I, like everyone with a heart & soul, am horrified by Friday's shootings at the Aurora, Colorado theater. Loss of life is always sad but losses due to violence are particularly troubling; I have a measure of expectation that people will be killed by accidents or diseases or old age, but these kinds of seemingly preventable deaths shake my faith. Not my faith in God but my hope that people will always choose goodness over wickedness. And I am not talking about the gunman - I strongly believe he is afflicated with mental illness and that often leaves people without a true sense of personal choice. I am instead considering those who, in their grief and horror and confusion, are directing hate & violent wishes toward this man.
I thoroughly understand wanting someone to 'pay' for pain that they cause others. It is natural for people to feel this way - if we didn't have powerfully emotional reactions like this, we would not be human. We tend to find satisfaction in witnessing an eye for an eye. But my belief in a loving merciful God and remembering that the one who perpetrated this violence is still a human being makes me set this aside. Make no mistake - I do feel terrifically angry about the senselessness of his actions, about all of those who simply wanted entertainment that night and whose lives are now either ended or significantly altered. My heart breaks for them and their families, but it also breaks for the person the gunman was before he made this fateful decision. For the people who know him and are now doubly traumatized being profoundly sad for the victims yet bereft of their friend & loved one, feeling utterly betrayed and somehow guilty for what happened.
It is a difficult thing to see a nightmarish situation like this one from the other side because we identify most with the victims; we think we are more like them than the criminal. Yet all of us have been faced many times with the choice between reacting the way we feel like and doing what we morally should. Everyone has said I could kill him! in a fit of anger; of course no one means it literally. Until something like this happens.
I do not advocate allowing anyone to escape reasonable punishment for crimes committed. Evil behavior is not excused by mental illness; people must be held accountable by our justice system for their actions. But as a civilized & just society I hope we can find compassion in our hearts for all affected by violence, including those causing it. It is tremendously difficult, like most important things are, yet so worth it.
I am not so naive as to believe simply feeling more loving or showing kindness toward the ill or wicked will prevent all tragedies like this one. I do, however, believe that if we allow ourselves to hatefully dismiss those committing these crimes we will never have peace.
We're only human, for better or worse.
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Monday, November 15, 2010
thankful: inspirations (aka linky love)
Sometimes I am too much the Leo part of my birthdate and just don't want to a do a damned thing for myself [BORED NOW].
When that happens, it's nice to have a virtual group of cyber (and real!) friends to give me stuff to read, look at, ponder, write, purchase, create, read again, listen to while reading, dream about making/eating, read more of, laugh about, reflect on, and find endearing from around the world...Thank you, people. I am not yelling at my children, nagging my husband, or falling into a depressive abyss at this moment because of YOU.
And so. I have now been tempted by Deb at San Diego Momma to compose a story in 25 words or fewer (though I doubt it will be as compelling as her entry).
When that happens, it's nice to have a virtual group of cyber (and real!) friends to give me stuff to read, look at, ponder, write, purchase, create, read again, listen to while reading, dream about making/eating, read more of, laugh about, reflect on, and find endearing from around the world...Thank you, people. I am not yelling at my children, nagging my husband, or falling into a depressive abyss at this moment because of YOU.
And so. I have now been tempted by Deb at San Diego Momma to compose a story in 25 words or fewer (though I doubt it will be as compelling as her entry).
The name in the subject line throws a punch. Memories flood, her pulse flickers.
Click. Scan.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.
Delete.
Friday, September 11, 2009
rewind, rerun, remember
[originally posted 9/11/08]
None of my students were older than middle school on September 11, 2001; my own children were only a year old and almost 3. Yet I share this poem on this date because I want them to understand the significance of the tragedy. I might never know how much it helps to illuminate not only the devastation of lives & families, but also the individual beauty of each life lost; I can only hope someday it is clear. I think all of us sometimes forget how much we really mean to the people around us, even if we're not rich or famous - or, even if we are. Each of us matters, and somebody is noticing.
by Martin Espada (Thank you)
Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100
for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local 100, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center
Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from
Fajardo, the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook's yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.
Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana, Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy's music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.
Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.
After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook's soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God's beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.
Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.
None of my students were older than middle school on September 11, 2001; my own children were only a year old and almost 3. Yet I share this poem on this date because I want them to understand the significance of the tragedy. I might never know how much it helps to illuminate not only the devastation of lives & families, but also the individual beauty of each life lost; I can only hope someday it is clear. I think all of us sometimes forget how much we really mean to the people around us, even if we're not rich or famous - or, even if we are. Each of us matters, and somebody is noticing.
by Martin Espada (Thank you)
Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100
for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local 100, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center
Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from
Fajardo, the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook's yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.
Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana, Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy's music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.
Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.
After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook's soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God's beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.
Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
che it isn't so
I missed another day of my self-imposed daily posting quest but for good reason.
Because I am a movie fan/history geek/celebrity whore, I bought tickets for me & my man and a couple of amigas fabulosas (I also got some for Amy & her man before I realized that the experience was going to last a quarter of a day in which case her infant son would have wailed himself inside out and who wants that? Only very cruel people) to a "Special Roadshow Edition" of the 263 minute long Che. There was an intermission between Part 1 and Part 2 but considering I foolishly did not eat dinner before entering the theater, that time off was merely a teasing 45 minutes during which I could choose to dash out for nourishment not of the Cinema Food Pyramid OR wait in the 60+ person line for the two-stall bathroom. I started to imagine the whole situation was contrived to make us really feel like those revolutionaries - starving, tired, angry at The Man.
The "Special Roadshow Edition" featured a Q & A with Steven Soderbergh; I secretly hoped a) he would surprise us by bringing Benicio Del Toro and b) they would take turns rubbing my aching shoulders & butt [we could only find 5 seats together in the very. front. row.] after the 6 hour ordeal. Alas, neither happened. But Soderbergh did provide interesting commentary about the research & craft behind the movie. (I would still have really liked a quick massage though).
