Where has Sheherezade gone?

Today I shared excerpts from Azar Nafisi's memoir, 'Reading Lolita in Tehran', as a supplement to Marjane Satrapi's 'Persepolis'. I realized in the sharing that I am so in step with the feminine voice, especially the voice that has overcome the oppressive silence that the patriarchy has imposed on it. This is the voice of defiance and of regeneration, of cheeky instigation and that weighty mythological archetype of eternal justice: the Furies!  

I'm entirely concerned with and about the suppressed female voice: Why are there so few story tellers from the Arab world, for example? Where has Sheherezade gone? She told her stories as a means of escape and survival. I would argue that more important than duping her captor, Sherherezade crafted life in her stories. She revived humanity. So what happened to the rest? Have they given up?

To be fair, when I asked this question, I was given one title 'The Forty Rules of Love'. It was a beautifully written book that reincarnated Rumi. Still, I find such a deficit there.

 

If I were able to go back to school and even think about a master's thesis, I think I would focus my study in this space. I'm highly interested in female memoir-based literature: Mary Karr (my inner Texas voice), Anne Lamott, and Andrea Gibson (spoken word). I love Mary Shelly and Christina Rosetti, too, and am happy to go old school.  

Maybe some day. Maybe.

Letter to my family

Hi,
A lot of folks asked me if I was going to watch the royal wedding, some with their tongues in their cheeks, others as serious as coronary angioplasty. The answer to that question is yes. Of course I watched it. Not in real time.. I did have to work the next morning. But I TiVo'd it and watched all of it, including the balcony kiss ( correction: kisses! scandalous)!

There was tons of British patriotism bandied about leading up to the glorious day in several communities, including celebrations at my new school. Here is an article from one of London's papers, The Guardian, a more liberal publication. ;) Look for the ACS Cobham section here.

If you want to hear the accompanying song by students from my future school, check it out here. Love you,

g

What to Pack

What to Pack:
Books.
First and foremost.
Books.
And Winter Clothes, Linens, Photos,
Nostalgia.

What to Sell:
Everything else.
Except for the things I can't imagine leaving.
Most of my stuff.
Furniture?
Fake plants?
The mosquito repellent backyard torches?
Indecision.

What to Store:
Mimi's blankets,
Nana's quilts,
Pictures and albums from yellowed college days when I fell in love and began this adventure.
Who I am, the folks who graciously contributed to who I am,
and the girl I will be.

What to take:
Summer clothes
A warm hoodie (in case)
Music,
Poetry.
Benodryl.
A pot and pan to get me started.
A passport.
Cash.
My best friend on the next flight over.
A sense of adventure,
and the notion that all will be well..

All will be well!

Truths

I remember waking up, a smokey dawn coming through translucent light in the kitchen. My grandmother- Mimi we called her- sitting at the bar, her gin-legged breakfast cocktail near the ashtray that already held three Marlborough butts smoked to the quick,. She sat perched on her bar stool in her flowing morning dressing gown, her nails perfectly sculpted and varnished, her jewelry sparkling in the smokey haze. She wore slippers, one with a lift for her shorter leg, a result of her childhood polio - the disease that didn't keep her from dancing. In complete silence, I ate my cinnamon toast beside her as we watched "our show", thinking it a privilege to have not been shooed out of the house like my irritating cousin who was ironically named Shadrach by my whisky-stained, rattle snake wielding uncle. Mimi was beautiful to my unassuming eyes. I sat with her in silence, drinking skim milk - her kind of milk - not that awful whole milk that the boys liked. I never told her that I liked whole milk better. I wanted her to think I was just like her. She died several years ago, but I think of her often, this memory of a morning kitchen imprinted in my mind. Recently my mother, in a gushing moment of sincerity, said of Mimi, "You made her sweet, Ginger." "Did I?" I wondered. "My unemotional, solid-as-steel Mimi. I made her sweet?" Maybe I did.

