Half Truth+Half Untruth=Happy "Liars"

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 138

Books

I'm a book snob.
There. I said it.
And it's kind of about time.

I've always loved reading. In fact, when I was twelve I decided that I was literary. I picked up Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls and Faulkner's As I Lay Dying and read them cover to cover. I had no idea what they are about. I still don't know. I don't really like either of those authors as a grown-up (except for Hemingway's short stories - they're divine! Oh, and Faulker's.. Nope. I have no love for his writing. I understand why he was so thirsty, those novels stuck in his throat.) The point is I read them. I made definitive decisions about them - "I disliked those particular classics", I said to myself, nose in the air- and I would continue to devour books and judge them as AMAZING pieces of literature or not so amazing ones. All of them continue to be stored on my bookshelves, regardless of my opinions, as sort of trophies. I never had any other kind that I cared about as much.

Caring is the other part. I tend to form relationships with my books. I hug them (in public, even. I'm not ashamed). I lovingly dog-ear them. I underline my favorite parts. I annotate them, personalize them, write in the margins, add poems and pictures to them, and even cry when I finish them because I miss them. I write about them.

When people find out I'm a literature teacher (as opposed to an English teacher, which is my formal, personally renounced title), they often ask me which book is my favorite. That question makes me incredibly uncomfortable because I feel like I'm betraying my good friends by answering it. I can't even narrow it down to a particular genre. All I can do is list some particular books that resonate with me right now.

I'll share a few with you:
The God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy
The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera
The Portable Dorothy Parker
Dress Your Family in Corduroy - David Sedaris
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo - Stieg Larson
Middlesex - Jeffery Eugenides
The Red Tent - Anita Diamant
Cunt - Inga Musico
Slughterhouse V - Kurt Vonnegut
Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Morning in the Burned House - Margaret Atwood
American Primitive - Mary Oliver
The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
The Awakening - Kate Chopin
The Miracle of Mindfulness - Thich Nhat Han

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Books, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Beans and Potatoes

I don't really have anything to say about potatoes except for YUMMMMMM. Pretty much any way they come I love 'em.

As for beans, here's my favorite recipe (like the Cowboys like 'em)

Mom's Pinto Beans

Ingredients:

Bag of pintos (rinsed and soaked overnight)
1 onion (chopped)
6-8 strips of bacon (cut into 3rds)
1 jalapeno pepper (end cut off)
salt and pepper to taste

Instructions:
Put soaked beans into a crock pot, throw in bacon, onion, jalapeno, and cover with water. Let cook on medium all day long (6 hours), until beans are brown and soft.

Hints:
Sometimes when I feel particularly zany, I add a little bit of garlic salt.
If you bake some cornbread (for soppin' up the gravy), and slice some sharp cheddar, you've got a hearty, tasty, Cowboy pleasin' meal!!!


P.S. Why, dearest British friends, are beans served with break-y in your country? I've always found that to be one of the most unusual cultural differences between us.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic ( Beans and Potatoes, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Criminal - A Smooth One

The crazy kids in the LBC (see below) tasked us with the job of writing something brilliant for the topic "Criminal." It turns out that much like I can't hear the word "chaotic" and not think of Brittany Spears, I can't hear the word "criminal" and not think of Michael Jackson, followed by a brief synapse blast to the Alien Ant Farm file in my brain, and then back to the king of pop. It always goes in that order: Jackson, Ant Farm, Jackson. And then if I allow myself more than a second of associations, my mind goes here:

My cousin, Krisiti, was a cheerleader in high school. (Sorry, rough segue I know, but it will all become clear soon). Actually, she was a cheerleader and homecoming queen and competed in various team sports and creative problem solving competitions, and I'm 97% certain she actually hung the moon. Next to her, I was some Virginia Wolf character, all plain and mousy, who was made fun of for committing unpopular crimes such as playing with dolls until I was 13 and caring about Olympic figure skating. I say that in jest, with only a tweak of resentment, knowing now that my personality was simply shy in comparison to hers. The point is, I adored Krisiti in the same way that Robin adored Batman. Kristi was my hero. I wanted to be like her. So when we went to visit her in Small Town, Texas I spent much of my waking moments with her, and she was sweet enough to include me, her younger, reclusive cousin.

In small town, Texas, one spends her free time in one of three ways:
1.Makin' the drag - (driving from one end of town to the other and back (usually a distance of about two miles), stopping for a "town coke" (a soda with ice and a straw) and conversation at the drive-in)
2. Drinkin' (alcohol in copious amounts)*
3. Knockin' boots (also in copious amounts)**

Because, as I've said, I was of a more meek stock than many of my teenage counterparts, Kristi and I spent a lot of time makin' the drag. We'd buy vanilla cokes and ride around town sipping them and talking about Kristi's fabulous life. I seem to remember doing this while listening to "Smooth Criminal", Michael Jackson's version. It was sort of a sound track to that time in my life. I remember those times fondly in sepia tones.