Overall, the movie was extraordinarily well done on all counts - superb acting, breathtaking cinematography, and in the first half (technically called The Argentine) the back & forth scenes between Guevara's idealistic beginnings and his leading peasant armies through Cuba and his appearance at the UN in 1964 are smooth and provide engaging, fascinating insights. The second half (Guerrilla), though understandably necessary to Che's story, was excruciating after the first half hour [which amounted to only 1/4 of the run time]. Artistically & philosophically it was brilliant - the handheld camera work up & down hills and through the jungles of Bolivia definitely brought me closer to the plight of the people - but I was exhausted, mentally and physically.
I am glad Soderbergh & Del Toro felt strongly about bringing us these parts of Guevara's story in such detail and with such emotion. I think it's too easy for people to draw lines in the sand and put some revolutionaries in the Hero camp and all others on the Villain side, but nobody is truly black or white; perspective is everything, and Che understands that.
Because I am a movie fan/history geek/celebrity whore, I bought tickets for me & my man and a couple of amigas fabulosas (I also got some for Amy & her man before I realized that the experience was going to last a quarter of a day in which case her infant son would have wailed himself inside out and who wants that? Only very cruel people) to a "Special Roadshow Edition" of the 263 minute long Che. There was an intermission between Part 1 and Part 2 but considering I foolishly did not eat dinner before entering the theater, that time off was merely a teasing 45 minutes during which I could choose to dash out for nourishment not of the Cinema Food Pyramid OR wait in the 60+ person line for the two-stall bathroom. I started to imagine the whole situation was contrived to make us really feel like those revolutionaries - starving, tired, angry at The Man.
The "Special Roadshow Edition" featured a Q & A with Steven Soderbergh; I secretly hoped a) he would surprise us by bringing Benicio Del Toro and b) they would take turns rubbing my aching shoulders & butt [we could only find 5 seats together in the very. front. row.] after the 6 hour ordeal. Alas, neither happened. But Soderbergh did provide interesting commentary about the research & craft behind the movie. (I would still have really liked a quick massage though).
Overall, the movie was extraordinarily well done on all counts - superb acting, breathtaking cinematography, and in the first half (technically called The Argentine) the back & forth scenes between Guevara's idealistic beginnings and his leading peasant armies through Cuba and his appearance at the UN in 1964 are smooth and provide engaging, fascinating insights. The second half (Guerrilla), though understandably necessary to Che's story, was excruciating after the first half hour [which amounted to only 1/4 of the run time]. Artistically & philosophically it was brilliant - the handheld camera work up & down hills and through the jungles of Bolivia definitely brought me closer to the plight of the people - but I was exhausted, mentally and physically.
I am glad Soderbergh & Del Toro felt strongly about bringing us these parts of Guevara's story in such detail and with such emotion. I think it's too easy for people to draw lines in the sand and put some revolutionaries in the Hero camp and all others on the Villain side, but nobody is truly black or white; perspective is everything, and Che understands that.
Viva
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
good sports for good scouts
On the heels of the post about adults behaving badly, I can offer a bunch of words about adults behaving remarkably well.
For the past two nights, Paige & I did our Girl Scout duty of cookie selling at the nearby Safeway. As we waited for our coordinator to arrive yesterday, another Girl Scout [from a different troop] and her dad pulled up. Though some people might at this moment start singing the Jet Song to mark Cookie Territory and defend their Sales, we all chatted amiably about a mix-up in scheduling before discussing schools and teachers and the merits of sashes vs. vests. When we established that our troop was indeed scheduled to be at that location, Dad & his Girl Scout helped us unload our table & boxes. It was so Afterschool Special, I thought I might cry for the goodness of mankind.
Then, every customer walking in & out of the grocery store was nothing short of delightful and kind (except for the jackass 20something dude who raced his Jeep onto the walkway to drop off his buddy and gave us a "What??" look when we glared from 10 feet away). Did I mention it was approximately 0 degrees both nights? And raining? With a chance of snow? Yet everyone (except Jackass) smiled at our bouncy vibrant dancing-the-chill-away girls. And most people purchased cookies, even after we'd run out of Samoas and Thin Mints and Trefoils.
Goodness. It warmed even my frosty toes.
For the past two nights, Paige & I did our Girl Scout duty of cookie selling at the nearby Safeway. As we waited for our coordinator to arrive yesterday, another Girl Scout [from a different troop] and her dad pulled up. Though some people might at this moment start singing the Jet Song to mark Cookie Territory and defend their Sales, we all chatted amiably about a mix-up in scheduling before discussing schools and teachers and the merits of sashes vs. vests. When we established that our troop was indeed scheduled to be at that location, Dad & his Girl Scout helped us unload our table & boxes. It was so Afterschool Special, I thought I might cry for the goodness of mankind.
Then, every customer walking in & out of the grocery store was nothing short of delightful and kind (except for the jackass 20something dude who raced his Jeep onto the walkway to drop off his buddy and gave us a "What??" look when we glared from 10 feet away). Did I mention it was approximately 0 degrees both nights? And raining? With a chance of snow? Yet everyone (except Jackass) smiled at our bouncy vibrant dancing-the-chill-away girls. And most people purchased cookies, even after we'd run out of Samoas and Thin Mints and Trefoils.
Goodness. It warmed even my frosty toes.
Monday, February 23, 2009
sos
I'm not sending out a distress signal about ships; it's about our students.
