Keats meets the Beatles

We were on our way to Keats's House in Hampstead Heath stuck in a line of traffic. On our bus, the kids, having been still for an hour of travel, had fallen into a stillness, the hum of hushed voices accompanied the motor's reverb. It was drizziling, as usual, and our dream of picnicking on the Heath  for lunch and going on a nature walk  (in search of Keats's elusive voice, naturally) was soaked to the bone, and we only hoped the day would be worth it - the speaker somewhat animated, the house, at least, warm.

It was in this silent moodiness that we weaved our way through the London burroughs, expecting to once again be delayed by the choked London traffic that always makes everything irritable. We had been tracking our progress via satellite on our phones. Only 26 minutes until we arrive. No. Make it 28. Will we be late? Should we call?

Suddenly, my colleague turned to me and said, "Hey. This is Abbey Road." As the understanding was realized, she stood up and addressed the bus. "We're crossing Abbey Road right now! This is it! The famous Beatles album cover!" And the hubub got louder. Exclamations of "Cool!"  and "We're on Abbey Road!" and "take a Facebook photo" mingled into liveliness  as we passed.  And all of a sudden we were smiling. Because how cool is that?  

Of course there was no marker on the road. We didn't see the ghost of John Lennon and Paul McCartney was nowhere to be found. In fact, if we had zoomed out from our own experience, we would've had to acknowledge that we were among thousands who would cross the intersection that day without a second thought. But in the moment, and zoomed in tightly to our own little existences, we were happy and joined together in shared experience. 

The rest of the day was amazing.

Overheard: Polite dinner conversation at home

"Did you hear about the 18 month old baby that fell out of a window seven stories high in Paris?"

"Oh my God NO!"

"Oh no.. Sorry. I mean the baby's fine. She fell seven stories, bounced off of the awning over a door, and a man who happened to be walking by at that moment caught her. "

"What? Really?"

"I know. It's like something out of a damn cartoon."

Seriously. Look:

http://news.blogs.cnn.com/2010/11/02/baby-survives-7-story-fall/?hpt=Sbin

World Cup: Ghana v. US

Four years ago Rich and I went on one of the best - if not THE best - tours of our lives. Before there was a Baby Jack, there was travel. Lots of it. We had been in Italy for two weeks with our students and sent them home with a chaperon while we continued our sojourn through Austria and Germany.
The trip happened to coincide with the World Cup in Germany, and our best friends, Christine and Jamie, happened to be in Germany for the World Cup. We met up with them. I could go on about how amazing the time was - how much fun Rich and I had in Nuremberg at the viewing party (That's where you go when you don't have tickets to the game..), how we met new friends, drank too much beer, and cheered on our team. But that's not what this post is about. It's about this:

Four years ago we played Ghana in the World Cup. Four years ago, they beat us, knocking us out of the tournament. It was a sad loss, yet I was elated for the Ghanans. Today we play them again and there is a lot at stake for both of our teams. For one of us this will be our last game in the tournament, so it is sure to be played with lots of heart, the emotional factor being at its highest.


Go USA!

Talk is Cheap

A year or so ago, I was inspired. I had just come home from the new release of In the Margins and had an incredibly cool art piece that had been showcased at the magazine's release party sitting on my hearth for the week end until I could cart it back to school.

The art was odd, the subject questionable. The medium was collage - a ginormous canvas modge podged with square magazine cut-outs, the abstract face of Woody Allen outlined over the collage in black paint. For some reason, I fell in love with it, probably because it was so freaking weird. Even though I have no real connection to Woody Allen, his movies, nor his choice in spouses/children, I had to admit that it was a perfect conversation piece. I mean, who in her right mind would have a blown up, stylized portrait of Woody Allen in her living room?

"Me! Me!! Please? Let it be meeeeeee!"

The following Monday I reluctantly returned the art to school (damned integrity) and inquired about purchasing the piece. I was told that it was already sold. My heart sank. I shuffled away crestfallen.

That's when I had the idea: Surely I could create my own masterpiece! Surely I could make up for my utterly devastating lack of artistic talent with modern technology - tools such as a school-issued, 1980's manufactured overhead projector and some duct tape! I went to the hobby store, bought a ginormous canvas, some Modge Podge and spray-on glue. I spent the next three hours cutting out interesting squares from Conde-Nast, The New Yorker, and House Beautiful. I began spray-gluing them to the canvas. I would, after having made the collage, go to school, project the face of whomever I chose (not Woody Allen, for that had been done already) and paint.