I wish I could flesh out some more detail regarding these memories, but the truth is I'm not sure there is a whole lot more to them. They weren't earth shattering, nor are they particularly mention-worthy.

So that's it.

That's what my brain does when someone says the word, "criminal".

*addendum - shooting guns is also popular, tied in popularity with drinking alcohol
**clarification - for those of you are not familiar with US idioms, this means having sex and is usually followed by someone winking, and saying "Aw yeah."

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Crime or Criminal, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Judgement

In lieu of posting my personal, "poor me" Consortium piece that I composed for the topic, "judgement," I've decided to share this apt op ed instead:
My Take: Christian politicians should start acting Christian
Editor's Note: Richard T. Hughes is Distinguished Professor of Religion at Messiah College and author of Christian America and the Kingdom of God.
By Richard T. Hughes, Special to CNN

Let me be frank from the outset: A great cultural divide is ripping the heart from this nation and Christians are partly responsible.

I say that because 83% of the American people claim to be Christians. If those Christians lived as they are taught to live by the teacher they claim to follow, the American public square would be a very different kind of place.

If one reads the New Testament—the charter for the Christian religion—one can discover rather quickly what that tradition is all about.

Jesus tells his followers to tell the truth.

Jesus tells his followers to make peace.

Jesus tells his followers to turn the other cheek.

Jesus tells his followers to bless those who persecute them and pray for those who misuse them.

Jesus tells his followers to extend justice, especially to the poor and the dispossessed.

Jesus tells his followers to serve as bridge-builders and agents of reconciliation.

And Jesus tells his followers to love one another, even their enemies.

But based on their words and behavior, we may safely conclude that many of the Christians who dominate America’s public square routinely reject the teachings of Jesus, in spite of their claims to the contrary.

Sharron Angle, for example, wants to be the next U. S. Senator from Nevada. She founded a Christian school but casually announces that “the nation is arming” since “if we don’t win at the ballot box, what will be the next step?” For Angle, that next step is clear: those who oppose the current administration may “have to fight for their liberty in more Second Amendment kinds of ways.” In other words, if the ballot fails, the bullet is the next best hope.

Sarah Palin is open about her allegiance to the Christian faith, but routinely trades in sarcasm, deceptions and lies about her political opposition. During the health care debate, she repeated over and again the falsehood that “the sick, the elderly, and the disabled . . . will have to stand in front of Obama’s ‘death panel’ so his bureaucrats can decide . . . whether they are worthy of health care.”

Newt Gingrich trumpets his allegiance to the Christian religion and writes about the role of the Christian faith in American history. He also knows that Barack Obama is a Christian. Yet he shamelessly denounces Obama as “secular”—a term Gingrich defines as an “outlook [that] does not acknowledge God.”
No wonder that some Tea Partiers claim—as one woman put it—that “we are losing our country; we think the Muslims are moving in and taking over; we do not believe our president is a Christian.”

Glenn Beck warned a national television audience to “look for the words ‘social justice’ or ‘economic justice’ on your church Web site. If you find it, run as fast as you can,” adding that those terms are code words for communism and nazism. Surely Beck knows that there is no theme more central to biblical faith than social and economic justice for the poor, but still he is willing to distort the Christian religion for cheap political gain.

Ann Coulter promotes herself as a representative of the Christian religion. Yet, Coulter claimed after September 11, 2001 that the United States “should invade their countries [Muslim nations], kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity.”

When public figures like these so completely diminish the Christian faith, it is hardly surprising that grassroots believers often engage in similar distortions of the Christian religion.

Some Christians at anti-Obama rallies have displayed signs that proclaim, “Since 1630: Bible hugging! Gun toting! Red Blooded American Against Tyranny.” Or another: “I will keep my freedom, my Bible, my gun, and my money.”

When Christians so widely and publicly embrace such blatant distortions of the Christian religion, they abandon one of the roles they might have played in America’s public square: fostering civility and dialogue and building lasting bridges of reconciliation.

But civility and respect have been all but lost in contemporary American politics. Alan Keyes, for example, has proclaimed that “Obama is a radical communist.” And one of the signs that routinely appears at anti-Obama rallies shows the President wearing a Nazi uniform and doing a Hitler salute. Another sign reads, “Barack Hussein Obama: the New Face of Hitler.” Those kinds of accusations are nothing short of slander.

The issue I am raising has nothing to do with whether one is a Republican, a Democrat, a Tea Partier, or an independent. Neither political conservatives nor political liberals have a monopoly on this kind of behavior, though in recent months conservatives opposed to Barack Obama have been especially guilty.

