It turns out that I will always have to live in a place that has a fireplace or at least a hearth. The reason isn't one you might expect. Yes, I do love a warm, crackling fire on a crisp autumn day, but for me a fireplace means a little bit more than that.
When I was a kid, the fireplace served four major functions:
1. It was a place for actual fire- an effort to create warmth and/or ambiance
2. It was a table for those lucky few occasions when a special seasonal show like "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!" or when a Miss America Pageant was on television and Dutch and I got to eat dinner in the living room and watch. We still call the hearth "the fireplace table".
3. It was staging for dramatic performance: poetry recitation, play acting, and, I'm embarrassed to say, for serious concert reenactment, specifically attempts at singing stylized versions of songs originally sung by the likes of Amy Grant, Debbie Gibson or Tiffany while perhaps miming parts of the chorus to add further emotional implication that may have been missed by simply sharing the lyrics.
(I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize for that, family. I'm so, so SO sorry!)
4. It was, most importantly, a focal point venue for hosting every celebration known to man; a.k.a. a party on the hearth. My mother must have spent tireless hours hanging bunting, balloons, signs (birthday, graduation, congratulations, Valentines Day, Fourth of July, Flag Day, Easter, Welcome Tooth Fairy!, etc.), crepe paper streamers and bows on the surround of our old brick fireplace. She would place whatever gift or basket or reward on the hearth so that on a noteworthy day, we would stumble into the living room, eyes still bleary from sleep, and find - "What!? Surprise! The whole room is celebrating this most special occasion! I feel so incredibly valued and/or important!" or "Look! the Easter bunny/Tooth Fairy/ Santa Claus came! I can't believe my good fortune!" Or something similar.
A decorated fireplace really was a special treat every time, even though we knew it was coming and, as snarky teenagers, felt an expectation about it. It was a thoughtful, concrete reminder of how loved we were. That's what we loved about it.
Because of this, I don't understand how families who don't have a fireplace cope. I mean, where do they leave gifts? How do they acknowledge their loved ones on days like today - Father's Day?
I suppose this post should be about Rich - and what an amazing Dad he is to Jack. There is no one in the world better at being Jack's Dad or my partner. No one! And because I want to fully acknowledge how important and valuable Rich is to our family, I'm in the process of hanging streamers on the fireplace surround and making a paper banner with poorly crafted bubble letters that read, "Happy Father's Day!"
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
What Sand and Bare Feet Taught Me
I heard the vendor's voice on the warm breeze long before I opened my eyes and saw his bare feet in front of me.I was lounging in that daze-y space between nap and awake, that place of warm contentment, eyes closed but with the aura of orange-red suggested just beyond their lids.
I had been lying on the beach all morning, contemplating whether or not I ought to add another layer of sunscreen and deciding that a burn wouldn't be enough of a price for actually moving out of my blissful, cozy state.
"Fanta," he shouted, "cerveza, agua, Coca-Cola!" His voice got closer and closer. "Fanta, cerveza, agua..." until it was very close, and then it was, "Fanta, beer, water" in uncertain English. I opened my eyes and, as he passed, caught a glimpse of his feet as they shuffled by.
My first thought was, "Is it too early for a beer?" followed by, "Wait. He spoke English when he got near me." And then I was a little stung. "How did he know? Is it that obvious? What signs of being non-Spanish* did he pick up on?" I thought.
The answer was yes. It was that obvious. A quick examination of the damning evidence led me to these realizations:
1. I am super white. Glow in the dark pasty. No tan or pigment to speak of. At all. Except for maybe the red blotches of newly sunned skin that were beginning to form on my back and legs. I certainly did not look like I had spent any time outdoors. That is very non-Spanish.
2. My towel was sand-less. In other words, I had been preoccupied with keeping everything around me orderly, as if I were afraid the beach might actually get on me. Clearly I wasn't used to the grit of living anywhere near a sea.
3. I was still wearing my bikini top. I was pretty much the only one for miles with a top on (other than Rich who didn't even put on a swimsuit until nearly time to leave - another clue). Babies were running around on the beach naked and we had more clothing on than they wear in winter.
4. I hadn't been swimming. Most folks had already dove into the (freezing) waves or had swam their morning laps. I even spotted an elderly gentleman doing yoga (standing on his head for at least 3 minutes) and then taking a lap.
5. My hair was still pony-tailed in a land where gorgeous dark curls are left untamed to wave in the breeze.
The beach in Grand Canaria reflects Spanish culture: It's warm. Relaxed. Not fussy. Like me.
As I allowed myself to repose in that easy environment, I began to realize how exactly opposite I am from that these days. In my realization, I acknowledged how tightly wound I am, how stone-faced behind my frenzied emotions. In fact, I can't remember the last time I let go. Certainly it was before I began my intense search three, almost four, years ago for a new international job. Somewhere along the way I forgot that every little thing isn't about writing the perfect resume or presenting myself in the most professionally appealing way possible. I have been making a first impression and worrying about miss-stepping in every avenue of my life, whether it be in getting a job, parenting, or deciding what to eat for dinner. My life has felt like one long agenda driven interview where I am hyper aware of everything I do and and say and the effect or appearance it might or might not portray. Some people call this anxiety. And as I am particularly prone to it, I long ago worked out how how to alleviate it without medication, but have forgotten to practice and practice and practice that remedy. The result is this tense, frigid, annoyed, static (non-creative) state.
My back instinctively tightened at the acknowledgement brought on by the oblivious beach vendor.
I decided that I would stop him on his way back and order dos cervezas (who cares if it was too early!) and do the entire transaction in Spanish, confidently, to prove to him that I belong here. I considered casting off my bikini top for the sake of shaking off my anxiety, even for one afternoon, but then reminded myself that I was still, fairly prone to sunburn and that some places are more sensitive than others.. Baby steps.
Baby steps.
*The Canary Islands are part of Spain, for those of you who may think I am being insensitive to Mexico.(ahem)
I had been lying on the beach all morning, contemplating whether or not I ought to add another layer of sunscreen and deciding that a burn wouldn't be enough of a price for actually moving out of my blissful, cozy state.
"Fanta," he shouted, "cerveza, agua, Coca-Cola!" His voice got closer and closer. "Fanta, cerveza, agua..." until it was very close, and then it was, "Fanta, beer, water" in uncertain English. I opened my eyes and, as he passed, caught a glimpse of his feet as they shuffled by.
My first thought was, "Is it too early for a beer?" followed by, "Wait. He spoke English when he got near me." And then I was a little stung. "How did he know? Is it that obvious? What signs of being non-Spanish* did he pick up on?" I thought.
The answer was yes. It was that obvious. A quick examination of the damning evidence led me to these realizations:
1. I am super white. Glow in the dark pasty. No tan or pigment to speak of. At all. Except for maybe the red blotches of newly sunned skin that were beginning to form on my back and legs. I certainly did not look like I had spent any time outdoors. That is very non-Spanish.
2. My towel was sand-less. In other words, I had been preoccupied with keeping everything around me orderly, as if I were afraid the beach might actually get on me. Clearly I wasn't used to the grit of living anywhere near a sea.
3. I was still wearing my bikini top. I was pretty much the only one for miles with a top on (other than Rich who didn't even put on a swimsuit until nearly time to leave - another clue). Babies were running around on the beach naked and we had more clothing on than they wear in winter.
4. I hadn't been swimming. Most folks had already dove into the (freezing) waves or had swam their morning laps. I even spotted an elderly gentleman doing yoga (standing on his head for at least 3 minutes) and then taking a lap.
5. My hair was still pony-tailed in a land where gorgeous dark curls are left untamed to wave in the breeze.
The beach in Grand Canaria reflects Spanish culture: It's warm. Relaxed. Not fussy. Like me.
My back instinctively tightened at the acknowledgement brought on by the oblivious beach vendor.
I decided that I would stop him on his way back and order dos cervezas (who cares if it was too early!) and do the entire transaction in Spanish, confidently, to prove to him that I belong here. I considered casting off my bikini top for the sake of shaking off my anxiety, even for one afternoon, but then reminded myself that I was still, fairly prone to sunburn and that some places are more sensitive than others.. Baby steps.
Baby steps.
*The Canary Islands are part of Spain, for those of you who may think I am being insensitive to Mexico.(ahem)
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Morocco
"Jack, baby, what do you remember about Morocco?"
"I remember there was yummy things to eat in Morocco. I remember the donkey came. I remember the donkey."
"What else?"
"I think we couldn't touch anything. Why we couldn't touch anything?"
"Because those things were for sale."
"Momma, what for sale mean?"
"It means that people might want to buy the things we couldn't touch."
"Do you remember anything else from Morocco?"
"I think that's all I know. We didn't see any butterflies in Morocco."
I have to admit, Morocco was the hardest part of our trip for me. Harder than slugging luggage through busy airports. Harder than keeping a three year old still on a 90 minute bus ride. What's worse is I really wanted to feel comfortable there.
To be fair, my viewpoint is a little skewed as I only saw the desert crumbles of Agadir on my way to Taroudant. Also, I was only on Moroccan soil for around 5 hours, most of it on a bus tour. Our guide, Aziz, was Moroccan and spoke broken English.
He made many jokes about how lazy the women get to be and that they are very happy to wake up, go to the market to buy meals for the day, cook for the family and then take a nap until time to prepare the next meal. "What I mean is they like life, the women.It is easy for them."
He was also seriously concerned that we Western tourists understand that Morocco was becoming wealthy and therefore as important as any Western European country, especially as several manufacturing companies were coming in and creating jobs for the people. "What I mean is, Morocco will be as good as UK and a very happy country." And then he would laugh and make a joke about shop keepers not really working until noon or so, or when they wanted. "It looks like we live in ruins, but the way it works is this. Men want garage. They make shop in garage and then build house on top, little by little."
All of these topics tended to make me feel a bit alienated, ashamed, or just plain sad.
As he spoke I watched children walk or ride their bikes to school. "In Morocco, boys and girls go to school together," Aziz proudly said. "We are not like other Arab countries. What I mean is boys and girls go to same school, no problem." I watched as the girls loitered on one side of the school yard while the boys played soccer on the other.
"It is nice to be important," he interjected, " but more important to be nice." And he would laugh.
"Morocco is not concerned about religion,"he said. "You find people can go to the Muslim church or the Jewish church or the Catholic church. No problem. What I mean is people in Morocco are not concerned with religion. Religion is between the people's heart and God."
We spent most of our time in the souk or market in Taroudant. Taroudant is a walled city that has maintained much of its Arab tradition. The open air stalls were filled with mostly men, bartering and haggling, occasional donkey carts and several motorcycles. The air was full of amazing smells and the most beautiful, vivid colors I've ever seen. Shop keepers would pick up Jack and add him to their displays for a photo opportunity (always expecting a little Euro for their entertainment, though we didn't have much money with us). One of the tour guides shopped as he herded us through the market. He would interrupt himself to squeeze a tomato and ask a price, continue what he was saying mid-sentence, and then wave away the merchant.
We stopped in a "traditional Moroccan house" to watch a man pitch his homemade apothecary serums. He would ask his assistants (mute ladies who shared no smiles) to please pass around the perfume or hold out the chicken spices for everyone to smell. Then he would hold up a product and ask how many we wanted to buy. "He's a good salesmen, he is," one of the British men next to me remarked.
I couldn't leave the souk without bartering. I knew I was terrible at it, and was, by the way. I tried to smile as I bargained, but it came across as a frightened grimace. Fortunately, I was told with an annoyed wave of a hand, to just take the scarf I wanted to buy for the original price I offered (little more than a fourth of the initial price) and move on. I didn't feel cheated, but I felt incompetent.
I suppose this huge rambling post illustrates my own confusion. I really want to believe Morocco is this wonderful, free, exciting place that Aziz described. I really wanted to feel completely at ease. People were, on the whole, friendly. Yes, the culture was incredibly different from one I'm used to, though perhaps not so different from the Hispanic culture I grew up (and felt comfortable) in. But I didn't feel at ease that day. Everything felt very severe to me and dire. I watched people walk across the desert and I couldn't see where they were going. And I also saw tree climbing goats reaching for fruit at the top of barren trees.
"I remember there was yummy things to eat in Morocco. I remember the donkey came. I remember the donkey."
"What else?"
"I think we couldn't touch anything. Why we couldn't touch anything?"
"Because those things were for sale."
"Momma, what for sale mean?"
"It means that people might want to buy the things we couldn't touch."
"Do you remember anything else from Morocco?"
"I think that's all I know. We didn't see any butterflies in Morocco."
I have to admit, Morocco was the hardest part of our trip for me. Harder than slugging luggage through busy airports. Harder than keeping a three year old still on a 90 minute bus ride. What's worse is I really wanted to feel comfortable there.
To be fair, my viewpoint is a little skewed as I only saw the desert crumbles of Agadir on my way to Taroudant. Also, I was only on Moroccan soil for around 5 hours, most of it on a bus tour. Our guide, Aziz, was Moroccan and spoke broken English.
He made many jokes about how lazy the women get to be and that they are very happy to wake up, go to the market to buy meals for the day, cook for the family and then take a nap until time to prepare the next meal. "What I mean is they like life, the women.It is easy for them."
He was also seriously concerned that we Western tourists understand that Morocco was becoming wealthy and therefore as important as any Western European country, especially as several manufacturing companies were coming in and creating jobs for the people. "What I mean is, Morocco will be as good as UK and a very happy country." And then he would laugh and make a joke about shop keepers not really working until noon or so, or when they wanted. "It looks like we live in ruins, but the way it works is this. Men want garage. They make shop in garage and then build house on top, little by little."
All of these topics tended to make me feel a bit alienated, ashamed, or just plain sad.
As he spoke I watched children walk or ride their bikes to school. "In Morocco, boys and girls go to school together," Aziz proudly said. "We are not like other Arab countries. What I mean is boys and girls go to same school, no problem." I watched as the girls loitered on one side of the school yard while the boys played soccer on the other.
"It is nice to be important," he interjected, " but more important to be nice." And he would laugh.
"Morocco is not concerned about religion,"he said. "You find people can go to the Muslim church or the Jewish church or the Catholic church. No problem. What I mean is people in Morocco are not concerned with religion. Religion is between the people's heart and God."