I do not pretend to be a perfect parent [hello, blog title]. I know I'm not a perfect teacher. Yet I am reasonably certain that the following techniques are less than ideal when trying to raise a responsible young person:
I do not pretend to be a perfect parent [hello, blog title]. I know I'm not a perfect teacher. Yet I am reasonably certain that the following techniques are less than ideal when trying to raise a responsible young person:
- Consulting with teachers about why one's child has to make up the hours missed from classes when he was suspended from school
- Calling one's child during class to find out of she "needs to be at school" for the last period
- Claiming one didn't realize it wasn't appropriate to text one's child during class to remind him to turn in his homework
- Offering to come to school with one's child to make sure she's attending classes and doing her work
- Telling a concerned teacher who calls to check on her often-absent child that she hasn't "seen him in a few days"
- Revealing in a phone call (with a teacher one has never actually met, who is simply calling to inform one of missing work) graphic & unflattering details of one's child's emotional & behavioral issues
- Insisting one's child just cannot get out of bed in time to make first period, which starts at 8:30
I grow weary.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
lazy tuesday
I am le tired and though I have dozens of genius post ideas rolling around in my brain [teaser: Revolutionary Road reaction, crazy parents of students, the mind-boggling coolness of Six Feet Under, thoughts about continuing to stalk Fountains of Wayne members], they are not yet coming together properly. Which makes my head hurt & feel tired so I'm stuck in a vicious circle of little concern to anyone but me, likely.
Here is something I wrote previously and believed amusing; 0 others felt the same at the time. I refuse to believe the lack of hype.
Here is something I wrote previously and believed amusing; 0 others felt the same at the time. I refuse to believe the lack of hype.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
stories
At the Wordstock teachers' workshop a couple of weeks ago, one of my brilliant I-want-to-be-him-when-I-grow-up instructors helped with characterization by having us write:
___________ is the kind of person who ____________.
We had to come up with one negative and one positive trait that would illuminate our character. I wrote "Jake is the kind of person who smokes on campus even when the principal's watching" and "Jake is the kind of person who visits his grandmother every weekend." I was amazed at how simple yet effective this exercise was - this kid I created in my mind just minutes before was suddenly taking moral shape, which is usually much harder to establish than physical shape. I wanted to write more about him! And I wanted to write about everyone around me...
In the creative writing class I'm teaching, I have already given this assignment. It was hard for students to go beyond the obvious at first - when I asked them to make up a statement about me, they started with "Mrs. S is the kind of person who wears a green sweater." I asked what that tells about my character; we agreed not much. I think they were a little nervous about using me as an example, which is understandable, but I prompted them with questions - How do you think I talk to my kids? Where do you think I shop? Who do you think I stalk at grocery & video stores? (KIDDING) They finally settled on "Mrs. S is the kind of person who notices lots of little things." Which we determined is good and annoying, but mostly good.
Now try not to do this the next time you're standing in line somewhere.
___________ is the kind of person who ____________.
We had to come up with one negative and one positive trait that would illuminate our character. I wrote "Jake is the kind of person who smokes on campus even when the principal's watching" and "Jake is the kind of person who visits his grandmother every weekend." I was amazed at how simple yet effective this exercise was - this kid I created in my mind just minutes before was suddenly taking moral shape, which is usually much harder to establish than physical shape. I wanted to write more about him! And I wanted to write about everyone around me...
In the creative writing class I'm teaching, I have already given this assignment. It was hard for students to go beyond the obvious at first - when I asked them to make up a statement about me, they started with "Mrs. S is the kind of person who wears a green sweater." I asked what that tells about my character; we agreed not much. I think they were a little nervous about using me as an example, which is understandable, but I prompted them with questions - How do you think I talk to my kids? Where do you think I shop? Who do you think I stalk at grocery & video stores? (KIDDING) They finally settled on "Mrs. S is the kind of person who notices lots of little things." Which we determined is good and annoying, but mostly good.
Now try not to do this the next time you're standing in line somewhere.
Monday, October 27, 2008
love fest
The school board had its public hearing tonight regarding the budget for our high school's new building. We at Hayes Freedom have been imploring our students to simply show up and be the smart, talented, remarkable people we know them to be; we invited them to speak about the school if they felt moved to do so; we warned them about the possibility of people with differing and potentially cruel opinions.
Our kids showed up, looking & behaving like the smart, talented, remarkable people we know them to be. Many of them were moved to speak not only about the school but also about the friends they've made, the successes they've experienced, how comfortable & safe they feel at school, and about the teachers they know care deeply about them. No one opposed us, no one was cruel.
Parents spoke, proud to tears of their kids; graduates spoke, to much applause. We teachers didn't speak this time, partly because we had already given our piece to the school board but also because, really, we would just stand there blubbering over the bravery and sincerity of all those who got up before us. It was beautiful and, we hope, effective.
Our kids showed up, looking & behaving like the smart, talented, remarkable people we know them to be. Many of them were moved to speak not only about the school but also about the friends they've made, the successes they've experienced, how comfortable & safe they feel at school, and about the teachers they know care deeply about them. No one opposed us, no one was cruel.
Parents spoke, proud to tears of their kids; graduates spoke, to much applause. We teachers didn't speak this time, partly because we had already given our piece to the school board but also because, really, we would just stand there blubbering over the bravery and sincerity of all those who got up before us. It was beautiful and, we hope, effective.
Ride the train, y'all
Sunday, October 26, 2008
tough love
Everyone who has had the misfortune of getting caught in one of my football-themed diatribes knows I would not be the kind of coach who gives out there-there pats; unlike my students who are still growing up and figuring out how to behave (and even so, my there-theres are limited in supply), college & professional football players are adults who ought to know by now how to behave.
