(I Used To Be) A Smart Guy, by David Sedaris

LIFE WAS GOOD FOR THE FIRST FORTY-ONE YEARS. THEN I TOOK AN IQ TEST.

WHEN I WAS TWENTY-FIVE, I found a job cleaning construction sites in the suburbs of Raleigh. It was dull work, made even duller on the days I was partnered with a fellow named Reggie, an alleged genius unhappy with the course his life had taken.

"Here I am with a 130 IQ, and they've got me sweeping up sawdust." He'd glare at the bristles of his broom as if they had conspired to hold him back. "A 130! I'm serious, man. I've been tested."

This was my cue to act impressed, but I generally passed.

"One-three-oh," he'd say. "In case you didn't know it, that's genius level."

"Congratulations."

"With a mind like mine, I could be doing something, you know what I mean?"

"Absolutely."

"A 60 could do what I'm doing. That leaves me with 70 extra IQ points sitting around in my head and doing nothing."

"They must be bored."

"You're damned right," he'd say. "People like me need to be challenged."

"Maybe you could turn on the fan and sweep against the wind. That's pretty difficult."

"Are you making fun of me?" he'd ask.

"Sort of."

"Well, don't," he'd say. "I'm a lot smarter than you."

"How do you know?" I'd ask. "I might be a 300 or something."

"A 300. Right. I'd place you at around 72, tops."

"What does that mean?" I'd ask.

"It means I hope you like pushing a broom."

"And what does that mean?"

He'd shake his head in pity. "Ask me in about fifteen years."

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER, I found myself working for a housecleaning company. Yes, it was unskilled labor, but, for what it's worth, I did very little sweeping. Mainly, I vacuumed. Oh, but that was years ago. Two years ago, to be exact.

I'm not sure what Reggie is doing now, but I thought of him recently when, at the age of forty-two, I finally had my IQ tested. Being an adult with a fairly steady history of supporting myself, I thought it could do no real harm. What I failed to realize is that such a test mucks with both your past and your future, clarifying a lifetime of bad choices and setting you up for the inevitability of future failure.

As I child, I'd always harbored a sneaking suspicion that I might be a genius. This theory was entirely my own, corroborated by no one, but so what? Being misunderstood was all part of the package. My father occasionally referred to me as "Smart Guy," but eventually I realized that when saying it, he usually meant just the opposite.

"Hey, Smart Guy--coating your face with mayonnaise because you can't find the insect repellent." Or "Hey, Smart Guy--thinking you can toast marshmallows in your bedroom." That type of thing.

I thought I could cure diabetes by spreading suntan lotion on sticks of chewing gum. Sea & Ski on Juicy Fruit, Coppertone on Big Red. I had the raw ingredients and a test subject, all under the same roof.

"Hey, Smart Guy," my father would say. "Offer your grandmother another piece of that gum and you'll be the one scrubbing your teeth in the bathroom sink." What did he know.

ALONE IN MY BEDROOM, I studied pictures of intelligent men and searched for a common denominator. There was a definite Smart Guy look, but it was difficult to get just right. Throw away your comb and you could resemble either Albert Einstein or Larry Fine. Both wore rumpled suits and stuck out their tongues, but only one displayed true genius in such films as Booty and the Beast and The Three Stooges Meet Hercules.

In high school, I flirted with the idea that I might be a philosophical genius. According to me and one or two of my friends, it was almost scary the way I could read people. I practiced thoughtfully removing my glasses and imagined myself appearing on one of those Sunday-morning television shows, where I'd take my seat beside other learned men and voice my dark and radical theories on the human condition.

"People are insecure," I'd say. "They wear masks and play games."

My ideas would be like demons rushing from a hellish cave, and my fellow intellectuals, startled by their truth and enormity, would try to bottle them up before they spread.

"That's enough!" they'd yell. "For the love of God, somebody silence him!"

Far scarier than any of my ideas is the fact that at the age of seventeen, I was probably operating at my intellectual peak. I should have been tested then, before I squandered what little sense I had. By the time I reached my thirties, my brain had been strip-mined by a combination of drugs, alcohol, and the chemical solvents used at the refinishing company where I worked. Still, there were moments when, against all reason, I thought I might be a genius. These moments were provoked not by any accomplishment but by cocaine and crystal methamphetamine--drugs that allow you to lean over a mirror with a straw up your nose, suck up an entire week's paycheck, and think, "God, I'm smart."

It's always been the little things that encourage me. I'll watch a movie in which an attractive woman in a sports bra, a handsome widower, and a trio of selfish, weak-chinned cowards are pursued by mighty reptiles or visitors from another galaxy. "The cowards are going to die," I'll think, and then, when they do, I congratulate myself on my intelligence. When I say, "Oh, it was so predictable," it sounds brainy and farsighted. When other people say it, it sounds stupid. Call me an egghead, but there you have it.

