They keep posting this SXSW, Club Deville thing on the login page. It's trickery, fuzzy visions in sight through the NYC haze . . .
More things I hate: sweet 10-year olds who scream you effing b with two middle fingers up, chicken skin, spilling coffee down my middle while missing my mouth, mail, energy-sucking stress, one-man shows, having nothing much to be jazzed about, bad coffee, jiggle in my wiggle, extreme makeovers, people who opt out, base on your face.
Some things I love: easy passes in my windshield, the open road, country music (I don't care if it's crap), turning arguments inside out, driving, checking off lists, "Hands on a Hard Body," singing anywhere anytime, grocery shopping, sago palms, The Pacific Northwest, Napa Valley, Mexico, lime in your drink, being under water, shockingly hot showers, fresh flowers, hills, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, German Expressionist paintings, essays, kisses, forgiveness, being your best.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Monday, March 08, 2004
Music is coming out of my purse. It's loud for purse music. The treble is high--pure and piercing like your chest voice on the high notes. I've been thinking about church. Jeff and I were born to parents with differing views on the Lord. It occurred to me while watching "Rock Star Daughters," a new VH1 docu-wonder (I didn't really watch it; background only, assuredly), that my dad is a rock star dad. He totally is. It all makes sense to me--what I've been trying to make sense of. He's rock-n-roll like the Stones, graying with a cigarette slanting down from his mouth as often as he can manage it.
So my dad grew up rigid Presbyterian, and my mom grew up higher-order Methodist, the sophisticated Christians who deemed themselves thinkers, progressive for their tolerance on biblical and moral matters, and ever the appreciaters of classical music, traditional hymns accompanied by Bach organ, of course, but often by a striking mezzo soprano or a string quartet. I don't know much about the way my dad grew up in the church except for his defiance of it. I've heard some story about him forbidding my mother to baptize us, to raise us like he'd been raised. Dad's a contrary to polite society, to the norms of society. So, indeed, he did not scurry us off to Sunday school. I'm not sure what my mom's story was in those days. I know we went to a Presbyterian church in Denton when we were toddlers, not for very long though. We always skipped stones, from church to church, through the growing up years. After Denton it was onto University United Methodist on the University of Texas campus. That's where the beautiful mezzo soprano came into our lives. She had thick chocolate hair full of texture like her voice. It fell back away from her forehead, highlighting her burgundy lips and sculpted cheek bones. The mezzo soprano held herself in the most serene way, allowing the tones to come from her center.
We stayed at that church for a few years, mostly because of her. I sang in the youth choir and looked forward to the juice and cookies in the courtyard after the service each Sunday. Jeff, well, he looked forward to music coming out of his earphones while sitting in the balcony by himself. Defiant.
Mom grew tired of fighting her children. Whines and even stronger protests coming from her adolescent son, we never went as a family again. I think it was my sophomore year in high school when I knew something was missing for me. I didn't fit in. I didn't know myself, but knew that I could, if only I were exposed to the right elements, friends maybe. Maybe it was in music or places, food, texts, circles of discussion. It was there, but I was far away from it. I didn't know myself like I wanted to. I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to go to church again. Just me and mom. We tried out five or six, an Episcopal that my mother was high on. The sanctuary was nice, the exterior architecture too. I wanted a pretty place, aesthetic beauty to cradle me. I could easily dismiss an option before ever reading a program or hearing a sermon just by doing a drive-by. Mom and I agreed. We both wanted what was familiar, and we wanted a preacher man or woman who would make us consider life, the world around us, and the people we encounter. I was looking for ritual to keep me whole. What we inherit feeds that element within ourselves, whether it's defiance or music, or sophistication, or simple tradition.
My grandparents were members of the First United Methodist Church of Richardson, Texas for years. I remember the little offering envelopes that hung before you as you sat in the pews, and the round sanctuary, like a hexagon. My grandmother was an alto with a large vibrato who sang out in church. She liked to hum the hymns at home or in the car. I love my church inheritance more than my defiant inheritance, but I take both, sometimes with a bitter pill when the defiance alienates us from one another.
By the way . . . in those years, my mom very much resembled the mezzo soprano.
So my dad grew up rigid Presbyterian, and my mom grew up higher-order Methodist, the sophisticated Christians who deemed themselves thinkers, progressive for their tolerance on biblical and moral matters, and ever the appreciaters of classical music, traditional hymns accompanied by Bach organ, of course, but often by a striking mezzo soprano or a string quartet. I don't know much about the way my dad grew up in the church except for his defiance of it. I've heard some story about him forbidding my mother to baptize us, to raise us like he'd been raised. Dad's a contrary to polite society, to the norms of society. So, indeed, he did not scurry us off to Sunday school. I'm not sure what my mom's story was in those days. I know we went to a Presbyterian church in Denton when we were toddlers, not for very long though. We always skipped stones, from church to church, through the growing up years. After Denton it was onto University United Methodist on the University of Texas campus. That's where the beautiful mezzo soprano came into our lives. She had thick chocolate hair full of texture like her voice. It fell back away from her forehead, highlighting her burgundy lips and sculpted cheek bones. The mezzo soprano held herself in the most serene way, allowing the tones to come from her center.
We stayed at that church for a few years, mostly because of her. I sang in the youth choir and looked forward to the juice and cookies in the courtyard after the service each Sunday. Jeff, well, he looked forward to music coming out of his earphones while sitting in the balcony by himself. Defiant.
Mom grew tired of fighting her children. Whines and even stronger protests coming from her adolescent son, we never went as a family again. I think it was my sophomore year in high school when I knew something was missing for me. I didn't fit in. I didn't know myself, but knew that I could, if only I were exposed to the right elements, friends maybe. Maybe it was in music or places, food, texts, circles of discussion. It was there, but I was far away from it. I didn't know myself like I wanted to. I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to go to church again. Just me and mom. We tried out five or six, an Episcopal that my mother was high on. The sanctuary was nice, the exterior architecture too. I wanted a pretty place, aesthetic beauty to cradle me. I could easily dismiss an option before ever reading a program or hearing a sermon just by doing a drive-by. Mom and I agreed. We both wanted what was familiar, and we wanted a preacher man or woman who would make us consider life, the world around us, and the people we encounter. I was looking for ritual to keep me whole. What we inherit feeds that element within ourselves, whether it's defiance or music, or sophistication, or simple tradition.
My grandparents were members of the First United Methodist Church of Richardson, Texas for years. I remember the little offering envelopes that hung before you as you sat in the pews, and the round sanctuary, like a hexagon. My grandmother was an alto with a large vibrato who sang out in church. She liked to hum the hymns at home or in the car. I love my church inheritance more than my defiant inheritance, but I take both, sometimes with a bitter pill when the defiance alienates us from one another.
By the way . . . in those years, my mom very much resembled the mezzo soprano.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
I am not a follower of the Martha Stewart case. Upon learning that she was being prosecuted, I'm sure I thought something or other about it being an easily dismissible, forgivable offense. Her guilt or innocence wasn't a question. But as word of the trial began coming in the sound bites more often, I began probing a few minds here and there to help me piece together what I think. And what I've gotten are two ends of the spectrum--vehement argument for severe punishment with assured guilt before a verdict came through; and then vehement disdain for our American culture who chooses to hold up Kobe Bryant and Martha Stewart as its worst sinners.
The verdict came to me on my lap as I lay on the blue cushions that pillow me after school each day. Searching for either a cooking show of interest or maybe Ellen, I was interrupted by reports of Martha's guilt on all counts. Since then I've bought the paper each day, reading the stories, looking at the photographs of her almost always brushing a manicured clump of golden-gray hair behind her ear.
I am an admirer of Martha's ability first. Anyone who is a doer is a good thing in my book. She's like my grandmother or Eleanor Roosevelt, like all the ladies who are determined at their core and composed in their air. They rise above the times and go on with their business, full with purpose. But beyond what she does and what she's created, Martha has positively contributed to the culture, taking things back home, to the ways of our grandparents who took pride in the mundane tasks of sewing a straight hem or weed-eating and then bagging the mowed grass on a hot July day. If you don't do it with your own hands you lose the gratification from the effort--pride in yourself and what you are able to create and keep. Several generations now have been without. It's a Fast Food Nation, yes?