Yet the issue I am raising ultimately has nothing to do with whether one likes or dislikes Barack Obama. The issue has to do with Christians behaving like Christians and thereby telling the truth, doing justice, and promoting basic respect for other human beings.

After all, since 83% of the American population identifies with the Christian religion, that 83% could make an enormous difference in the tone of American politics if those Christians actually practiced what they profess to believe. They could also make a positive difference in American politics if they held other Christians accountable when they engage in deception and slander in order to score political points.

America’s churches and their pastors therefore have a grave responsibility: to urge their members to serve the public square as peacemakers, as truth-tellers, as people devoted to justice, and as men and women who are actually willing to practice what Jesus taught. If America’s churches refuse to take up this task—which, after all, is a task that is central to the Christian calling—the consequences for our country could be dire, indeed.
(Thanks to my friend (and minister-to-be), Evie for bringing this to my attention.)

Anniversaries

My mother-in law, Donna, is really good at them.

Evidence:
Donna keeps a calendar in her kitchen that lists every one's birthday, anniversary, doctor's appointment, and other events/occasions. This is not a small feat. Donna has four grown children, three of whom are married, and five grandchildren from those unions. On top of that since we are a "blended family", she also considers her husband's children and his grandchildren as part of her brood. So that's additionally two grown children, both married, and three more grand kids. If I'm doing my math right - and believe me, I need help - that makes 19 birthdays to remember (20 including my father-in-law's), six wedding anniversaries (including her own) to celebrate, and other events/occasions - the extended family's birthdays and anniversaries for example.

The crazy thing is, she never misses anything. For every occasion we can count on receiving a card and a phone call. That means that she plans/schedules "sending" dates to make sure everyone is honored on the appropriate days! That takes organization and coordination - both talents that I lack. She's a star!

In contrast, I am horrible at them.

Evidence:
I still have not delivered/completed all of my Christmas presents from December. I can barely remember my own wedding anniversary much less someone else's. I have never in my life sent anyone else an anniversary card. If you get a birthday card from me, it is usually late. This year (and I'm ashamed to admit it), I gave my husband an "interactive" Father's Day card. That means I bought it at the last minute and wrote in it as we were on a date. He had gone to get drinks and returned before I had finished composing the message.. Thus, we both wrote in the card. Interactive. In hindsight it was kind of a cool idea but totally and shamefully impromptu.

The good news is Rich (my husband) is as forgetful about important dates as I am. In fact, this year on our wedding anniversary he jokes that "we'll celebrate by being in two different towns." He has to be away for work. It hadn't occurred to me that on our anniversary he'll be away. I hadn't even remembered that our anniversary is in the summer. (sigh)

But it's ok. Specific dates elude us, but everyday feels important to us. Essentially, everyday we celebrate each other. How could an anniversary of any kind or a birthday or holiday be more important than all of the other days we get to be together?

That's what I'm telling myself, at least, until I remember to buy a damn kitchen calendar.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Anniversaries, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Letters

I recently saw the film Letters to Juliet (as in Capulet) which was every bit as girly and sappy and swoony as I expected it to be. Of course there was a happy ending - birds chirped and deer ate out of my hand Disney style. But that's not what I thought was interesting.

I'm not sure if it exists or not. I haven't done any formal research. And though I've been to Italy, I've never been to Verona to actually see if Juliet's balcony and the wall leading to the balcony actually exists. Until now, I had never considered that Shakespeare wrote his his play based on anything except pure fantasy. I do know that Romeo and Juliet is not among the group of plays deemed by academics "The Historical Plays" like Macbeth or Richard III. Honestly, I never really cared at all about whether or not there truly were Capulets or Montagues. The story, though interesting, just isn't that good, especially compared with the genius of Lear.

The interesting thing about Letters to Juliet is that the entire story depends on the idea that there is such a thing as Juliet's balcony and that women from all over the world write letters about their love lives or lack thereof and ask for Juliet's advice by placing their letters between the bricks and mortar in the wall that Romeo would've climbed to get to the balcony.

Of course we understand that Juliet can't answer - she very literally guts herself with Romeo's dagger when she awakens from her death-like slumber in the tomb and sees that Romeo is really dead thanks to one of the worst miscommunications in Western history. It's her spirit that is supposed to answer. That and four women who have taken it upon themselves to collect the letters daily and write responses to those who are heartbroken, indecisive, confused, and/or afraid.

That's the part I like.