We spent most of our time in the souk or market in Taroudant. Taroudant is a walled city that has maintained much of its Arab tradition. The open air stalls were filled with mostly men, bartering and haggling, occasional donkey carts and several motorcycles. The air was full of amazing smells and the most beautiful, vivid colors I've ever seen. Shop keepers would pick up Jack and add him to their displays for a photo opportunity (always expecting a little Euro for their entertainment, though we didn't have much money with us). One of the tour guides shopped as he herded us through the market. He would interrupt himself to squeeze a tomato and ask a price, continue what he was saying mid-sentence, and then wave away the merchant.
We stopped in a "traditional Moroccan house" to watch a man pitch his homemade apothecary serums. He would ask his assistants (mute ladies who shared no smiles) to please pass around the perfume or hold out the chicken spices for everyone to smell. Then he would hold up a product and ask how many we wanted to buy. "He's a good salesmen, he is," one of the British men next to me remarked.
I couldn't leave the souk without bartering. I knew I was terrible at it, and was, by the way. I tried to smile as I bargained, but it came across as a frightened grimace. Fortunately, I was told with an annoyed wave of a hand, to just take the scarf I wanted to buy for the original price I offered (little more than a fourth of the initial price) and move on. I didn't feel cheated, but I felt incompetent.
I suppose this huge rambling post illustrates my own confusion. I really want to believe Morocco is this wonderful, free, exciting place that Aziz described. I really wanted to feel completely at ease. People were, on the whole, friendly. Yes, the culture was incredibly different from one I'm used to, though perhaps not so different from the Hispanic culture I grew up (and felt comfortable) in. But I didn't feel at ease that day. Everything felt very severe to me and dire. I watched people walk across the desert and I couldn't see where they were going. And I also saw tree climbing goats reaching for fruit at the top of barren trees.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
Natural Spring Blooms Spark Urban Contemplations
Driving home from work the other day I noticed shiny new movie posters adorning the walls of the little bus stops that dot the winding, leafy Surrey roads. It wouldn't have been a big deal in the dead of winter, when the grass is contemplating brown and the gnarled tree limbs seem to cower from a foggy grey sky. In fact, apart from the car bumper in front of you and the suicidal bike riders darting around and in-between said bumpers, I would wager that the winter weather bus stop posters are a most effective form of advert, as they are a spot of color among the haze. Spring, however, is completely different.
Where Texas has it's gorgeous bluebonnets, Surrey has its daffodils, or 'Daffs!' as the flower traders declare on their signs, 'only £3.50 per bundle!' The daffs are incredible here and grow like the gorgeous wildflowers that blanket the Texas Hill Country do - everywhere and in the most unexpected places. In addition to the innumerable happy yellow flowers, the trees in Surrey are in full blossom.
Jack and I were walking home from the park last week end when he stopped, took hold of my hand, and shouted, "Momma! That tree looks like it has icing on it!!" It was a gorgeous cherry blossom tree, the pink blossoms so thick that I admitted there could be no other description for what it looked like - creamy pink icing. We immediately went home and made cupcakes.
Add to this the fact that the days have been summer-like and pleasant, and all anyone wants to do is be outside.
But I digress. My point here is to say that movie posters, no matter how new. or glossy they are, ought to pale in the midst of such natural beauty. I shouldn't have noticed them, but I did. Thus, this post.
Mirror Mirror. That's the name of the movie. The posters depict Julia Roberts, considering the shiny red apple in hand, and the promise of a re-created Snow White fairy tale that is supposed to revive all Snow White stories in the same way that Cinderella was given new life a few years ago in the forms of Ever After, Ella Enchanted, and The Princess Diaries. Roberts plays the evil witch, obsessed with being the fairest one of all who, in what can only be called the extremest form of envy, decides to murder the newest one to win the beauty competition ((ahem.) Scholarship program).
In the 19th century Brothers Grimm version, Snow White is the daughter of a beautiful queen who desires and creates a beautiful daughter, "that was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony wood."* When the little girl is 7, "she surpassed even the queen herself" in beauty. "Her jealousy gave her no peace," and she therefore decides to order her daughter's slaughter, the little one's guts to be brought back as proof and to serve as the queen's supper. The rest follows, that the man ordered to kill the little girl couldn't follow through, she meets the dwarfs, the queen finds out, devises several other plots to murder Snow White by playing on her naivete and kindness shown to others, successfully puts Snow White into a coma with one bight of glossy red apple...you know this part.. sad dwarves, glass coffin, and a hot young prince who becomes obsessed with the beautiful dead woman and has to be in her presence 24/7 lest he becomes sad. One day, sans kiss, Snow White coughs up the apple stuck in her throat and happily marries the prince, much to every one's relief. The queen, in an odd turn of events, attends the wedding, is clamped into a pair of metal shoes at the after party which are ceremoniously held over a fire, charring her feet to the bone, and then is made to dance at the wedding until she dies. Anyway, upon seeing the movie poster, I started to wonder about why this type of story is so popular now. Is it too obvious to say that as a middle aged woman, I am afraid of aging and feel intense jealously with regard to youth and beauty? Does the story simply mirror the seasons: the gnarled tree limb's jealousy toward the icing blossoms and daffs? Is it to acknowledge the obsessive nature of humans, whether it be towards something we desire (beauty, wealth, something that someone else possesses) or this major need for things to stay exactly as they are? What is it? Does it matter? Should it?
In any case, the bus stop became a place of contemplation for me.
*Source: Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1st ed. (Berlin: Realschulbuchhandlung, 1812), v. 1, no. 53, pp. 238-50. Translated by D. L. Ashliman. © 1998-2002.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The Launderette
I remember the day Rich and I bought our washer and dryer. We had just moved out of our apartment and were spending loads of time overcharging our credit cards with things that we “needed” for our new, seemingly huge house in suburbia, Metroplex. The washer and dryer were of particular importance because we had this conversation:
“So, we just bought a washer and dryer.”
“Yep.”
“That probably makes us grown-ups.”
“Uh huh. Next we’ll be talking about health insurance and goiters.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool!”
Fast forward ten years and we’ve reverted back to being college kids.. at least when it comes to doing laundry.
The English, as I may have mentioned in almost every previous post, do things differently. They, like most other Western nations, wash their clothes in a machine, but then they hang them on a line to dry, unlike the good ole modern Texas suburban way of washing and drying in two separate machines. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time wondering about the logistics of line drying. Questions like, “How long does it take for clothes to dry?” lead to “What happens if it rains?” and then, ”If it rains, do you start the laundry over again or do you just leave it out to dry? What about mildew? Bugs? Underwear thieves? What happens if you are drying your underwear and company pops by? Do people buy underwear with this in mind? What would mine say about me?” And so on.
At first I felt some relief about having a washer/dryer combo in my kitchen (which is where they are kept in this country) because I wouldn’t have to learn the answers to the series of ridiculous questions that take my thoughts prisoner. I felt relief until I learned that my washer/dryer has about 75 thousand settings with symbols that may as well be hieroglyphics except that hieroglyphics actually use pictures that some archeologists, with much research and studying, may be able to understand; that it takes, without exaggeration, six hours to wash one small load of laundry if you actually figure out a combination – a series of poking buttons and prayer - that makes the machine work; and that drying, according to my machine, is something akin to lightly breathing upon the sopping wet clothes and then breaking for tea.
I do not have a garden or any outdoor space to dry my clothes which means that I have to string wet laundry on every surface of the house and will it not to sour. Unless I time it correctly and turn the clothes every twenty minutes or so, the clothes do, in fact, sour and I have to start over.
On one of my few and far-in-between jogs around my neighborhood, I saw a little launderette and decided to try it. I gathered together my bundles and paraded them down the street, in front of Café Rouge where people sit sipping glasses of wine and people watch, past the tiny corner Tesco where folks step over each other (with all the polite "pardons") to get their groceries, and one block further. Inside were 6 washing machines and 6 dryers: Four quid to wash, one pound twenty to dry. The washers have four options – hot, warm, cold, or delicate. They take twenty minutes to wash. Drying – hot, warm or cool – takes fifteen. I loaded, paid, and waited. I settled in and reacquainted myself with the game of Hearts on the computer, and halfway through the rinse cycle, I realized that I was enjoying myself. A lot.
I now look forward to laundry time. I get grading done as I wash. I read and play games. I think and am still for 35 minutes per visit, more time than I ever spent being still at home when I worked on other things while the machine whirred in the background. My neighbors walk by the launderette’s open door and some even smile. I’ve begun recognizing them. This is my community full of people who do normal things like laundry!
Maybe I’m nostalgic about feeling like a college kid again. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental about what it means to be here rather than to visit here. Maybe in the winter I will take all of my sappy sweet feelings back and bitch about how horrid it is to trudge all the way down to the launderette in the bitter cold to wash towels. But for now, I’ll enjoy it.
Today is laundry day!
“So, we just bought a washer and dryer.”
“Yep.”
“That probably makes us grown-ups.”
“Uh huh. Next we’ll be talking about health insurance and goiters.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool!”
Fast forward ten years and we’ve reverted back to being college kids.. at least when it comes to doing laundry.
The English, as I may have mentioned in almost every previous post, do things differently. They, like most other Western nations, wash their clothes in a machine, but then they hang them on a line to dry, unlike the good ole modern Texas suburban way of washing and drying in two separate machines. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time wondering about the logistics of line drying. Questions like, “How long does it take for clothes to dry?” lead to “What happens if it rains?” and then, ”If it rains, do you start the laundry over again or do you just leave it out to dry? What about mildew? Bugs? Underwear thieves? What happens if you are drying your underwear and company pops by? Do people buy underwear with this in mind? What would mine say about me?” And so on.
At first I felt some relief about having a washer/dryer combo in my kitchen (which is where they are kept in this country) because I wouldn’t have to learn the answers to the series of ridiculous questions that take my thoughts prisoner. I felt relief until I learned that my washer/dryer has about 75 thousand settings with symbols that may as well be hieroglyphics except that hieroglyphics actually use pictures that some archeologists, with much research and studying, may be able to understand; that it takes, without exaggeration, six hours to wash one small load of laundry if you actually figure out a combination – a series of poking buttons and prayer - that makes the machine work; and that drying, according to my machine, is something akin to lightly breathing upon the sopping wet clothes and then breaking for tea.
I do not have a garden or any outdoor space to dry my clothes which means that I have to string wet laundry on every surface of the house and will it not to sour. Unless I time it correctly and turn the clothes every twenty minutes or so, the clothes do, in fact, sour and I have to start over.
On one of my few and far-in-between jogs around my neighborhood, I saw a little launderette and decided to try it. I gathered together my bundles and paraded them down the street, in front of Café Rouge where people sit sipping glasses of wine and people watch, past the tiny corner Tesco where folks step over each other (with all the polite "pardons") to get their groceries, and one block further. Inside were 6 washing machines and 6 dryers: Four quid to wash, one pound twenty to dry. The washers have four options – hot, warm, cold, or delicate. They take twenty minutes to wash. Drying – hot, warm or cool – takes fifteen. I loaded, paid, and waited. I settled in and reacquainted myself with the game of Hearts on the computer, and halfway through the rinse cycle, I realized that I was enjoying myself. A lot.
I now look forward to laundry time. I get grading done as I wash. I read and play games. I think and am still for 35 minutes per visit, more time than I ever spent being still at home when I worked on other things while the machine whirred in the background. My neighbors walk by the launderette’s open door and some even smile. I’ve begun recognizing them. This is my community full of people who do normal things like laundry!
Maybe I’m nostalgic about feeling like a college kid again. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental about what it means to be here rather than to visit here. Maybe in the winter I will take all of my sappy sweet feelings back and bitch about how horrid it is to trudge all the way down to the launderette in the bitter cold to wash towels. But for now, I’ll enjoy it.
Today is laundry day!
Actually LIVING here
Then other day I received an email from a dear friend who wanted to know all about where I live and what it is like for me here. She, more than most, understands how amazing it is that I’ve made this particular move to London, as she’s been here with me a couple of times and has seen the way I light up the second my shoes hit England’s glorious spongy grass. Also, she was among those poor souls who survived my first, most vulnerable year teaching when she was twelve. Now she’s twenty five.
When she asks, “Tell me about your new 'hood! What's the vibe? Who lives around? What goes on? Have you had any more shut-downs because of the Olympic cycling? What's your take on teaching and what-not? What's your take on it "all"? How is it looking at the US from the other side of the Atlantic?” she doesn’t expect, nor does she deserve, the canned answer I realized I’ve been nonchalantly wielding about: “It’s great! I love it! School is fine. It rains here sometimes which is new and different for a nice girl from Texas.”
The worst part is, I’m not sure I truly know the answers, yet, other than, ”Nope. No more shut downs because of Olympic cyclists.” Knowing the answers would mean actually paying attention to each moment – living in it -without being distracted by routine. I’d like to try and do that better and possibly share what I’ve experienced.
I’ll start with the laundrette.
When she asks, “Tell me about your new 'hood! What's the vibe? Who lives around? What goes on? Have you had any more shut-downs because of the Olympic cycling? What's your take on teaching and what-not? What's your take on it "all"? How is it looking at the US from the other side of the Atlantic?” she doesn’t expect, nor does she deserve, the canned answer I realized I’ve been nonchalantly wielding about: “It’s great! I love it! School is fine. It rains here sometimes which is new and different for a nice girl from Texas.”
The worst part is, I’m not sure I truly know the answers, yet, other than, ”Nope. No more shut downs because of Olympic cyclists.” Knowing the answers would mean actually paying attention to each moment – living in it -without being distracted by routine. I’d like to try and do that better and possibly share what I’ve experienced.
I’ll start with the laundrette.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Considering September 12th
(Hi Mom, don’t read this..)
Somehow I find it blasphemous to post this on this, the 10th anniversary of September 11th which, as you will quickly point out after reading this, is ironic on so many levels. So I won’t. I’ll schedule it to post tomorrow, a day that is not marked nor marred, neither memorialized nor mentionable.