Martha is a foremother of American culture; and yet, she is in her guilt of corruption for monetary gain, again, a foremother of American culture.
The verdict came to me on my lap as I lay on the blue cushions that pillow me after school each day. Searching for either a cooking show of interest or maybe Ellen, I was interrupted by reports of Martha's guilt on all counts. Since then I've bought the paper each day, reading the stories, looking at the photographs of her almost always brushing a manicured clump of golden-gray hair behind her ear.
I am an admirer of Martha's ability first. Anyone who is a doer is a good thing in my book. She's like my grandmother or Eleanor Roosevelt, like all the ladies who are determined at their core and composed in their air. They rise above the times and go on with their business, full with purpose. But beyond what she does and what she's created, Martha has positively contributed to the culture, taking things back home, to the ways of our grandparents who took pride in the mundane tasks of sewing a straight hem or weed-eating and then bagging the mowed grass on a hot July day. If you don't do it with your own hands you lose the gratification from the effort--pride in yourself and what you are able to create and keep. Several generations now have been without. It's a Fast Food Nation, yes?
Martha is a foremother of American culture; and yet, she is in her guilt of corruption for monetary gain, again, a foremother of American culture.
Some anonymous person has been itching for it, so here it is--another list, a particular kind of list, not about what's top-notch in a certain genre, say, life or in the music television world. No, just the opposite.
"Things I Hate"
--mouseys named Fredrick who twitch as they die upon your bathroom threshhold
--three-hour movies about the murder of christ
--jello
--viewing your own bitten-down fingernails in shame
--clam juice
--pressure
--hesitation
--people called "Uncle Cracker"
--crackers--all kinds
--the whole metal teeth fad (reminds me of Jaws in that James Bond movie)
--SNL skits
--Dick Gephardt
--innards, like barbacoa y lengua
--particle board, faux finishes, wallpaper borders
--sometimes Oprah
--prison
--crying on birthdays, which I used to do
--false pretenses
--techno music
--The Real World
--Sex and the City (I waffle on this one)
--musicals. I said it, okay.
--the phone ringing
--displeasing loved ones, falling short you could say.
Once you start, it's hard to stop. Post away all you haters out there.
"Things I Hate"
--mouseys named Fredrick who twitch as they die upon your bathroom threshhold
--three-hour movies about the murder of christ
--jello
--viewing your own bitten-down fingernails in shame
--clam juice
--pressure
--hesitation
--people called "Uncle Cracker"
--crackers--all kinds
--the whole metal teeth fad (reminds me of Jaws in that James Bond movie)
--SNL skits
--Dick Gephardt
--innards, like barbacoa y lengua
--particle board, faux finishes, wallpaper borders
--sometimes Oprah
--prison
--crying on birthdays, which I used to do
--false pretenses
--techno music
--The Real World
--Sex and the City (I waffle on this one)
--musicals. I said it, okay.
--the phone ringing
--displeasing loved ones, falling short you could say.
Once you start, it's hard to stop. Post away all you haters out there.
Sunday, February 29, 2004
52 Degrees and Rising
In four months almost to the day I will be driving yet another Ryder truck packed full with my belongings. This one I've been preparing for for about two years. It's the big one, the return home.
Perceptions of home retain their quality of the things you left for, what it couldn't give you, for no finite period of time. It lingers, in the front of your mind, on the tips of words you are surprised to find spilling out of your mouth to strangers when they ask polite questions about your place of birth. But all the while home remains your identity. I met James last night in the City. He checked my driver's license and asked what part of Texas I grew up in. "Austin" (me). "Born and raised" (him). And do you know what I did? I put my backpack down and gave him a hug. "I can tell you're from Texas" (him). James told me his whole building is full of people from the Lone Star State. I nodded because I understood. We leave, but we find each other out there.
I wasn't able to let go of those lingering perceptions of the things I left for until recently. When people move, there seems to be this great debate about whether one is running from something, or forever searching for something within a locale rather than within oneself. Moving from state to state doesn't seem to be an epidemic, so I wonder why people fear this as a harm to which their loved ones are susceptible. There is purpose in it--moving. Forward motion to give a dream a chance, to go to school, to see how a different environment suits your temperament, or sometimes to leave something behind that needs leaving.
When I left the Promised Land, it wasn't feeding me. I needed pushes in all sorts of ways, the sorts of ways an unfamiliar place can give you. I needed to stand alone, away from my identity for awhile, so as not to rely upon it. I needed to find out what did feed me, because I was good at things, I had friends and family near, but what mattered? I am someone who needs to know what matters, to get clear on that, as a foundation. Some people's foundations are built up nice and sturdy by their families, or maybe they're born with it, an innate sense of direction and self-knowledge. I've been building mine through the experience of the unknown.
The drive to test life isn't at the front of my mind anymore. It faded away, little by little, while other aspects made themselves known, like being close to loved ones. I ventured at first with the intention of relying upon myself. Then, I ventured to find folks I could rely upon. Stage 3: I'm not so much fighting anymore. I've got a lot of inner fight, a quality that serves to help things sit right within. It's like jostling all the flakes in a snow globe and following them as they gently lay down. The forward motion of moving has helped things settle inside; it's helped me be able to acknowledge the irreplaceable spaces where family, friends, and love hold me together. These revelations are with me to take wherever I go.
I'm going home because it's where I come from. The scenes outside the car window, I want to see again.
Last night an old friend of my brother's played guitar and sang at a venue on the Lower East Side. The performance was low-key, sometimes just Amy (the singer) on stage, at other times my sister-in-law joining her on back-up vocals, her husband blending in on piano, and my brother adding in rhythm on bass. Pieces of home. Where you come from. Your history and memory and makeup. Walking through Central Park yesterday winter was breaking into spring, fifty-two degrees outside.
In four months almost to the day I will be driving yet another Ryder truck packed full with my belongings. This one I've been preparing for for about two years. It's the big one, the return home.
Perceptions of home retain their quality of the things you left for, what it couldn't give you, for no finite period of time. It lingers, in the front of your mind, on the tips of words you are surprised to find spilling out of your mouth to strangers when they ask polite questions about your place of birth. But all the while home remains your identity. I met James last night in the City. He checked my driver's license and asked what part of Texas I grew up in. "Austin" (me). "Born and raised" (him). And do you know what I did? I put my backpack down and gave him a hug. "I can tell you're from Texas" (him). James told me his whole building is full of people from the Lone Star State. I nodded because I understood. We leave, but we find each other out there.
I wasn't able to let go of those lingering perceptions of the things I left for until recently. When people move, there seems to be this great debate about whether one is running from something, or forever searching for something within a locale rather than within oneself. Moving from state to state doesn't seem to be an epidemic, so I wonder why people fear this as a harm to which their loved ones are susceptible. There is purpose in it--moving. Forward motion to give a dream a chance, to go to school, to see how a different environment suits your temperament, or sometimes to leave something behind that needs leaving.
When I left the Promised Land, it wasn't feeding me. I needed pushes in all sorts of ways, the sorts of ways an unfamiliar place can give you. I needed to stand alone, away from my identity for awhile, so as not to rely upon it. I needed to find out what did feed me, because I was good at things, I had friends and family near, but what mattered? I am someone who needs to know what matters, to get clear on that, as a foundation. Some people's foundations are built up nice and sturdy by their families, or maybe they're born with it, an innate sense of direction and self-knowledge. I've been building mine through the experience of the unknown.
The drive to test life isn't at the front of my mind anymore. It faded away, little by little, while other aspects made themselves known, like being close to loved ones. I ventured at first with the intention of relying upon myself. Then, I ventured to find folks I could rely upon. Stage 3: I'm not so much fighting anymore. I've got a lot of inner fight, a quality that serves to help things sit right within. It's like jostling all the flakes in a snow globe and following them as they gently lay down. The forward motion of moving has helped things settle inside; it's helped me be able to acknowledge the irreplaceable spaces where family, friends, and love hold me together. These revelations are with me to take wherever I go.