Crossroads

A girl finds herself at the place where three roads meet, and she knows that she must travel down one of them. One leads to academia - the school to be determined according to what can be studied and/or written in three months. This road makes the Dream more possible, but it also deters it for a while. One leads across the ocean to new beginnings and cultural experiences. This road leads to immediate almost-Dream fulfillment, mistake or not. That is, it isn't the Dream exactly, but it might lead to exact-Dream fulfillment. The last road is under construction. A stop sign posted at the end of the third road prevents the girl from truly going anywhere. This one is the road of stagnation built from the status quo, from complacency. It is definitely "the responsible choice" in a capitalistic terrain.

The girl hates the idea of stagnation, but is leery of the other two choices. She wishes someone or something would push her in one direction or another, but she knows that in order to really feel comfortable, she has to carefully consider them all.

Help.

Scratch

Holy shit. I feel the itch.

I'm pretty sure it means I'm crazy. "Well, we already knew that, " I hear you mock in that nasally, sing-song tone. Yes. Let's go ahead and confirm it. This is me - crazy as a flippin' wing-nut bat, entertaining the challenge to participate, once again, in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).

So, here's the hilarious bit: I've already lost the contest. The time honored rules of NaBloPoMo state that participants should write everyday during the month of November. Correction. Participants should POST everyday during the month of November. Today is November 2nd, so technically, I've already lost. Phew. That takes the pressure off.

"So why the hell try?" you inquire (again with the nasally bit.. Geez!). Here's why, genius: I have successfully stripped away every part of my life that is mine alone. I've stopped writing. I've stopped reading for pleasure (mostly). I've shortened my time on Facebook by turning on all of the privacy controls, including ones that allow other people to see my posts, thus dissuading me from wasting time on posting. I work, then I come home and work. Following that, I play with my son until he goes to bed, and then I lay out my clothes for the next day, make my coffee and lunch, and then collapse so that I can find some semblance of energy for the next day when I start it all again.

"Why have you done this to yourself?" you ask. (sigh) That's complicated, friend. I'm certain it has something to do with feelings of inadequacy and placed and/or misplaced priorities. Whatever. What I'm saying is that I'm making a pledge to allow for my well being (writing and reading in particular) to be a more important aspect of my life. I want to write. I love writing. I want to practice writing because I love to do it. Yes, that means that I will get griped at for choosing time for myself over time for my job/husband/kid. I'm fully aware of how that may appear to some people who would rather I prioritize my life differently. But hey, those people are going to tell me I suck anyway, so I may as well suck hardcore.

I vow to try to post as much as possible this month. I've already lost the contest, so that means my obligation is to myself only.

I like that idea, bat shit crazy or not..

Regarding London

Regarding London:
There is so much hopping around in my brain right now that blogging seems ridiculous. But then maybe that's the point - the idea that I can be relatable, appreciated, and, I admit, loved in a virtual world. Not that I'm not sincere - most of the time - but that the chaos of life (who I am in this life) can be ordered somehow in an 8x4 computer window is outright silly.


And now for the old college try... whatever that means:

1. Shaun of the Dead is real.
Rich and I were in London during several work days, and it looked just exactly like the movie when people were commuting to work in the morning - zombies and regular folk alike - and one would be hard pressed to tell the difference between the dead tired and the truly dead. The tube was full of silent carriages, the only movement an occasional yawn, and even that kept to a minimum because a yawn would be proof of a living being. I tried not to look around ( a dead giveaway that I was a tourist), but I couldn't help but laugh.. thankfully, silently, when I then remembered the slipping on the brains part of the film. To make matters worse, this advert decorated nearly every tube station:

For the record, the zombies in the picture are WAY more enthusiastic than the ones commuting to work. These must be the after 10 zombies.