Here’s the thing: I feel incredibly conflicted about September 11th. At this moment, Facebook, along with other mainstream media, is incredibly cluttered, heavy with the weight of questions like, “Where were you on the day?” over a link to an interactive pin site where everyone with an internet connection can pin a note showing where they were when the planes hit the Twin Towers. You can zoom in on Ground Zero in particular and read what folks witnessed then and how they are feeling now. The pins are even color-coded: Red pins represent the fearful; purple ones indicate anger; light blue pins are selected by the hopeful; dark blues are for the heartless, unmoved; and green are for people who feel secure. You can imagine what colors are most represented.
In addition to the sad posts, there are the patriotic ones: pictures of mountains, eagles, and, of course, the ever popular undulating Stars ‘n Stripes. And how many people changed their profile pictures to one of the iconic images, the flag flying over the wreckage, for example, or a NYC FD fireman’s hat? Listed are” inspirational writings” that say everything from the misplaced, “God Bless our Troops” to highly inspirational quotes by the likes of 9/11 figureheads like George W. Bush: "I can hear you, the rest of the world can hear you and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon."
Fortunately, I haven’t seen any wholly disparaging quotes about Islam or any Middle Eastern countries. In fact, I found this from one of my lovely former students who happens to be a Muslim American:
“Tomorrow, on 9/11, I'll mourn the nearly 3,000 lives lost, the over 6,000 injuries, the infrastructural carnage and devastation in NYC, and the humiliation of my country, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY religion.
And on 9/12, I'll mourn the nearly 1,000,000 lives, the 10's of millions of injuries, the infrastructural decimation in three countries, and the humiliation of my religion, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY country.
May God guide us all.”
This is both sad and inspirational (and overwhelmingly apt, in my opinion).
I had the audacity to repost it as a reply on another person’s statistically incorrect post that was decidedly one-sided. She summarily deleted my response, I’m assuming because it allowed the notion that the US shares some culpability with regard to loss on this day. Maybe it’s because I said the words “Muslim” and “friend” in the same sentence. Who knows? In any case, her prompt censoring led to my swift and final friend dismissal.
Literally, I am a virtual outcast when it comes to my feelings about what should be remembered on a day like today. I am annoyed by all of the 9/11 pomp and pageantry and am almost completely intolerant of the boastful, blind patriotism that is attached to all of it. It's everywhere!
There. I said it.
Noam Chomsky, in an excerpt from his recent book, 9/11 – Was There an Alternative?, reminds us that before our country became enamored with our post 9/11 patriotic response, we were the perpetrators of much larger attacks as seen by our own history. He remembers the first 9/11, the one that happened in 1973 when we effectively over- turned the Chilean government and put Pinochet in office, a decision that led to 25 times the horror for the Chileans that 9/11/01 was to us. He notes that our most recent 9/11 war would be considered a crime of aggression, citing Chief Justice Robert Jackson’s proposal that the US (i.e. Bush), according to the textbook definition derived from the Nuremburg Trials, is a first aggressor who invaded another country.
“We are left with two choices: either Bush and associates are guilty of the “supreme international crime” including all the evils that follow, or else we declare that the Nuremberg proceedings were a farce and the allies were guilty of judicial murder.”
To be fair, Chomsky also cites Obama as a participant in the US’s injustices against others, specifically in his decision to execute bin Ladin without a trial - another example of “judicial murder.”
I realize I am being inflammatory at the moment. And perhaps this is the wrong time to bring up all of these points. Contrary to what you are probably thinking right now, I don’t plan on joining sides with the folks who burned an American flag outside of the US Embassy in London this morning (ouch), nor do I intend to further hurt or humiliate anyone who feels the very intimate loss that is associated with this day.
I would like to remind people that there is more to the story. September 11th should be remembered as a one of the most heinous days in US history and should be approached with humility, with empathy, and with an overwhelming reminder of how fragile and lovely humanity is. Perhaps we should be a little less patriotic, boastful, and dare I say, celebratory, and instead use our time to think deeply about what truths are buried in our collective American consciences that we may be compensating for in our allegiance to September 11th.
Somehow I find it blasphemous to post this on this, the 10th anniversary of September 11th which, as you will quickly point out after reading this, is ironic on so many levels. So I won’t. I’ll schedule it to post tomorrow, a day that is not marked nor marred, neither memorialized nor mentionable.
Here’s the thing: I feel incredibly conflicted about September 11th. At this moment, Facebook, along with other mainstream media, is incredibly cluttered, heavy with the weight of questions like, “Where were you on the day?” over a link to an interactive pin site where everyone with an internet connection can pin a note showing where they were when the planes hit the Twin Towers. You can zoom in on Ground Zero in particular and read what folks witnessed then and how they are feeling now. The pins are even color-coded: Red pins represent the fearful; purple ones indicate anger; light blue pins are selected by the hopeful; dark blues are for the heartless, unmoved; and green are for people who feel secure. You can imagine what colors are most represented.
In addition to the sad posts, there are the patriotic ones: pictures of mountains, eagles, and, of course, the ever popular undulating Stars ‘n Stripes. And how many people changed their profile pictures to one of the iconic images, the flag flying over the wreckage, for example, or a NYC FD fireman’s hat? Listed are” inspirational writings” that say everything from the misplaced, “God Bless our Troops” to highly inspirational quotes by the likes of 9/11 figureheads like George W. Bush: "I can hear you, the rest of the world can hear you and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon."
Fortunately, I haven’t seen any wholly disparaging quotes about Islam or any Middle Eastern countries. In fact, I found this from one of my lovely former students who happens to be a Muslim American:
“Tomorrow, on 9/11, I'll mourn the nearly 3,000 lives lost, the over 6,000 injuries, the infrastructural carnage and devastation in NYC, and the humiliation of my country, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY religion.
And on 9/12, I'll mourn the nearly 1,000,000 lives, the 10's of millions of injuries, the infrastructural decimation in three countries, and the humiliation of my religion, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY country.
May God guide us all.”
This is both sad and inspirational (and overwhelmingly apt, in my opinion).
I had the audacity to repost it as a reply on another person’s statistically incorrect post that was decidedly one-sided. She summarily deleted my response, I’m assuming because it allowed the notion that the US shares some culpability with regard to loss on this day. Maybe it’s because I said the words “Muslim” and “friend” in the same sentence. Who knows? In any case, her prompt censoring led to my swift and final friend dismissal.
Literally, I am a virtual outcast when it comes to my feelings about what should be remembered on a day like today. I am annoyed by all of the 9/11 pomp and pageantry and am almost completely intolerant of the boastful, blind patriotism that is attached to all of it. It's everywhere!
There. I said it.
Noam Chomsky, in an excerpt from his recent book, 9/11 – Was There an Alternative?, reminds us that before our country became enamored with our post 9/11 patriotic response, we were the perpetrators of much larger attacks as seen by our own history. He remembers the first 9/11, the one that happened in 1973 when we effectively over- turned the Chilean government and put Pinochet in office, a decision that led to 25 times the horror for the Chileans that 9/11/01 was to us. He notes that our most recent 9/11 war would be considered a crime of aggression, citing Chief Justice Robert Jackson’s proposal that the US (i.e. Bush), according to the textbook definition derived from the Nuremburg Trials, is a first aggressor who invaded another country.
“We are left with two choices: either Bush and associates are guilty of the “supreme international crime” including all the evils that follow, or else we declare that the Nuremberg proceedings were a farce and the allies were guilty of judicial murder.”
To be fair, Chomsky also cites Obama as a participant in the US’s injustices against others, specifically in his decision to execute bin Ladin without a trial - another example of “judicial murder.”
I realize I am being inflammatory at the moment. And perhaps this is the wrong time to bring up all of these points. Contrary to what you are probably thinking right now, I don’t plan on joining sides with the folks who burned an American flag outside of the US Embassy in London this morning (ouch), nor do I intend to further hurt or humiliate anyone who feels the very intimate loss that is associated with this day.
I would like to remind people that there is more to the story. September 11th should be remembered as a one of the most heinous days in US history and should be approached with humility, with empathy, and with an overwhelming reminder of how fragile and lovely humanity is. Perhaps we should be a little less patriotic, boastful, and dare I say, celebratory, and instead use our time to think deeply about what truths are buried in our collective American consciences that we may be compensating for in our allegiance to September 11th.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Condition of my Back
Probably I shouldn’t write about my school in any form that can later be downloaded and printed off for lawyers to peruse for my trial – the one that happens after I’ve completely cracked and phoned every student or parent who was ever mean and told them what they could go and do with themselves. And you know I would never actually mention names in my writing.. mostly because I can’t remember them. HOWEVER, I do need to mention the fact that tomorrow I step into an entirely new academic dimension – one where there is no mask about privilege ruling supreme, where kids are treated as royalty, probably because they actually are royals.
Tomorrow is the first day of school.
Before I go into specifics about the knots in my back, I should mention a particular time in Montezuma, New Mexico, a day where all stress induced back aches disappeared and I felt free. Montezuma is host to a gorgeous international school where they occasionally hold what I affectionately call “teacher camp” for international teachers. It was a usual IB training with booklets and coffee breaks, but because it was in the mountains, there were also obstacle courses and “trust game” activities. For me and some newly made friends, there was spinning and dancing in an open field under the stars on a particularly magical, musical night. There was laughter and camaraderie, and skinny dipping in hot springs. It was lovely breathing fresh, crisp air and being so alive! It was a time when the teachers felt like kids again, where we actually felt important, like what we do for kids in the classroom matters.
At this camp, not only did I learn what I would consider the true nature of IB – organic, inquiry based learning where marks are given for ingenuity and insight, not taken away for mistakes – but I learned that I HAD to be part of the international teaching community. It was my niche, something I already knew about myself but hadn’t, until then, understood the urgency. The school in Montezuma was a scholarship school which to me said “level playing field.” In other words, everyone had an opportunity to play. No one had to pay. Everyone was valued and valuable.
Unfortunately most international schools are not like Montezuma. Most international schools have an agenda, the top three being religious, governmental, or for profit. This isn’t a new revelation. In fact it is the same in the states in public schools whether we care to admit it or not. It’s the wealthy elite enjoying excellent education via privatization and neighborhood privilege while the poor marginalized are left to beg for their intellectual bread. Generally international schools are for kids whose parents are “relocated” by their jobs or who have choice (i.e. money) about where they get to go to school.
My longing to be part of the international teaching community – and fitting in with those who are free spirited, educational gypsies - went to war with my integrity about what I think education should be: something organic, equalizing, and rooted deeply in community. I signed up anyway, giving-in to my selfish (perhaps that’s too strong of a word) need to feed my personal desire instead of huddling in the trenches with those who are fighting for the ideal promised to us as part of “the American dream”, and which is, in my opinion, a basic human right.
So back to my back. It hurts. Tomorrow is the first day at my new international school, and I’m stepping across the threshold with stories about how certain crown princes must carry their cell phones at all times in case of diplomatic emergencies; how certain affluent mothers squealed at seeing a washing machine for the first time and asked the dorm parent who would be doing her son’s laundry; how certain kids go for walks on sunny days instead of coming to class because they’ve never had to adhere to anyone else’s agenda; how the school is elite academically because they know the “strategies” involved with squeezing out the best test scores for programs like IB and AP, organic learning be damned; how the parents tend to overstep their bounds by being too involved.
I have to admit I’m afraid. Mostly I’m worried about connecting with my kids. Tomorrow is the first time I will be formally acquainted with elitism beyond anything I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Texas, folks!). I know kids are kids. I’m sure I will connect with many of them. I also know that most people are good people as Desmund Tutu reiterated regardless of what's in or not in their bank accounts. Also, the nature of my school almost forces community because we are all new here- teachers, students and parents alike. Still. This is most definitely a surreal leap.
I hope I’m cut out for it.
Tomorrow is the first day of school.
Before I go into specifics about the knots in my back, I should mention a particular time in Montezuma, New Mexico, a day where all stress induced back aches disappeared and I felt free. Montezuma is host to a gorgeous international school where they occasionally hold what I affectionately call “teacher camp” for international teachers. It was a usual IB training with booklets and coffee breaks, but because it was in the mountains, there were also obstacle courses and “trust game” activities. For me and some newly made friends, there was spinning and dancing in an open field under the stars on a particularly magical, musical night. There was laughter and camaraderie, and skinny dipping in hot springs. It was lovely breathing fresh, crisp air and being so alive! It was a time when the teachers felt like kids again, where we actually felt important, like what we do for kids in the classroom matters.
At this camp, not only did I learn what I would consider the true nature of IB – organic, inquiry based learning where marks are given for ingenuity and insight, not taken away for mistakes – but I learned that I HAD to be part of the international teaching community. It was my niche, something I already knew about myself but hadn’t, until then, understood the urgency. The school in Montezuma was a scholarship school which to me said “level playing field.” In other words, everyone had an opportunity to play. No one had to pay. Everyone was valued and valuable.
Unfortunately most international schools are not like Montezuma. Most international schools have an agenda, the top three being religious, governmental, or for profit. This isn’t a new revelation. In fact it is the same in the states in public schools whether we care to admit it or not. It’s the wealthy elite enjoying excellent education via privatization and neighborhood privilege while the poor marginalized are left to beg for their intellectual bread. Generally international schools are for kids whose parents are “relocated” by their jobs or who have choice (i.e. money) about where they get to go to school.
My longing to be part of the international teaching community – and fitting in with those who are free spirited, educational gypsies - went to war with my integrity about what I think education should be: something organic, equalizing, and rooted deeply in community. I signed up anyway, giving-in to my selfish (perhaps that’s too strong of a word) need to feed my personal desire instead of huddling in the trenches with those who are fighting for the ideal promised to us as part of “the American dream”, and which is, in my opinion, a basic human right.
So back to my back. It hurts. Tomorrow is the first day at my new international school, and I’m stepping across the threshold with stories about how certain crown princes must carry their cell phones at all times in case of diplomatic emergencies; how certain affluent mothers squealed at seeing a washing machine for the first time and asked the dorm parent who would be doing her son’s laundry; how certain kids go for walks on sunny days instead of coming to class because they’ve never had to adhere to anyone else’s agenda; how the school is elite academically because they know the “strategies” involved with squeezing out the best test scores for programs like IB and AP, organic learning be damned; how the parents tend to overstep their bounds by being too involved.