I'm going home because it's where I come from. The scenes outside the car window, I want to see again.
Last night an old friend of my brother's played guitar and sang at a venue on the Lower East Side. The performance was low-key, sometimes just Amy (the singer) on stage, at other times my sister-in-law joining her on back-up vocals, her husband blending in on piano, and my brother adding in rhythm on bass. Pieces of home. Where you come from. Your history and memory and makeup. Walking through Central Park yesterday winter was breaking into spring, fifty-two degrees outside.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
The first time I heard about Dean was after an appearance he'd made on Meet the Press in the beginning of 2003. My brother, ever keeping the pulse of the American political system and its inhabitants, had begun to hear his name, had read some articles from pundits who'd been looking through their binoculars and spotted the little guy on top of the Green Mountains, rolling up his sleeves to show Popeye-like forearm muscles. Jeff told me Dean was good, just a few simple words and a knowing, affirmative head-shake. He smiled when he told me. All I had to do was listen to him speak and I would understand. Jeff was thrilled.
How many of us feel thrill when we see a political candidate, quick, like a surge on a heart monitor, but not fleeting--a sense that burrows itself within your ideology? Jeff and I are die-hard Democrats (him more than me, granted), like most of our friends and family. We grew up that way. We latch on and champion each candidate for the different aspects of their makeup, Clinton's rock-star brilliance, Gore's family tree of steadfastness in the principles of what is good for the society. And we allow for the flaws, acknowledging them, but cheering for the better sides to come forth, to resonate and take hold so that we will be doing our best each day without injustice. Now I'm speaking more for myself. What is politics for anyway? So many choose not to listen because of the dissonance.
Chris Matthews calls Dean a maverick, one who resists adherence to a group. Perfect. From Jefe to Sistra, to our friends, to six degrees of separation branching out across the Internet, to Meet-ups, to caravans from Austin to Iowa, campfire chats where Janeane Garofalo and Joan Jett drop by . . . to Caucus Day. Many of us recognized that thrill given off by Dean. The way people talk, not what they say, is more telling.
When you belong to a group for a long time, like your company for instance, your school where you teach, your acupuncture lounge, your theatre troupe, you learn how to communicate in that arena to become a better communicator--to know your audience. Politicians do the same to convey that they are not out of touch with the American people (a touchstone of the pundits). If you choose this road in politics, connecting-with-the-people speak, you end up coasting on the crest of good message delivery and talking without saying anything. To us folks out there, oh, I don't know who we are, folks like me, this is all so flat. The campaign season is rote. I only ever look forward to the debates because inherent within them is having to think on your feet. There's no way around it. (That's why I was so dumbfounded last time around when Bush actually did well.)
It is interesting when a person stands before you and can respond in time. What comes forth may not be tempered. It may just end up being a "Neeeyah" yip. But those yips tell you that who is before you is not someone hidden under layers of spinning webs or smooth frosting. That person is honest with himself or herself, and therefore conveys to us that he or she is honest with us. Not only this, but to respond in time means that you have to examine, think, and consider, fantastic qualities in a leader.
What does happen behind closed doors? It really isn't our right to know about foreign policy roundtables with Condi Rice et al. All debates and decision-making should not be open for public scrutiny every step of the way, especially when they are threatening to the public. In such cases, we examine, we elect, and we must trust that Mr. President is acting in good faith. I want to know that he is thinking and honestly looking at a situation from as many perspectives as he can before making decisions.
What Matthews looks for and admires is what he calls speaking out when everyone says you're wrong. He noted Teddy Roosevelt, Martin Luther King, Jr., Winston Churchill, John Brown, and finished with Howard Dean. For me you do not need opposition in order for it to come forth. It's in the way people speak. Are they talking on top of the subject, or are they speaking from within it?
Funny enough, this morning while studying Arnold Scwarzenegger during a 20-minute segment with Tim Russert, I felt a good vibe and couldn't understand why. Now I understand.
People, the enemy (one who will do harm) cannot simply be identified through one's political affiliation or even their opinions on the issues, such as opposing same-sex marriage.
I read a very good quote recently from William Falk, editor of The Week. He says:
Consistency is a highly overrated virtue. I'm not ashamed to admit that I no longer believe half of what I was sure of 10 years ago, or that I've come to see wisdom in hoary ideas my younger self would have dismissed. You make mistakes, you get new information, you change your mind along the way.
The enemy is much more likely to be found in an individual who does not examine, who is not willing to make mistakes, who is suspect of those inclinations within himself or herself and keeps them hidden.
How many of us feel thrill when we see a political candidate, quick, like a surge on a heart monitor, but not fleeting--a sense that burrows itself within your ideology? Jeff and I are die-hard Democrats (him more than me, granted), like most of our friends and family. We grew up that way. We latch on and champion each candidate for the different aspects of their makeup, Clinton's rock-star brilliance, Gore's family tree of steadfastness in the principles of what is good for the society. And we allow for the flaws, acknowledging them, but cheering for the better sides to come forth, to resonate and take hold so that we will be doing our best each day without injustice. Now I'm speaking more for myself. What is politics for anyway? So many choose not to listen because of the dissonance.
Chris Matthews calls Dean a maverick, one who resists adherence to a group. Perfect. From Jefe to Sistra, to our friends, to six degrees of separation branching out across the Internet, to Meet-ups, to caravans from Austin to Iowa, campfire chats where Janeane Garofalo and Joan Jett drop by . . . to Caucus Day. Many of us recognized that thrill given off by Dean. The way people talk, not what they say, is more telling.
When you belong to a group for a long time, like your company for instance, your school where you teach, your acupuncture lounge, your theatre troupe, you learn how to communicate in that arena to become a better communicator--to know your audience. Politicians do the same to convey that they are not out of touch with the American people (a touchstone of the pundits). If you choose this road in politics, connecting-with-the-people speak, you end up coasting on the crest of good message delivery and talking without saying anything. To us folks out there, oh, I don't know who we are, folks like me, this is all so flat. The campaign season is rote. I only ever look forward to the debates because inherent within them is having to think on your feet. There's no way around it. (That's why I was so dumbfounded last time around when Bush actually did well.)
It is interesting when a person stands before you and can respond in time. What comes forth may not be tempered. It may just end up being a "Neeeyah" yip. But those yips tell you that who is before you is not someone hidden under layers of spinning webs or smooth frosting. That person is honest with himself or herself, and therefore conveys to us that he or she is honest with us. Not only this, but to respond in time means that you have to examine, think, and consider, fantastic qualities in a leader.
What does happen behind closed doors? It really isn't our right to know about foreign policy roundtables with Condi Rice et al. All debates and decision-making should not be open for public scrutiny every step of the way, especially when they are threatening to the public. In such cases, we examine, we elect, and we must trust that Mr. President is acting in good faith. I want to know that he is thinking and honestly looking at a situation from as many perspectives as he can before making decisions.
What Matthews looks for and admires is what he calls speaking out when everyone says you're wrong. He noted Teddy Roosevelt, Martin Luther King, Jr., Winston Churchill, John Brown, and finished with Howard Dean. For me you do not need opposition in order for it to come forth. It's in the way people speak. Are they talking on top of the subject, or are they speaking from within it?
Funny enough, this morning while studying Arnold Scwarzenegger during a 20-minute segment with Tim Russert, I felt a good vibe and couldn't understand why. Now I understand.
People, the enemy (one who will do harm) cannot simply be identified through one's political affiliation or even their opinions on the issues, such as opposing same-sex marriage.
I read a very good quote recently from William Falk, editor of The Week. He says:
Consistency is a highly overrated virtue. I'm not ashamed to admit that I no longer believe half of what I was sure of 10 years ago, or that I've come to see wisdom in hoary ideas my younger self would have dismissed. You make mistakes, you get new information, you change your mind along the way.
The enemy is much more likely to be found in an individual who does not examine, who is not willing to make mistakes, who is suspect of those inclinations within himself or herself and keeps them hidden.