The Juliet club answers letters in an effort to support these women in the spirit of Juliet, the one who abandoned her entire being to love and who both learned and taught a valuable lesson about the consequences of decisions we make. It's Ann Landers meets romance, but in a much more passionate venue. Ah Italy... (swoon)

It's a terribly romantic idea, I think.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Letters, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

The In(essential) Items that I've Collected

Dolls, rocks, plush character house shoes, stickers, coins.
Letters, poems, pictures, passport stamps.
Bumper stickers, concert t- shirts, "flair".
Pens, warm fuzzies, bad poetry.
Love notes.
Mismatched drinking glasses and coffee mugs, hand-me-down furniture.
Clothes that used to fit.
Cats.
Beer steins, mascara, stilettos, classics.
Confidence.
Tattoos.
Fridge Magnets.
Blogs.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (The Inessential Items We Collect, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

paraNormal

I used to fervently pray that God wouldn't send me an angel. That's why She must have chuckled to herself on the day She actually sent one and I didn't mind so much. In fact, I was grateful. God has a sense of humor like that.
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The study session had gone as well as can be expected. My history final was the next day and for the first time in all of my college history classes, I liked the professor and the class. The class was small - only 30 people or so - as opposed to the huge auditorium classes that seated 250 students, the ones where teaching assistants are assigned to and responsible for students numbers 28385 - 28523 and are supposed to take roll and grade exams while the fat professor stands at his podium and drolls on about American baseball, Roosevelt being the best president, and what a disaster it was when women got the right to vote.

My small class was fun. The professor lectured, yes, but he also welcomed discussion. I was hooked. Oh, and there was a cute boy in the class who sat by me and happened to be my study buddy. In fact the night before the exam, we had been studying together in my dorm room. I noticed my friend was not feeling well. Even though he smiled and flirted, trying his best to come across as "fine", it was clear that he needed to wrap up the study session and go home. We did. I went over my notes one last time, and fell asleep confident that the test would be, at the very least, manageable.
_______________________________________________________

I don't remember much of the next day. I remember sitting in the test room, the walls spinning. My friend was absent. I knew if he felt half of what I was feeling - nauseous, hot, delirious, like my head was a boulder balancing precariously on a flimsy twig - there was no way he should be there. Half-way through the exam I was struck with an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. This was my last exam of the semester. I couldn't make my pen move. I had put my head down on the desk and couldn't seem to pick it up. I may have been crying. I remember closing my eyes and opening them, not knowing how much time had passed.

Somehow, I stood up and handed in my test, most of it blank paper, mostly unfinished. I remember standing in front of the professor,seeing only his glasses and eyes, hearing him mumble a question, something about me being ok. I don't recall if I answered. The next thing I remember was standing outside of the lecture hall. I couldn't remember where I lived. I didn't know in what direction I should walk. It was getting dark outside.

That's when I met an angel.
_________________________________________________________
There are so many interpretations of what angels are. Some believe that angels are glorious beings - warriors and messengers - light shining around them, the boldness of the Spirit coursing through them. They are immaculate, bearers of fanfare and majesty. Some believe that angels are beings that kneel prostrate to Man. They might have been first drafts of humankind, but were not given free will and are, therefore, more like servants. In any case, they can come in any form - cherubim, seraphim, burning bushes, lightning, dreams.

Mine came in the form of a young female voice.
__________________________________________________________
As I stood outside of the lecture hall helpless, a girl my age addressed me. She said, "Hey, I think we live in the same dorm. Coleman Hall, right?" I assume I nodded. She said, "I'll walk with you."

I remember feeling a little less distraught in that moment. I do not recall speaking to her, nor do I remember the path we took to get home. I don't remember her form, other than I recognized that it was similar to mine. I had obviously never met her, but I trusted her. She did not glow or carry armour. I'm not sure she was truly physically there.
___________________________________________________________
My fever was 105 - dangerous. There was talk of going to the hospital. For three days I was confined to my bed. A nasty virus was going around we learned later.

I ended up making a B in the history class; the professor obviously had mercy on me. I have no idea who the girl was that led me home. Whether truly a messenger of God or no, I can say with some certainty that she was heaven sent.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Paranormal, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Solitude.

Solitude is and has always been a bit elusive for me. When I think about the times of solitude in my life they come in the form of journal and pen, the practice of reflection and writing being my form of meditation since I was a little kid. Rarely, however, have I intentionally spent time in solitude.

A few years ago I began reading books by Thich Nhat Hanh, and I would retreat to my back porch with book, journal, and pen to meditate and reflect. These were lovely times, and I applauded my dedication. I felt really good, and these reflective times helped my to change my outlook on my mental state, my physical state, my relationships, and my connection to the world around me.

The second I got pregnant the first time the meditation waned. My attention was elsewhere - mommy books, mommy worries, expectations, redefinitions, finances, etc. There was no time for Ginger because Ginger no longer existed as she had before. My body was different, too. In hosting life to another being, I was transformed, and nothing was about me any more. Thich Nhat Hanh would've been disappointed that his student didn't heed his words of wisdom - that the practice of meditation doesn't have to be in silence or in stillness, it is not contingent upon immutability, and it doesn't have to be devoid of anxieties. Actually, he wouldn't be disappointed. He is patient..