I have to admit I’m afraid. Mostly I’m worried about connecting with my kids. Tomorrow is the first time I will be formally acquainted with elitism beyond anything I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Texas, folks!). I know kids are kids. I’m sure I will connect with many of them. I also know that most people are good people as Desmund Tutu reiterated regardless of what's in or not in their bank accounts. Also, the nature of my school almost forces community because we are all new here- teachers, students and parents alike. Still. This is most definitely a surreal leap.
I hope I’m cut out for it.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
And Scene...to be continued
So Mr. A, the principal of my school (my boss), walks into my room before the students arrive on the first day of school, as he does every first day of school, to have the same exact first day back conversation that we have every year. It's a bit and it goes like this:
Mr. A: Good morning, Ms. Haag!
Me: Good morning, sir. (large sigh) - (what? I'm allowed a sigh at freaking 7:00 A.M.) (AND I'm allowed as many stage directions as I want.)
Mr A: Don't you just love the first day of school?
Me: (pause before I carefully say) Mr A, I love the second semester.
(Mr. A grins at my smartassitude (probably because it's not unlike his own personality) and walks out of the room)
And scene...usually!
This year, the scene didn't end, as it ought to have done. In fact, the scene took a drastic turn for the worse in a way that happens only when the planets are disturbingly misaligned or when the 7th dimension devours the first and second ones in a spiraling wormhole of doom, leaving putrid detritus smeared on the walls of the subconscious mind. OK. I'm being dramatic. I don't think a 7th dimension exists. But if it does and if it decides to devour the first two leaving smeared detritus on walls and stuff, it would look something like this:
(On his way out of the room, Mr. A stops and glances at my peace corner (messages of peace from Einstein and Gandhi, in poster forms, and a huge rainbow peace flag that says 'pace' which is 'peace' in Italian - you know the one that my students consistently and "rationally" interpret as a banner homage to my adoration of gay picante sauce - ??). He stops, looks at me, points to my peace corner.)
Mr. A: There will never be peace, you know.
Me: (large gasp coordinated with a truly puzzled/horrified look on my face)
(Mr. A walks out of the room.)
Me: (turning to face the audience listening at home) But that's not how it goes! And what a shitty way to start the school year! Where's my coffee? Where's Christine?
And Scene... for reals, this time.
Because I knew I had to survive the first day of school, I put the conversation out of my mind until I could skip over to Christine's room for another rendition of the very popular, highly rated, and sometimes forced (as is the case on the first day of school) comedy hour called The Ginger and Christine Show. (We usually do the 'Ta da!" pose here, but alas, I am typing now which makes spirit fingers very difficult.) So, I go to her room and we decide to make the quarter of a mile trek (not kidding) to the main office to say hello to the office staff and because Mr. A's wonderful secretary told us that she had some money for us to pick up. Off we skip. (Loads of skipping happens in my school.. get it? skipping.. in high school.. HAHAHAHA. Dude. I promise. The only questionable substance in my body right now is Folgers medium/dark roast Colombian coffee with a shot of Cinnamon Vanilla Coffeemate.)
When we get to the office, I see Mr. A for the first time since he made that turbulent comment to me that morning. I poke my head into his office and we have this conversation:
Me: Mr. A, do you really think there can never be peace?
Mr. A: Actually I've thought about it and I think there can be peace.. (long pause) but only if we annihilate all of mankind.
Me: (intake of breath to say something, I'm still not sure what)
Mr. A: No wait. We'd have to get rid of all of the animals, too, because of that whole 'dog eat dog' thing.
Me: (grinning at my own discomfort with the understanding that he's doing this on purpose)
Mr. A: AND we'd have to get rid of all plants too. You know. Venus Fly Traps and what not. (smirks)
Me: (full on smile) So, you're saying that there will only be peace if we get rid of all living things, and the world is a cold, dead rock.
Mr. A: Or if everyone were naked. If everyone were naked, no one would want to fight.
Me: Why? Because they would be too horrified? Or is it because we would all be laughing, pointing at each other, and saying things like, "That can't happen!"
All: (laughter)
So now we have a new bit. Every time I see Mr. A, even in passing, we have a conversation about peace:
"Did you figure it out, yet?"
"Nope. You?"
"Well, what if..."
And I think it's good that we're working on it, even if some of the solutions seem sarcastic or unreasonable. In fact, I love that we're working on it. If only we all were.
And what a great way to start the year!
to be continued..
Mr. A: Good morning, Ms. Haag!
Me: Good morning, sir. (large sigh) - (what? I'm allowed a sigh at freaking 7:00 A.M.) (AND I'm allowed as many stage directions as I want.)
Mr A: Don't you just love the first day of school?
Me: (pause before I carefully say) Mr A, I love the second semester.
(Mr. A grins at my smartassitude (probably because it's not unlike his own personality) and walks out of the room)
And scene...usually!
This year, the scene didn't end, as it ought to have done. In fact, the scene took a drastic turn for the worse in a way that happens only when the planets are disturbingly misaligned or when the 7th dimension devours the first and second ones in a spiraling wormhole of doom, leaving putrid detritus smeared on the walls of the subconscious mind. OK. I'm being dramatic. I don't think a 7th dimension exists. But if it does and if it decides to devour the first two leaving smeared detritus on walls and stuff, it would look something like this:
(On his way out of the room, Mr. A stops and glances at my peace corner (messages of peace from Einstein and Gandhi, in poster forms, and a huge rainbow peace flag that says 'pace' which is 'peace' in Italian - you know the one that my students consistently and "rationally" interpret as a banner homage to my adoration of gay picante sauce - ??). He stops, looks at me, points to my peace corner.)
Mr. A: There will never be peace, you know.
Me: (large gasp coordinated with a truly puzzled/horrified look on my face)
(Mr. A walks out of the room.)
Me: (turning to face the audience listening at home) But that's not how it goes! And what a shitty way to start the school year! Where's my coffee? Where's Christine?
And Scene... for reals, this time.
Because I knew I had to survive the first day of school, I put the conversation out of my mind until I could skip over to Christine's room for another rendition of the very popular, highly rated, and sometimes forced (as is the case on the first day of school) comedy hour called The Ginger and Christine Show. (We usually do the 'Ta da!" pose here, but alas, I am typing now which makes spirit fingers very difficult.) So, I go to her room and we decide to make the quarter of a mile trek (not kidding) to the main office to say hello to the office staff and because Mr. A's wonderful secretary told us that she had some money for us to pick up. Off we skip. (Loads of skipping happens in my school.. get it? skipping.. in high school.. HAHAHAHA. Dude. I promise. The only questionable substance in my body right now is Folgers medium/dark roast Colombian coffee with a shot of Cinnamon Vanilla Coffeemate.)
When we get to the office, I see Mr. A for the first time since he made that turbulent comment to me that morning. I poke my head into his office and we have this conversation:
Me: Mr. A, do you really think there can never be peace?
Mr. A: Actually I've thought about it and I think there can be peace.. (long pause) but only if we annihilate all of mankind.
Me: (intake of breath to say something, I'm still not sure what)
Mr. A: No wait. We'd have to get rid of all of the animals, too, because of that whole 'dog eat dog' thing.
Me: (grinning at my own discomfort with the understanding that he's doing this on purpose)
Mr. A: AND we'd have to get rid of all plants too. You know. Venus Fly Traps and what not. (smirks)
Me: (full on smile) So, you're saying that there will only be peace if we get rid of all living things, and the world is a cold, dead rock.
Mr. A: Or if everyone were naked. If everyone were naked, no one would want to fight.
Me: Why? Because they would be too horrified? Or is it because we would all be laughing, pointing at each other, and saying things like, "That can't happen!"
All: (laughter)
So now we have a new bit. Every time I see Mr. A, even in passing, we have a conversation about peace:
"Did you figure it out, yet?"
"Nope. You?"
"Well, what if..."
And I think it's good that we're working on it, even if some of the solutions seem sarcastic or unreasonable. In fact, I love that we're working on it. If only we all were.
And what a great way to start the year!
to be continued..
Friday, August 17, 2007
It's that time
It's that time. School starts in a week and teachers officially report back on Monday, though several of us are already working and have been all summer. I always find it funny when Corporate Joe makes a remark like, "It must be nice to have the summer off," usually said with a hint of sarcasm in his tone that makes the statement sound more like, "Must be really nice to have so much vacation time where you do NOTHING and get paid for it while I work year round and only get a measly two weeks vacation time and that includes sick days. Jerk. (eye roll)"
So go be a teacher, dude. The system needs you. I have several other scathing retorts that I could mouth off to him, but generally I am good about swallowing that particular bile. And for the record, of course we don't get paid for our "vacation time". We get paid for our required clock time for the school year only, without overtime which inevitably good teachers HAVE to put in since papers, unfortunately, do not grade themselves. Most of us choose to stretch the wage over 12 months so that we don't, um I don't know, starve in the summer.
(sigh)
Please don't misunderstand. I have to acknowledge that to an extent, CJ is right to be jealous. Depending on the teacher, we can make each summer whatever we want it to be. I, for example, use my summer to feed my travel addiction and to read and sunbathe as much as I want. Also, this summer I happily attended two International Baccalaureate conferences, have had several meetings with the Fougs to plan for this year, have organized my lesson plan book for the entire year and have been to the schoolhouse to get my room ready. In July I had the opportunity to judge literary magazines for the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and decided to try it so that I can do better at advising our school's mag. Also, I've been reading different texts all summer so that I can vary the reading for my literature courses. Today I'll attend a senior level meeting.
There aren't many jobs that get a "do over" every 9 months, and the summer cleanses the palate and lets us catch our breath a little. Summer allows teachers the opportunity to reflect and revise so as to avoid last year's shit smear. Or as Rich wisely (and more eloquently) puts it, "They give teachers the summers off so that some of us will come back." Amen.
But I love the work. I love all of it. A lot.
So, hey CJ! You should be jealous. And even though I do feel a little bit sad that summer is ending, especially since it means that I'll have to stay put for a while, I am optimistic about this school year. Bring it.
So go be a teacher, dude. The system needs you. I have several other scathing retorts that I could mouth off to him, but generally I am good about swallowing that particular bile. And for the record, of course we don't get paid for our "vacation time". We get paid for our required clock time for the school year only, without overtime which inevitably good teachers HAVE to put in since papers, unfortunately, do not grade themselves. Most of us choose to stretch the wage over 12 months so that we don't, um I don't know, starve in the summer.
(sigh)
Please don't misunderstand. I have to acknowledge that to an extent, CJ is right to be jealous. Depending on the teacher, we can make each summer whatever we want it to be. I, for example, use my summer to feed my travel addiction and to read and sunbathe as much as I want. Also, this summer I happily attended two International Baccalaureate conferences, have had several meetings with the Fougs to plan for this year, have organized my lesson plan book for the entire year and have been to the schoolhouse to get my room ready. In July I had the opportunity to judge literary magazines for the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and decided to try it so that I can do better at advising our school's mag. Also, I've been reading different texts all summer so that I can vary the reading for my literature courses. Today I'll attend a senior level meeting.
There aren't many jobs that get a "do over" every 9 months, and the summer cleanses the palate and lets us catch our breath a little. Summer allows teachers the opportunity to reflect and revise so as to avoid last year's shit smear. Or as Rich wisely (and more eloquently) puts it, "They give teachers the summers off so that some of us will come back." Amen.
But I love the work. I love all of it. A lot.
So, hey CJ! You should be jealous. And even though I do feel a little bit sad that summer is ending, especially since it means that I'll have to stay put for a while, I am optimistic about this school year. Bring it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Happy Birthday, Jen!!!
I remember when I was four and you were three and our moms lifted us over the backyard fence to meet. You were in a yellow jumper that tied at the shoulders and had blond pig-tails. I probably wore pea green. We stared at each other as we dug in dirt, from shovel to pail, and were silent.(I'll retell this story a billion times!) Who knew that that moment was the start of a life-long friendship that would withstand time, distance, devastating grief, Mr. Lambrecht, and 9th grade prom,and would, at the same time, foster oblivious joy, silliness*, song, and compassion? I am who I am in great part to your friendship. Thanks for that! I love you, Jen!
Happy Birthday!!!
* Silly in every form imaginable:
1. "I do this all the time!"
2. "The Olympic gymnastic champion is.." and dance class in my garage
3. "I'm allergic to cheese"
4. "I can't say that name"
5. "We'll tell the counselors that I was trying to kill a bug on the window, not trying to 'take-out' the air-conditioning"
6. "If there is someone in the house, come out now! We have a gun (sure it was the decorative rifle over the mantle..)"
* Silly in every form imaginable:
1. "I do this all the time!"
2. "The Olympic gymnastic champion is.." and dance class in my garage
3. "I'm allergic to cheese"
4. "I can't say that name"
5. "We'll tell the counselors that I was trying to kill a bug on the window, not trying to 'take-out' the air-conditioning"
6. "If there is someone in the house, come out now! We have a gun (sure it was the decorative rifle over the mantle..)"
7. Rod Turner.
8. Ubert and fence walking
9. The neighborhood pool and synchronized swimming
10. Driving my car in the rain.. through a red light.. very slowly..
11. That stupid flower bangs thing and the abusive hairbrush
12. "Avery thinks he is SO hot.."
13. "I just saw that guy I'm gonna marry.."
14. Sneaking over to your house to watch "Three's Company"
15. The clapper.
etc. etc. etc.
Monday, August 06, 2007
The End
Since the summer is coming to a close a little bit more quickly that I realized, this will probably be the last installment of
Notes on Traveling
Lesson 5: Sometimes Fear is a Good Thing?
Lesson 1; Lesson 2; Lesson 3; Lesson 4
When I was a kid I was afraid, A LOT. Mostly, my fears were semi-irrational and I was certainly more creative with my fears than most kids and their wimpy/predictable 'fear of the dark'. For example:
*As a child I was certain that the house would be devoured by fire, so I kept a an emergency kit-- stuffed animals, Payo (my security pillow), a flashlight, a butter knife(?), a map drawing (probably crayola) of the layout of the house, the mailbox meeting place, and detailed route information, detours in red -- in a zip-lock bag under my bed for quick retrieval, just in case. I made my extremely tolerant family conduct weekly fire drills with different plans of action should the fire be at this door, or maybe that one. (And yes, we did actually set off the alarm with a match each time, and yes, I did occasionally make us all crawl in case the smoke was too thick above.)