IT WAS SIMPLE CURIOSITY that led me to take an IQ test. Simple, stupid, ugly curiosity, the same thing that motivates boys to pull the wings off of flies. I took my test in Paris, in the basement of an engineering school not far from my apartment. I'd figured that, on its own, my score would mean nothing--I needed someone to compare myself against--and so Hugh came along and took the test as well. I'd worried that he might score higher than me, but a series of recent events had set me at ease. A week earlier, while vacationing in Slovenia, he'd ordered a pizza that the English-speaking waiter had strenuously recommended he avoid. It came topped with a mound of canned vegetables: peas, corn, carrot coins, potatoes, and diced turnips. Observing the look of dumb horror on his face as the waiter delivered the ugly pizza, I decided that, in a test of basic intelligence, I was a definite shoo-in. Then, days later, with no trace of irony, he'd suggested that the history of the chocolate chip might make for an exciting musical. "If, of course, you found the right choreographer."

"Yes," I'd said. "Of course."

The tests we took were designed to determine our eligibility for Mensa, an international association for those with IQs of 132 or higher. Its members come from all walks of life and get together every few weeks to take in a movie or enjoy a weenie roast. They're like Elks or Masons, only they're smart. Our tests were administered by an attractive French psychologist named Madame Haberman, who was herself a Mensa member. She explained that we'd be taking four tests, each of them timed. In order to qualify for Mensa membership, we'd need to score in the top 2 percent on any given one.

I've known people who have taken IQ tests in the past, and whenever I've asked them to repeat one of the questions, they've always drawn a blank, saying, "Oh, you know, they were.., multiple-choice things."

Immediately after taking my test, I was hard-pressed to recall much of anything except the remarkable sense of relief I'd felt each time the alarm went off and we were asked to put down our pencils. In the first test, we were shown a series of three drawings and asked which of the four adjacent ones might best complete the sequence. In the second, we were told to examine five drawings and figure out which two didn't belong. The third had to do with spatial relations and gave me an immediate headache. A break was called, and we stepped out onto the street. Hugh and Madame Haberman discussed her upcoming trip to the Turkish coast, but I was still trapped in test world. Five deaf students walked down the street, and I tried to determine which two did not belong. I imagined myself approaching the two boys wearing tennis shoes and pictured their confusion as I laid my hands upon their shoulders, saying, "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

Our final test involved determining a pattern in four pairs of dominoes and prophesying what the fifth pair might look like. I didn't come close to finishing. I'd like to say that the room was too hot or that Madame Haberman distracted me with her incessant banjo picking, but none of this is true. I have no one but myself to blame.

A WEEK LATER, our scores arrived in the mail. Hugh has been advised to try again: Scores can fluctuate according to stress and circumstance, and he's right on the cusp of Mensa qualification. My letter began with the words "Dear Monsieur Sedaris, We regret to inform you..."

It turns out that I'm really stupid, practically an idiot. There are cats that weigh more than my IQ score. Were my number translated into dollars, it would buy you about three buckets of fried chicken. The fact that this surprises me only bespeaks the depths of my ignorance.

The test reflected my ability to reason logically. You either reason things out or you don't. Those who do have high IQs. Those who don't reach for the mayonnaise when they can't find the insect repellent. When I became upset over my test score, Hugh explained that everybody thinks differently--I just happen to do it less than the average adult.

"Think donkey," he said. "Then take it down a few notches."

It's a point I can't really argue. The thing about my brain is that it hasn't advanced much since the time I claimed ownership. Reality doesn't concern me in the least. It never has. If told I had to vacate my apartment by next week, I wouldn't consult the real estate listings. Instead, I'd just imagine myself living in a moated sugar-cube castle, floating from room to room on a king-sized magic carpet. If I have one saving grace, it's that I'm lucky to have found someone willing to handle the ugly business of day-to-day living.

Hugh consoled me by saying, "Don't let it get to you. There are plenty of things you're good at."

When asked for some examples, he listed vacuuming and naming stuffed animals. He says he can probably come up with a few more, but he'll need some time to think.

Dot Wonderful

The day surgery couldn't have gone more smoothly. I was even able to eat a thumbprint when I got home, but I think it was more out of principle, as I can hardly remember chewing. :)

I am ready to go ahead and move on from this pregnancy. I don't mean I want to forget (at least not at the moment because sometimes I do), but I want to move on with this baby as part of my life. I don't want to be trapped in the grief any longer; I want to embrace some of the good things about this experience.

For example, I can't remember if I told you that we pre-named the baby. I keep calling her a girl, though of course I didn't know (she did actually have a gender at the time of miscarriage, but we wouldn't have been able to tell yet). We gave her the secret pre-name, Dot, because when we saw her on our first sonogram and the tiny flutter of a heartbeat, that is what she was to us - our little tiny Dot.

I don't really mean to romanticise this too much because sonograms are difficult to "read." Remember that Friend's episode when Rachel couldn't see her baby and felt like a horrible mom? It was more like that.

I did actually see her, though (with the lovely midwife's help), and her heart.

I laughed with my Mom when I got home about calling our baby Dot because it was a such a silly thing to do, but the baby did become more real to all of us as a result. Mom wanted to give the dot a middle name and had just met someone whose name is James Wonderful Smith. She thought the middle name was appropriate for the baby. And that's how it went.