Monday, January 26, 2004
the yard
It's time for some more beauty, isn't it?
(this is more for my non-urban-living friends . . . to partake.)
I live in a fifth floor apartment on a hundred and eighth street in Manhattan. The building is owned by a magnanimous slum lord (heard that word the other day--the m word--and found it funny). And we have just become acquainted with our new roomie, Fredrick, the little grey mouse. (So, where's the beauty, sistra?)
Okay, so I'm sitting here, quietly, after watching "The War" with Elijah Wood, Kevin Costner, Mare Winnigham, and the little boy from "Sling Blade" tonight on Channel 55, and I hear singing in the yard.
Our building is steps from a main avenue, so it is surrounded by neighboring buildings not only on either side, but also adjacent and of course those behind it on a hundred and ninth street. The space behind all of our buildings, where our windows and fire escapes are the view, is the yard. I mentioned the other day that I have no screens on my window. It's a long way down, folks. A glass votive holder slipped out for a peek and took a time to pop. (slum lord) There's a chain-link fence about 5 feet high adorned with razor wire that divides the space on the ground, and it's all concrete. Ugly. I got a close-up look one evening when I accompanied the cable guy out back as he re-juiced the box, but that's another story. It's very clearly a yard, yes?
The yard is always, always dead quiet. People in cities like to portion their space; suburban folks do too; we all do. But tonight a happy man with a clear tenor tone confidently sang out. He sang one song, and then stopped. A lady called out, "Please close your window," pleading loudly, not impolitely. It was quiet for a minute, and then the happy tenor sang again, with the same confidence and tone.
The yard is quiet again. It's time for bed. Goodnight.
(this is more for my non-urban-living friends . . . to partake.)
I live in a fifth floor apartment on a hundred and eighth street in Manhattan. The building is owned by a magnanimous slum lord (heard that word the other day--the m word--and found it funny). And we have just become acquainted with our new roomie, Fredrick, the little grey mouse. (So, where's the beauty, sistra?)
Okay, so I'm sitting here, quietly, after watching "The War" with Elijah Wood, Kevin Costner, Mare Winnigham, and the little boy from "Sling Blade" tonight on Channel 55, and I hear singing in the yard.
Our building is steps from a main avenue, so it is surrounded by neighboring buildings not only on either side, but also adjacent and of course those behind it on a hundred and ninth street. The space behind all of our buildings, where our windows and fire escapes are the view, is the yard. I mentioned the other day that I have no screens on my window. It's a long way down, folks. A glass votive holder slipped out for a peek and took a time to pop. (slum lord) There's a chain-link fence about 5 feet high adorned with razor wire that divides the space on the ground, and it's all concrete. Ugly. I got a close-up look one evening when I accompanied the cable guy out back as he re-juiced the box, but that's another story. It's very clearly a yard, yes?
The yard is always, always dead quiet. People in cities like to portion their space; suburban folks do too; we all do. But tonight a happy man with a clear tenor tone confidently sang out. He sang one song, and then stopped. A lady called out, "Please close your window," pleading loudly, not impolitely. It was quiet for a minute, and then the happy tenor sang again, with the same confidence and tone.
The yard is quiet again. It's time for bed. Goodnight.
Saturday, January 10, 2004
Year 2, final semester, NYC Teaching Fellows
I don't identify myself as a Fellow any longer; there are few ties left, although I've taken to carrying the black cotton tote with the Fellows insignia branded on it lately. Who knows why, but I turn the insignia against my body. Maybe it's my way of physically rejecting the program a little each day.
I no longer attend education classes at the CUNY schools, but I suppose I've kept up with all other obligations (teaching kids). One real sadness for me this year has been the loss of my comrades, Katie and Salim, from last year. Both are no longer teaching. There are fellows from my cohort (they call it) there with me still, those with whom I was initiated, summer-schooled, trained, tested, who faced the gulf in humanity that was P.S. make believe # last year with me. These ladies still draw together at our faculty meetings. We greet and offer goodbyes mostly. But they continue to go off to their Fellows classes while I stay behind.
The school is quiet this year. The environment is a place to arrive at each day, approximately 10 minutes before time to collect the children from the auditorium, and to leave by 3:15, upon escorting them out. I plan my lessons throughout the day, during the prep period or at lunch. I leave it all there. I come home.
This experience has affected my insides like you wouldn't believe. It has affected who I am. I was crossing the street the other day and looked into the faces of the people standing there. I thought: there is goodness here.
It's still tough for me to reflect upon, to find the insight I'm looking for. I don't see my students' homes; I am their teacher. I greet them with a smile each day. Some of the parents come to school with their children each day. I am able to see into their homes then, and what I see is good, for the most part. Sometimes I see drug-addicted moms come along with grandmothers to the conferences. I see 99% single-parent or guardian homes. Children change living situations as part of everyday life in this neighborhood. We require updated contact information 4 to 5 times a year because phones are disconnected so frequently. And the nutrition of these children is frightening, save for the school breakfast and lunch. On a recent field trip probably 38 out of 40 children brought corner-deli-purchased lunches. About 5 had sandwiches, and the rest dined on chips, candy, and soda.
Things like this are what disturb me this year, inside, because I know it to be a sign of neglect. I've got a gaggle of bright-eyed babies, that's how I see them. They make me happy. They are young and sweet and full of everything you could imagine. But they don't get what the rest of us get. I compared notes briefly with my cousin, Jana, at Christmas. She teaches Kindergarten in Dallas at a suburban school. Our conversation brought to mind class parties I'd had as a kid--the parent involvement that was always a part of things.
I don't want to take away from the good parents I do have, but there is no parent involvement in my class.
Earl, one that I am close to this year, (who lives with Fran, his guardian) was telling me the most matter-of-fact tale at our class Christmas party, like kids do, you know. "Ms. Haley, I used to have a cat," the tale begins. "He died under the bed . . . And then I had another cat. He fell out the window." I asked: "How did he fall out of the window, Earl?" Earl replied: "My cousin doesn't like it when the cat scratches him and one day the cat got mad and my cousin swiped at him. The cat fell out the window." I asked another question: "Don't you have screens on your windows?" (I knew the answer to this because I don't even have screens on my windows.) Earl replied: "He fell on the fence. I could see his insides." "Okay, Earl. That's enough."
There's little remorse from dear Earl, little fear. He's as gay as ever. Part of this is due to being a little boy, but part of it must be due to becoming desensitized. I wonder what Earl has seen in his life, in his building, outside it, in the different buildings he has lived in. I wonder how Earl feels knowing that his father is alive but does not care for him.
I am becoming adamant about marriage and family. Some of it is just me, the traditional parts coming through, but a lot of it is stemming from my Harlem experience. I see life through children's eyes. They need stability, and continuity, and love, and adults who will help them learn how to read and write and do math. No joke. No joke.
There is about a 60% gap between the children's English and math abilities at my brother's school across the Triboro and mine. That's just one example. I could compare my kids to those at Jana's school, or my little godson, Jacob's, in Austin. The gap would be closer to 80% in those instances. Jacob has everything he needs for a good start, my favorite lady as a mom, a loving dad, grandparents, a room full of books, a computer, team sports, and plenty of people who love him and buy him architecture books or gardening sets if it's a new interest of his. Do you think Earl knows he's different than Jacob at age 9? Earl is happy. He's loving. But I think he knows.
I wouldn't want to grow up in Harlem. I suppose Plano wasn't the bomb in the early '90s either. You think you have a lot of power as an individual. You can close your classroom door and create a situation equal to that in my brother's school or Jacob's. But you can't. It doesn't happen. The way these kids live comes with them and affects their behavior, their anger, their motivation, their belief in relationships, in what the world is about, in what is worth trying for, in what is worth becoming.