Throughout my time at WSU, the Cougars' coach gave me fits every week with his too-kind grandfatherly way of consoling & excusing players who clearly needed a swift kick in the ass, or at least a few minutes of reflection on the bench. I had classes with many of those jokers who didn't seem to get that they were part of a team, and that their actions - both heroic and idiotic - spoke for everyone.
Today I was heartened to see Mike Singletary, interim coach of the San Francisco 49ers, get on one of his players for unsportsmanlike conduct. Some coaches would yell at a player, some would ignore him, some would seethe and stomp on the sidelines; Mike Singletary first benched Vernon Davis then, after consideration, told him to go take a shower and call it a day. What I love the most about this action is that Singletary did it without anger - his point was that Davis was not being a team player and so needed to leave the game to get himself together. Genius.
I hope I can be like Mike with my own kids and in my classroom. (Though I will forgo the 49ers gear).
Throughout my time at WSU, the Cougars' coach gave me fits every week with his too-kind grandfatherly way of consoling & excusing players who clearly needed a swift kick in the ass, or at least a few minutes of reflection on the bench. I had classes with many of those jokers who didn't seem to get that they were part of a team, and that their actions - both heroic and idiotic - spoke for everyone.
Today I was heartened to see Mike Singletary, interim coach of the San Francisco 49ers, get on one of his players for unsportsmanlike conduct. Some coaches would yell at a player, some would ignore him, some would seethe and stomp on the sidelines; Mike Singletary first benched Vernon Davis then, after consideration, told him to go take a shower and call it a day. What I love the most about this action is that Singletary did it without anger - his point was that Davis was not being a team player and so needed to leave the game to get himself together. Genius.
I hope I can be like Mike with my own kids and in my classroom. (Though I will forgo the 49ers gear).
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
some people
I am out of sorts a bit this week for only one good reason and lots of little mediocre reasons; I anticipate a dramatic turnaround once I spend quality time with friends & family this weekend.
One of the minor reasons I feel sketchy has to do with an unnecessarily complicated story about the school where I teach. Essentially, we are housed in an old building that we have made the very best of (I once taught a poetry class on the stage in the auditorium and moved tables, chairs, whiteboard and books every afternoon & morning - we are flexible people!) but are told by Those In Charge that we can't stay there much longer.
The original solution from Those In Charge? Move into a handful of portables behind a nearby elementary school. I get that portables are a given at most educational institutions in the nation now because of rising student populations and limited resources - but our entire school? There would be no common area for gathering before & after classes, no hallways where teachers can have more personal interactions with students; there would be muddy shoes six months out of the year and drafty, cramped classrooms.
But we found out recently that after looking over numbers and previous plans for other projects, Those In Charge found a significant amount of money available for us to use for an actual building. Good news! Well. If you're a reasonable, compassionate human being, it is. Apparently there are people on the school board and in the community who are not keen on the idea of constructing a new building for an alternative school. Someone even made a comment suggesting we're not worthy because we have students who commit suicide. Setting aside the fact that this is an extraordinarily crass thing to say, ever, I'm wondering if that individual honestly believes that no other schools have ever faced such tragedy. And does he mean to say such an occurrence precludes us from deserving a suitable teaching facility? Everything about that statement is sheerly asinine, and I can't help but think he spoke for many others in this community.
So. Our staff & students (and families, alumni, kind local businesspeople) are preparing a presentation for the school board and community members in which we must prove ourselves worthy of a building. On the one hand, we're delighted to show off the great work we do but on the flip side, it seems a tad ridiculous to have to explain why we need basic things like ample classroom space and hallways [and document cameras] to run a close-knit, effective school.
Here's to the grouchiness fading by the time I stand up in front of those people.
One of the minor reasons I feel sketchy has to do with an unnecessarily complicated story about the school where I teach. Essentially, we are housed in an old building that we have made the very best of (I once taught a poetry class on the stage in the auditorium and moved tables, chairs, whiteboard and books every afternoon & morning - we are flexible people!) but are told by Those In Charge that we can't stay there much longer.
The original solution from Those In Charge? Move into a handful of portables behind a nearby elementary school. I get that portables are a given at most educational institutions in the nation now because of rising student populations and limited resources - but our entire school? There would be no common area for gathering before & after classes, no hallways where teachers can have more personal interactions with students; there would be muddy shoes six months out of the year and drafty, cramped classrooms.
But we found out recently that after looking over numbers and previous plans for other projects, Those In Charge found a significant amount of money available for us to use for an actual building. Good news! Well. If you're a reasonable, compassionate human being, it is. Apparently there are people on the school board and in the community who are not keen on the idea of constructing a new building for an alternative school. Someone even made a comment suggesting we're not worthy because we have students who commit suicide. Setting aside the fact that this is an extraordinarily crass thing to say, ever, I'm wondering if that individual honestly believes that no other schools have ever faced such tragedy. And does he mean to say such an occurrence precludes us from deserving a suitable teaching facility? Everything about that statement is sheerly asinine, and I can't help but think he spoke for many others in this community.
So. Our staff & students (and families, alumni, kind local businesspeople) are preparing a presentation for the school board and community members in which we must prove ourselves worthy of a building. On the one hand, we're delighted to show off the great work we do but on the flip side, it seems a tad ridiculous to have to explain why we need basic things like ample classroom space and hallways [and document cameras] to run a close-knit, effective school.
Here's to the grouchiness fading by the time I stand up in front of those people.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
so nice to hear
After being dissed by a student (he had claimed he was unable to work on his computer because it was making a disturbing noise that I probably didn't notice "because old people, like 40 and stuff, can't hear certain sounds anymore") and having the Wii Fit proclaim me 73 in fitness years [I demanded a recount and, once I actually read the instructions for the balance test and did it correctly, was recalibrated to 51; still not stellar but at least not geriatric], I was ready for some mental love. Thankfully, the universe complied in the form of these gracious people:
"NO WAY you're 40, Mrs. S! I totally thought you were, like, still in your thirties." Sincerely said by a more thoughtful student countering the otherlittle jackass young man.