We had our Dot Wonderful for almost 10 weeks.

Whenever Fougs and I secretly whispered about the baby (what kind of mom I wanted/didn't want to be, what kind of auntie she wanted/didn't want to be), we called her Dot Wonderful. Whenever I was alone with Dot and had chats with her (mostly in the car in between loudly sung Ani DiFranco songs), that's how I would address her.

The only down side to Dot Wonderful (other than perhaps explaining to others that this was a very endearing name. Really, it was!) was that Rich had taken to calling her D.W. in a thick, red neck, trucker twang, as in, "Dee Dubya, get on outside and slop them hogs, by God! What in THE hell, girl? (mumbled) Dern city slicker."

Not. cool. Rich! :)

We had lots of dreams and conversations about and with our Dot.

Memories like these are what I want to take with me as I move on.

Oh! And there was that whole Mom moment when she couldn't decide if she wanted the baby to call her Gigi or PaPaw... But that's a whole different post.. (possibly under the tag "lunatic!"!) :)

Unfair

Day surgery (or anesthesia, I think) requires that I not eat or drink anything for 12 hours before the procedure (which is at noon today). That means 4 more hours of not eating or drinking anything.

So why are there freshly baked thumbprint cookies on the counter, daring me to just lick the icing a little? That can't hurt, right? Just a little icing..

To add insult to injury, thumbprints happen to be my ABSOLUTE favorite kind of cookie!

Damn you, you mocking thumbprint cookies! DAMN YOU!

(Rich, you better save me one, or there WILL be a reckoning! )

This headline worries me:

Healy Health Tip: Viagra for Jet Lag?

'A terrific study on the neurobiology of jet lag just appeared in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences', no fly-by-night journal, I assure you. It has created an international splash and serves up fodder for late-night TV. That's not because it happens to be an elegant study of biological clocks in hamster brains. Rather it's because the chemical the researchers from Buenos Aires used to successfully help the hamsters adjust to the equivalent of a forward time shift, such as a trip from New York to London, was none other than sildenafil. Viagra, that is. Even a low dose insufficient to affect male erectile function had a beneficial effect, though the higher doses worked better.'

NO!

I am especially concerned since I am about to make a long trip over the Atlantic...by myself! And most men are like. so. totally. gross! Argh! And so are hamsters!

It's a good thing my mom sent me to college fully aware of how to walk confidently so as not to be bothered, how to scream loudly if a stranger approaches, and how to hold a key as a weapon (I won't even mention the pepper spray, the whistle, and the personal belt loop alarm she packed in my luggage).

Also thank goodness for the school security guard who, during a teacher inservice, taught me to PRACTICE screaming so that my vocal chords will work when I need them. She also taught me to yell (and I quote), "Get the hell away from me you mother f*cking a#$hole!! I'll show you "a f*cking good time". Do you like crazy, b*@ch? Yeah. Come to momma, you P#*$y. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine called Genital Herpes!

Hellllp!!

Fiiiiire!!"

(We actually practiced this at school. Nothing fulfills a person more than hearing their school librarian or the 80 year old math curmudgeon take part in this "exercise.")

The security guard also told me to leave something behind at the crime scene so that the authorities could know how to find my body in a more timely manner, since, according to her, the a$@hole would car jack me, murder me (after the obligatory assault, of course), and then leave my body in Death Valley - apparently a very difficult place for finding bodies. And, after all, my family will appreciate the immediate closure.

Cheery, right? So you can see my cause for concern here. No one needs extra excuse, "jet lag" Viagra to perpetuate the situation!

Fortunately for me, the article ends with, "Since Viagra is known to cause blood-pressure drops and chest pain in those who have heart disease, this could be risky when you're flying high across the ocean far from a good emergency room. For now, I'd make those no-smoking flights Viagra-free too."

Whew. That was close.

Fear culture, indeed!

**Disclaimer - I do believe in protecting women, and I do believe that education and awareness do save women from horrendous crimes. And you better believe that I will be screaming if someone approaches me in a sinister way, and I will park under street lights. I won't be afraid to ask someone (even a security officer) to walk with me when I feel afraid, and I know there is safety in numbers. This is part of my Womanifesto.

**Disclaimer again - I have no idea why some of the profanity ended up as links, but I am wildly amused at this.. I guess blogger decided we needed some more enlightenment?

Poppies

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

-Mary Oliver

(photo, "poppies at montreaux 07," captured and shared by Mark B)

A taboo subject airing out on the line

Perhaps it is considered tacky to air out one's laundry on a blog, but then I consider my blog part of my community. I know that the majority of you are my dearest friends, and the rest of you are people with whom I'd like to be friends or have in my community. Also, I have NEVER begrudged anyone their emotions in the blogosphere. I usually put my hand over my heart and and sometimes touch the monitor when I read an especially heart wrenching post because if I know the writer, I want to hug her because I love her and can identify. If I don't know the writer, I want to hug her because I love her and can identify. There are times when we just need to metaphorically sit with each other and recognize that we are all together, with each other - being human together. So today it's my turn.