After about 5 hours of intense (ahem) artistry, I collapsed in the living room floor, distraught. My masterpiece was a ridiculous sham. It looked like an ill-behaved puppy had dug through the trash, the contents of which had landed on my canvass. There would be no conversational mantel piece for me- no unusual weirdness for my living room. That, accompanied by the re-realization that I was not talented at all artistically, stung something fierce.

I quit. Thus the canvass sat in the guest bedroom for over a year. Until yesterday.

Yes, friends. I dug it out. I removed all of the "collage" and vowed to begin anew. Damn-it.

Oooooh...

In the twenty minutes I had today between school and picking up Jack, I stopped at my favorite coffee spot for a much needed pick-me-up. One of my favorite barristas, Annie, was working. Here was our conversation:

Annie: Hey! How's it going?

Me: The usual. You?

A: Nothing to report, really.. Well actually, I had an interview for a grown-up person job.

M: Oh really? How'd it go?

A: Not too well, I don't think..

M: What? Why?

A: Well, the interviewer was..um.. different.

M: What do you mean?

A: First of all, she did most of the talking and hardly asked any questions.

M: Not a great interviewing strategy..

A: Yeah. And when she did ask questions, they were weird ones like, 'Have you ever had a fish?' and I was like, 'Uh.. no..' and then she asked, 'Well you know what a fish looks like, right?' and I was all, 'sure', wondering where she was going. Then she took out a piece a paper and started drawing. Can I use your receipt? So on one side of the paper she drew this (drawing a fish-like scribble with teeth - totally abstract), and then asked, 'Do you know what this is?' 'Er, a piranha?' I answered. And she was like, 'Actually it's a Great White Shark.' And then on the other side of the paper she drew this (drawing another fish-like being made mostly of squares) and then she asked, 'Do you know what this is?' 'A clown fish?" I guessed. 'No. It's an angel fish. Here at our company we do NOT want a shark, nor do we want an angel fish! We want this (and she drew another fish scribble in between that looked a lot like the first fish). What do you think this one is, Annie?' And I was all, 'um..it's a,' and I must've paused too long because then she interrupted me and exclaimed, "It's a barracuda!" We want barracudas to work for us, Annie. Are you a barracuda?' And all I could think of was the song.

M: Heart!

A: Yeah. And so I think I nodded. I don't know. But after that she told me that she was looking for someone with more experience for this entry level job. I told her that I was perfect for the position and that I could definitely do a good job, even though I didn't have a lot of experience. She said she'd get back to me, but I don't know.. I wrote her a thank you note -I could really use this job - and I said something like, 'It was great meeting you! I can't wait to be your barracuda."

M: (Laughing really hard)

A: Yep. At least I got a good story out of it.. Maybe I should go to grad school.

Dogma in a Nutshell

artist: anonymous student in my class

medium: pencil and marker on scrap paper

message: metaphorical, in my opinion, but open to personal interpretation. Art is, after all, a relationship, isn't it..

Tag. you're it.

12 things that are true this week:

1. My son is one and a half years old this week.
2. My IB students aced an important and incredibly difficult assessment.
3. This assessment was given all day Friday, Saturday, and today at our district's professional development center.
4. Giving this assessment at the PDC meant I missed two days of work, even though I was working extremely hard.
5. Missing work means that the rest of my students not taking the assessment were complete asshats, which is all the administration at my school sees.
6. The babysitter has strep throat which means I'm going to miss more school to stay home with my kid, thus giving the asshats further excuse to continue their asshattery.
7. I don't care.
8. Tomorrow I have to hire a different babysitter to watch the kid for a couple of hours so that I can attend the funeral of my good friend's 21 year old son who was murdered during a random home invasion.
9. He was shot in the leg and bled out while he was being Careflighted to the hospital.
10. He was a great kid with a bright future and was engaged to be married.
11. I don't understand
12. Tonight I went in to tuck-in my baby boy; he was awake, so I rocked him, and hugged him close. He smiled up at me and my heart was warm.