"You are an angel for them." From our wholly angelic school custodian & all-around lovely person Vickie, after I told her about how superbly my freshman English class went Friday afternoon.
In the midst of discussing my role as teacher to teenagers, the delightfully frank Jason, a former classmate of Stu's at his reunion party, said something to the effect of "All your male students are surely in love with you." Which is both flattering and distressing, and the reason I carefully choose my outfits (and words) every single day.
[Right now I have to give a hearty, loving shout-out to the other reunion attendees who kindly chatted with me last night: adorable Ralph, wonderfully sweet Kelly and her charming husband Lenny. You rock! Thanks for keeping my eyes from glazing over, even after four Lemon Drops]
People inspecting the Cobra in a parking lot: "It is a beautiful car, and you guys look really good in it." Very nice and a relief to hear because sometimes the way my hair whips around, I figure I look like a complete goon.
"By the way, those shoes are award-winning." Spoken by a darling young man in Starbucks about my Goodwill suede Franco Sarto flats with the silver buckle. (His boyfriend seemed unimpressed, however).
And then this showed up from Texan Mama:
"NO WAY you're 40, Mrs. S! I totally thought you were, like, still in your thirties." Sincerely said by a more thoughtful student countering the other
"You are an angel for them." From our wholly angelic school custodian & all-around lovely person Vickie, after I told her about how superbly my freshman English class went Friday afternoon.
In the midst of discussing my role as teacher to teenagers, the delightfully frank Jason, a former classmate of Stu's at his reunion party, said something to the effect of "All your male students are surely in love with you." Which is both flattering and distressing, and the reason I carefully choose my outfits (and words) every single day.
[Right now I have to give a hearty, loving shout-out to the other reunion attendees who kindly chatted with me last night: adorable Ralph, wonderfully sweet Kelly and her charming husband Lenny. You rock! Thanks for keeping my eyes from glazing over, even after four Lemon Drops]
People inspecting the Cobra in a parking lot: "It is a beautiful car, and you guys look really good in it." Very nice and a relief to hear because sometimes the way my hair whips around, I figure I look like a complete goon.
"By the way, those shoes are award-winning." Spoken by a darling young man in Starbucks about my Goodwill suede Franco Sarto flats with the silver buckle. (His boyfriend seemed unimpressed, however).
And then this showed up from Texan Mama:
She is a true sunny, funny, and happy delight; it's an honor to be chosen by her for this badge. I will pass it on to the inimitable Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor for her bright optimism, always snort-worthy humor, and happiness with a capital H. It is a treat to be in such good company.
I know, I'm so vain. I probably think this post is about me.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
we're not staying on "school street" for nothin
Our hotel here in Paris is on la Rue des Ecoles - within a few miles, there is College de France, La Sorbonne, the Jussieu Campus which houses the Pierre & Marie Curie and Denis Diderot branches of University of Paris, among other intellectual-sounding things. There are even a bunch of little Auto Ecoles tucked between brasseries and cafes - tech schools for the French motorheads of the world. But classes are not in session, so no grease monkey hotties wandering around during lunch breaks. Le sigh.
I am surrounded by smart vibes and can't help but reflect on some things I've learned during my visit so far:
I am surrounded by smart vibes and can't help but reflect on some things I've learned during my visit so far:
- My French is not nearly as horrible as I imagined (People get me things! And don't roll their eyes too much)
- I really really like olives
- The stereotype of baguettes being sold every-fricking-where in Paris is mythology (we walked many blocks before finding a traditional bakery offering a plain loaf of French bread - the street vendors sell fancy sandwiches)
- The dollar is bloody embarrassingly nearly-worthless against the Euro
- I can restrain myself from buying $100 shoes and $60 underwear [barely]
- I really really like wine
- Wine is cheaper than Coke and sometimes water
- People here do love their dogs like children (they're often welcome in cafes and on the Metro; not always the same for kids...ha)
- Smiling as a form of communication (plus repeating "S'il vous plait" and "Merci") usually makes everything better
Now we are off to dinner at La Tour Eiffel (eeeeeeeeEEEEeee!). I am wearing my jaunty brown striped skirt, summery white button-down shirt, and black flats; I feel tres jolie (though no beret; seems like too much and I don't really look good in hats).
Au revoir, mis amis!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
on my way for pta
I know simply because I am looking forward to the end of this school day (I realize that sounds horrible; I still love my job & most of my students, just getting rundown for a minute), it will drag on interminably. I'm trying to incorporate fun things into planning projects & looking up vocabulary...Maybe I'll just bring cookies.
This afternoon I am racing to Barnes & Noble for their Educator Appreciation reception before I have to leave for the state PTA convention. It seems crazy to drive all the way across town to spend 20 minutes in a bookstore, but they're giving stuff away! Teachers like free! And they'll have cake. Teachers like cake, too.
Last night when I spoke with an actual friendly, conversational checker at the grocery store, I told him about the PTA convention this weekend. He asked where it was then said, "Will you have time to do anything fun up there?" Apparently I made some sort of face (I really must get control of my expressions before I reveal something embarrassing or sinister) and he quickly said, "I didn't mean to imply that...it...wouldn't be, you know, fun." It was quite sweet (not enough to make me stalk him though) so I let him off the hook by telling him the convention really is pretty interesting [plus full of more freebies from educational vendors] but I also have time to get away and shop. Which didn't really impress him I knew, but he was still kind and engaged and wished me a good time. I was an inch away from saying, "Could you please train THAT HOT ONE to make pleasant small talk withstalkers cougars congenial women who shop here?" But of course, no.