Until Sunday, I was two weeks shy of being through my first trimester. I was pregnant. The baby had a heart. She had a brain and fingers and toes. She had ears and a nose. She even had a name. I was pretty sure I had lost her on Sunday evening, but found out for certain yesterday.

This pregnancy was a surprise, as far as pregnancies can be. I didn't figure we were even able to have kids, which was pretty much fine with me since I teach school and am constantly playing mother to my students. In fact, I was sort of pissed off about being pregnant because it "wasn't the plan."

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a list maker. There is always a plan. If the plan goes out of order or is interrupted, it crushes my soul (Thanks, OCD). I have to actually PLAN to be spontaneous.

So, the overall plan was to go to Spain, to Machu Picchu, to continue traveling East until I was brave enough to go to India and Asia. I (have always)wanted to live in Britain and be in the places where my favorite writers walked. I wanted to go at least for the summer (possibly do some sort of teaching exchange there), if I couldn't make the move a reality. I've applied to several programs and have done tons of research.

I've never been very maternal anyway, and couldn't imagine wanting to change my lifestyle. I loved that if I wanted to, I could hop on a plane for a last minute adventure. I was a size 6 for the first time since high school. I had major bikini plans.

So, the pregnancy made me a bit bitter and sad (my plan was certainly interrupted), and I felt like I didn't want the baby at first. The shock turned into embarrassment and then to anger at myself for being so selfish. Finally, I got used to the idea. I started thinking about cribs and diaper bags and names. I started planning financially and began looking at day cares and insurance policies. My family, for the most part, was so happy. The first grand kid was on her way! This part was both fun and stressful, but manageable. And I started to talk to the baby, and plan with her. She was becoming a reality and I was learning to be excited, like Rich who was completely over the moon about it.

The entire time I was pregnant, I was bleeding. I knew that that was bad, but I also knew that it happens. Every doctor visit was stressful because we were so worried about what they would tell us. But I was almost finished with my first trimester, the time when things were supposed to be more "safe". I didn't let myself get too excited about that, but I did start cautiously whispering the news to some of my friends who were really excited for us.

Then it happened.

I am such a control freak. I knew it was happening, but because I'm me, I tried to will myself to stop it, physically even. I made a doctor appointment the very next day. The news was hopeful. My body still 'felt' pregnant.

But then there was yesterday.

I can't describe to you the loneliness and silence associated with looking at an empty uterus on a sonogram screen. It is almost ridiculously calm (or maybe still is the better word), and maybe would've been so had my heart not been sinking with the realization that I was staring at nothing. Nothing was there. There was nothing.

Rich was not able to be with me and I have never felt so completely by myself.

When a doctor came in to talk to me about "options," I couldn't look up. I couldn't respond or blink or breathe. The doctor put her hand on my wrist and stood there, probably praying for me, but I couldn't imagine why anyone would pray over nothing on a screen. It was too late for prayer.

I only sort of heard what she was saying, and I know that I received a shot of some sort and signed some paperwork to do with surgery next week. I had to initial a disclaimer that it wasn't the doctor's fault if I died on the operating table and something about a transfusion.

I immediately started calling my family, irrationally apologizing to Rich first because I felt (feel) some sort of responsibility for losing the baby.(Maybe I didn't want her enough, or worse, maybe she didn't want me.) I started writing to people who knew about the pregnancy, and throwing away calendars that had due dates and weeks numbered. I threw away all of my "baby" lists, and cancelled all of the up coming appointments. I threw away the mother's day cards I received this year, and unsubscribed from the "this is what your baby looks like at ___weeks" newsletter I was receiving.

No one knows quite what to say to me, and some people say the silliest things. Some people are mean without meaning to be, and some are insensitive. But it's weird because even these things are said in an attempt to comfort. They're said in love.
The worst is when people say things like, 'These things happen for a reason.' No they don't. There is no 'reason' in a miscarriage. There is not a rationale, at least not one that I can accept right now. Or they say, 'Probably something was wrong with the baby and this is God's gentle and natural way of taking care of that defect." Uh. So God aborts some babies, but not all of them, and yours is the one he picked today (and we give him credit for all of the healthy, 'miracle' babies who weren't 'defective' at ten weeks?). Reason doesn't play into this one. But like I said, these things were said out of concern.

There are some people who have said wonderfully beautiful things. My favorites are that "in some beautiful way, our bodies reabsorb most of the baby, which means that baby is and will always be a part of you." Another is that I "will always be a moma. From now on and forever, and that because the baby was in me, I can know that the life she had was happy." Or, "Having a miscarriage doesn't mean that you can't eventually have a baby, but we need to mourn this baby right now. This is a loss and it's OK to be sad."

And those of you who simply cry with me and tell me "I love you" over and over.. That's the most valuable. That's all I need. I NEED "I love you".

I don't know why women don't talk about this sort of loss. I guess it is considered too personal. Or maybe it's just too sad. Or maybe unless you can't say 'I love you' to someone or you haven't been in the situation and find it awkward (which it is), it's easier to just not talk about it. I don't know. I find it horrifying that so many women have endured this loss, and that we can't be vulnerable with each other about it.