* For a while I was convinced that Mom, Dad, and the Putz were alien robots and that when I went to sleep they would morph into their true forms in order to ... I don't know.. do whatever dastardly things alien robots are wont to do. But I was more afraid that they would malfunction like that alien robot in the Superman III movie - with Richard Pryor? I really REALLY did not want to see that. People just don't recover from that sort of sight.
* In junior high, I knew the bad guys were coming for me. I knew that if I opened my blinds, I would be standing eye-to-eye with a deranged murderer, his face pressed up against the glass, or worse an angel! Or maybe I would see the ghost of the person who was buried underneath my bedroom in an unmarked grave because he was killed there and left to rot and no one knew about it because back then they didn't keep good records of stuff like that, and hey we did find an actual cannonball buried in our front yard which means that probably SEVERAL people died near and around our house... SO I didn't open my blinds or look out the window for a really long time. Uh. Actually, I still can't do it at night. Also, I PRAYED, eyes and hands clinched, that God would never show me an angel or a ghost, friendly or otherwise.
As I got older, my fears evolved into more logical ones, but were irrationally dealt with. I won't go into these.
The point is that I am a total 'fraidy cat.
I know now that I can control my fears, and I can talk myself down from some of them. (Yes, how very adult of me.) So I was very proud of myself for flying to London and being there alone for a while. I was ecstatic that I attended a workshop in Oxford by myself, but more than that had a BLAST and made new friends there. I wasn't at all afraid in Europe which may have been stupid since a small dose of fear keeps us (especially women) vigilant and safe.
But I was irrationally terrified sometimes in New York.
Mostly, New York is a loud city, and I have very sensitive hearing. Loud noises make me anxious, especially if said noises are a million sirens at night.. in New York. No one can go to The City without being constantly reminded of 9/11, but oddly in a stoic - no fear way. People LOVE The City and defy anyone to mess with it again. New Yorkers aren't afraid of anything anymore. They don't notice that there are cops on every corner with bomb sniffing dogs heeled at their sides. They don't notice the officer who walks down the aisle on the subway who is checking under seats, eyes constantly moving, who steps off of the train at each stop, looks both ways, says something into his walkie-talkie and gets back on - only to reopen the doors if he wants to double check. They don't notice that this is the forever norm, or that we can't go back.
We have become so accustomed to the fear, that it isn't fear anymore. It's life.
I was talking to a friend of mine whose little sister can't remember a time before orange alert. And it dawned on me that from now on, children will have to live in an orange alert world. What does that mean for them? What does it mean for our country? The world (which has been on orange alert FAR longer than we realize)?
Maybe I'm being over paranoid or pessimistic since I can't imagine returning to a time where we aren't afraid. And this is nothing new, seeing as the Cold War brought people to their knees - literally under their desks at schoolhouses.
I realize that probably in order for things to get better, worse things will have to happen, whether we are talking about another attack on "US soil", or whether we're talking about willingly giving-up our civil liberties and becoming a police state disguised as a safe haven.
The problem is our memories are short.
The problem is we make big guns and it is easier to point and shoot those guns than it is to negotiate.
The problem is we all want to be soldiers, both literally and figuratively, fighting for 'the cause' but are sometimes unsure as to what exactly 'the cause' is, and don't remember the rationale behind fighting for it.
The problem is we are fearfully reactionary beings and keep secret precautions under our beds.
The problem is we're afraid of angels.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Notes on Traveling
Lesson 5: Sometimes Fear is a Good Thing?
Lesson 1; Lesson 2; Lesson 3; Lesson 4
When I was a kid I was afraid, A LOT. Mostly, my fears were semi-irrational and I was certainly more creative with my fears than most kids and their wimpy/predictable 'fear of the dark'. For example:
*As a child I was certain that the house would be devoured by fire, so I kept a an emergency kit-- stuffed animals, Payo (my security pillow), a flashlight, a butter knife(?), a map drawing (probably crayola) of the layout of the house, the mailbox meeting place, and detailed route information, detours in red -- in a zip-lock bag under my bed for quick retrieval, just in case. I made my extremely tolerant family conduct weekly fire drills with different plans of action should the fire be at this door, or maybe that one. (And yes, we did actually set off the alarm with a match each time, and yes, I did occasionally make us all crawl in case the smoke was too thick above.)
* For a while I was convinced that Mom, Dad, and the Putz were alien robots and that when I went to sleep they would morph into their true forms in order to ... I don't know.. do whatever dastardly things alien robots are wont to do. But I was more afraid that they would malfunction like that alien robot in the Superman III movie - with Richard Pryor? I really REALLY did not want to see that. People just don't recover from that sort of sight.
* In junior high, I knew the bad guys were coming for me. I knew that if I opened my blinds, I would be standing eye-to-eye with a deranged murderer, his face pressed up against the glass, or worse an angel! Or maybe I would see the ghost of the person who was buried underneath my bedroom in an unmarked grave because he was killed there and left to rot and no one knew about it because back then they didn't keep good records of stuff like that, and hey we did find an actual cannonball buried in our front yard which means that probably SEVERAL people died near and around our house... SO I didn't open my blinds or look out the window for a really long time. Uh. Actually, I still can't do it at night. Also, I PRAYED, eyes and hands clinched, that God would never show me an angel or a ghost, friendly or otherwise.
As I got older, my fears evolved into more logical ones, but were irrationally dealt with. I won't go into these.
The point is that I am a total 'fraidy cat.
I know now that I can control my fears, and I can talk myself down from some of them. (Yes, how very adult of me.) So I was very proud of myself for flying to London and being there alone for a while. I was ecstatic that I attended a workshop in Oxford by myself, but more than that had a BLAST and made new friends there. I wasn't at all afraid in Europe which may have been stupid since a small dose of fear keeps us (especially women) vigilant and safe.
But I was irrationally terrified sometimes in New York.
Mostly, New York is a loud city, and I have very sensitive hearing. Loud noises make me anxious, especially if said noises are a million sirens at night.. in New York. No one can go to The City without being constantly reminded of 9/11, but oddly in a stoic - no fear way. People LOVE The City and defy anyone to mess with it again. New Yorkers aren't afraid of anything anymore. They don't notice that there are cops on every corner with bomb sniffing dogs heeled at their sides. They don't notice the officer who walks down the aisle on the subway who is checking under seats, eyes constantly moving, who steps off of the train at each stop, looks both ways, says something into his walkie-talkie and gets back on - only to reopen the doors if he wants to double check. They don't notice that this is the forever norm, or that we can't go back.
We have become so accustomed to the fear, that it isn't fear anymore. It's life.
I was talking to a friend of mine whose little sister can't remember a time before orange alert. And it dawned on me that from now on, children will have to live in an orange alert world. What does that mean for them? What does it mean for our country? The world (which has been on orange alert FAR longer than we realize)?
Maybe I'm being over paranoid or pessimistic since I can't imagine returning to a time where we aren't afraid. And this is nothing new, seeing as the Cold War brought people to their knees - literally under their desks at schoolhouses.
I realize that probably in order for things to get better, worse things will have to happen, whether we are talking about another attack on "US soil", or whether we're talking about willingly giving-up our civil liberties and becoming a police state disguised as a safe haven.
The problem is our memories are short.
The problem is we make big guns and it is easier to point and shoot those guns than it is to negotiate.
The problem is we all want to be soldiers, both literally and figuratively, fighting for 'the cause' but are sometimes unsure as to what exactly 'the cause' is, and don't remember the rationale behind fighting for it.
The problem is we are fearfully reactionary beings and keep secret precautions under our beds.
The problem is we're afraid of angels.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
FC Dallas 5, LA Galaxy 6
So, the 
media was practically hyperventilating and the marketing morons for FC Dallas were having sustained climaxes at the realization that David Beckham, the megastar of all things football in Britain (and really around the world), was leaving his team (Real Madrid where, for a while he was considered a 'has been' but also where eventually he redeemed his reputation by playing some amazing soccer and leading that team to supreme victory) to come to the states and play Major League Soccer for Los Angeles. And also, LA threw stacks and stacks of cash at him..
There were obviously major advantages surrounding this buy out for American soccer since we are typically seen as the "joke league" around the world. We don't play as fast as the Europeans, we don't handle the ball as beautifully as the Latin Americans, and we play with more integrity (as in not as many dives or headbutts) than several countries which, unfortunately, means we lose. Our league IS a baby league and we are slowly bringing up the level of play so as to be as competitive as the rest of the world.
So, bringing Becks to the states was supposed to boost American interest in soccer. His (gorgeous) body on the field was supposed to put butts in seats and was supposed to be one of the first steps in bringing several football megastars to the US in order to raise the level of competition. As it stands now we only export our major players, especially since most of our players have to work two jobs to sustain any kind of living here and they can make the same income by asking you if you "want fries with that."
The point of me telling you all of this is that MLS was getting their big break. Or at least the world would be watching to see what would happen to Becks and Posh. (Could they stand living in such uncivilized filth?) But also maybe they would see that MLS is not a big lazy side show missing its main clown.
Only it was on Tuesday night.
The game was SOLD OUT which was a HUGE deal since the stadium is usually only 1/4 full. I even have to adm
it that when I bought my ticket package, I requested the "Beckham game." Two nights before the game, I was..um. - I mean- people were painting their "Becks, I want to have your baby!" signs for the game, and the marketers for FC were busy patting themselves on the backs (handshakes and toasts all around) when the news came that LA decided to leave David Beckham at home.
WHAT?
We knew Becks was injured, and that we weren't going to see him "bend" anything. But he was at least going to be on the sidelines, right? Nope. Life. as. we. know. it. ended!!!
OK, OK. It wasn't THAT dramatic, but we were disappointed. And those of us who actually support MLS who went to the game anyway knew that this was a major hit to Dallas soccer. The team was really going to have to put on a show at this game for all of the folks who had paid to see Beckham and who were going to have to settle for (choke) Landon Donovan.
In short, the first half was a disaster! We were down by 3 within the first twenty minutes. We got it together in the second half and FC (after a beautiful bicycle kick goal that was called back) brought back their game and lost by one point in this, the most bizarrely fantastic soccer show in the history of MLS. And we didn't need no stinking David Beckham!
Click here for a more intelligent, comprehensive game report by Jamie F.
END NOTES:
1. I LOV
E Juan Toja (#8) and his supersonic mullet.
2. Landon Donovan is an ungracious, nancy pants a-hole! And I will NEVER support him again, not even on the national team.
Guy sitting next to me: Did you see why Landon Donovan got that yellow card?
Me: Was it because he has an extremely large forehead?
Guy: (looking confused) No. It's because he shushed the crowd, pointed at us, and then pretended to slash his throat (while mouthing "game over") after he scored his last goal.
Me: I know. I saw it. (yelling) Suck my d____, Landon Donovan!
(sorry Mom. I did, in fact, risk my own yellow card at the game to yell this and it was in poor form. But I still mean it.)
3. Favorite fan signs at our Beckham-less game:
a. "Bench it like Beckham! "
b. "English exports:
2 million Harry Potter books - priceless.
250 million dollar football player - worthless.
Where the Beck are you? "
Pictures borrowed from 3rd Degree website, Reuters, AP, and my own camera.
media was practically hyperventilating and the marketing morons for FC Dallas were having sustained climaxes at the realization that David Beckham, the megastar of all things football in Britain (and really around the world), was leaving his team (Real Madrid where, for a while he was considered a 'has been' but also where eventually he redeemed his reputation by playing some amazing soccer and leading that team to supreme victory) to come to the states and play Major League Soccer for Los Angeles. And also, LA threw stacks and stacks of cash at him..There were obviously major advantages surrounding this buy out for American soccer since we are typically seen as the "joke league" around the world. We don't play as fast as the Europeans, we don't handle the ball as beautifully as the Latin Americans, and we play with more integrity (as in not as many dives or headbutts) than several countries which, unfortunately, means we lose. Our league IS a baby league and we are slowly bringing up the level of play so as to be as competitive as the rest of the world.
So, bringing Becks to the states was supposed to boost American interest in soccer. His (gorgeous) body on the field was supposed to put butts in seats and was supposed to be one of the first steps in bringing several football megastars to the US in order to raise the level of competition. As it stands now we only export our major players, especially since most of our players have to work two jobs to sustain any kind of living here and they can make the same income by asking you if you "want fries with that."
The point of me telling you all of this is that MLS was getting their big break. Or at least the world would be watching to see what would happen to Becks and Posh. (Could they stand living in such uncivilized filth?) But also maybe they would see that MLS is not a big lazy side show missing its main clown.
Only it was on Tuesday night.
The game was SOLD OUT which was a HUGE deal since the stadium is usually only 1/4 full. I even have to adm
it that when I bought my ticket package, I requested the "Beckham game." Two nights before the game, I was..um. - I mean- people were painting their "Becks, I want to have your baby!" signs for the game, and the marketers for FC were busy patting themselves on the backs (handshakes and toasts all around) when the news came that LA decided to leave David Beckham at home.WHAT?
We knew Becks was injured, and that we weren't going to see him "bend" anything. But he was at least going to be on the sidelines, right? Nope. Life. as. we. know. it. ended!!!
OK, OK. It wasn't THAT dramatic, but we were disappointed. And those of us who actually support MLS who went to the game anyway knew that this was a major hit to Dallas soccer. The team was really going to have to put on a show at this game for all of the folks who had paid to see Beckham and who were going to have to settle for (choke) Landon Donovan.
In short, the first half was a disaster! We were down by 3 within the first twenty minutes. We got it together in the second half and FC (after a beautiful bicycle kick goal that was called back) brought back their game and lost by one point in this, the most bizarrely fantastic soccer show in the history of MLS. And we didn't need no stinking David Beckham!
Click here for a more intelligent, comprehensive game report by Jamie F.