Karmic Collision

I should've known yesterday that my day would be a challenge when on my drive to work a car swerved out of its lane on the highway, perpendicularly crossed two lanes of traffic, drove down a moderately steep but definitely bumpy median towards a gas station, hooked a sharp u-turn- I assume upon the realization of what speeding recklessly into a gas station truly might feel like- into oncoming traffic on the access road, and then stopped abruptly.

In that instant, my mantra turned from a zombie-esque, "coffee. coffee. coffee," to more of a horrified, "Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!"

Apparently, I was not the only one who had a reaction, as several cars had to pull over to steady themselves.. or to stop in case the imminent accident were to require witness reports. I'm not sure which. I do know that if the latter is true, I was certainly one among them since I was weighing whether or not I would be able to: a.)see a car roll 5 times across a median and render aid b.)watch a car drive into the side of a gas station, burst into flames, and then be mentally Ok at having seen that happen c.)watch a car drive headfirst into another car, an all to popular murder/suicide method in this area.

What exactly was my responsibility in a situation like this? What I really wanted to do was keep driving and pretend that nothing happened. But then I'm far too responsible (or weak depending on interpretation) to ever be the girl who drives off to cope with whatever guilty instability witnessing something like that would entail. Luckily for me there were no injuries, only a severe traffic violation. Unfortunately, however, the rest of my day picked up the slack - havoc for whatever karma didn't come around in one specific accident. Five discipline referrals and an injured body later (I fell again at school), I limped my way through my front door, stupidly dedicated to "trying again" tomorrow.

I found my brolly!

It's such a silly little proclamation, but I think the memory of it is what matters. A few years ago, I was in London by myself. I had been in Oxford for a teacher training, but returned to London to have some independent time and to make sure that I could travel without a companion, a challenge that forced me to rely on my own intuition. My London friend, Mark, with whom I visited earlier in the week, let me camp out at his house for free while he was away on business. Free was the only way I could make staying work.

But there I was, in London roaming around, blissfully lost in thought. It had sprinkled on and off as is the usual London M.O. and I stupidly hadn't remembered to pack an umbrella. When the sprinkling switched to more of a downpour, I ducked into a little shop and found a small black umbrella adorned with silver moths. The moth is my power animal insect, so the brolly - the charming nickname Brits use in lieu of the more vulgar sounding 'umbrella' - was clearly meant for me. I bought it and then hoped it would rain for the rest of my stay.

When I returned home, faced with the arid climate of Texas, I put away the umbrella for the rare rainy day. Unfortunately until today, I hadn't remembered where I stored it.

Every time rain was in the forecast, I went hunting for the brolly. Hours and hours were spent digging for and cussing over and fretting about that little umbrella, the only meaningful souvenir I had bought on that trip. It was more than a thing. It was a reminder of that specific time in my life, that journey. And I had lost it.

Today while I was looking for something in a cabinet, I spotted something silver way, way in the back. As I focused in on the silver, I realized it was a moth! My moth! I began flinging all of the clutter aside and reached for the umbrella.

"I found it! My brolly! Rich! I found it! It's here!!" And I went dancing around the house with it. The celebration went on for an hour, at least (Sorry, Rich). I may sleep with it tonight. I am so glad to have it back.

Like I said, it's silly, silly, silly, silly!

And still, I found my brolly!

Standard

We sat around the table, a blended family, which afforded everyone the opportunity to sit in awkward silence. "Happy Thanksgiving" was trailer to the shortest, most repeated conversation of the day: "Hi, I'm (so-and-so), (so-and-so's)daughter-in-law, (so-and-so's) wife, and this is my son/daughter, (so-and-so). He's (this age). Um.. Nice to meet you, too. Happy Thanksgiving."

Of course there were the standard acknowledgements - "The turkey is so moist!"; "The corn casserole is amazing, and it's just cream cheese, corn, and green chilies? Cool."; "Who made the dressing?"; "What is this, again?" and so forth.

And the standard jokes - "I wonder if we could get away with 'Turkey Treating,' going door to door with a sack for whatever people are willing to drop in.." and, "I wonder how many houses we could walk into and just serve ourselves, where the family members would whisper in the corner about who's cousin/ex/niece we were," and for both, "How many houses could we hit before we got too full?"