It's just a sad, sad time. I am fighting irrational thoughts, which is 'normal' from what I understand, and my hormones are going crazy. Physically, I'm not 'finished' with the miscarriage since it is a process, and I have to constantly think about it. It's painful and gut wrenching, both physically and emotionally.

I'm going to be OK, but not today. And that's OK.

So that's the laundry, uncomfortably aired out on my blog. So sit with me if you want. Be with me here in this comfortably uncomfortable space.

She Talks To Angels - The Black Crowes

Jars Of Clay - Work

College Revisited

Black Moon Creeping - The Black Crowes

Wonderwall - Oasis

Been Caught Stealing - Janes Addiction

Give it Away - RHCP

Drown - The Smashing Pumpkins

TAKS SCHMAKS

I hate that TAKS makes teachers feel like they haven't done their jobs properly. What's worse is when the administrators put undue pressure on their teachers or judge them according to their students' test results. When I taught juniors (exit level TAKS), I had one class that performed beautifully! I think 98% of them passed. In my other class, I had something like 74% pass. I used the same strategies in both classes. There was little variation in my teaching. So why the huge difference?

Because kids are all different!

I read in the Arlington Star Telegram that over 40,000 kids in Texas did not graduate this year because of TAKS. This is an indication that there is something wrong with the test and the system, not the teachers.

I find it wildly hilarious that W thinks he is improving the national educational system with policies that hurt the teachers and the children (see No Child Left Behind, for example), and he comes from the state that is low man on the totem pole (nationally)as far as education is concerned. What are we? Third from the bottom?

There is a bright spot, though. TAKS is on its way out, at least for higher levels, and so is W. Maybe there is hope for education.All of that means that it isn't about how well you do your job!

When I interviewed at my high school, I asked my wonderful principal, "How are the TAKS scores at AHS?" He said, "Oh, I can't remember. I think the results are buried on my desk somewhere." I grinned and knew that I wanted to work for him. He also constantly talks about the fact the what's important to our kids is not a test that tells them whether or not they can take a test well. What's important is the character building and the experiences they take with them into the real world.

That's not to say that curriculum is not important. It is! It just means that there is no pressure to teach to the test. It turns out that our school is one of the top ten schools in the metroplex. We are among the top 10 who have the fewest number of kids who need remedial classes when they get to college. Is there a correlation between not teaching to the TAKS and college preparedness? I am starting to think so.

I do think there needs to be some sort of standard for graduation, and I think there needs to be some sort of measure of teacher effectiveness in the classroom. Both of these make for better students and teachers. The TAKS test is not that measure for either.

Whew.

The point is:

HEY TEACHERS!

Don't worry about those stupid numbers. They really don't say anything about you OR about your kids.

Oh and Happy Summer in 5 days!

(Taking Sides Is Too Easy.)

"Please Call Me By My True Names"
- Thich Nhat Hanh

Do not say that I'll depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive.

Look deeply: I arrive every second
to be a bud on a Spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, whose wings are still fragile,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
in order to fear and to hope,
the rhythm of my heart is the birth and death
of all that are alive.

I am the mayfly
metamorphosing on the surface of the river.
And I am the bird which, when spring comes,
arrives in time to eat the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily
in the clear of a pond,
and I am also the grass snake who,
approaching in silence, feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.
And I am the arms merchant,
selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean,
after being raped by a sea pirate,
and I am the pirate,
my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo,
with plenty of power in my hands.
And I am the man
who has to pay his "debt of blood" to my people,
dying slowly in a forced labor camp.

My joy is like Spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom.
my pain is like a river of tears,
so full it fills up the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can bear all my cries and my laughs at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are but one.

Please call me by my true names,
so that I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.

Green Peas Take The Field

Hey, check out the up-and-coming Green Pea site if you haven't already! Maybe we can make them an international community. So, love 'em and link 'em!

Here's an adorable excerpt from one of the Corduroy Kid's latest posts regarding the group's Sunday "field trip" or search to find their new community center:

'we spied a distant shadowy figure in the romantic mist, standing by what looked like a plume of smoke coming out of a barrel. Someone was having a fire in the rain! I waved at the figure and gestured somehow (I forget exactly how) as if to say 'can we come in?'

To our enormous and palapable joy, he waved back, signalling for us to come round to the other side, near where we had originally parked the car. Great! I thought, this is it ~ it could only mean one thing, couldn't it? Squatters!

Excitedly, thinking this was our big break ~ we would easily now make friends with these lovely people, and then of course the rest would be history ~ I urged the others to run with me around the building, we were like puppies slipping and sliding with brollies akimbo, rushing to meet our new soon-to-be-best-friends.

Turned out of course that the individuals were, bizarrely, a somewhat well-dressed group of Romanians, paid to live in and look after the property to protect it from, you guessed it, squatters!'[for more go here]

Also see NewSov and RPMT for other revolutionizing visions.

Quote of the Day

"Mrs. H, it's not our fault you have such a crappy attention span. Seriously. You make a gold fish look attentive!" -Ruben G.