After I miscarried, I stopped my meditations all together.

What I found was that solitude was dangerous, predatory, an invitation to self loathing, and I couldn't possibly subject myself to it. Self preservation.

A month after I lost the baby, I traveled to London by myself. The trip had been planned long before I was pregnant. The plan had been altered slightly because I was pregnant, and then it became a personal mile stone - a mountain to climb to prove that I could do it - a month before I left. The trip became my life's exodus. In London, I was forced into solitude. I had tons of reflection time - on the plane, on the train, on the Underground, at meal times, in the park, everywhere, all the time. Instead of taking time to heal, I distracted myself - happily - making new friends, roaming around the city, visiting new places, pubs, punting.. I wrote about these things. I blogged about them. I had an incredible time being someone else - no more personal stuff - no more Ginger.

I got back home and turned around and went to Alaska a few days later. Same story, different place. I came home and promptly flew to New York for work. I had an incredible time! I was being very successful at distracting myself. I was happy!

And then work started, I got pregnant again and had the baby - Jack . He turns two today!

I haven't stopped running.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Solitude, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Speechless

So, until people are one or two years old, they are quite literally speechless. Watching a baby learn language is, in my opinion, one of the most fascinating and rewarding parts of parenthood. That is until something like this happens..

And then you're the speechless one.

Sorry Ahh Shit.. I mean.. Aunt Shugs!! We love both you and Uh Oh.. er.. Uncle Dutch!

Voices I (hope to always) Recall

I'm going to miss my International Baccalaureate class dearly. They are graduating seniors and are off to college next year. This week ends our two year journey together, and I am incredibly humbled by their gratitude and appreciation. I love them. A lot.

As a concluding assignment, I asked my kids to write "This I Believe" essays (in the same form as NPR's 1950's program) - Christine's brilliant (as usual) idea. All of the essays are special - inspirational and personal - because they define what's important to the kids right here, right now. One of my kids, Lauren, wrote a particularly insightful essay about the importance of internationalism, especially regarding education. Her words are poignant and universal. Please enjoy this incredible wisdom from an 18 year old kid:

When I started high school, I was basically a loser. I wanted to get in and out as soon as possible, putting in the minimum effort. I didn't think I had much to learn. I could read and write and I knew what I thought about, well, everything. I knew what was right and what was wrong and what needed to change in the world. I still have a moral code. I know what needs to change. But everything else is different.

I started in International Baccalaureate (IB) flat-out disagreeing with a lot of people in it. With their ideologies, political views, study habits even. I also started out wanting to get my diploma basically to prove that I could. I still thought I knew everything, and after two years of the same ole, I figured I needed to do something challenging before I died of apathy.

And now? I still disagree with a lot of people about a lot of things, but my beliefs - and how I view theirs - have altered drastically.

This I believe - if we are to achieve world peace, we must first seek world education. Universal teaching, not necessarily of the same curriculum, but of the same ideal: that people must learn how to think. They must learn to think for themselves, and they must learn to question those thoughts. Every culture in the world gives their children a different beginning. Every country, every village, every family. Each child begins with a foundation, but to question it, examine it.. And to be willing to change it.. How we know what we know?- Theory of Knowledge (TOK) asks. And that's the most important question anyone will ever be posed.

I don't care if every kid learns Mandarin because that's not really the universal language, is it? There will always be translators of words. The hardest thing is to translate thoughts. Beliefs. How do other people think? Where are they coming from? Where are they standing? A lot of wars have been fought over that kind of translation.

I started out headstrong, and I ended up in love with diversity. I'm pretty much a firm believer in learning through experience. I feel like if every student spent two years in class next to a girl as lovely and compassionate as my friend, Yassmin, there would be fewer idiots in the hallways telling jokes at her expense. I believe that if one in a hundred classes could include the incredible variety of human thought that each and every one of ours does - this is what we do where I'm from; this is what my religion says; this is how we think differently, and the same - there would be a lot fewer hate crimes and stupid remarks and just horrible ignorance in general. There are kids in this country, state, and city who barely even see people of a different ethnicity on a daily basis. How on earth are we supposed to be a global community if we don't even get what our neighbors are saying?

I really didn't care when I began this programme. And then it started to sink in: what IB means, and through that, what education means. And I started to care. I know other apathetic students could, too. I believe that if everyone had to go through this - essentially write a college-level thesis in high school, have discussions in every class, research and study with every resource available like their lives depended on it - they would love learning, or at least take a little pride in their educations. I believe that no one would ever fault their child for wanting a college degree, or two, or four, nor would they confuse academia with elitism.