So I have my snacks ready to go, suitcase packed, bag of magazines to share. Must remember stress tablets, just in case. Trust me, though - there will be no walking excursions in SeaTac.
This afternoon I am racing to Barnes & Noble for their Educator Appreciation reception before I have to leave for the state PTA convention. It seems crazy to drive all the way across town to spend 20 minutes in a bookstore, but they're giving stuff away! Teachers like free! And they'll have cake. Teachers like cake, too.
Last night when I spoke with an actual friendly, conversational checker at the grocery store, I told him about the PTA convention this weekend. He asked where it was then said, "Will you have time to do anything fun up there?" Apparently I made some sort of face (I really must get control of my expressions before I reveal something embarrassing or sinister) and he quickly said, "I didn't mean to imply that...it...wouldn't be, you know, fun." It was quite sweet (not enough to make me stalk him though) so I let him off the hook by telling him the convention really is pretty interesting [plus full of more freebies from educational vendors] but I also have time to get away and shop. Which didn't really impress him I knew, but he was still kind and engaged and wished me a good time. I was an inch away from saying, "Could you please train THAT HOT ONE to make pleasant small talk with
So I have my snacks ready to go, suitcase packed, bag of magazines to share. Must remember stress tablets, just in case. Trust me, though - there will be no walking excursions in SeaTac.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
how would you bang your drum?
This is from a delightful little website, Very Short List, that sends me something interesting to ponder every few days or so. I love that they spend all of their time finding random stuff I might like; I'm having to cut back on my search for nonsense, remember?
Happy whatever-age-you are (it seems 4, 15, & 44 are the places to be...).
Sunday, November 18, 2007
deliver us
Lisa & I shared a somewhat uncomfortable yet ultimately inspiring Saturday evening watching Lars and the Real Girl. It was far deeper than I expected, considering the premise is a guy who pretends a big plastic doll is his girlfriend.
As the story unfolded, I couldn't help but think about the extent of sadness and heartache and despair coursing through any given person I pass on the street - or have in my classroom - everyday. It was a touching movie because Lars' family and community are good people with caring hearts; it was entertaining because who couldn't help but laugh at grown-ups carrying a mannequin around, dancing with her and discussing her haircut. But it was also moving, in a tight-throat-stomach-hurting-eyes-stinging way, because the reality is there are so many people who skate along the surface of life like Lars and his brother, lost & lonely, not letting themselves think about and feel any grief or pain.
I keep thinking about my students in particular - no one has brought a doll to school (yet), but plenty relay unlikely stories of work they've done, gifts they've received, jobs they're offered, places they've been or are going to visit, feats they've committed. I know plenty who act too cool for schoolwork, who make inappropriate comments about my appearance, who write violent lyrics on page after page of their notebooks, who never look me in the eye. There is an obvious, heartbreaking lack of talk about loving relationships or happy memories or feelings of being smart and safe and okay.
I hope I will always be willing to accept the Real Girl and be the compassionate, caring listener to any Lars that ends up in my world. Hope hope hope.
As the story unfolded, I couldn't help but think about the extent of sadness and heartache and despair coursing through any given person I pass on the street - or have in my classroom - everyday. It was a touching movie because Lars' family and community are good people with caring hearts; it was entertaining because who couldn't help but laugh at grown-ups carrying a mannequin around, dancing with her and discussing her haircut. But it was also moving, in a tight-throat-stomach-hurting-eyes-stinging way, because the reality is there are so many people who skate along the surface of life like Lars and his brother, lost & lonely, not letting themselves think about and feel any grief or pain.
I keep thinking about my students in particular - no one has brought a doll to school (yet), but plenty relay unlikely stories of work they've done, gifts they've received, jobs they're offered, places they've been or are going to visit, feats they've committed. I know plenty who act too cool for schoolwork, who make inappropriate comments about my appearance, who write violent lyrics on page after page of their notebooks, who never look me in the eye. There is an obvious, heartbreaking lack of talk about loving relationships or happy memories or feelings of being smart and safe and okay.
I hope I will always be willing to accept the Real Girl and be the compassionate, caring listener to any Lars that ends up in my world. Hope hope hope.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
in our backyard
Driving through the neighborhood next to mine the other night, my good friend & I could not help but notice three police cruisers and a decidedly un-undercover surveillance van (it had 8000 watt lights attached to its roof) idling in front of a house. This house has had a rusted barbecue and faded Igloo cooler parked in the yard for quite awhile; it has hosted garage sales featuring piles of grubby looking clothes and sad, spent toys. Our first thought was along the lines of "meth house in suburbia" and we groaned at this prospect.
The next night there appeared another van - a television crew this time. I was sure it was a drug house bust and felt a mixture of anger and vigilance brewing, though I wasn't sure what I was mad about. Surely there are drug dealers in my midst at any given time, and I know of many registered sex offenders living in our zip code. I am not the type to raise posses about these things; I educate my kids about how to be safe and make smart choices wherever they are without becoming paranoid. I think I was upset because this was going to become just another BREAKING NEWS STORY without helping viewers really see what's happening among the people around them. Because of that old barbecue and cooler sitting on the grubby lawn, everyone would shake their heads and be a little outraged before going about their more important business. Like I did.
The truth is, it wasn't a meth lab or crack house or sex offender lair. It was a mother and daughter found dead from overdoses of prescription drugs. When I found this out, my brain started spinning. I remembered seeing that woman in front of her house occasionally, her barbecue and cooler less offensive in the light of an ordinary day. She drove a simple blue wagon advertising a meal delivery business; once I looked it up online, thinking I might give it a try. I couldn't recall ever seeing her daughter, a teenager with cerebral palsy who (I found out from the news report) went to a private school about an hour away. They weren't close neighbors - they live in what we call the "tweener neighborhood" because it is an older cluster of houses between us and a division of newer duplexes - but I drove by their place every single morning. I still drive by and now instead of having a fleeting thought about the crap in their yard or the meal business, I think people died in there. And I wonder who found them? And how long had they been dead? And who is caring?