He's right. Remember. This is how my brain works. No wait. It's like this.

Mindful Politics, A Beginning

I'm reading a book called Mindful Politics, a compilation of writings (essays, speeches, and poems) from many influential spiritualists who promote the concept that politics, "is really about how we live together as human beings." It recognizes the fact that, "all spiritual practices point to one simple but profound truth -- that only love leads to peace, and hatred never does," which is "as true for nations as it is for individuals."[1]

This book redeems politics for me because it reminds us that politics is not (and should never be) about the individual or one particular group; it is always about the whole, all of us. It “is both morally wrong and pragmatically unwise to pursue only one’s own happiness oblivious to the feelings and aspirations of all others who surround us as members of the same human family,” and therefore we should embrace the love your neighbor truth that is foundational to all of the major world religions: Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, etc. [2]

I l.o.v.e this concept, especially since I am generally frustrated with my perception of politics - a potentially virtuous system that often gets defaced by selfish, self-righteous capitalistic persuasions and egocentric ambitions. Inwardly if I can revolutionize this anger fed reaction into something as simple as “being mindful of the whole,” I can respond outwardly in a way that is productive and sincere, a mustard seed beginning for world modification.

Realistically, “we can’t really change who others are and what they think. We can only work with our own heart and mind. But the transformative power of that is extraordinary.”[3] This transformative power that can potentially lead to peace stems from wisdom which, according to the Dalai Lama, is “the best part of human intelligence,” and which he defines as “the ability to decide between right and wrong.” He also says, “Whether we are able to achieve world peace or not, we have no choice but to work toward that goal.” [4]

I am very excited to hear politics discussed in this way for I often fear that the negativity that spews from my mouth and from the mouths of others is detrimental to the process of healing and renewal. I guess I believe that that is true in all arenas, not just the political one. Right now I feel very enthusiastic about the practice of mindful politics and feel inspired by the words of Dr. King, Thich Nhat Hanh, and the Dalai Lama. I hope that I can continue to work at it and influence others to do so as well so that together we can rid ourselves of capitalistically motivated egotism and begin to cultivate some sort of altruistic political revolution, though I’m not sure what that looks like.

There is so much more I want to say and so many ideas that I want to share, and I will as I continue my journey through this book.

In the mean time , there is a lot of work to do..



[1] Melvin McLeod, editor
[2] “A New Global Approach to Global Problems” - the Dalai Lama
[3] Melvin McLeod, editor
[4] “A New Global Approach to Global Problems” - the Dalai Lama

Temp U? Yes, Please

New Shoes by Paolo Nutini


This amazing staff of pirate ninja scalawags:

created this brilliant magazine:

and released it at this party:
For more vibrant pics of the new mag and of Temporary Utopia, Spring 2007 (complete with musicians, food, and a sidewalk chalk competition) click here.

Raindrops from Nova Scotia

I didn't realize it until I stepped outside of the schoolhouse and all of a sudden freezing, silver dollar sized raindrops starting falling out of a bright blue sky on this, a humid, hot Texas day. And then there was that smell of fresh rain - renewal. Release! Part of me wanted to stand there, face lifted to the sky, and allow raindrops to baptize me into a new beginning. But then part of me wanted to sprint to the car because the drops were abnormally cold, like getting hit with melted snowballs from Nova Scotia. I guess I did something in between - an amble mixed with shriek!(?)

While musing over the odd weather, I had my epiphany. It was so clear, and I felt sort of stupid for not seeing it before. This surprisingly simple realization was that my day was good, not because I had done something earth shattering or because I was receiving any sort of pat on the back; it was good for all the normal reasons. My classes went well; I randomly met a wonderfully interesting (and talented) photographer and got to lose myself in his stories for a little while; I ate (and proposed marriage to) the best brownie in the entire world; some former students who are now extremely collegiate came to visit, to "check in" with Ms. H; I received a lovely, LOVELY letter from one of my dearest friends; I spotted the biggest butterfly I have EVER seen in my entire life (hard to miss!); and I observed a little boy wearing coke bottle glasses as he found a "specimen" on the sidewalk and had to research it more closely by getting down on all fours to study it from every angle. These silly, silly, globally "meaningless", things are what make the world good.

Today, despite the horror stories in the news, despite the politics and the uncertainties, despite our fear culture, things are good. I forget that under the weight sometimes..

Hoops and Dreams: Basketball Practice in IRC San Diego

Here is an example of how the IRC helps.

TMI, The Quiz Version

I seriously should be marking papers right now, but because I'm a big whiny procrastinator and because the catch phrase of the day happens to be "I don't wanna!", I'm going to go ahead and allow myself to be interviewed by a total stranger instead. (Hey Michelle, this is your fault..:) Oh! And if this guy turns out to be a stalker... well let's just say (shaking fist in your direction, biting lower lip).)
Safe or no, I don't want to grade and am apparently willing to risk bodily harm to not have to*, so here goes:

1. If you could spend a day with any living celebrity, who would it be and why? It depends. Wait. No it doesn't. Bono is the answer here. We need to talk about changing the world. We need to discuss me working for him in Africa - the Red Campaign, the One Campaign, etc. We need to talk about the fact that he does work effectively within the confines of "evil" capitalism (Mark say nothing) and that he actually gets things done, as opposed to simply talking about doing things. I want to learn about diplomacy and about meeting presidents and peacekeepers and even meeting those who are in opposition to his efforts. Of course I want to talk about music and poetry and the fact that he owes me the "One" dance. I want to talk about his faith, and how it's grown/changed, especially in the face of seeing the things he has seen.
(yes I am a true and loyal Bonophile.)