So, yes, I believe in IB. Me, my classmates, my teachers - we could really change the world because whether we realize it or not, we know what to do. I believe in education and yes, even TOK. I believe in myself, and I believe in all of the future CEO's and presidents, and diplomats I share math class with.

This I believe.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Voices I Recall, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Lost

"Do you want to stand in the shade, Pale One?" I asked as we waited. I waved Christine out of the sun and motioned towards my sliver of shade.

"Naw, I'm good," she said, looking at her arms. "Probably this is good for me."

The plain white sign on the door read, "Gone for oysters - Be back in an hour," and was signed by someone of importance, I assumed, though the scribble was fairly illegible. In any case, I didn't have the patience to read the scribble on sign that basically assumed I would have the fortitude to endure the humid Texas heat, the sun blaring down its stifling inferno, for an hour. Plus we had gone and come back an hour ago, more or less, and were no longer amused by the idea of oyster eaters at a tattoo parlor.

There were six of us standing there, sizing each other up. By far, Christine and I were the oldest ones there and probably the only ones with steady salaries and retirement plans. "Kids," I thought. "I wonder if they're old enough to be here?" That's when they struck up a brief conversation:

"Are you here to get a tattoo?" a girl began as she squinted up at me. I wasn't sure what she meant by the question which in my head sounded awfully like, "Are you here to get a tattoo? You seem pretty old. Maybe you're here to sell someone a time share in Florida, the land of retirees. The dry cleaners next door has old people in it. Try there." I forced my lips into a smile.

"Um. Well yeah. I mean I'm adding to one I already have.. So.. is this place worth the wait?"

"Yeah," a boy said, "Absolutely."

The girl continued, "I got my first one here, and see? Look at the work they do. It's amazing." I glanced at the tattoo on the girl's arm and nodded. "I got mine done by Ian," she squealed.

"And Crush did mine," the boy said.

"My first one was done by Crush, but I think Bones is the best," said another one. They all nodded in agreement. "Who do you want to do yours?"

As I looked at the faces of the kids in front of me, I wondered what the hell I was doing there.
"I don't know," I sighed.

I reasoned that I was the only one rational enough to know what I wanted - truly - in a respectable, mature sense. I have lived long enough to understand that body art is forever, and that when parts of my body start to sag, the art will sag too. That's why I had chosen to adorn a strategically firm location. I had even remembered to wear a pretty bra knowing that I would have to pull my shirt off, and I had planned some witty repartee regarding my pregnancy stretch marks. That's what mature people do, isn't it? We rationalize, convince ourselves of something, overcompensate for our flaws, and make excuses.. Right?

Who was I kidding?

I had decided that the kids in front of me were the immature ones when they were more comfortable in their skin than I will ever be. They were ok with waiting for how ever long it took because time didn't really matter to them. They weren't treating me like a lost grown-up aimlessly roaming on their turf. I had projected that. They were not looking down their noses at me. I was at them.

I was done waiting at that realization. I turned around and walked to the car, overcompensating for my embarrassment, my excuse being that waiting for wayward oyster eaters was stupid.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Lost, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Modern Myths: The American Dream

One of my favorite modern myths is the idea that everyone can (and should aim to) attain "The American Dream." Simply defined, the American Dream is the notion that if one works hard enough, no matter his beginnings, he can someday own a suburban home, a white picket fence emphasizing the manicured, weedless lawn. He can wear comfy slippers on Sunday mornings while reading the funnys, smoking a pipe (or vehemently not, depending on the decade), and watching the little ones frolic to and fro. The missus - the love of his life who is 40% homemaker and 60% sexy - is in the kitchen whipping up pancakes and bacon, stopping occasionally to kiss him on the forehead or to remind him about their social commitments - the bunko game at the Smith's or something. Of course there would be work the next morning at a job that would warrant a decent amount of complaining, but only enough to appear confident, productively opinionated, and/or wise so that the next rung on the ladder to a management position might be easily surmounted.

This 1950's, post World War ideal is both antiquated and far fetched. It never really existed in the first place, not to mention the fact that the image was only represented by a single prototype: male and white. Those who have attained what they deem the American Dream tend to snidely look down their noses at people who haven't, yet. They ask brutal questions like, "Why should our tax dollars pay for those who are too lazy to work?" or "Why should we have to take care of immigrants who take our jobs and our land? Tell them to go back to their own countries."

These folks did not take into account variations in pre-American Dream status such as:

Education - This is not only a question of did one go to school and for how long, but in what environment (safe, welcoming, encouraging, intellectual), with what resources (school supplies, lab equipment, healthy lunches), and with what community support (family - mom and dad, especially - and friends)?

Resources - Having money within the existing family initially gives one an automatic leg up. It also allows for more cultural/educational experiences, hobnobbing with important connections, and time (as in you may not have to have an after school job to eat, so you get to spend time having cultural experiences and hobnobbing).