I don't know what to do with this news. I am not the type to raise posses, but apparently I'm not the type to build bridges either. Of course I realize it is not within my capacity to help everyone with problems - I work with 65 people a day who have issues I will never fully understand, much less overcome. But it just seems particularly sad that this individual, a few hundred yards away from us, felt so alone and hopeless. It makes me wonder what else I'm missing.
The next night there appeared another van - a television crew this time. I was sure it was a drug house bust and felt a mixture of anger and vigilance brewing, though I wasn't sure what I was mad about. Surely there are drug dealers in my midst at any given time, and I know of many registered sex offenders living in our zip code. I am not the type to raise posses about these things; I educate my kids about how to be safe and make smart choices wherever they are without becoming paranoid. I think I was upset because this was going to become just another BREAKING NEWS STORY without helping viewers really see what's happening among the people around them. Because of that old barbecue and cooler sitting on the grubby lawn, everyone would shake their heads and be a little outraged before going about their more important business. Like I did.
The truth is, it wasn't a meth lab or crack house or sex offender lair. It was a mother and daughter found dead from overdoses of prescription drugs. When I found this out, my brain started spinning. I remembered seeing that woman in front of her house occasionally, her barbecue and cooler less offensive in the light of an ordinary day. She drove a simple blue wagon advertising a meal delivery business; once I looked it up online, thinking I might give it a try. I couldn't recall ever seeing her daughter, a teenager with cerebral palsy who (I found out from the news report) went to a private school about an hour away. They weren't close neighbors - they live in what we call the "tweener neighborhood" because it is an older cluster of houses between us and a division of newer duplexes - but I drove by their place every single morning. I still drive by and now instead of having a fleeting thought about the crap in their yard or the meal business, I think people died in there. And I wonder who found them? And how long had they been dead? And who is caring?
I don't know what to do with this news. I am not the type to raise posses, but apparently I'm not the type to build bridges either. Of course I realize it is not within my capacity to help everyone with problems - I work with 65 people a day who have issues I will never fully understand, much less overcome. But it just seems particularly sad that this individual, a few hundred yards away from us, felt so alone and hopeless. It makes me wonder what else I'm missing.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
saturdays are fun
Mason just blazed into the house in a frenetic search for Ice Cream Man Money and, apropos of nothing other than his intensely unfocused brain, announced "We're watching Star Wars tech stuff at Jen's and TIE fighters can exist, you know. Bye!" So there you have it. Be sure to watch the news carefully in the next few months for news of existing TIE fighters. Maybe we'll send some to Iraq. Wait, are we the rebels or the Empire? Nevermind.
Since we're on the topic of nonlinear thinking, here are some things that popped up in my sight and/or mind while out & about alone today (more random thoughts come to me when I'm alone...Something about not having to devote brain energy to snarky children in the backseat, I think).
Since we're on the topic of nonlinear thinking, here are some things that popped up in my sight and/or mind while out & about alone today (more random thoughts come to me when I'm alone...Something about not having to devote brain energy to snarky children in the backseat, I think).
- A driver in the mall parking lot looked suspiciously like Marilyn Manson. And it's not an attractive look on him to begin with, so on a woman? Frightful. I'm so sorry for you, miss. But on the bright side...well, I can't really think of a bright side.
- I really, really like the song "Hey There Delilah" by Plain White Ts, but can't decide if it makes me feel more happy or sad. Young & thoughtful, or ancient & wistful? I kinda don't care though.
- Spent a good deal of time worrying about the trace amounts of modified corn starch, food coloring, and mineral oil in Swedish Fish. They would be really cool on the cupcakes at Paige's underwater-themed birthday party, yet my Wild Oats Momness rejects their ingredients. I bought them. Life is short, let's eat crap now & then.
- Also obsessed a little over buying a pineapple for the party. Because SpongeBob lives in one under the sea (try to get THAT little song out of your head; I actually whistled it through two stores), and it would be really fun to have as a centerpiece. Found one for $3 at Trader Joe's so if we have to toss it in the compost because it's too hard to cut, not a big loss.
- Woman in line at Goodwill kept looking at me, leading me to continually feel my hair and check my face & shirt for anything odd going on. Finally she chuckled about another customer who was having issues with her preteen son, and we had a little in-line chat about kids. I think she was lonely - in less than five minutes of chatting, I found out she is a single mom of a just-turned 13 year old daughter who is 5'7", moved from outside LA two years ago and now lives about 20 minutes out of town. Apparently I don't look like a crazy stalker. Good news!
More to come later, surely. Unless I don't actually get anymore alone time; it is officially Summer Break now.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
you & me ~ did you feel it?
You, young hottie in knit cap coming out of Target 3/6 before lunchtime. Me, mom-type in zipped sweater and black glasses. Our eyes met for an electric sec, I felt a connection. Let's aim for afternoon delight while husband is away.
Okay, I really did see a cute guy while shopping this morning and he glanced in my general direction, but that's where my story ends. And I suspect most of the "chance meeting" entries in the personal ads have about the same amount of substance as mine. Some of them are witty ("crippling Robin's egg addiction") and some are respectably sexy ("I can do other creative things!"), and most do seem rooted in an actual contact that someone would likely remember, even if only vaguely ("Burlingame Fred Meyer, buying cat food"). I certainly don't begrudge people trying to sustain moments that made them feel noticed and special, but many of these ads drip with desperation, and where can you possibly go with that? Besides the psych ward, I mean.