I no longer attend education classes at the CUNY schools, but I suppose I've kept up with all other obligations (teaching kids). One real sadness for me this year has been the loss of my comrades, Katie and Salim, from last year. Both are no longer teaching. There are fellows from my cohort (they call it) there with me still, those with whom I was initiated, summer-schooled, trained, tested, who faced the gulf in humanity that was P.S. make believe # last year with me. These ladies still draw together at our faculty meetings. We greet and offer goodbyes mostly. But they continue to go off to their Fellows classes while I stay behind.
The school is quiet this year. The environment is a place to arrive at each day, approximately 10 minutes before time to collect the children from the auditorium, and to leave by 3:15, upon escorting them out. I plan my lessons throughout the day, during the prep period or at lunch. I leave it all there. I come home.
This experience has affected my insides like you wouldn't believe. It has affected who I am. I was crossing the street the other day and looked into the faces of the people standing there. I thought: there is goodness here.
It's still tough for me to reflect upon, to find the insight I'm looking for. I don't see my students' homes; I am their teacher. I greet them with a smile each day. Some of the parents come to school with their children each day. I am able to see into their homes then, and what I see is good, for the most part. Sometimes I see drug-addicted moms come along with grandmothers to the conferences. I see 99% single-parent or guardian homes. Children change living situations as part of everyday life in this neighborhood. We require updated contact information 4 to 5 times a year because phones are disconnected so frequently. And the nutrition of these children is frightening, save for the school breakfast and lunch. On a recent field trip probably 38 out of 40 children brought corner-deli-purchased lunches. About 5 had sandwiches, and the rest dined on chips, candy, and soda.
Things like this are what disturb me this year, inside, because I know it to be a sign of neglect. I've got a gaggle of bright-eyed babies, that's how I see them. They make me happy. They are young and sweet and full of everything you could imagine. But they don't get what the rest of us get. I compared notes briefly with my cousin, Jana, at Christmas. She teaches Kindergarten in Dallas at a suburban school. Our conversation brought to mind class parties I'd had as a kid--the parent involvement that was always a part of things.
I don't want to take away from the good parents I do have, but there is no parent involvement in my class.
Earl, one that I am close to this year, (who lives with Fran, his guardian) was telling me the most matter-of-fact tale at our class Christmas party, like kids do, you know. "Ms. Haley, I used to have a cat," the tale begins. "He died under the bed . . . And then I had another cat. He fell out the window." I asked: "How did he fall out of the window, Earl?" Earl replied: "My cousin doesn't like it when the cat scratches him and one day the cat got mad and my cousin swiped at him. The cat fell out the window." I asked another question: "Don't you have screens on your windows?" (I knew the answer to this because I don't even have screens on my windows.) Earl replied: "He fell on the fence. I could see his insides." "Okay, Earl. That's enough."
There's little remorse from dear Earl, little fear. He's as gay as ever. Part of this is due to being a little boy, but part of it must be due to becoming desensitized. I wonder what Earl has seen in his life, in his building, outside it, in the different buildings he has lived in. I wonder how Earl feels knowing that his father is alive but does not care for him.
I am becoming adamant about marriage and family. Some of it is just me, the traditional parts coming through, but a lot of it is stemming from my Harlem experience. I see life through children's eyes. They need stability, and continuity, and love, and adults who will help them learn how to read and write and do math. No joke. No joke.
There is about a 60% gap between the children's English and math abilities at my brother's school across the Triboro and mine. That's just one example. I could compare my kids to those at Jana's school, or my little godson, Jacob's, in Austin. The gap would be closer to 80% in those instances. Jacob has everything he needs for a good start, my favorite lady as a mom, a loving dad, grandparents, a room full of books, a computer, team sports, and plenty of people who love him and buy him architecture books or gardening sets if it's a new interest of his. Do you think Earl knows he's different than Jacob at age 9? Earl is happy. He's loving. But I think he knows.
I wouldn't want to grow up in Harlem. I suppose Plano wasn't the bomb in the early '90s either. You think you have a lot of power as an individual. You can close your classroom door and create a situation equal to that in my brother's school or Jacob's. But you can't. It doesn't happen. The way these kids live comes with them and affects their behavior, their anger, their motivation, their belief in relationships, in what the world is about, in what is worth trying for, in what is worth becoming.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
I Like the Men Who Say Hi
The men who say hi pass on the street. This is where you will find them. Their language is portioned in phrases and greetings, tiny Tiffany blue boxes with bows floating out their throats like a garden bath that spurts rather than trickles. To open one you must catch the gentleman's eyes. The unwrapping comes in the the nod of acknowledgment, simple.
"Good morning pretty lady," "You are beautiful," Barry White's baritone wafting. Masters of appreciation, lovers, givers. I like the men who say hi.
(dedicated to that guy on CPW last night at about 6:30 and Edwin, custodian extraordinaire)
The men who say hi pass on the street. This is where you will find them. Their language is portioned in phrases and greetings, tiny Tiffany blue boxes with bows floating out their throats like a garden bath that spurts rather than trickles. To open one you must catch the gentleman's eyes. The unwrapping comes in the the nod of acknowledgment, simple.
"Good morning pretty lady," "You are beautiful," Barry White's baritone wafting. Masters of appreciation, lovers, givers. I like the men who say hi.
(dedicated to that guy on CPW last night at about 6:30 and Edwin, custodian extraordinaire)
Monday, December 08, 2003
"Having a Baby Changes Everything."
Awww. What a sweet sentiment, Johnson & Johnson. You just gave me warm fuzzies, for real. For real y'all. The ad's freaking powerful. Rolly-polly arms splashing in the bath suds . . . accompanied by a background track not unlike George from "It's a Wonderful Life," a deep-toned paternal figure telling us a bedtime story: "Who'd have thought that short and bald was her type?"
In a different segment a pop with his two little ones is having "boys night in." The baby boy is mesmerized by a glossy frog. He touches it, pressing down with his index finger. The frog lets him. "A night with the boys" . . .
These ads shock me. They take me aback in a minute's swoop. So I say to my girlfriend/sister B, "Have you seen the Johnson & Johnson ads?" And we become caught up together, eyes lit, smiling.
In 1980 the Haley family was the first in our neighborhood, The Four Seasons, to get divorced. A few months later the Robbins joined us. I was eight years old, ripe for all the many influences that tell a girl what the world is all about. Somewhere within that decade Oprah rose up from local news to syndication. When I was a senior at Reagan High School I was thoroughly involved in a group called, PALS, kids who befriended elementary and junior high kids for the fun of it (to be role models and tutors). I remember a short-term gig in those days at one of those high schools where they send teenage mothers. We sat around in a cirlce utterly uncomfortable because we didn't know each other and we were supposed to talk--about babies? About chemistry? Friday nights?
From the time I was eight I have been immersed in a world that breeds the "I." What does it mean to be self actualized? Are you co-dependent? You can be anything you want to be. Try it, you might like it. Save it. Give it up.
"Promise me you won't get married until you're twenty-five," my mom said to me when dear Crysta was getting hitched. I was all giddy with the bridal tea, the dresses, the flowers, the romance. "Yes, yes. Of course, mother. Are you kidding. You know me."
There is something there. It is nascent and old as time. It has absolutely nothing to do with the Christian Coalition. It has nothing to do with drawing lines. I feel it in those ads! Jeez, and it's not my clock a-ticking. It's about what is lost when we indulge in the "I" as a way of life.
Oy-vey. Those women on 20/20 who feel misled because they've been on the career track for ten to fifteen years and nobody ever told them that their fertility factory couldn't produce as long as they needed it to by treadmilling a few extra minutes each week (and the Internet dating bonanza, I don't even want to go there). It's all connected, folks. Believe me.
So what do you think is missing? Johnson & Johnson thinks they know. Babies. "Having a baby changes everything." There's no disclaimer, no personal testimonies to bolster the claim. It's black & white, a close-up shot, one angle, one view, plain. For the first time in my life someone is telling me to have a baby. I am a thirty-one year old woman. I repeat: For the first time in my life someone is telling me to have a baby. If I were living in the 1880's, I wouldn't be spunky. I'd be 15 years past prime. But we're so much more clever than they were. We can do anything. My fertility factory will keep producing. If not, I can make something happen with a dish and some goo. It's perfectly okay to do whatever you want for as long as you want to do it.