END NOTES:
1. I LOV
E Juan Toja (#8) and his supersonic mullet.2. Landon Donovan is an ungracious, nancy pants a-hole! And I will NEVER support him again, not even on the national team.
Guy sitting next to me: Did you see why Landon Donovan got that yellow card?
Me: Was it because he has an extremely large forehead?
Guy: (looking confused) No. It's because he shushed the crowd, pointed at us, and then pretended to slash his throat (while mouthing "game over") after he scored his last goal.
Me: I know. I saw it. (yelling) Suck my d____, Landon Donovan!
(sorry Mom. I did, in fact, risk my own yellow card at the game to yell this and it was in poor form. But I still mean it.)
3. Favorite fan signs at our Beckham-less game:
a. "Bench it like Beckham! "
b. "English exports:
2 million Harry Potter books - priceless.
250 million dollar football player - worthless.
Where the Beck are you? "
Pictures borrowed from 3rd Degree website, Reuters, AP, and my own camera.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
A Call to Curiosity
I was all geared up to write a reflection in response to seeing this striking picture*:
But I decided that it might be interesting to leave responses open for sharing. I'd like to know your initial reactions/thoughts on this picture and I'll share mine, too. You don't have to write a dissertation or anything (though dissertations are welcome). Leave a sentence or two, or maybe even a couple of words. Leave a verse or a poem if you want. I would love to know your thoughts.
My blog serves many self-indulgent purposes, but it is also a safe place for reflection that, when shared, leads to further understanding. :)
*photographer is Mark B, the subject being, "from church whose name I forget at Little Venice, Regency Canal, London."
Saturday, July 21, 2007
On Church
I'm not sure I'm in the right time space at the moment to share this experience with you. I don't want it to sound too melodramatic or churchy so I am writing in the morning when I am at my most logical. It's just too oppressively hot to write in the afternoon for me, and my entries end up developing a major crankitude as a result. Nighttime generally gives way to sentimentality and clouded judgement for me (esp after a glass or two of Woodbridge), and this topic needs to be genuine in content. So, morning it is.
Notes on Traveling
Lesson # 3: Do Something Non touristy
You can find Lesson #1 here and Lesson #2 here.
It seems like forever ago that I decided to ask my school if I could go to England for the International Baccalaureate conference, but I'm pretty sure it was during the fall, close to winter break. The second I saw the Oxford conference on the IB website, I remember having one of those feelings - like I knew it was supposed to happen. But in the reality of the day, the idea of the school actually sending me all the way to England for training, especially since there were other conferences closer to home, was ridiculous. I actually had to get up the the courage to ask my IB coordinator if it was even a possibility, which means that I dreamed about it, had millions of conversations with Christine about it, and changed my mind a billion times. I remember asking on a day when I felt a little bit untouchable for some reason which means I had either had a really good day (rare last year) or an "I really don't give a shit" kind of day (more probable). I needed an adventure, after all, and I had been trying to get out of town for some sort of Jack Kerouac experience (with fewer drugs and less anonymous sex).
This is all a really long introduction to say that, to my astonishment, the IB gods smiled on me that day, and the verdict was yes. Go to Oxford, Ginger! My response was, "Really?!" followed by an internal, "Oh hell no! What did I just sign-up for? I can't fly by myself! I'll have to actually talk to people, and maneuver my way around England!? The Underground ticket people are scary, and what am I going to eat? I've only been to England 8 or 9 times! I'll have to make friends! How in the hell am I going to do this? Shit!" followed by, "This is exactly what you need. Get a grip. It's England. You love England. You are an empowered woman - read your 'cunt-lovin' womanifesto! Plus, you're not a complete stranger. You know people there.."
That's when I decided to write to Mark and let him know that I might be in his town, hoping that he would have dinner one night with me so that I would at least see a familiar face. He immediately offered me hospitality and invited me to stay a few days before/or after my conference.*
To make a long story short(er), I took him up on the offer and spent a few days in London (Southgate - sort of the burbs of London, in a very different burbs kind of way) before I headed to Oxford for my conference.
During this time, I was privileged enough to see the goings on in Southgate and to meet several of Mark's brilliant friends! They were all so receiving and kind! I felt immediately at home with them, a sure sign of good-hearted folks.
On my last day in Southgate, Mark and I opted to go to church, possibly an odd thing to do when one is in London for a short time. and definitely a non-touristy thing to do since it wasn't a service at Westminster or something like that. Mark apparently adores the Quaker church in Southgate called Winchmore Hill. I was curious about it, thanks to his description. I had never been to a Quaker church before and for some reason I was really drawn to the idea. I honestly had no idea what to expect, other than what I had read on Mark's blog and what he mentioned to me in some of our wonderfully eclectic (frantically ADD) conversations.
So we went.
The service was different than any I had ever attended (and I have attended several denominations of Christian churches here (Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Lutheran, Catholic etc.) and have even been to a Mosque for prayer time and to a Krishna church) in that it was a service of meditation. You sit in meditation for 30 to 45 minutes and if you feel led to speak, you simply stand and say what you are moved to say, the idea being that the participants are unified in the spirit, and each person's words further your experience. There is no structure or sermon. There is no music. It is all about contemplation and "silent waiting."
Anyone who knows me knows that within my anxiety ridden bones, "silent waiting" would sound almost tortuous for me. I am, after all, a tad OCD and ADD and I have to get things done according to my list. But that day (the whole day, even before the service) I had been still. I was completely calm and could breathe mindfully.
And we waited, silently, in that wood paneled room.
The first thing I thought was, "OK. Here you have me. I'm still. Oh shit. You have me, still." And I was confronted about my angry bitterness and my overwhelming need to not rely on anyone or anything, especially something as abstract as God, or a husband, or friends. And I did some confronting about Dot Wonderful, too. Especially about my Dot. And as I was beginning to shake within all of these confrontations, someone stood up to speak.
She mentioned the laughter of children who were playing outside near the church and the beauty in the simplicity of that.
(tears - and I felt embarrassed to have them in front of my friend, Mark, and the strangers in the room)
And then someone else stood up and read from a Quaker book of advices and queries. She read #21: Do you cherish your friendships, so that they grow in depth and understanding and mutual respect? In close relationships we may risk pain as well as finding joy. When experiencing great happiness or great hurt we may be more open to the working of the Spirit.
(more tears - and I reached out my pinkie finger to Mark for him to hold with his pinkie finger - like Amy and I used to do when we were kids at First Baptist El Paso, and like I continued to do with Lisa and Jen during any time when we needed each other, and like I do with Rich when I want to remember that friendship first connection with him)
And there was catharsis in that moment. And I felt warm, like I was standing in sunlight on an almost cold day. I felt that for the rest of the day - when I was having tea with the congregation, avoiding pictures on the Winchmore Hill grounds, having lunch at the art gallery.. Even when I had to say a quick good-bye at the train station and was sad to go so soon.
And I carried that warmth with me to Oxford, where I had one of the best camp-like experiences of my life and met more dear, dear people.
Because of the cathartic peace and stillness of that particular morning, some of my anxiety was calmed and my mind released its tensions for the rest of my time in England.
*I have to express my gratitude to Mark for allowing me to stay at his place in London. Not only was it helpful to me in that it made my first lone excursion across the pond familial and less overwhelming, but it also made London "real" to me, as opposed to it being the dream-like, Shakespearean wonderland that is portrayed when one stays only in touristy parts of town. Plus, Mark is way fun! So, thank you Mark and Ilham for allowing me, without any hint of my being an inconvenience, to be "one more thing" on your overbooked agendas. Thank you for your generosity and complete kindness. Oh - and for showing me around your neck of the woods. Hi to the glorious green peas and kind people at Mr. Bagels!
Notes on Traveling
Lesson # 3: Do Something Non touristy
You can find Lesson #1 here and Lesson #2 here.
It seems like forever ago that I decided to ask my school if I could go to England for the International Baccalaureate conference, but I'm pretty sure it was during the fall, close to winter break. The second I saw the Oxford conference on the IB website, I remember having one of those feelings - like I knew it was supposed to happen. But in the reality of the day, the idea of the school actually sending me all the way to England for training, especially since there were other conferences closer to home, was ridiculous. I actually had to get up the the courage to ask my IB coordinator if it was even a possibility, which means that I dreamed about it, had millions of conversations with Christine about it, and changed my mind a billion times. I remember asking on a day when I felt a little bit untouchable for some reason which means I had either had a really good day (rare last year) or an "I really don't give a shit" kind of day (more probable). I needed an adventure, after all, and I had been trying to get out of town for some sort of Jack Kerouac experience (with fewer drugs and less anonymous sex).
This is all a really long introduction to say that, to my astonishment, the IB gods smiled on me that day, and the verdict was yes. Go to Oxford, Ginger! My response was, "Really?!" followed by an internal, "Oh hell no! What did I just sign-up for? I can't fly by myself! I'll have to actually talk to people, and maneuver my way around England!? The Underground ticket people are scary, and what am I going to eat? I've only been to England 8 or 9 times! I'll have to make friends! How in the hell am I going to do this? Shit!" followed by, "This is exactly what you need. Get a grip. It's England. You love England. You are an empowered woman - read your 'cunt-lovin' womanifesto! Plus, you're not a complete stranger. You know people there.."
That's when I decided to write to Mark and let him know that I might be in his town, hoping that he would have dinner one night with me so that I would at least see a familiar face. He immediately offered me hospitality and invited me to stay a few days before/or after my conference.*
To make a long story short(er), I took him up on the offer and spent a few days in London (Southgate - sort of the burbs of London, in a very different burbs kind of way) before I headed to Oxford for my conference.
During this time, I was privileged enough to see the goings on in Southgate and to meet several of Mark's brilliant friends! They were all so receiving and kind! I felt immediately at home with them, a sure sign of good-hearted folks.
On my last day in Southgate, Mark and I opted to go to church, possibly an odd thing to do when one is in London for a short time. and definitely a non-touristy thing to do since it wasn't a service at Westminster or something like that. Mark apparently adores the Quaker church in Southgate called Winchmore Hill. I was curious about it, thanks to his description. I had never been to a Quaker church before and for some reason I was really drawn to the idea. I honestly had no idea what to expect, other than what I had read on Mark's blog and what he mentioned to me in some of our wonderfully eclectic (frantically ADD) conversations.
So we went.
The service was different than any I had ever attended (and I have attended several denominations of Christian churches here (Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Lutheran, Catholic etc.) and have even been to a Mosque for prayer time and to a Krishna church) in that it was a service of meditation. You sit in meditation for 30 to 45 minutes and if you feel led to speak, you simply stand and say what you are moved to say, the idea being that the participants are unified in the spirit, and each person's words further your experience. There is no structure or sermon. There is no music. It is all about contemplation and "silent waiting."
Anyone who knows me knows that within my anxiety ridden bones, "silent waiting" would sound almost tortuous for me. I am, after all, a tad OCD and ADD and I have to get things done according to my list. But that day (the whole day, even before the service) I had been still. I was completely calm and could breathe mindfully.
And we waited, silently, in that wood paneled room.
The first thing I thought was, "OK. Here you have me. I'm still. Oh shit. You have me, still." And I was confronted about my angry bitterness and my overwhelming need to not rely on anyone or anything, especially something as abstract as God, or a husband, or friends. And I did some confronting about Dot Wonderful, too. Especially about my Dot. And as I was beginning to shake within all of these confrontations, someone stood up to speak.
She mentioned the laughter of children who were playing outside near the church and the beauty in the simplicity of that.
(tears - and I felt embarrassed to have them in front of my friend, Mark, and the strangers in the room)
And then someone else stood up and read from a Quaker book of advices and queries. She read #21: Do you cherish your friendships, so that they grow in depth and understanding and mutual respect? In close relationships we may risk pain as well as finding joy. When experiencing great happiness or great hurt we may be more open to the working of the Spirit.
(more tears - and I reached out my pinkie finger to Mark for him to hold with his pinkie finger - like Amy and I used to do when we were kids at First Baptist El Paso, and like I continued to do with Lisa and Jen during any time when we needed each other, and like I do with Rich when I want to remember that friendship first connection with him)
And there was catharsis in that moment. And I felt warm, like I was standing in sunlight on an almost cold day. I felt that for the rest of the day - when I was having tea with the congregation, avoiding pictures on the Winchmore Hill grounds, having lunch at the art gallery.. Even when I had to say a quick good-bye at the train station and was sad to go so soon.
And I carried that warmth with me to Oxford, where I had one of the best camp-like experiences of my life and met more dear, dear people.
Because of the cathartic peace and stillness of that particular morning, some of my anxiety was calmed and my mind released its tensions for the rest of my time in England.
*I have to express my gratitude to Mark for allowing me to stay at his place in London. Not only was it helpful to me in that it made my first lone excursion across the pond familial and less overwhelming, but it also made London "real" to me, as opposed to it being the dream-like, Shakespearean wonderland that is portrayed when one stays only in touristy parts of town. Plus, Mark is way fun! So, thank you Mark and Ilham for allowing me, without any hint of my being an inconvenience, to be "one more thing" on your overbooked agendas. Thank you for your generosity and complete kindness. Oh - and for showing me around your neck of the woods. Hi to the glorious green peas and kind people at Mr. Bagels!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Glacier View. Bike and Brew. How'd you do?
I'm still not sure if my brain is ready to tell this story, but I think I'll HAVE to give it a try seeing as a very dear friend of mine recently informed me that I am his #2 favorite blogger. #1 updates more than me, so BAM. I lose. Sucks to my assmar. Just. like. that. So if this is long winded and heinous, send your hate mail to Buffalo.. (grin)
The good news is that I was in high spirits (yes, before the brew) and was able to make jokes about wanting to find some sweet jumps.
I don't want to sound like it was a ruined excursion. In fact, it might have been my favorite one! And, after the brew, I really didn't care about my pants at all or about the fact that with every step, my panties wrung a tiny stream of water down my legs. I took out (literally in the form of a body check) any and all frustration on one of the attractive men hecklers at the end of our frantic hike back to the ship, which is a different story for a different post.
Notes on Traveling
Lesson #2 - Rain Gear Is NOT Embarrassing!