Opportunity - tied to education, culture, friends, and resources

Culture - Is English one's first language? If not, strike one. It certainly makes education more difficult, not to mention finding a job and/or hobnobbing.

Sex - Men still have the advantage.

Luck - plain and simple

These variations, among hundreds of others make the myth that The American Dream is attainable for everyone completely ridiculous. More ludicrous is the idea that some deserve it more than others as a God-given reward for being righteous (of the Christian variety, of course), a very popular belief here in the South. Also, this dream promotes individuality, a trait that, in my opinion, is contrary to human nature.

It is exceedingly rare for folks to break away from the familiar lifestyles and into the upper echelon of the dream. That said, in the same breath I have to also mention that we have it a lot better here than in most places in the world. Our poverty level, though devastating, compared to other countries is minor. Our poor can find food. That, perhaps, is the legitimate American Dream.

Whenever I feel confronted by the elitists who still find ways to demean the downtrodden, I remember Martin Luther King Jr.'s comment (and I'm paraphrasing) that it is completely unfair to ask a man to pull himself up by his bootstraps when he has no boots. King also related that the suburbs are a bane to society, anyway, simply because people can climb into their cars and drive away from the burden of poverty. I think of Lot's wife - the one who has no name and who, therefore, represents any person, who was too caught up in the luxuries of Gomorrah to leave without looking back. She turned into a pillar of salt.

So here we sit - waiting for and working towards attaining some mythical, material American dream. I'm not saying that it's poor form to have money or to want to climb ladders. I am saying that humility is necessary in the ascent, as is helping others without condemnation. Community is essential.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Modern Myths, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

I just hate it when..

..my agenda is so full (of good lovely happenings and chores) that I have to reduce my life to bullet points:

*Magazine publishing in the works
*International baccalaureate testers testing
*Senior failure list changes
*Seniors whining about being on the senior failure list
*Seniors begging for redoes on all assignments
*Caving in and allowing them to redo whatever
*Grading redoes
*Magazine release party planning in the works
*Cap and Gown disbursement
*The actual planning and teaching part of my job
*Quick, spontaneous week end vacay (:)) Hooray!
*More grading
*Senior Events: farewell celebrations, projects, exams, prom, graduation practice, graduation (they've voted me to read names.. yay..(sigh))
*Multiple family visits: in-laws, step in-laws, brothers, mothers, and dads, all on different dates (the beauty of being in a blended (butchered?) family)

And then summer where (hopefully) I can work on the writing project I want to do.

But maybe being busy to the point of exhaustion is a good thing?

Independence v. Freedom

Christine and I had just driven into the big city in bumper to bumper traffic after a quickly devoured dinner and a sloppy 'distract and run' toddler maneuver. We had worked all day during what most educators in Texas formally call "the week we attempted to bring down democracy (against our wills) thanks to fat cat capitalists and a deal they made with the devil," also known as, "the demise of public education in America." (Most people, though, know it as the week of TAKS* testing.) And here we were, tripping our way into an unfamiliar auditorium, preparing ourselves for what we hoped would be a grain of inspiration.

We settled in to listen to Dr. Diane Ravitch, author of The Death and Life of the Great American System when we bumped into friends, Irina and Paula. We know these incredibly intelligent and insightful women from the Friday Night Salon group we sometimes attend. We sat down next to them and after settling in I brought up our consortium topic for this week and hoped for their input as, of course, they would have something brilliant to include. Rather than trying to write my way through sporadic dialogue and note passing during the event, I decided, instead, to show you my scattered notes:

The top half obviously is our thoughts on independence (note that I accidentally wrote independent at first - Freudian slip, as Irina pointed out). Freedom is at the bottom. Oddly, as we were brainstorming I decided that both words have negative connotations to me. Independence often leads to lessons learned in literature. Freedom has become a buzzword for American everything. We throw it around like it's cheap and most of the time use it in instances of blind patriotism. "I've never had an independence fry," Irina pointed out, grinning.

*Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills
This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Independence v. Freedom, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

If I could be anything, I would be..

...an artist. Any kind: writer, musician, painter, or photographer... Here's why:
True artists immerse themselves in their creativity, reposing with their muses for a while, feeling their souls break free from their bodies through extensions of their instruments be they pens, pianos, paints, or pictures. How incredible it must be to linger in that space, even if it is uncomfortable. They are risk takers in several ways both physically and emotionally. They push people to reflect about their own lives and invite souls to connect to theirs making them (and us) completely vulnerable. They open fire doors.