2. My mother was right.
Cars are weapons and we only get one chance. That was the line she fed me when I was a teenager. At the time, I knew that probably she was right, that I didn't really want to find out, and that hopefully God was on my side, especially since I had gone on practically every youth group mission offered. It turns out, that all she had to do to teach me the validity of this lesson was put me in a car in England with my husband. (sigh)

I'm not saying (ahem) that Rich is a bad driver.. He's just a bad driver in England. In his defense, I practically badgered him into it, reminding him that it was my birthday and that it could be romantic to visit the countryside and picnic near the sheep. It might even be fun, I intimated, to get stung by the nettles and have to look for the leafy cure which, as we all learned years ago in England when I got stung on my backside during an ill-timed bathroom emergency at Hadrian's Wall, is always nearby. We compromised. We took a train out of London and into Oxford where we rented a car and drove through the Cotswolds. It was a gorgeous drive, minus the honking and the curb brushing, and we learned how to utilize round-abouts (kind of), we learned about how to fill a tank with gas (not so different), and we also learned that driving in England is a stress to our marriage and that probably we should stick to train riding. The kind folks in Stow-on-the Wold would agree.

3. I am possibly the most lazy blogger in the world.
Actually, the photo pasting is kind of a nightmare here and my patience is waning. So here's what I'll do: Speed blogging followed by a photo montage, hopefully in slide show format:


* We saw some excellent political/modern art at two fantastic galleries - The Saatchi Gallery in a posh part of London and at the ICA where we viewed a political Russian opera film called Dissent while reclining in beds.


*We took a day trip to Canterbury - made the Pilgrimage, Chaucer style, yo! (minus the donkey/horse riding, the lack of bathing, and the story-telling)- and had a moment of silence for Thomas Becket on the alter where he was murdered. We also witnessed a bell ceremony there in remembrance of all soldiers. I couldn't help but marvel at how American it seemed.. or possibly how British we still are.


* My friends, Mark and Ilham, took me out to lunch at a fantastic open-aired cafe for my birthday and then the next evening took me, a Texan, to a Mexican restaurant called La Mexicana, co-owned by a native Mexican and a Turk, who employed a blond haired, fantastically sarcastic Canadian. All three - the Turk, the Mexican, and the Canadian - wore sombreros and sang Happy Birthday to me in front of a mural depicting a cowboy screaming "Yee Ow!" See, this is why I love Mark and Ilham. They thought to take me to that awesomely surreal place, and it wasn't that weird to them.


*We watched ping pong matches in St. James Park. Had I known ping pong was a free-for-all sport there, I totally would've played. Next time..


* We visited various pubs, including the good-ole standby - the Black Friar- and ate all kinds of horrifically bad for you pub foods, including fried fish sandwiches and a plowman's lunch. Of course there was shepherd's pie (duh), but sadly no bangers and mash.We declined the invitation to "go out back" to the bar-be-cue at the local pub near our hotel where it was perfectly acceptable behavior to roll around in the floor with puppies. I can't begin to explain that - the puppy part - except to say that it happened, and we tried not to stare at the coin slots. Seriously. At the time I was worried about looking all touristy.. but in retrospect, it just grossed me out.

And now for the montage:

4. London is my favorite place on the planet.
We spent a huge amount of time walking around the city and then taking the tube back to our hotel. We ran across several fantastic sites, including the Victoria Rail Station and a car boot sale (where I bought a purse). Mark even took me on a tour of his school - yet another reminder of how same we all are.

My job is bipolar

Last year was incredibly wonderful and difficult at the same time. I think that's how it is with being a school teacher. For example I LOVED my students. My LitMag staff was the best I've ever had. My IB kids were incredible. My English IV students.. I really liked some of them. (and this is where in sitcoms you hear the needle getting pulled off of the record)

As much as my LitMaggers and IBers made me excited to do my job, the other classes were so difficult. Some of this difficulty was a result of the usual teaching obstacles: Too many students in one classroom; too much paperwork; too many responsibilities that extended beyond the actual job of, oh let me think - teaching; very little discipline; tons of micromanaging; irrational parents; etc.. But some of it was that I had a tough group of kids.

As often as folks get upset about inconsiderate drivers or rude customers, teachers are likely, if not certain, to deal with the worst of the worst every day. You're thinking that in your job this is true, too. However, teachers are expected to be more forgiving. It's like knowing every single day the same punk kid driver in his car that costs twice as much as yours will inevitably cut you off in traffic, flip you off, and then laugh at you while texting his cleverness to his friends. As a teacher you know this is will happen again, and it shocks you each time, yet you still hope that something you do or say might make the rude driver a little bit more compassionate someday. "Maybe tomorrow when he cuts me off and flips me the bird, he won't laugh as loudly," you think. "Maybe if I call his parents (who taught him to drive), I can get ahead of him or show him that what he's doing is abusive and humiliating."