I suppose this is the fairly normal Thanksgiving conversation, and I don't mean to make it sound horribly generic. There is a comfort to gathering around a table and sharing a meal as tradition dictates. I love my family, the new members - the idea that really, they're accepting me into their rituals, the ones I am just now learning. But we all secretly admit that we hope something dramatic happens - something that will bond us so that next Thanksgiving, the conversation can start with, "Hi again! Remember last year when (this incredibly dramatic, gossip worthy event) happened? Yeah. That was nuts. So how have you been since then?"

Thank God for football.

Self Actualization

My very, very good "you complete me" (sign language circle) friend, Christine, sent me this portrait, supposedly of herself:

Yes, Christine. I do know what you mean..

a small list

things i do not like:
- misguided notions and selfish motives
- popping open tubes of buscuits, especially when "pressing firmly on the seam with the edge of a spoon" is required
- clutter, especially in my home
- being called "sweet" or "average"
- excuses and shoulder shrugs

things i do like:
- twilight, when Jack points to the harvest moon and exclaims, "Ball!"
- starving artists of any genre
- stilletos and sassitude
- a-ha! moments and other such clarities
- pub conversations, especially with new friends

(as inspired by Fussy Ms. Kennedy, via someone called Amanda)

You've Been Hit By a Smooth Criminal.

Apparently I am a criminal.

That's how I'm being treated, anyway. My school informed me that the Feds are fingerprinting all teachers, and my turn is tomorrow. Why is this happening, you ask? Well the answer, I think, is very simple. It's that.. (covering mouth as I mumble something incoherent) .. WHO THE HELL KNOWS? As far as I can guess, they are doing a thorough background check on each of the teachers in this country to make sure we aren't pedos or arsonists or borders crossers or something horrifying. I mean you can never tell, right? I have shifty eyes, after all..

So, of course, I immediately protested the idea. I asked questions like, "Why is the current background check not enough?" and, "What percentage of teachers are actually criminals?" and, "If there are so many shady teachers, then who the hell is doing the hiring?" followed by, "Isn't this a statement about society - that they think all teachers are criminals?" and finally, "What happens if I refuse to give up my digits?"

Only one answer was given and only to the last question. The answer was, "Your teaching certificate - the one that you earned, the one that says, "Sure I'll keep getting punched in the gut for a thankless job that no one wants unless they want to do something wussy like help society"; the one that, apparently, is very accessible to pedos - that certificate will be suspended indefinitely."

My next question was (and is) "How is this not against my fundamental rights - that you can fire me because I refuse to be fingerprinted like a criminal?" No. Answer. Just a reminder about what will happen if I don't comply. Did I mention that they're making us pay for it, too? Fortunately (and I'm saying this in the same way a person might smile as he's pouring salt into his own wound), our state is paying for our share..

Fine. So, I'm being fingerprinted tomorrow at 1:50 pm which will be a difficult task for the print taker seeing as my hands have been tied behind my back. I'll be handing a random person a form with my social security number, my drivers licence number, my birth date, my maiden name, my height and weight. Hope they don't lose it in the parking lot on the way to wherever they're going, seeing as pretty much anyone can now steal my identity at the cost of a small gust of wind, or a poorly organized clerk, or another shifty-eyed fellow.

If that weren't bad enough, I also had to declare my ethnicity on a different form, for another "information" gathering agency. This was also mandatory. I clicked the box that said, "Other." Or maybe it said, "Why does that matter/How does that effect my teaching ability?" Actually the box, according to me, said, "It's really none of your business". The drop down menu under that option gently explained that "they" will physically come and check if I choose not to declare. Fine. Again. But I'm not going to make it easy.

Musless Opinionator Reeks

So here are some things to say:

1. I'm studying MLK with my kids at school. And I love him. A lot. There are lots of "universalism's" I would love to share except that I fear that when/if I do, those ideas will be ever so politely shat upon, and yes, one can "shat" politely. Southerners are excellent at it, bless our hearts. So, instead of writing a rant I'll simply say:

*There is no excuse for violence, in word or deed. (And I would argue that words are more violent than bombs, especially reactionary, ignorant (as in without knowledge) ones.)
*There is a universal moral code and it has nothing to do with politic, race, or religion.
*People (including me) need to be more involved in standing up for people who can't or who have no voice.
*I found that I could substitute the word "impoverished" for the word "Negro" in many of King's writings and his message would be even more apt these days, though the minority message is still important.