So before I left for England, the first of my summer tour trifecta, it was raining beaucoups* here in the Metroplex. It was STILL raining when I returned home 10 days later. It was raining so much that they posted those (seemingly obvious) highway signs that read "Turn around. Don't drown!" for those morons who 'take the chance' in their itsy bitsy Ford Pintos and Chevy Vegas and cross the white water rapids that happen to be newly raging (inconveniently) through an intersection, blocking the most DIRECT route to their IHOPian destinations.**
Anyway.
It was raining.
I knew Alaska would be cold and wet, too, so in between trips I went looking for rain gear. Even in the middle of a metroplex monsoon, rain gear is surprisingly hard to find, so my mom was generous enough to buy a raincoat for me in Lubbock(!)and brought it to me in Alaska. My amazing Aunt Gagi also brought rain ponchos for all of us, so you'd think I'd be covered.. Right? Literally. Covered - by a rain poncho, a rain coat, and a stylish brolly that I bought at Covent Garden in England where it also rained every day.
Too bad I forgot to bring any of this rain gear on my bike and brew experience in Juneau, Alaska..
The brochure for this excursion said that participants would take a "leisurely and scenic" bicycle tour to a gorgeous glacier where we would stop for a little ho cho (hot chocolate) and a picture op, and then head on to the brew part - a tour of an Alaskan brewery and free samples for everyone.
"Yes!" I thought to myself upon reading said brochure. "I've been cycling for a few months now, and am sort of in shape." AND "I like beer! Odd combo, but good for pictures.. OK, let's give it a go!"
We signed up.
First of all, the word "leisurely" means something VERY different in the lower 48. Apparently leisurely in Alaska means up-hill, across major intersections, at a fast pace, in the rain. I did not understand this initially. Oh and I can't forget to mention the bears. "There may be bears near and around you at all times. If you see one, ride faster than the guy next to you, and you'll be fine." (a small panic.)
But I digress (again).
While we were being fitted for helmets and bikes (-my assigned bike was different from the others and required special breaking instructions... holy shit..) the tour leaders offered us some rain gear. I thought, "Nah. It's not really raining. It's just a little drizzle. I'm not afraid of a little rain. Plus look at how silly Rich (who had opted yes for rain gear) looks in his "high water, a size too small" rain pants that don't completely cover his jeans.
There are attractive men around.
I'm not going to wear THOSE in front of them. I'm fine. Well, OK, I'll take the rain jacket, but I REFUSE to wear those goofy looking pants."
There are attractive men around.
I'm not going to wear THOSE in front of them. I'm fine. Well, OK, I'll take the rain jacket, but I REFUSE to wear those goofy looking pants."
Having that particular thought process was a mistake that immediately came back to kick my ass. Literally.
Here's the picture proof:
Here's the picture proof:
My "special" bike with the "special" breaks did NOT have a "special" splash guard like the others, and as one may or may not understand (because she grew up in the desert), when it rains puddles form. If one rides a bicycle through said puddles without a splash guard on her bike, the mud and water spin onto one's back and back side - which is precisely what happened to me!
We had not even stopped for the ho cho OR brew part of the trip and already my ass was completely wet; my jeans were stuck to my knees because when jeans get wet, that's what they do, which, it turns out, makes pedaling very difficult. On top of that, I was way out of breath and was actually making excuses about not being used to the high Alaskan altitude - though I've since learned being at high altitude has nothing to do with being north on a map. Alaska happens to be right at sea level..
Also, there were times when we were riding up-hill, rain whipped and cold, that I should've walked my bike since I was riding so slowly that my bike almost turned over for lack of propulsion. I could audibly hear the freaking bears snicker and snear, "Too easy.. That's just too damn easy. Plus, get a load of her pants.."
We had not even stopped for the ho cho OR brew part of the trip and already my ass was completely wet; my jeans were stuck to my knees because when jeans get wet, that's what they do, which, it turns out, makes pedaling very difficult. On top of that, I was way out of breath and was actually making excuses about not being used to the high Alaskan altitude - though I've since learned being at high altitude has nothing to do with being north on a map. Alaska happens to be right at sea level..
Also, there were times when we were riding up-hill, rain whipped and cold, that I should've walked my bike since I was riding so slowly that my bike almost turned over for lack of propulsion. I could audibly hear the freaking bears snicker and snear, "Too easy.. That's just too damn easy. Plus, get a load of her pants.."
(sigh)
The good news is that I was in high spirits (yes, before the brew) and was able to make jokes about wanting to find some sweet jumps.
The attractive men took it upon themselves to mention how wet my pants were. Perhaps it was because I kept shrieking like a teenage girl, "Hey! I can't believe how wet my pants are! Look at this! Ohmahgod! It's probably the altitude!" over and over.
I don't want to sound like it was a ruined excursion. In fact, it might have been my favorite one! And, after the brew, I really didn't care about my pants at all or about the fact that with every step, my panties wrung a tiny stream of water down my legs. I took out (literally in the form of a body check) any and all frustration on one of the attractive men hecklers at the end of our frantic hike back to the ship, which is a different story for a different post.
The moral is don't be embarrassed about rain gear. Wearing it could prevent high levels of embarrassment, though I'm sure I would've found a different path to total self-mortification on this excursion.
* So, here in Texas we say "boo coos", but I just realized that what we are really saying is beaucoups - as in the French merci beaucoups (thank you very much). We totally bastardized that one.
* So, here in Texas we say "boo coos", but I just realized that what we are really saying is beaucoups - as in the French merci beaucoups (thank you very much). We totally bastardized that one.
** "Wow, rants are easy to come by," said the girl who is now drooling for pancakes
Monday, July 16, 2007
Hush Hush. Keep it down, now. Voices carry!
Over the last month, I have experienced profoundly still, self actualizing moments (my breath is still caught in the inhale of some of them); horrifyingly embarrassing incidents (some hilariously entertaining, and others not so funny but entertaining nonetheless); and completely CIRCUSY, mad (!) mad (again!) moments of insanity.
I would like to share (most of) them with you.
Here's the problem:
All of these happenings seem to be lodged in a blurry, ooze-goozey milieu in my brain, and I can't really concentrate on one story or another without something else schlepping its way into what was, for twenty seconds, a concrete focus. For example, I was all set to write about this one specific happening in Alaska, but before the typing started I had already gotten up three times: to get a book that I read while in Alaska (for excerpt sharing), to get the email address of a new friend whom I met on my travels and of whom the excerpt reminded me at that moment, and to check my phone messages, speaking of friends, to see if P and A have a new baby yet. (She's due today. I'm not just randomly checking.)
Rich and I were having a conversation last night about having a Freaky Friday experience. (Was that really Lindsay Lohan in the remake?) I won't go into detail except to say that when I asked him if he would ever want to trade places with me, he laughed out loud and said he didn't think he could handle it..
Such is my brain.
Despite the constant interruptions by the little distractions in my head, that miry ooze-goozum is slowly solidifying into firm memories. Unfortunately, they are also being molded and moulded by time so they may not be ALL THE WAY true. But I'll try to be honest in my sharing. Plus, you won't know if I'm telling the truth or not and you won't be able to tell because
I do some stupid shit.
Ask Christine who recently joined ranks with Rich, Mark, and the majority of my students in her verbalization of the opinion that I'm a tad on the crazy side "in a good way" --whatever that means. So unless you were with me as a direct observer and recorder of events, you'll never REALLY know the God's honest truth (laughing to myself maniacally).
AND This is a public apology to you, Christine. I'm sorry for frogging you (with great force and precision) in the arm, but maybe next time you'll think twice before attacking me with another ridiculously loud robotic phone rooster!
Wait. Who's crazy?!
More to come.
I would like to share (most of) them with you.
Here's the problem:
All of these happenings seem to be lodged in a blurry, ooze-goozey milieu in my brain, and I can't really concentrate on one story or another without something else schlepping its way into what was, for twenty seconds, a concrete focus. For example, I was all set to write about this one specific happening in Alaska, but before the typing started I had already gotten up three times: to get a book that I read while in Alaska (for excerpt sharing), to get the email address of a new friend whom I met on my travels and of whom the excerpt reminded me at that moment, and to check my phone messages, speaking of friends, to see if P and A have a new baby yet. (She's due today. I'm not just randomly checking.)
Rich and I were having a conversation last night about having a Freaky Friday experience. (Was that really Lindsay Lohan in the remake?) I won't go into detail except to say that when I asked him if he would ever want to trade places with me, he laughed out loud and said he didn't think he could handle it..
Such is my brain.
Despite the constant interruptions by the little distractions in my head, that miry ooze-goozum is slowly solidifying into firm memories. Unfortunately, they are also being molded and moulded by time so they may not be ALL THE WAY true. But I'll try to be honest in my sharing. Plus, you won't know if I'm telling the truth or not and you won't be able to tell because
I do some stupid shit.
Ask Christine who recently joined ranks with Rich, Mark, and the majority of my students in her verbalization of the opinion that I'm a tad on the crazy side "in a good way" --whatever that means. So unless you were with me as a direct observer and recorder of events, you'll never REALLY know the God's honest truth (laughing to myself maniacally).
AND This is a public apology to you, Christine. I'm sorry for frogging you (with great force and precision) in the arm, but maybe next time you'll think twice before attacking me with another ridiculously loud robotic phone rooster!Wait. Who's crazy?!
More to come.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Dressing Dilemmas
Right. So, I know that I look younger than I am. This is partly because I try to keep myself young by playing and laughing as much as possible. Also, it's because I probably dress "younger" than my age.
This, I promise you, is not my fault.. Entirely. Do you know how hard it is to find appropriately aged clothes for a young 30 Something? Especially when the teens are stuffing their bras and wearing the styles meant for the 30 Somethings, smearing the clothing’s grown-up reputation and rendering it unavailable to the original target demographic? OK, so I too do some padding to be able to "fit” into some of The Man's idea of the "perfect shape" outfit - a dress made of 3 short pieces of dental floss for the "average" 34-24- 32.
Fucking media!
So, all of us normal shaped 30 Somethings are left with rock star t-shirts, bikini fit v. apple vest denim, geriatric fit.
I choose to go a different route and aim for the boho chic look. It's comfortable, loose in a stylish way, and can be worn, eccentrically sometimes depending on the bead strand, to many events. Hell, it can even be sexy when worn right, especially when paired with secret sexy underwear.
This, I promise you, is not my fault.. Entirely. Do you know how hard it is to find appropriately aged clothes for a young 30 Something? Especially when the teens are stuffing their bras and wearing the styles meant for the 30 Somethings, smearing the clothing’s grown-up reputation and rendering it unavailable to the original target demographic? OK, so I too do some padding to be able to "fit” into some of The Man's idea of the "perfect shape" outfit - a dress made of 3 short pieces of dental floss for the "average" 34-24- 32.
Fucking media!
So, all of us normal shaped 30 Somethings are left with rock star t-shirts, bikini fit v. apple vest denim, geriatric fit.
I choose to go a different route and aim for the boho chic look. It's comfortable, loose in a stylish way, and can be worn, eccentrically sometimes depending on the bead strand, to many events. Hell, it can even be sexy when worn right, especially when paired with secret sexy underwear.
Unfortunately, though, it does make one look younger than she is.
So, I'm wearing my Bohemian pants - loose, but stylish - and a t-shirt for my trip across the pond. I realize that I will not be attending any professional workshops or picking up any men on the flight, so who cares anyway? I met my goal of being able to survive an overseas flight comfortably. Period.
It turns out that dress DOES matter. Here's what happened that fateful day:
Notes on Traveling
Lesson 1: Dress
It occurred to me that being dressed in Bohemian garb is perhaps the wrong thing to do on an airplane.
First of all, I'm sitting at the bar at "The Mexican Cantina" where one can order food that is neither Mexican nor Texican as far as I can tell.
So, I'm wearing my Bohemian pants - loose, but stylish - and a t-shirt for my trip across the pond. I realize that I will not be attending any professional workshops or picking up any men on the flight, so who cares anyway? I met my goal of being able to survive an overseas flight comfortably. Period.
It turns out that dress DOES matter. Here's what happened that fateful day:
Notes on Traveling
Lesson 1: Dress
It occurred to me that being dressed in Bohemian garb is perhaps the wrong thing to do on an airplane.
First of all, I'm sitting at the bar at "The Mexican Cantina" where one can order food that is neither Mexican nor Texican as far as I can tell.
(What the hell is gourmet Mexican food? How can you "dress up" beans, tortillas, and cheese? Oh right. Put a Mexican Flag on a toothpick and insert it into the beans. Got it. )
Whatever. I'm there for the "Cantina" part.
An astonishing ID check (thanks Bohemia!) and glass of the cheapest CabSav later, and I have made friends with both the bartender and the nice gentleman next to me and am feeling pretty good about myself and the forthcoming adventure. About that time, I decide to return a phone call from my moma, a former travel agent, who thinks I have a shot at upgrading my seat on what is to be an extremely FULL flight. She knows her stuff when it comes to travel, so I thought I ought to at least try talking to the counter person about "generously" relinquishing my seat in coach and paying for a (possibly cheap, according to Mom) last minute upgrade.
I amble confidently to the counter, where two staff members are talking business and wildly gesturing to each other. I stand there patiently. Waiting. Not going to interrupt. My question is not really important, after all.
Whatever. I'm there for the "Cantina" part.
An astonishing ID check (thanks Bohemia!) and glass of the cheapest CabSav later, and I have made friends with both the bartender and the nice gentleman next to me and am feeling pretty good about myself and the forthcoming adventure. About that time, I decide to return a phone call from my moma, a former travel agent, who thinks I have a shot at upgrading my seat on what is to be an extremely FULL flight. She knows her stuff when it comes to travel, so I thought I ought to at least try talking to the counter person about "generously" relinquishing my seat in coach and paying for a (possibly cheap, according to Mom) last minute upgrade.
I amble confidently to the counter, where two staff members are talking business and wildly gesturing to each other. I stand there patiently. Waiting. Not going to interrupt. My question is not really important, after all.
It's a mused query, really.
Still waiting.
Still confident in having made new Cantina friends and remembering that I’m wearing my secret sexy underwear.
One of them glances at me and returns to her "very important" conversation.