Every year you are guaranteed to have one mean driver in your class. But some years you have twenty of them. Last year I had forty. (40 out of 120 is too big of a percentage) Contrary to public opinion, there is nothing to do about a student's lack of respect toward a teacher. Unless a kid actually becomes violent against a teacher, all she can do is file paperwork and hope for an understanding counselor or principal. Plus, changing a kid's schedule to get him our of a particular class means that you have burdened another on of your colleagues with another issue that they do not need or deserve.

My personality is not commanding or controlling which some might say is part of the problem. The few times I've tried to "rule by force", it comes back to get me and makes me feel horrible. Combatting the rude drivers by being an even ruder one is sort of ridiculous and leads to accidents. I'm more of a mutual respect kind of teacher. In other words, I hope that if I model integrity, patience, responsibility, good will, and generosity, the kids will mirror it. They do for the most part. We have open dialogue in my class. I am a firm believer in inquiry based learning. Sometimes, though, the students don't mirror me. That's when things get tricky.

Monday is the start of a new school year. I will meet my new classes and get a sense of what kind of drivers they are. I'm trying to be optimistic, but there is a whole car-load of anxiety that comes with the start of the year.

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.

Random Thoughts

1. So, I'm extremely proud that I have several former students protesting Westboro Baptist Church today, tomorrow, and onward. For those of you who haven't heard, WBC is known for interrupting funerals of soldiers to promote their hateful messages that:
a.)"God hates fags"
b.) God is punishing us for allowing gays to exist in our country.
c.) People who have gay children who fight for our country do not deserve the right to mourn the deaths of their children.
What's worse is they use kids in their campaigns - at FUNERALS of dead soldiers - to make these horrific, unjustified, ignorant statements.

I can't begin to express to you how much anger I feel towards people who.. who.. are so SO stupid - who think that it's ok to hate. Period. I don't care who the target is. Compassion in me is hard to find for them. But then, there's Desmond Tutu:

"For this God, our God, everybody is somebody. All life belongs to Him. Because of Him, all life is religious. There are no false dichotomies so greatly loved by those especially who are comfortable in this life. Consequently, if you say you love God, whom you have not seen, and hate your brother, whom you have, the Bible does not use delicate language; it does not say you are guilty of a terminological inexactitude. It says bluntly you are a liar." - Desmund Tutu from God Has a Dream.

So my darlings who are protesting tomorrow - even if only in spirit - I love you for doing the right thing. You make me proud!!
And for the record, I am a staunch supporter of human rights - gay, straight, whatever.

2. I love Lisbeth Salander. Yes. She's a fictional character from Stieg Larson's Girl With the Dragon Tattoo trilogy. I know. Still, what I like is that she's so freaking smart. She's bad ass, too, but vulnerable. She's not a superhero, but she'll fight with everything she has when she needs to, even if she doesn't always win. She's counter culture and stone cold, but she's endearing and lovely.. And kudos to Swedish actress, Noomi Rapace, for doing such a brilliant job with this character.



3. This song:

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.

You asked for it..

Before:


After:

Gorgeous work, Lobsta. Seriously. I love it.

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.

Manic Post-Graduation

So, the kids are all grad-gi-ated and such - And I was elected to read their names! - which means that summer has officially begun. This also means that I am now coming down off my high, the kind where you shiver in a corner, rock back and forth, eyes glazed over, and beg for someone to please, please, for the love of god, please just knock you out.

Summer is a weird transition.