2. If you could spend a day with any living music celebrity, who would it be and why? (See the hyperventilated, pre-teen sounding, googly-eye answer for #1)

3. What place have you visited that has effected you the most and why? Chicago in the late 90's. This was probably the first mission trip I ever took where I actually got my hands dirty. I'm not talking about building churches or painting houses or that sort of thing, because I had done all of that before. On this trip I was actually forced to see things (other than extreme poverty) and actually be in uncomfortable situations without passing out a pamphlet or setting up a Sunday school . In Chicago, I wandered through Cabrini Green and got told to get my "white honky ass out of their neighborhood or [they] would shoot", even though I had just painted an apartment there. I went clubbing in the seediest dives in the gay district and sat and talked to people about their lives without offering anything to them but my company. (Meeting people where they're at). I stood in the business district and asked people what they needed prayer for that day (and it turns out that people needed to be asked that question). I visited a Krishna temple and a mosque for the first time and realized that the people there were not "enemies" because they prayed differently than me; they were lovely, and offered me cookies and kool-aid. In Chicago I slept on a cockroach infested floor with the lights on so that more of them would stay away, and was sincerely grateful for the place to crash.

I realized in Chicago that if I wanted to be any sort of humanitarian, I had to get the hell out of Six Flags Over Jesus where people all spoke "Christianese" and always knew the "right way" to pray. Jesus didn't hang out in those types of places. He would've been in the dark places.

There is where I realized that I simply needed to start loving people and building community.


4. Who’s the closest friend you ever had in your life thus far? That's hard. Friendships are all very different and valuable. Obviously Rich knows more of me than anyone else, but I can't discount my earliest/longest friendships (Jen, Lisa, Amy); and then there's Christine, whom I can't remember not knowing, though rationally I think it's only been 4 years.

5. How did you get into Blogging? Lisa, the blog Queen of America (and Jen too). We needed to keep in touch better.

6. Are you an athlete? If so, what sport do you play or have played? I danced for half of my life - ballet, jazz, modern dance. For a while I thought that I wanted to be a dancer, but I somehow got distracted..

7. Favorite movie and why? This is too hard. I really love Waiting for Guffman because it makes me laugh; Christopher Guest is a genius!

8. Favorite song and why? Today? I'm listening to a lot of Ani DiFranco lately, and Garbage, and Poe; anything girl power right now is my favorite song.

9. Most romantic date you’ve ever been on? When Rich and I were poor and couldn't afford to exchange gifts or go out to eat (for the love of God, he was selling his plasma to be able to afford his $25 rent and Ramen), he picked wild flowers for me and arranged them in an old bottle. We spent the evening in front of a wood burning stove and..

10. What is your favorite car that you have owned? Stealth! 1984 gold Buick Century (Aw yeah) with a baseball sized hole in the hood. She screamed every time she turned a corner, which is how she got her name. Damn belts! This was a character building experience..

*I even thought about stabbing my own eyes out with a pencil since that might actually feel better than actually reading some of these jewels

Blue October

Blue October is one of our local bands. Have you heard of 'em?

I think my kids call them emo, but they have a cool, relaxing, mesmeric sound.

International Rescue Committee

Check out the International Rescue Committee, or IRC, ' – a critical global network of first responders, humanitarian relief workers, healthcare providers, educators, community leaders, activists, and volunteers. Working together, we provide access to safety, sanctuary, and sustainable change for millions of people whose lives have been shattered by violence and oppression.'

Their mission:

'The International Rescue Committee serves refugees and communities victimized by oppression or violent conflict worldwide. Founded in 1933, the IRC is committed to freedom, human dignity, and self-reliance. This commitment is expressed in emergency relief, protection of human rights, post-conflict development, resettlement assistance, and advocacy.'

Here's what they do:

'One of the first to respond, one of the last to leave. For more than 70 years, the International Rescue Committee has been a leader in humanitarian relief. We mobilize quickly, bringing sustained support to regions torn apart by violence and deprivation. We provide a fresh start in the U.S. for refugees. And we advocate tirelessly on behalf of the displaced, addressing the root causes of violence and standing up for the world’s most vulnerable populations.'

.

According to brilliant Annie, who always does her homework and who brought this group to my attention, 'the IRC is independent of any country's funding. So in a lot of politically hot situations (ie, ache right after the tsunami) they are the only ones let in.'

.

There are tons of ways to get involved! I'm going to start by linking them to Viaggio.

Thanks for the link Annie!