A woman with a Prada bag steps beside me and both women immediately turn to cater to her question, which was something to do with her HUGE Jackie-O name brand sunglasses fitting in the carry on bin or would she need to purchase another seat?
Whatever.
Still waiting.
Finally, out of pity I think, one of the women turns to me and says, "May I HELP you?"
I smile politely (breathing in the "patience is an egg that hatches great birds" mantra) and ask my question about upgrading my seat. Here is how that conversation went:
Person on Staff: May I HELP you?
Me: Hi. I hear that this is a very crowded flight and was wondering how much an upgrade would be.
PoS: (sizing up my Bohemian pants and help humanity t-shirt and then shaking her head) No.
Me: Um. (Last I remember, "no" is not a price) So are there any? Is business class full?
PoS: Business class is not full.
Me: Great! How much is an upgrade?
PoS: (amused grin) Thousands of miles. Thousands and thousands.
Me: (confused, not remembering the whole American Airlines Advantage miles program and feeling like I'm actually speaking a different language) Excuse me?
PoS: (walking away and annoyed) Thousand of dollars!
And that's it. She was gone. I was left standing there bewildered in my Bohemian pants and sexy underwear, confidence shaken, wondering what had just happened, and wishing for a reenactment of that scene in "Pretty Woman" where I got to flaunt my "worth" in her face, saying, "Huge mistake. Huge!" But that's not real. And really, I didn't have thousands of dollars or miles to spend on anything. She was right.
[And scene]
Look. I understand that sometimes there are dress code rules. I understand that in a capitalistic society, the affluent are catered to. See Paris Hilton, OJ, or the MANY other celebrities who get special treatment legally and otherwise. I get that. I get that it’s wrong. But I do get it.
BUT there is no reason for anyone to treat anyone else with that level of disdain and inconsideration. And I represent the majority of Americans socio-economically. I am genuinely very lucky! I get to live out my travel dreams and choose what I want to wear on my adventures. Hell, I get to eat whenever I want! Lucky, lucky girl!
This will serve as a reminder to me to treat ALL people with loving kindness, including judgmental PoSes behind counters.
I got over it really quickly, as I met the loveliest person on my flight who had the most interesting things to say, and who helped me find the right train in the madness that is a London train station.
A woman with a Prada bag steps beside me and both women immediately turn to cater to her question, which was something to do with her HUGE Jackie-O name brand sunglasses fitting in the carry on bin or would she need to purchase another seat?
Whatever.
Still waiting.
Finally, out of pity I think, one of the women turns to me and says, "May I HELP you?"
I smile politely (breathing in the "patience is an egg that hatches great birds" mantra) and ask my question about upgrading my seat. Here is how that conversation went:
Person on Staff: May I HELP you?
Me: Hi. I hear that this is a very crowded flight and was wondering how much an upgrade would be.
PoS: (sizing up my Bohemian pants and help humanity t-shirt and then shaking her head) No.
Me: Um. (Last I remember, "no" is not a price) So are there any? Is business class full?
PoS: Business class is not full.
Me: Great! How much is an upgrade?
PoS: (amused grin) Thousands of miles. Thousands and thousands.
Me: (confused, not remembering the whole American Airlines Advantage miles program and feeling like I'm actually speaking a different language) Excuse me?
PoS: (walking away and annoyed) Thousand of dollars!
And that's it. She was gone. I was left standing there bewildered in my Bohemian pants and sexy underwear, confidence shaken, wondering what had just happened, and wishing for a reenactment of that scene in "Pretty Woman" where I got to flaunt my "worth" in her face, saying, "Huge mistake. Huge!" But that's not real. And really, I didn't have thousands of dollars or miles to spend on anything. She was right.
[And scene]
Look. I understand that sometimes there are dress code rules. I understand that in a capitalistic society, the affluent are catered to. See Paris Hilton, OJ, or the MANY other celebrities who get special treatment legally and otherwise. I get that. I get that it’s wrong. But I do get it.
BUT there is no reason for anyone to treat anyone else with that level of disdain and inconsideration. And I represent the majority of Americans socio-economically. I am genuinely very lucky! I get to live out my travel dreams and choose what I want to wear on my adventures. Hell, I get to eat whenever I want! Lucky, lucky girl!
This will serve as a reminder to me to treat ALL people with loving kindness, including judgmental PoSes behind counters.
I got over it really quickly, as I met the loveliest person on my flight who had the most interesting things to say, and who helped me find the right train in the madness that is a London train station.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
London Blogging
So, I'm in London, and you may be asking yourself, "What the hell is going on? Ginger is blogging. She's in London. And she's blogging? Not touring or pubbing or floating down the Thames to the Globe Theatre? but BLOGGING????(!)"
And the answer is Yes. I am blogging. But in my defense I am freaking TIRED! In short (the reduced Shakespeare version, only not nearly as funny nor tragic... mostly just reduced) I was here in London a week ago and met Mark's fabulous Green Pea friends who have taken such good care of me. I got to hang out with Brother Corduroy and his girlfriend, Ilham, and her two brilliant, gorgeous, fantastic, creative, wonderful (can you tell I like them?) daughters.
After three days of meeting and greeting followed by my first (intense) Quaker church experience and a (breathtaking) Sacred exhibit, I went off to Oxford for 4 fab days of conferencing with the IB program. And what could be better than hanging out with fellow (and international) literature geeks in one of the most literary places on the planet? It was like having 30 soul mates in one place, and we all became quick friends. We spent time together, discussing poetry, prose, and drama. We sat in the pub where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis shared manuscripts and ideas, and we discussed the value of language and what globalization is doing to cultural identity which is very much language based.
We went punting together (complete with strawberries, champagne, tuxedos, and an attack swan), and had very English garden parties where we wandered around, gesticulating with glasses of Cabernet Shiraz, agreeing "thusly" and "verily." One time we found ourselves at an Oxford theater (formerly Oxford Castle), where we sat outside under tartan blankets and watched a modern version of Hamlet backed by such bands as The Killers, Garbage, My Chemical Romance, etc. After that was a night of super intense pub crawlery, including a stop at the pub where Clinton, "did not inhale."
I can't wait to show you the pics!!
After Oxford, I spontaneously went to Bath with my new friend, Ginelle, who is originally from Canada, but who teaches in Bahrain. We spent time hanging out in the squares of Bath where I read tons of Mary Oliver and fell madly in love with nature, and where I pretended to be claustrophobic like Jane Austen who longed for open fields of flowers, even though she didn't recognize the fact that she was living in one of the most astoundingly beautiful places on the planet... I know that makes no sense, but when you read Mary Oliver or Jane Austen you'll know what I mean.
So, I'm back in London where the Green Peas welcomed me back yesterday with open arms, bagels, and cafe lattes. Seriously, I want to move all of you here so that we can all sit at Mr. Bagels, drink coffee, and gab about the mad goings on around town.
I had a lovely dinner with another friend, Nicoletta, last night in an area of London called "Noho" which is the north version of "Soho". We had girlie strawberry drinks, entertained the idea of stilettos, and ate at a very French (3 course) restaurant. We shared with each other some of the secrets of our hearts and traded wisdom that can only be shared with people you may or may not see for another year. We ended the evening with amaretto hugs.
I got sort of lost in London today and wandered around (apple in hand), accidentally stumbling into Parliament Square (just as Big Ben struck 2:00) and ambled along the Thames to Blackfriars until I got tired, partly from walking, partly from stop and go cider tasting. Now I'm back at Mark's where I sit contently blogging and watching the gorgeous British rain clouds float heavily by his window, over his budding veg garden.
And that's just how it is.
And the answer is Yes. I am blogging. But in my defense I am freaking TIRED! In short (the reduced Shakespeare version, only not nearly as funny nor tragic... mostly just reduced) I was here in London a week ago and met Mark's fabulous Green Pea friends who have taken such good care of me. I got to hang out with Brother Corduroy and his girlfriend, Ilham, and her two brilliant, gorgeous, fantastic, creative, wonderful (can you tell I like them?) daughters.
After three days of meeting and greeting followed by my first (intense) Quaker church experience and a (breathtaking) Sacred exhibit, I went off to Oxford for 4 fab days of conferencing with the IB program. And what could be better than hanging out with fellow (and international) literature geeks in one of the most literary places on the planet? It was like having 30 soul mates in one place, and we all became quick friends. We spent time together, discussing poetry, prose, and drama. We sat in the pub where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis shared manuscripts and ideas, and we discussed the value of language and what globalization is doing to cultural identity which is very much language based.
We went punting together (complete with strawberries, champagne, tuxedos, and an attack swan), and had very English garden parties where we wandered around, gesticulating with glasses of Cabernet Shiraz, agreeing "thusly" and "verily." One time we found ourselves at an Oxford theater (formerly Oxford Castle), where we sat outside under tartan blankets and watched a modern version of Hamlet backed by such bands as The Killers, Garbage, My Chemical Romance, etc. After that was a night of super intense pub crawlery, including a stop at the pub where Clinton, "did not inhale."
I can't wait to show you the pics!!
After Oxford, I spontaneously went to Bath with my new friend, Ginelle, who is originally from Canada, but who teaches in Bahrain. We spent time hanging out in the squares of Bath where I read tons of Mary Oliver and fell madly in love with nature, and where I pretended to be claustrophobic like Jane Austen who longed for open fields of flowers, even though she didn't recognize the fact that she was living in one of the most astoundingly beautiful places on the planet... I know that makes no sense, but when you read Mary Oliver or Jane Austen you'll know what I mean.
So, I'm back in London where the Green Peas welcomed me back yesterday with open arms, bagels, and cafe lattes. Seriously, I want to move all of you here so that we can all sit at Mr. Bagels, drink coffee, and gab about the mad goings on around town.
I had a lovely dinner with another friend, Nicoletta, last night in an area of London called "Noho" which is the north version of "Soho". We had girlie strawberry drinks, entertained the idea of stilettos, and ate at a very French (3 course) restaurant. We shared with each other some of the secrets of our hearts and traded wisdom that can only be shared with people you may or may not see for another year. We ended the evening with amaretto hugs.
I got sort of lost in London today and wandered around (apple in hand), accidentally stumbling into Parliament Square (just as Big Ben struck 2:00) and ambled along the Thames to Blackfriars until I got tired, partly from walking, partly from stop and go cider tasting. Now I'm back at Mark's where I sit contently blogging and watching the gorgeous British rain clouds float heavily by his window, over his budding veg garden.
And that's just how it is.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
London Calling.. and then Alaska... and then NYC
Tomorrow I'm off on an adventure (Viaggio!!) and may be gone from the comfortable space of this blog for a little while.
Here's the sitch:
I'm flying to London tomorrow where I'll be attending a 4 day workshop in Oxford for the new International Baccalaureate (IB) class I'm teaching at school. I've (sort of accidentally) sandwiched said workshop between 6 days of what I'm calling "reflection time" in London. (Thanks to Mark and his housemates for letting me crash the barbecue for a few days!!) And for the first time since college, I won't have a Rich to lean on or an agenda. That's the adventure part to me. I am going to force myself to throw away all (or most) lists and BE. Hopefully I'll run into some interesting happenings and will come back with loads of stories and new friends. (And I'll try not to get arrested, Mom! No promises, though.);)
Two days after I return from that adventure, I'm off to Alaska with my family!! I get to go to Vancouver where I'll embark on a 7 day cruise for more adventures. We'll do day excursions in all of the towns along the way, but the one I'm looking forward to the most is the "Bike and Brew." Yep. They're going to give us bikes and beer and see if we can NOT launch ourselves off of a mountain.(I'm imagining ET for some reason..) OK, so it isn't THAT ridiculous. But that's how it plays in my head. Mostly, I can't wait to spend time with my crazy family and friends, since we always manage to make the most of our insanity and have a great time!
Two days after that, I head to New York with Fougs for another 3 or 4 day IB conference at the UN school! Anywhere I go with Fougs is a BLAST. Plus, I'll be having some serious withdrawal angst from not having seen her in so long. I may be dead tired from the other adventures, but it won't matter since hanging with the Fougs is SURE to ROCK! Hopefully I'll also get to see Annie and John and the family (+ 1 by then!!).
Wish me luck (especially on the London part since I'm the most nervous about it, and also since I'm terrified of flying in general and this will make 6 flights in 30 days!).
I'll try to check in if I can find internet access.
Until then friends, be well!
Viaggio!!
Here's the sitch:
I'm flying to London tomorrow where I'll be attending a 4 day workshop in Oxford for the new International Baccalaureate (IB) class I'm teaching at school. I've (sort of accidentally) sandwiched said workshop between 6 days of what I'm calling "reflection time" in London. (Thanks to Mark and his housemates for letting me crash the barbecue for a few days!!) And for the first time since college, I won't have a Rich to lean on or an agenda. That's the adventure part to me. I am going to force myself to throw away all (or most) lists and BE. Hopefully I'll run into some interesting happenings and will come back with loads of stories and new friends. (And I'll try not to get arrested, Mom! No promises, though.);)
Two days after I return from that adventure, I'm off to Alaska with my family!! I get to go to Vancouver where I'll embark on a 7 day cruise for more adventures. We'll do day excursions in all of the towns along the way, but the one I'm looking forward to the most is the "Bike and Brew." Yep. They're going to give us bikes and beer and see if we can NOT launch ourselves off of a mountain.(I'm imagining ET for some reason..) OK, so it isn't THAT ridiculous. But that's how it plays in my head. Mostly, I can't wait to spend time with my crazy family and friends, since we always manage to make the most of our insanity and have a great time!
Two days after that, I head to New York with Fougs for another 3 or 4 day IB conference at the UN school! Anywhere I go with Fougs is a BLAST. Plus, I'll be having some serious withdrawal angst from not having seen her in so long. I may be dead tired from the other adventures, but it won't matter since hanging with the Fougs is SURE to ROCK! Hopefully I'll also get to see Annie and John and the family (+ 1 by then!!).
Wish me luck (especially on the London part since I'm the most nervous about it, and also since I'm terrified of flying in general and this will make 6 flights in 30 days!).
I'll try to check in if I can find internet access.
Until then friends, be well!
Viaggio!!
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