I know it's not the same for all teachers, but to go from working 12 hour days for ten months to having to "find something to do" is a kind of withdrawal, or is at least an excusable life change. My brain which is used to making 100 thousand decisions per second - "Class, here's what were doing today; no, you may not use the restroom, please don't interrupt; I just received a pass for so and so from the office, no you may not go now, or yes you can; If I could just recap..; last class you didn't understand __________. I'll talk about it after the announcements are over; no you can't see your grade right now, I'm trying to teach; Are you crying? Do you need to go to the hall?; As I was saying..; Another pass; So, Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter; Wake up, you in the back; Stop talking; No you still may not use the restroom; The play Macbeth is cursed; You're tardy? Nice of you to join us. Where's you pass? Go back to the office; It is a Scottish play which means that you have to pay extra close attention to inflection; Stop throwing things; Another stray announcement; AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!; Yes, I'm fine. Only 89 minutes of class to go. As I was saying..

And so we've been doing some work around the house to cope with the de-tox:

The house is extremely clean and organized.
The fence is mended.
New curtains are purchased and hung.
Flowers are planted.
The dishes are clean.
Pictures have been framed and hung.
New furniture - a bench with cubbies and a shelving unit - for the baby's room is put together.
Baby's toys are all organized on new furniture.
Old furniture has been moved to the garage.
Baby's winter clothes have been boxed and moved to the garage.
Three boxes of books are removed from guest room and sold.
Laundry is clean.
Lawn is mowed.
Wii is played.
Bills are paid.

This all happened in two days and there was still time to watch a little TV!

I'm trying to will my body and mind to be idle for just a few days so that I don't die of exhaustion. Americans are really good at that. At the same time, sitting makes me itchy.. I have to go and do!

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.

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.

Writing Woes

I used to be a writer. I suppose what I mean is I used to connect with people through my writing. Lately everything has been so forced, so impersonal. I hadn't realized to what extent this was true until today when I began going through old posts, especially ones from my first blog, Viaggio.

Obviously, the biggest change since Viaggio is I had a baby. I don't mean to blame him for my writing neglect, but I do mean to say that writing time - hell, thinking time, being time, reading time - is gone for me. Also, I am working full time at a job that demands more than the hourly parameters of what the pay scale defines. Teaching is not a full time job. It's a life consuming one if done correctly. And again, that isn't to say that it's the job's fault. It's just that I choose to make it a priority - children are our future, education is a gateway, yadda yadda, yadda. On top of that I actively work at my marriage, I try to have friendships (though those too have suffered) and run a household. I no longer exercise - that would be an activity that would require alone time.. So, obviously, the writing I do is sub-par.. at least in comparison to what I know I can do and want to do.

I'm pissappointed at little about it. I knew when I had a baby that I would have to make time for me. I didn't realize that the time I made would come in 10 minute increments or less- like the breaths I take between getting out of my car and taking the baby out of his car seat (15 seconds), or the cup of coffee I allow myself on week end mornings before I get the baby out of his crib (10 minutes), for example. I do enjoy a work day once a week - glorious Thursdays! - when Rich picks up Jack from Nanny's and I get to, er.., work. Sometimes I allow myself that time to work on my consortium posts, but mostly that's grading or studying time, apart from the time I work after the baby goes to sleep. I have vowed on many occasions, fists raised, that I will take back my life! And then the baby wakes up from his nap, and as is perfect and lovely, and I become Momma again, relinquishing the "me" that it would take to spend time here.

Mary Oliver, incredible poet and one of my heroes, said all writers should make appointments with themselves. That way they will be committed to the practice. I've tried. Believe me. I just can't seem to get things to fall into place without interruption, whether that be a demand from the baby or from work, or, God forbid, actually talking to my husband away from the clicking of computer keys or grading utensils.

Some would tell me that obviously writing, then, isn't important. That I should put that aspect of my life on hold for a while. Those folks obviously don't know me well enough to understand what writing truly is to me, or really how much writing is a part of who I am. It is me in a sense.

That said, I need to practice. You can't be good at something unless you work on it. I need to work on it.
Maybe this confession will open some doors for me. Maybe the door is only open until I am overwhelmed by my other roles again. A week? Two? In any case, here is some genuine, heartfelt discourse, a bridge hopefully, to a more relatable subject and voice.