This is where the magic happens:

So, it's almost the end of the school year. Pretty much my kids are done; when I say done I mean that they have flat out stopped working. They're seniors. The painful irony of trying to effectively teach Lord of the Flies to these chaotic big'uns - while they are trying to ignore the approaching "last summer as a high school kid", their bouncing spring hormones, and the fact that the biggest event in their lives is coming, senior prom - is not lost on me. The poor seniors are blissfully running around, passing out senior pics, sealing graduation announcements, and discussing dresses and tuxes and summer trips to the beach.

Little do they know or little do they care that they STILL HAVE TO PASS MY CLASS to get a diploma.

I genuinely appreciate those who are still working hard (because they love me and hope that I don't really go insane, or because they need to pass this six weeks in order to graduate..whatever). Thank you!!!

Either way, the end of the road is only three feet in front of them. Before this class leaves, I thought I should share a few of their funnies that I will eventually need to publish in my future book called, Holy Hell, I Made It Through 30 Years Of Teaching! (only 21 years to go.. shit. :) )

Some of these may seem inappropriate, but I assure you none of them were meant to be scandalous. Also, I'm curious to know how you, the sane, productive members in society would handle some of these, as my reaction was generally stunned silence or silent laughter..(not at the kids of course... well ok, at some of them)

#1: We're reading Frankenstein.

Me: When we read Macbeth, we talked about a literary device called pathetic fallacy and we are seeing another instance of that device in this particular chapter. Do any of you remember what pathetic fallacy is and can you explain how Mary Shelly is using it in this chapter?
Class: (blink. blink.)
Me: Anyone?
Class: (looking for a savior among their peers... blink. blink.)
Me: Can someone at least define pathetic fallacy?
Boy: (shyly raising his hand) Isn't pathetic fallacy when a man has a very uh... small man part?
Class: (not sure whether to laugh or nod, after all this is Frankenstein)
Me: (trying not to laugh and trying to maintain a dignified classroom) I think we need to check the spelling. You see I'm saying fallacy with an f. You're talking about a word that begins with ph...(oh crap. what have I gotten into..)

#2: We're reading Inferno.

Me: Who remembers what an allegory is?
Sweet girl: Oh! Isn't that when animals talk in stories?
Me: Actually, that's...
Over-confident football boy: (interrupting) NO! When animals talk it's called bestiality!
Me: (silent laughter of doom.. falling off of chair)
Class: (blink. blink. except for the super smart boy who mutters "moron" under his breath) Ms. H, What's so funny?
Me: Because bestiality is when (oh crap. what have I gotten into..)

#3: We're reading Candide.

Student in the back of the room: Ms. H, What's a mulatto?
Me: (thinking about political correctness, wording is important.. thinking)
Cheerleader: It totally sounds like something you can get at Starbucks! I'll have a grande mulatto with whip! (sparkle smile)
Me: (silent laughter of doom.. falling off of chair)

Storm Warning

I was by myself tonight when the storm hit. I didn't realize it was coming until the background murmur of the television went silent as I was fixing some hot tea to ease my wounded body and comfort my wounded spirit. I had my journal under my arm, today's pen color appropriately black. The silence was the first indicator, followed by brutal, 100mph sheer winds that whipped the screens against the windows. The lights began to flicker on and off as I hurriedly lit candles, located the storm radio, and listened for sirens which were going off and which I couldn't hear for the back to back, jaw rattling thunder and lashing rain.


What seemed to be a dire situation turned into an I Love Lucy skit as I ridiculously tried to usher cats to the storm shelter (the closet in our bedroom), carrying hot tea, the weather radio, lit candles, and (of course) my journal and black pen. Even though my mood was depressed, I did have to snicker at the fact that I NEEDED each of these items in my safe room. How silly that I couldn't make two trips or that I probably didn't have to have my journal or that cup of tea right now!


But then, I've always been silly like that.


Anyway, there we sat in the floor of the closet amidst dirty laundry and piles of shoes, me hugging my warm tea mug, the cats looking at me for the reason that we were sitting in the closet amidst laundry and shoes. I immediately regretted that during my mad juggling act and trip to the closet I hadn't found room in my arms for a blanket because I really needed a nest.


I need a nest right now.


As quickly as the storm hit, it passed, and I know that my body will heal and that my spirits will be uplifted eventually. Until then, I'll crawl under my blanket and wait it out.

Friday Night Salon

We are surrounded by language every day, but how often do we encounter real conversation? Although we read newspapers, screens, and books, engage in small talk or argument, the pace of our lives is such that the simple gestures of listening carefully and speaking prudently are amazingly rare. The Friday Night Salon aims at being an antidote to the urban pace that denies the civilizing graces of community. We begin with good food and drink, then take our places in a circle for discussion about a variety of topics. It's a welcome way to end the typical Dallas workweek. Topics for each Salon will be listed on the Institute website bulletin board.

Discussion topics for May 4, 2007:

1. Are violence and religion inescapably linked?

2. What is the purpose of public education in the U.S.?

3. Is altruism possible? Could or should a government practice it?

(Moderated by Dr. Larry Allums)

Feel free to talk about one or two of the topics. I know some of you already responded to #1 last salon. See the comments.