2. I've been reading a lot: The Book Thief, Ethan Frome, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and now Perfume. The Unbearable Lightness of Being stunned me. My brain can't move forward after reading that book for some reason which may be why I've been at a blog loss. The Book Thief is excellent.. until the very last line. It ruined the book for me. Ethan Frome was interesting in the "longing aspect". Stephanie Meyer is also excellent at teasing the reader with unconsummated relationships. But killing oneself by sledding into a tree? COME. ON. There are better ways, Edith Wharton. There are better ways. Perfume is interesting. I was not at all concerned about the movie, so we'll see if the book stands up. I suppose reading MLK makes everything else seem petty..

3. Rush Limbaugh used to be the devil. Now the devil is Glenn Beck. It's weird how quickly the devil can change forms.

4. Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. Some are upset by that and/or say he doesn't deserve it. I think we (me included) don't realize how much America (and I mean Americans, not just politicians) has hurt other nations. We're just now realizing how absolutely shitty we've been. Actually, I hope we are beginning to realize how absolutely shitty we've been and I hope we can recover from it..

5. I love U2. Jerry Jones made a stadium (at the expense of too many families who were displaced) that made the greatest band in the world sound bad. That mixed with the fact that those around me asked me to sit down for the show, made it the worst U2 show I've seen. I didn't realize that the etiquette for attending a ROCK show was akin to being pew-bound in the Baptist Church, tapping your toes, listening to the feature vocalist sing, enjoying the music and then wondering whether or not it is appropriate to clap for fear that God , or worse, the congregation, would judge you for being too enthusiastic. Being true to form, I stood the whole time.. in stiletto heels.. just to make a point. Still, the worst U2 concert is better than the best any-other-show I've ever attended.

And on and on and on.

Another Day at the Coffee House

I had about fifteen minutes before I was due at the sitter's to pick up Jack and resume my role as working mom. Because I allow myself some time to detox - as in to take the toxins out of my body left there by the strain of 150 other parents' kids needing my attention RIGHT NOW - I decided that breathing at the coffee house would be the least I could do. This was, of course,under the condition that I do homework as I breathed.

I ordered my coffee and looked for a seat. The only one available was across from a man who kept trying to catch my attention. You know what it's like - the stare and smirk that begs a person to look him square in the face. I wasn't trying to be unfriendly. And on my off Thursday*, I would've chatted with him. But I just needed to be invisible for fifteen glorious minutes.

I did my best to avoid his gaze. I sat down, took out my Hemingway and a pencil, placed my makeshift bookmark on the table (real bookmarks are too cliche), and tried to look busy. Importantly so.

It didn't work.

"So, it's pretty hot out there," he tried.

I looked up, trying to wipe the annoyance off my brow. "Yeah. It is."

"Did you order a hot drink on such a hot day?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, "It makes me feel more studious." I lifted my Hemingway to show him that I was working, in hopes that he would get the message.

It didn't work.

"Luckily my favorite drink is cold."

"That must be difficult in the winter," I remarked, trying not to add too much sarcasm in my inflection.

"Nah," he said. "I have a favorite hot drink, too, so it's good."

I looked him square in the eye. He wasn't an unattractive man, and he seemed really friendly. I wondered if he thought he could pick up a girl at a coffee house on a Tuesday afternoon. It seemed an unusual tactic, but then I had been out of that game for quite some time. In fact, I'm not sure I had ever truly played that game. I smirked at the thought of him trying to talk to me. If he knew about me - about the fact that I'm married, that I have a small son, that I'm a work-a-holic, a teacher no less - then he wouldn't be so friendly, would he? Or would he?
We were just talking about drinks, after all. It wasn't like he was soliciting anything else. And by anything else, I mean a product of some sort - Tupperware or a donation to his church's building fund. Maybe the fact was he was simply friendly. But that doesn't exist, does it?

My fifteen minutes were up. I had to go. As I packed my bag, I tried to get his attention to say good-bye, though it felt really awkward. I stared at the side of his face trying to get his attention. He did not look up.

He had gotten the hint.


*when, after school, Rich gives me a huge break by allowing me to grade or read or write or breathe while he takes care of Jack