So, I am such an interested participant in Generation X. We make it happen. No limits. I love us. And here we are in our thirties. Life is changing around us. Many of my friends have just found themselves past the action that one tends to get when in their twenties. Now the action is creeping. My friends are humbled, and I like them a little bit better because now they have one more angle of life that is teaching them about who they are. Most, well, all of them want one thing. A partner. But my Gen X peeps are so inculcated into the "I" generation, that they can't say it, "I want to get married." They can't say it.
We have been taught that in marriage you sacrifice your potential (professionally and personally). Marriage is a limitaion. We're the no-limit cadre. Singular. Strong. Aware. We have been stretching ourselves across hostels and institutions of higher education for years, exploring and indulging in life as a vocation.
Oh my God, please make it stop! Well, something finally is. And how do I know? Those ads.
Those ads are spectacular.
We have just crossed the threshhold of a new era. It's just the beginning. You may not notice it for awhile to come. It's an era of community, of back-to-the-basics, of home and family. It's been building for a time, this cooking frenzy is telling. People are thrilled by making something with their hands and tasting it. Is it an awakening? Well, we never really have one of those here in dear America. We just swing.
Awww. What a sweet sentiment, Johnson & Johnson. You just gave me warm fuzzies, for real. For real y'all. The ad's freaking powerful. Rolly-polly arms splashing in the bath suds . . . accompanied by a background track not unlike George from "It's a Wonderful Life," a deep-toned paternal figure telling us a bedtime story: "Who'd have thought that short and bald was her type?"
In a different segment a pop with his two little ones is having "boys night in." The baby boy is mesmerized by a glossy frog. He touches it, pressing down with his index finger. The frog lets him. "A night with the boys" . . .
These ads shock me. They take me aback in a minute's swoop. So I say to my girlfriend/sister B, "Have you seen the Johnson & Johnson ads?" And we become caught up together, eyes lit, smiling.
In 1980 the Haley family was the first in our neighborhood, The Four Seasons, to get divorced. A few months later the Robbins joined us. I was eight years old, ripe for all the many influences that tell a girl what the world is all about. Somewhere within that decade Oprah rose up from local news to syndication. When I was a senior at Reagan High School I was thoroughly involved in a group called, PALS, kids who befriended elementary and junior high kids for the fun of it (to be role models and tutors). I remember a short-term gig in those days at one of those high schools where they send teenage mothers. We sat around in a cirlce utterly uncomfortable because we didn't know each other and we were supposed to talk--about babies? About chemistry? Friday nights?
From the time I was eight I have been immersed in a world that breeds the "I." What does it mean to be self actualized? Are you co-dependent? You can be anything you want to be. Try it, you might like it. Save it. Give it up.
"Promise me you won't get married until you're twenty-five," my mom said to me when dear Crysta was getting hitched. I was all giddy with the bridal tea, the dresses, the flowers, the romance. "Yes, yes. Of course, mother. Are you kidding. You know me."
There is something there. It is nascent and old as time. It has absolutely nothing to do with the Christian Coalition. It has nothing to do with drawing lines. I feel it in those ads! Jeez, and it's not my clock a-ticking. It's about what is lost when we indulge in the "I" as a way of life.
Oy-vey. Those women on 20/20 who feel misled because they've been on the career track for ten to fifteen years and nobody ever told them that their fertility factory couldn't produce as long as they needed it to by treadmilling a few extra minutes each week (and the Internet dating bonanza, I don't even want to go there). It's all connected, folks. Believe me.
So what do you think is missing? Johnson & Johnson thinks they know. Babies. "Having a baby changes everything." There's no disclaimer, no personal testimonies to bolster the claim. It's black & white, a close-up shot, one angle, one view, plain. For the first time in my life someone is telling me to have a baby. I am a thirty-one year old woman. I repeat: For the first time in my life someone is telling me to have a baby. If I were living in the 1880's, I wouldn't be spunky. I'd be 15 years past prime. But we're so much more clever than they were. We can do anything. My fertility factory will keep producing. If not, I can make something happen with a dish and some goo. It's perfectly okay to do whatever you want for as long as you want to do it.
So, I am such an interested participant in Generation X. We make it happen. No limits. I love us. And here we are in our thirties. Life is changing around us. Many of my friends have just found themselves past the action that one tends to get when in their twenties. Now the action is creeping. My friends are humbled, and I like them a little bit better because now they have one more angle of life that is teaching them about who they are. Most, well, all of them want one thing. A partner. But my Gen X peeps are so inculcated into the "I" generation, that they can't say it, "I want to get married." They can't say it.
We have been taught that in marriage you sacrifice your potential (professionally and personally). Marriage is a limitaion. We're the no-limit cadre. Singular. Strong. Aware. We have been stretching ourselves across hostels and institutions of higher education for years, exploring and indulging in life as a vocation.
Oh my God, please make it stop! Well, something finally is. And how do I know? Those ads.
Those ads are spectacular.
We have just crossed the threshhold of a new era. It's just the beginning. You may not notice it for awhile to come. It's an era of community, of back-to-the-basics, of home and family. It's been building for a time, this cooking frenzy is telling. People are thrilled by making something with their hands and tasting it. Is it an awakening? Well, we never really have one of those here in dear America. We just swing.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
In the spirit of the season I was watching my good friend, Bobby Flay, the other morning make a brunch of Bloody Mary, coconut cake, and corn muffin grilled with a slather of fresh blueberry butter. He was talking to me as he went along and struck up a conversation about his three favorite things in life.
Ah yes, three favorite things, one honorable mention allowed. So Bobby loves cooking, eating, and dancing best, with a dash of drinking on top.
The following day I was walking with my new good friend, Erin, and we discussed. She popped her answers out, badgering me: "C'mon, c'mon. Just say whatever comes to mind!" (so demanding, this new friend) I'm a contemplater.
Sistra's list:
uno--food and drink, but cooking, eating, and drinking with others, not just a potato sitting there staring at me from across the deli.
due--language, everything you could scoop up about it, hearing it, speaking it, writing it, reading it, thinking about it, and so on.
trois--lovely, unbeatable, mother nature. can't beat it with a stick.
honorable mention--musica, raised on it in so many ways, styx and kiss posters like papier-mache, spinning with mommy in the living room to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, sitting in front of my dad's stereo system, listening to Fleetwood Mac and The Rolling Stones, and my flava as a little girl--Barry Manilow.
Tell it people. Talk to me.
Ah yes, three favorite things, one honorable mention allowed. So Bobby loves cooking, eating, and dancing best, with a dash of drinking on top.
The following day I was walking with my new good friend, Erin, and we discussed. She popped her answers out, badgering me: "C'mon, c'mon. Just say whatever comes to mind!" (so demanding, this new friend) I'm a contemplater.
Sistra's list:
uno--food and drink, but cooking, eating, and drinking with others, not just a potato sitting there staring at me from across the deli.
due--language, everything you could scoop up about it, hearing it, speaking it, writing it, reading it, thinking about it, and so on.
trois--lovely, unbeatable, mother nature. can't beat it with a stick.
honorable mention--musica, raised on it in so many ways, styx and kiss posters like papier-mache, spinning with mommy in the living room to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, sitting in front of my dad's stereo system, listening to Fleetwood Mac and The Rolling Stones, and my flava as a little girl--Barry Manilow.
Tell it people. Talk to me.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Sunday, November 09, 2003
A game of pool is going on. The room is a dingy garage with plywood walls, a locals' bar. At the table, a tall gentleman joins our game. We introduce ourselves with a handshake and exchange of names. And then he and I go off to our respective gentlemen's and ladies' rooms. I hear dialogue when I close the door. It's just him. No one else there. He is singing at first. And then his tone changes. Gay in a homophobic world. He is angry.
I can't shake it today. It was like one of those funhouse rooms with the mirrored walls. There are all these slices of you, of the others, and you can't leave so easily. You have to stay there in the confusion for awhile. I was hearing these secrets, and so easily we came back out into the open, same as before.