This one, for example: "SW Oak & First - 2/16/07 @ 8:30 a.m. On opposite sides of the street waiting for the light. You: smiling at me. I giggled, smiled back. Held eye contact, I said “Hi.” You had nice energy!" First of all, this person giggled when someone smiled at her (I'm just guessing it's not a him; I could be wrong). And freely admitted it. In print. Then, she said "Hi" but apparently the guy with "nice energy" did not say "Hi" back. Why pursue this? I'm stumped.
I'm seriously perplexed by this one: "You with guitar: saw you at the PDX POP Now! last July. Meet me at this years festival August 3rd-5th. xoxoxo." This 'encounter' (I SAW you? Not kissed, stroked, pawed at...) happened nine months ago! And it involves a musician! There is nothing wrong with musicians, I've swooned over many, but my experience is that fans remember them with far more clarity than they remember fans. For good reason, of course - bright lights, concentrating on performing, possible paternity suits...Girlfriend has a much better chance with someone she giggles at in a crosswalk.
This one is a little weird, but it's definitely specific and somehow endearing: "YOU: jewish architect on the nerdcycle riding with no hands in SE. ME: thinking you’re adorable. Let’s get the spotted owl out of the barn. Yay~" My questions are - how does she know he's Jewish? Is a nerdcycle a brand of bike or is she kind of insulting him? And what does it mean to 'get the spotted owl out of the barn'? Am I being extremely naive here? I love the "Yay" at the end though.
Stalker alert: "2/11 @ Banana, 2/18 @ Whole Foods. Tall guy, brown hair, green eyes, jeans, t-shirt. Me: Girl in hospital scrubs, behind you in line while you returned pin-stripe slacks. Then eye contact on stairs @ Whole Foods." She knows this guy's eye color, memorized what he was returning at Banana Republic, and found him a week later at the grocery store? If I recognized myself in this ad, I'd call the police.
Here's a syrupy waste of money, sure to make this guy bolt before he can buckle his belt: "Jim Jim: Saw you when I rolled over in bed this morning...what a delight! Same time tomorrow? For the rest of our lives?" And how, exactly, does this qualify as a "chance meeting"?
And the winner of Most Cryptic Ad of the week: "Your sagittal crest climbing Smith with mutual friends months ago. Received so much energy witnessing your soul then, it reverberates in return encompassing your cargo box. Grateful moonstone genie." I can't tell if there are typos throughout this or maybe the writer speaks English as a second language, but if she gets a positive response they are truly meant for each other. I suppose that's what everyone is looking for with these wacky remembrances, posted for the world to read.
Who am I to judge?
Okay, I really did see a cute guy while shopping this morning and he glanced in my general direction, but that's where my story ends. And I suspect most of the "chance meeting" entries in the personal ads have about the same amount of substance as mine. Some of them are witty ("crippling Robin's egg addiction") and some are respectably sexy ("I can do other creative things!"), and most do seem rooted in an actual contact that someone would likely remember, even if only vaguely ("Burlingame Fred Meyer, buying cat food"). I certainly don't begrudge people trying to sustain moments that made them feel noticed and special, but many of these ads drip with desperation, and where can you possibly go with that? Besides the psych ward, I mean.
This one, for example: "SW Oak & First - 2/16/07 @ 8:30 a.m. On opposite sides of the street waiting for the light. You: smiling at me. I giggled, smiled back. Held eye contact, I said “Hi.” You had nice energy!" First of all, this person giggled when someone smiled at her (I'm just guessing it's not a him; I could be wrong). And freely admitted it. In print. Then, she said "Hi" but apparently the guy with "nice energy" did not say "Hi" back. Why pursue this? I'm stumped.
I'm seriously perplexed by this one: "You with guitar: saw you at the PDX POP Now! last July. Meet me at this years festival August 3rd-5th. xoxoxo." This 'encounter' (I SAW you? Not kissed, stroked, pawed at...) happened nine months ago! And it involves a musician! There is nothing wrong with musicians, I've swooned over many, but my experience is that fans remember them with far more clarity than they remember fans. For good reason, of course - bright lights, concentrating on performing, possible paternity suits...Girlfriend has a much better chance with someone she giggles at in a crosswalk.
This one is a little weird, but it's definitely specific and somehow endearing: "YOU: jewish architect on the nerdcycle riding with no hands in SE. ME: thinking you’re adorable. Let’s get the spotted owl out of the barn. Yay~" My questions are - how does she know he's Jewish? Is a nerdcycle a brand of bike or is she kind of insulting him? And what does it mean to 'get the spotted owl out of the barn'? Am I being extremely naive here? I love the "Yay" at the end though.
Stalker alert: "2/11 @ Banana, 2/18 @ Whole Foods. Tall guy, brown hair, green eyes, jeans, t-shirt. Me: Girl in hospital scrubs, behind you in line while you returned pin-stripe slacks. Then eye contact on stairs @ Whole Foods." She knows this guy's eye color, memorized what he was returning at Banana Republic, and found him a week later at the grocery store? If I recognized myself in this ad, I'd call the police.
Here's a syrupy waste of money, sure to make this guy bolt before he can buckle his belt: "Jim Jim: Saw you when I rolled over in bed this morning...what a delight! Same time tomorrow? For the rest of our lives?" And how, exactly, does this qualify as a "chance meeting"?
And the winner of Most Cryptic Ad of the week: "Your sagittal crest climbing Smith with mutual friends months ago. Received so much energy witnessing your soul then, it reverberates in return encompassing your cargo box. Grateful moonstone genie." I can't tell if there are typos throughout this or maybe the writer speaks English as a second language, but if she gets a positive response they are truly meant for each other. I suppose that's what everyone is looking for with these wacky remembrances, posted for the world to read.
Who am I to judge?
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