I've been thinking about my job - English teacher - a lot lately. I realize how much of my life is consumed by my job, how much I mercilessly give to that profession, and I pray that it's the right thing to do. I hope that my investment is somehow sacred or at least worthy. Otherwise, what the hell am I doing? I love being a teacher, though bureaucracy and money make my job just shy of impossible to do well. I don't care if my students love literature or even reading for that matter. What I do hope for is that they:

1. Learn to weigh their decisions judiciously with the understanding that every decision they make affects something/someone else.

2. Learn that people are people and that none are better than others, that sometimes circumstance affords people opportunities that others do not have and sometimes circumstances are just absolute shit. No matter what, there are people in worse places and ones in better ones. Life isn't fair and we shouldn't form opinions about people or circumstance without considering the truth of this.

3. Learn to effectively communicate with each other via speaking, writing, art, or any other medium they can come up with. This means understanding and implementing "the basics" of reading and writing at the very least, and at the very most creating poetry*.

4. Spend time in mature, honest reflection and form fair, cogent arguments or representations of their ideas to share with others.

5. Learn to think. Period. Especially in a world that is so eager and easy to manipulate..

I happen to use literature as a medium to get them recognize these things. In presenting my understandings of characters and situations, writings and interpretations, I become vulnerable to them and them to me. In this way, I am an artist.

However, I'm so tired. They take too much.

So, really if I could be anything, I would choose something else. Something that doesn't depend on the success or failure of another human - something with less responsibility.. A house cat maybe, or a tree.

* Poetry in this case means, "an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound, and rhythmic language choices so as to evoke an emotional response. Poetry has been known to employ meter and rhyme, but this is by no means necessary. Poetry is an ancient form that has gone through numerous and drastic reinvention over time. The very nature of poetry as an authentic and individual mode of expression makes it nearly impossible to define."

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (If I could be anything, I would be.., this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

(im)maturity

Maturity - I have none.

It comes (or probably 'goes is the better term) with the job. I am currently- at this very moment- sitting in a high school writing lab with my literary magazine staff who are lovely, mostly vegan, free spirits. We are on deadline, working furiously late into the afternoon so that we can get the mag to the printer by Monday. We've had coffee and soy milk, peanut free, gluten free, egg-less cookies, and we're just about delirious with our work. Here are brief snippets of random conversations going on around the room:

"The first line of that song makes me feel purple."

"Do you guys want to see a video of me and my friend lip-syncing to a French song?"

(A student is in the middle of a joke until it's hijacked by James)
"Takin' the punchline of my jokes.. (clicking sound) Thanks, James."

"Stop grinding on me like that!"

"Hey, come look at my things!"
"I'll look at your things."
"Your mom has things."

"Goo goo g'joov"
"I am the Walrus."

"Hey guys, do you want to taste some of my delicious margarita candies?"

"That is such bushlee!" (The word the kids use instead of 'bullshit')

"Technology hates me so much right now in this time of my life.."

"Oh how I miss sophomore year in French class!"

"People don't name their children Syphilis!"
"Oh yes they do!"

"Guys, I just had a super awesome idea!!
(Much too enthusiastic high five)
Ow!"

"Ok, I'll shut up now."

"That kiwi looks inviting."

There is no being mature in this job, and I'm ok with that. :) Thanks, my darling Navel Gazers, for your hard work today, even if you have attention spans of gnats!!! (Yarrrr-ly!)

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Maturity, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Art

All art is quite useless. - Oscar Wilde

I want to be able to say that Wilde got it wrong, that art is not only useful but necessary. I want to be able to say that art communicates in a way that words can't, that it crosses divides and erases lines in the sand. One of my friends once argued that in a declining society, art flourishes. It communicates desolation, heartache, and sometimes the few joys that are sifted out of the ashes. I certainly can imagine that to be true.. Also, though, art can be anything - funny, scandalous, horrific, gorgeous - and as such can only hold the meaning assigned to it by the interpreter. In that way, when the interpreter walks away, the art, as Wilde asserts, is useless.

My students often ask me when studying literature how we can truly know what the author's intent truly is in his/her writing. I often tell them that it's not that we're trying to fully know the author's intent, but that there is a communication between the reader and the text. In that place is where we find true, legitimate meaning. Perhaps the meaning only exists in that invisible correspondence between art and viewer. Meaning is less controlled, not firm. It allows for anyone creating anything to be the artist. It allows for reasonable (and unreasonable) conclusions.

The students then ask if they can answer the question of meaning wrong.

"Yes, absolutely," is the answer.

*Painting by Wassily Kandinsky
This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Art, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Friends and Enemies

I had trouble writing about this topic, honestly. I really wanted to write about politics - how they've invaded our friendships and families like a virus does, invisibly, violently. Politics have destroyed relationships to the point that we have to pretend that all is well even though our differing opinions sit at the surface of every conversation, unspoken yet understood. So, I'll post a pop video. Pink. She's fun. We all deal with self loathing, so..



This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Friends and Enemies, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.