It's not so good to hide things, I think. Maybe the slices of you grow more plenty when you do that. If that chap wanted to sit down with me and have a conversation about alienation and his feelings, I might do it. I can't say for sure, but you have to give people a chance to take the bad things away.
I can't shake it today. It was like one of those funhouse rooms with the mirrored walls. There are all these slices of you, of the others, and you can't leave so easily. You have to stay there in the confusion for awhile. I was hearing these secrets, and so easily we came back out into the open, same as before.
It's not so good to hide things, I think. Maybe the slices of you grow more plenty when you do that. If that chap wanted to sit down with me and have a conversation about alienation and his feelings, I might do it. I can't say for sure, but you have to give people a chance to take the bad things away.
Monday, November 03, 2003
it's easy street
Two months in and the prediction is partially true: this school year is much better, but I was wrong about it being physically and emotionally draining. It's easy street.
Now what am I supposed to do with that? I spend as much time as I can noticing the child--catching fireflies on the carpet is one of my favorite glimpses, wiggling loose teeth and being so proud of the blood, not being able to possibly be the last one touched in a game of tag, all the tattling, being vulnerable to the hundreds of opportunities for praise and reprimand each day, tears, bright wide eyes, holding hands, kindness, tenderness, dear little people.
Within the first three weeks of school, Lacey pushed me to reach another child he wanted to fight. This was in front of the class, and purposely done to test the boundaries. This child tries to be away from the crowd, prides himself in not being duped by teachers' ways to motivate kids to do what they want--okay, bribery. He's preteen at ten, has older cousins. You know the type. But after several weeks, I now feel close to Lacey.
I've befriended him and made inroads through letting him know I'm checking up on him. He knows I care, I suppose, and has found a little more security from that. Progress like this so quickly amazes me. I was sure he couldn't care less. I was sure he knew, like I, that I'm a wimp of a teacher. But that's my internal speak, my doubt that the children really don't see, no matter how perceptive I believe them to be. This is part of the second-year teacher curve--what I'm supposed to be doing with what I've got.
I've said many times that I don't know how to teach children. I absolve myself when I use that statement, but also humble myself so that perhaps some learning will permeate my teacher persona. There's language to every professional culture. "Community building" was big when I was with the Lutherans. As long as you used the language to build messages and then delivered them, you were doing okay. With teaching there's the oral, the behavioral, and beyond that, showing all the aspects of your own humanity.
Lacey remains the most problematic student in 4-320. He continues to test me, and Ms. G too. He constantly needs to know that we can in fact make him abide. For people who have this need, the burden shifts to those around them. It's rooted in something I have not yet identified. But it has something to do with a security that is missing within. I like Lacey. I like them all. I really do.
The word from fourth grade . . .
Sistra Teach
Now what am I supposed to do with that? I spend as much time as I can noticing the child--catching fireflies on the carpet is one of my favorite glimpses, wiggling loose teeth and being so proud of the blood, not being able to possibly be the last one touched in a game of tag, all the tattling, being vulnerable to the hundreds of opportunities for praise and reprimand each day, tears, bright wide eyes, holding hands, kindness, tenderness, dear little people.
Within the first three weeks of school, Lacey pushed me to reach another child he wanted to fight. This was in front of the class, and purposely done to test the boundaries. This child tries to be away from the crowd, prides himself in not being duped by teachers' ways to motivate kids to do what they want--okay, bribery. He's preteen at ten, has older cousins. You know the type. But after several weeks, I now feel close to Lacey.
I've befriended him and made inroads through letting him know I'm checking up on him. He knows I care, I suppose, and has found a little more security from that. Progress like this so quickly amazes me. I was sure he couldn't care less. I was sure he knew, like I, that I'm a wimp of a teacher. But that's my internal speak, my doubt that the children really don't see, no matter how perceptive I believe them to be. This is part of the second-year teacher curve--what I'm supposed to be doing with what I've got.
I've said many times that I don't know how to teach children. I absolve myself when I use that statement, but also humble myself so that perhaps some learning will permeate my teacher persona. There's language to every professional culture. "Community building" was big when I was with the Lutherans. As long as you used the language to build messages and then delivered them, you were doing okay. With teaching there's the oral, the behavioral, and beyond that, showing all the aspects of your own humanity.
Lacey remains the most problematic student in 4-320. He continues to test me, and Ms. G too. He constantly needs to know that we can in fact make him abide. For people who have this need, the burden shifts to those around them. It's rooted in something I have not yet identified. But it has something to do with a security that is missing within. I like Lacey. I like them all. I really do.
The word from fourth grade . . .
Sistra Teach
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Hola amigos. I'm on holiday in fair Towson, Maryland. Last night we journeyed toward the Chesapeake, had a look at it in the night sky while driving over the 4-mile stretch of the Bay Bridge. Me likes water, even when it's grey.
This time has been relaxed, up to eleven people in the house at one time, shuffling between 3 floors and an outside deck. It's these holiday moments that make me remember how much I love stuffing myself into a house full of friends.
After I turned about twelve or thirteen, my stepmom's parents left Kerrville and built themselves a house in the Piney Woods near Quitman, Texas. They had both grown up there, driving in old Ford pickups and learning about life from railroad tracks and picking rows of whatever crop was up each year. They are part of the old breed of Texas working-class Democrats. Grandparents as Democrats, yes, they do still exist. But they also use misnomers when referring to the Black and the Proud. So, these grandparents built themselves a home right next to an itty bitty lake, calm, murky teal water with perch and trout. Wild pigs have gained force on their land over the years. It can be downright dangerous to take a stroll these days, so they say. I've never seen any of these "pigs." But the grandparents, who have four girls, ten grandchildren, and two great-grand children didn't want any more stuffing of people in their new house. So, they built a bunkhouse out back. It's one room; well, it's a trailor with a bathroom. The room is probably 15 x 9, and it sleeps about 16. Perfect! Bunkbeds, a television, hot water, and a porch surrounded by fallen needles, still moist and fragrant.
Bunking in back woods or Towson, Maryland, either one will do this weekend.
This time has been relaxed, up to eleven people in the house at one time, shuffling between 3 floors and an outside deck. It's these holiday moments that make me remember how much I love stuffing myself into a house full of friends.
After I turned about twelve or thirteen, my stepmom's parents left Kerrville and built themselves a house in the Piney Woods near Quitman, Texas. They had both grown up there, driving in old Ford pickups and learning about life from railroad tracks and picking rows of whatever crop was up each year. They are part of the old breed of Texas working-class Democrats. Grandparents as Democrats, yes, they do still exist. But they also use misnomers when referring to the Black and the Proud. So, these grandparents built themselves a home right next to an itty bitty lake, calm, murky teal water with perch and trout. Wild pigs have gained force on their land over the years. It can be downright dangerous to take a stroll these days, so they say. I've never seen any of these "pigs." But the grandparents, who have four girls, ten grandchildren, and two great-grand children didn't want any more stuffing of people in their new house. So, they built a bunkhouse out back. It's one room; well, it's a trailor with a bathroom. The room is probably 15 x 9, and it sleeps about 16. Perfect! Bunkbeds, a television, hot water, and a porch surrounded by fallen needles, still moist and fragrant.
Bunking in back woods or Towson, Maryland, either one will do this weekend.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Girl Kicks
Little girls like to giggle.
Chocalate milk bubbles,
holding hands,
catching fireflies on the carpet made out of white lint fuzz.
Big girls like little things.
Ping, a Corduroy panda
with beans in his bottom that squish.
Little girls like to mind.
Showing off little lady ways--
Stand tall.
Rules to follow.
A slight dip and turn of the hip.
Big girls like pretty things.
Dots on frocks,
paints on toes,
poems by cummings shared together on the train.
Little girls like to giggle.
Chocalate milk bubbles,
holding hands,
catching fireflies on the carpet made out of white lint fuzz.
Big girls like little things.
Ping, a Corduroy panda
with beans in his bottom that squish.
Little girls like to mind.
Showing off little lady ways--
Stand tall.
