our salon circle Friday night and the first question of the evening, "Will Localism replace Globalism?" was posed, the moderator asked if any of us had heard of the current Localism movements that are popping up everywhere, especially in Europe. I absently nodded, because I have - NewSov - and then quickly realized that I was the only one in the room nodding when the moderator turned to me and asked me to speak. As happens every time I open my mouth without being completely prepared, I was outlining the tenents of Local Sovereignty, as I understand them, and got lost in a little maze of rhetoric.

It turns out clarification was needed.

Most of the folks in the circle talked about Localism in nostalgic terms - the communities they remembered as children - the ones that included the baker, the butcher, the shoe-string salesman, and the nosy neighbor in curlers, peeking out from behind the curtains of her front window. They embraced glimmering memories of communities in which everyone helped one other with everything - where they bought local produce when it was in season. "We only had strawberries sometimes," one said, her eyes glazed over, "when gardener Jim got around to picking them. We made jam and shared it with our neighbors. We fed each other's children and attended ballgames together." Globalism, for many, was a dirty word. It is what tore the roots out from under them, a corporate rape that led to the flightiness of the youth of America (literally and figuratively) and the disconnect among people. "They don't understand what it means to take care of your neighbor," some said, "and the big corporations want to bulldoze our communities and make our kids text each other instead of saying 'good morning'! We have to wage civic battles just to keep our neighborhoods from turning into malls and our kids into zombies!"

I'm a bit tongue in cheek as I relay this story, only because I feel that anything through the lens of nostalgia is a little bit skewed. Yes, people had their very own neighborhood hat maker, but they also had no concept of diversity. Often people who "moved in" to their neighborhoods felt unwelcome. Plus, globalism allows for (ones who can afford it) to have strawberries year round, especially since gardener Jim, it turns out, has two other (secret) families in Utah, is a drunk, and isn't home often. The gorgeous strawberries rot on the vine most seasons.

I suppose, in a nutshell, for many Localism is synonymous with words like community, sharing, and sameness; whereas Globalism is about capital, individual experience (which is translated into selfishness), and diversity - or at least a brief encounter with diversity. I know this is simplistic, but it leads me to the questions I hope you (the experts) can answer:

1. To what extent is democracy tied to Localism, and in the vision, how do communities making democratic decisions work with other communities who make different ones? Who oversees and moderates among them so that harmony is shared equally in and among each locale (without fostering an us v. them mentality)?

2. To what extent is capital a part of the Localism equation? (To me, the question of Globalism and Localism is very much tied to money, as is democracy.)

3. Does Localism exclude Globalism or can we benefit - all the good - from both? (Friedman's "Glocalisation" idea comes to mind, thanks to a rather enthusiastic salon goer.)

Please help me to understand Localism sans nostalgia

Friday, April 3, 2009

Salon

When was the last time you had a genuine conversation--an experience not of mere self-assertion but of speaking and listening as though you had something both to offer and to receive? Our habits of language define us, but the pace of our lives is such that the simple gestures of listening carefully and speaking prudently are amazingly rare. The Friday Night Salon aims at being an alternative to the urban rush that denies the civilizing graces of community. We begin with good food and drink, then take our places in a circle for discussion about a variety of relevant, substantial topics. It's a welcome way to end the workweek.

Discussion topics for April 3:
1. Will Localism replace Globalism? (Leftover from last month, but still a worthy topic)
2. Of what value to culture is the expert?
3. The Friday Salon: should it be risky or safe?

(All replies welcome!) :)

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

This is not a pretty post

"Oh hey, did you hear they sentenced Melanie Goodwin's murderer?" Rich casually said in passing on Monday.

I casually replied, "Really? What'd he get?"

"Life in prison, seeing as Mexico won't extradite criminals unless they take the death penalty off the table. Otherwise I think they would've gone with that."

"Hm," I said and then continued making our dinner salad.

The weight of that conversation didn't hit me until the next morning when I started sobbing on my way to work. For those of you who are new to my blog, I guess I should say that Melanie and her brother were students at my school when I taught junior high. They weren't in my class, but they were on my creative problem solving team. I even gave them rides home from school if practice ran late. Her brother's team went to state and won second place that year. That meant the Goodwins, along with the other team families, traveled out of town with us. They stayed in the same hotel and ate and the same places. I spent a lot of time with the Goodwin kids, and when they went to high school and I changed jobs, I would see the Goodwin kids, especially Melanie, around at various school competitions and whatnot.

"Hey, Mrs. Haag! Remember me, Melanie!?" she would ask with a bounce in her voice. It was almost a joke the way she said it, but she also didn't want me to feel uncomfortable, as sometimes is the exchange between a student who has "grown-up and changed" and a teacher who has feverishly learned and stored thousands of names and faces from year to year. If you've ever been a teacher, you understand the anxiety associated with seeing kids out of context (or worse, seeing the parents you met a only a few times) and trying to age them in your mind and then attach a name. It's nearly impossible unless the kid was especially memorable.

"Of course I do," I would say. And I did because Melanie had such a contagious enthusiasm. I adored her and her brother. They were very memorable.

Melanie was murdered in September of 2007. She was 19. Her parents now believe that she was forced into his car against her will. He raped her. He murdered her. He dumped her body behind a building and set it on fire. He ran to Mexico where he was apprehended and then extradited here to be tried and now convicted. There is a video of him at the place where she was abducted. There is a video of him dumping her body and setting it on fire. He's guilty. He's guilty. He's guilty.

On and off throughout my life I have wrestled with the legality of the death penalty, especially since I live a mere four hours away from Huntsville, the execution capitol of the western world (statistically this is true). I understand that my state (pompously) executes too many innocent victims; the statistics are horrifying. I think about human rights issues, the families of the criminals, the costs (execution costs more than keeping the criminal in prison for life because of appeal costs), the methods. I find it's easy to take a stance or to simply debate and qualify one's position on an issue when it's from a distance. It's far too easy to feel self-righteous about those conclusions, justified through whatever lens one assigns them - religion, politics, capital.. This is not one of those times for me.

I watched a video clip of the moms - Melanie's and the murderer's - hugging after the trial concluded, sobbing in each other's arms. The news reporter stated that both were mothers who had lost their children. The report then cut to Melanie's dad in an interview after the trial. He said that it's all really unfair, that "had the death penalty been able to play, they would've gone for that."

"Oh my God, yes," was my reaction. That asshole - the one who is obviously guilty as seen on numerous security cameras - the one who took pictures of himself with her camera the night he murdered her - the one I'll be feeding and clothing through my tax dollars.. Him. That asshole deserves to be taken against his will. He deserves to be afraid for his life beyond any rational comprehension. He deserves to NEVER get to speak to his family again. He deserves to be raped and tortured and mocked. He deserves to be strangled, his lifeless body dumped, drowned in gasoline and lit on fire - desecrated. He deserves to die.

Fuck human rights today.

And forgiveness.