Rules to follow.
A slight dip and turn of the hip.
Big girls like pretty things.
Dots on frocks,
paints on toes,
poems by cummings shared together on the train.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
jeffrena
I had lunch with Jeffrena today. She is nine years old. Me gusta Jeffrena. She wears her hair high on her head in a little top-knot that looks like a poodle puff. Today she added a Chinese hair stick with several little blue tassels of beads draping off the top--tre chic.
As the class was lining up for lunch, Jeffrena refused to take her place. What I've taken to doing lately with these little moments of protest (or inability to control bodily outbursts like slapping ones neighbor) is telling the child to walk next to me at the end of the line. I take his or her hand, and we go along nicely together.
Somehow this and a brief conversation outside the lunchroom after the rest of the class had been settled wasn't enough to settle my little Jeffrena. So I took the opportunity to invite her to join me at the "Conference Table" in our room for lunch.
She told me all her troubles, how Lacey sneezed on her, twice, how Itima wants to beat her up, how Lorna doesn't want to be her friend anymore. Most of the trouble centers around the idea that no one wants to be her friend. Luz says she walks too slow on the line. So, I asked, "Did you try to walk a little faster? Maybe Luz doesn't want to get in trouble." This is when Jeffrena says that if she walks fast she might have an asthma attack--that it happened to her one time when she and her aunt were hurrying somewhere. Jeffrena is a slow walker, I've noticed this about her. She's cautious. So I talked to her for a long time about how scary it is to have asthma attacks. She told me that one time in class she felt one coming on and cried a little, but it didn't happen. She didn't tell anyone. I told her that that was brave. Then she told me that she tried to explain why she walks slow to some of the girls, but they didn't care.
The gist of the talk was for little Jeffrena to focus on the positive--those children who do want to be her friend, rather than those who cause her angst, and even if it is only one friend, that that is her blessing. She went on again about this child and that, but I quietly repeated my words and told her to think about them. After school she hugged me and said she was glad she had someone to talk to. I'm very glad I had someone to talk to too.
Ms. Haley
As the class was lining up for lunch, Jeffrena refused to take her place. What I've taken to doing lately with these little moments of protest (or inability to control bodily outbursts like slapping ones neighbor) is telling the child to walk next to me at the end of the line. I take his or her hand, and we go along nicely together.
Somehow this and a brief conversation outside the lunchroom after the rest of the class had been settled wasn't enough to settle my little Jeffrena. So I took the opportunity to invite her to join me at the "Conference Table" in our room for lunch.
She told me all her troubles, how Lacey sneezed on her, twice, how Itima wants to beat her up, how Lorna doesn't want to be her friend anymore. Most of the trouble centers around the idea that no one wants to be her friend. Luz says she walks too slow on the line. So, I asked, "Did you try to walk a little faster? Maybe Luz doesn't want to get in trouble." This is when Jeffrena says that if she walks fast she might have an asthma attack--that it happened to her one time when she and her aunt were hurrying somewhere. Jeffrena is a slow walker, I've noticed this about her. She's cautious. So I talked to her for a long time about how scary it is to have asthma attacks. She told me that one time in class she felt one coming on and cried a little, but it didn't happen. She didn't tell anyone. I told her that that was brave. Then she told me that she tried to explain why she walks slow to some of the girls, but they didn't care.
The gist of the talk was for little Jeffrena to focus on the positive--those children who do want to be her friend, rather than those who cause her angst, and even if it is only one friend, that that is her blessing. She went on again about this child and that, but I quietly repeated my words and told her to think about them. After school she hugged me and said she was glad she had someone to talk to. I'm very glad I had someone to talk to too.
Ms. Haley
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
first day online in the new place . . .
It's been a long stretch of homelessness--depending on friends, or just simply traveling around for freedom. But now it's back to setting up house again. Thinking back, this is the seventh place I've had since graduating college. Seven homes in eight years, sounds like a lot, but three were squeezed into a period of 6 months. This new home comes with a new roommate and two family members down the street. It also comes with a lovely park, Central Park. It also comes with a pee-stained, graffitied elevator. Overall, the good outweighs the bad here. We're overstuffed with stuff. The Colonel (roommate's mom) did us right with window treatments, swags, pics in assorted arrangments, even a new threshhold for the kitchen entry where none had been put in. We, I, feel taken care of in this home, surrounded by stuff.
It's been a long stretch of homelessness--depending on friends, or just simply traveling around for freedom. But now it's back to setting up house again. Thinking back, this is the seventh place I've had since graduating college. Seven homes in eight years, sounds like a lot, but three were squeezed into a period of 6 months. This new home comes with a new roommate and two family members down the street. It also comes with a lovely park, Central Park. It also comes with a pee-stained, graffitied elevator. Overall, the good outweighs the bad here. We're overstuffed with stuff. The Colonel (roommate's mom) did us right with window treatments, swags, pics in assorted arrangments, even a new threshhold for the kitchen entry where none had been put in. We, I, feel taken care of in this home, surrounded by stuff.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Do you hear them? School bells, friends. Year two, day 1, Monday, September 8, 2003. My post: fourth grade inclusion, which means the class will consist of half special education students (some who will have physical disabilities, such as cerebral palsy, others with emotional problems, others with learning disabilities), and general education students who have been identified to require more than the regular classroom environment provides. Two teachers work with these students at all times, one special education and one general education teacher. The class also has a general para-professional, and some individual students have their own para-professional assigned to accompany and assist them each day. (A para is like an assistant teacher.)
As Monday begins, my environment will be made up of 5 adults and 17 students, quite a change from one teacher to twenty-some-odd students, quite a relief for me.
I am one of the lucky ones at P.S. "She's Going Back to That School!" Ms. D, my principal, chose me to co-teach with Ms. G. Ms. G is a real teacher. Even in the midst of Mary J. Blige's kind of "drama," she maintains herself in her own foundation of what it is to educate children--a combination of the self-knowledge she has gained working as a teacher for 10 years, and the desire to understand curriculum and how students best learn it. Ms. D has come to think of Ms. G in the capacity of teacher trainer. She chose me to learn from her. It is a luxury, friends. Especially since I have never been trained, just plopped down into one of the thousands of schools across the country caught in a black hole of low performance, and doused in societal dysfunction, "where teachers can't teach and children can't learn." I heard that one at the Dean rally--some politician from Brooklyn going for the line. (Dean didn't speak in sound bites, though. He spoke in detail. He is thoughtful.)
Even with this spot, the year will not be easy. It will be hard. It will be physically and emotionally draining. But this year I hope the stretch derives in more instances from learning how to teach rather than how to keep the masses from busting out the doors. I love these children. That has carried me through and gives them some stability, but they need more. They need chances.
Pronto (soon), as my friend likes to say.
Sistra Teach
As Monday begins, my environment will be made up of 5 adults and 17 students, quite a change from one teacher to twenty-some-odd students, quite a relief for me.
I am one of the lucky ones at P.S. "She's Going Back to That School!" Ms. D, my principal, chose me to co-teach with Ms. G. Ms. G is a real teacher. Even in the midst of Mary J. Blige's kind of "drama," she maintains herself in her own foundation of what it is to educate children--a combination of the self-knowledge she has gained working as a teacher for 10 years, and the desire to understand curriculum and how students best learn it. Ms. D has come to think of Ms. G in the capacity of teacher trainer. She chose me to learn from her. It is a luxury, friends. Especially since I have never been trained, just plopped down into one of the thousands of schools across the country caught in a black hole of low performance, and doused in societal dysfunction, "where teachers can't teach and children can't learn." I heard that one at the Dean rally--some politician from Brooklyn going for the line. (Dean didn't speak in sound bites, though. He spoke in detail. He is thoughtful.)
Even with this spot, the year will not be easy. It will be hard. It will be physically and emotionally draining. But this year I hope the stretch derives in more instances from learning how to teach rather than how to keep the masses from busting out the doors. I love these children. That has carried me through and gives them some stability, but they need more. They need chances.
Pronto (soon), as my friend likes to say.
Sistra Teach
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