Tickling My Snarky Side

I haven't posted in a long time. No excuses. Here is something I found on the internet that I can't resist sharing. I love dark comedy and satire. This website on George Saunders has a couple of video clips that tickled me silly. First, a puppet-performed version of an essay from Saunder's most recent book. Click on it to satisfy the sarcastic cynic in your own self. Then, below that, my boyfriend, the brilliant Stephen Colbert interviews Saunders. Let the snarkiness and hilarity ensue:

http://www.saunderssaunderssaunders.com/

Poem

Since I haven't posted a thing lately, I thought I'd at least share this sweet poem from Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. It's the best I can do these days.


"Words from the Front" by Ron Padgett, from How to Be Perfect. © Coffee House Press, 2007.

Words from the Front

We don't look as young
as we used to
except in dim light
especially in
the soft warmth of candlelight
when we say
in all sincerity
You're so cute
and
You're my cutie.
Imagine
two old people
behaving like this.
It's enough
to make you happy.

Amen!

Book TV carried the Miami Book Fair all weekend! It was the sweetest dream imaginable for this lefto book lover, watching political writers talk about their books to adoring crowds.

I'm so darned brain dead lately I haven't been able to come up with anything original to post, so yup, here's more New York Times. Here's quote from Frank Rich's op-ed column on Bush's mess in Pakistan, the supposedly DECENT people in the senate giving the nod to Mukasey's fake-out on torture, and other things. And to this I say, "AMEN!":

Last weekend a new Washington Post-ABC News poll found that the Democratic-controlled Congress and Mr. Bush are both roundly despised throughout the land, and that only 24 percent of Americans believe their country is on the right track. That’s almost as low as the United States’ rock-bottom approval ratings in the latest Pew surveys of Pakistan (15 percent) and Turkey (9 percent).
This next paragraph is SO true, for me:
Wrong track is a euphemism. We are a people in clinical depression. Americans know that the ideals that once set our nation apart from the world have been vandalized, and no matter which party they belong to, they do not see a restoration anytime soon.
This, from earlier in the piece, explains it:
What makes the Democrats’ Mukasey cave-in so depressing is that it shows how far even exemplary sticklers for the law like Senators Feinstein and Schumer have lowered democracy’s bar. When they argued that Mr. Mukasey should be confirmed because he’s not as horrifying as Mr. Gonzales or as the acting attorney general who might get the job otherwise, they sounded whipped. After all these years of Bush-Cheney torture, they’ll say things they know are false just to move on.

Ok, Boys and Girls

This, from an article in the NYT:

Catalyst’s research is often an exploration of why, 30 years after women entered the work force in large numbers, the default mental image of a leader is still male. Most recent is the report titled “Damned if You Do, Doomed if You Don’t,” which surveyed 1,231 senior executives from the United States and Europe. It found that women who act in ways that are consistent with gender stereotypes — defined as focusing “on work relationships” and expressing “concern for other people’s perspectives” — are considered less competent. But if they act in ways that are seen as more “male” — like “act assertively, focus on work task, display ambition” — they are seen as “too tough” and “unfeminine.”
Women can’t win.

I find this to be true, even in teaching. Male teachers don't seem to be held to the same standards as women teachers. I see it in my school. For the no-pay jobs that teachers are often asked to do, especially those which require relationships to be formed or nurtured, or social functions to be managed, the men volunteer less often and are often not asked. Even inside a group of teachers looking for additional help with a particular project, it's the names of women that are most often brought up as those to call upon.

Recently, in a school program I'm working on, this remark was made by a male teacher about a female assistant principal in our school:
"*** has no business doing the job of assistant principal. She was good at mothering the ninth graders in her job as ninth grade dean, but she doesn't have what it takes to be a principal."
This was said without any hesitation on the part of the jerk who said it.

What's more, in my experience students also view men teachers differently. Men have fewer problems with classroom management. You don't often hear a male teacher mention having to have "the talk" with a class about disrespecting the teacher. It's not that kids in their classrooms never show disrespect, but when it does happen, a word or two tends to bring things under control. Generally speaking, when a male teacher talks tough, kids listen. You might hear kids refer to a male teacher as being "strict," but "bitch" or any similar derogatory label attributed to someone in authority is usually not attached.

I don't hear much about male students having issues with male authority, but it's commonplace to hear that a difficult boy can't take direction from female teachers. Often times, when a pattern of misbehavior from a student, male or female, in a woman's classroom is discussed among teachers (and these things are discussed, come on, we're human and need to vent like people in any other profession), the male teachers in the conversation say they've seen few of the same behaviors from the same student. They might agree that the student is quiet and surly, or doesn't do his or her work, but usually not the outright disrespect that women teachers experience. Once, when I called a student on some bullying behavior in the media center at school, the student looked at me and said, "Go away, you're not my teacher." I'd bet a year's salary this wouldn't have happened had I been male.

I've seen male teachers tease kids in a way that a woman teacher would be called to task for- by the student and the administration. Men seem to be able to get away with making a student feel embarrassed about bad behavior, whereas a woman teacher saying something similar would have the student in her face, and if administration was called in to mediate, the female teacher would be reprimanded for this kind of teasing. Now this is only from my personal observations, but I don't think a man would.

I like my job and I find that most kids are respectful. The ones who aren't can usually be managed with the tools we have available to help us bring them around. But I have seen, with my own eyes, the differences between the ways women and men teachers are perceived and treated, and there is a difference.

More on Health Care

Here's another article from the NYT on health care. This one involves a survey of patient satisfaction here and in countries that have a national system. It confirms what those who are against universal coverage most like to talk about: elective surgery. It also supports what we already know about those who can't afford good coverage: 37% of us now avoid care because of costs!!!!

What I don't understand is how those who still support the present system don't see that adequate care for everyone is so important to the well-being of all of us.




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

November 1, 2007
Editorial
America’s Lagging Health Care System
Americans are increasingly frustrated about the subpar performance of this country’s fragmented health care system, and with good reason. A new survey of patients in seven industrialized nations underscores just how badly sick Americans fare compared with patients in other nations. One-third of the American respondents felt their system is so dysfunctional that it needs to be rebuilt completely — the highest rate in any country surveyed. The system was given poor scores both by low-income, uninsured patients and by many higher-income patients.

The survey, the latest in a series from the Commonwealth Fund, is being published today on the Web site of Health Affairs, a respected health policy journal. Researchers interviewed some 12,000 adults in Australia, Canada, Germany, the Netherlands, New Zealand, the United Kingdom and the United States.

Given the large number of people uninsured or poorly insured in this country, it was no surprise that Americans were the most likely to go without care because of costs. Fully 37 percent of the American respondents said that they chose not to visit a doctor when sick, skipped a recommended test or treatment or failed to fill a prescription in the past year because of the cost — well above the rates in other countries.

Patients here were more likely to get appointments quickly for elective surgery than those in nearly all the other countries. But access to primary care doctors, the mainstay of medical practice, was often rocky. Only half of the American adults were able to see a doctor the same day that they became sick or the day after, a worse showing than in all the other countries except Canada. Getting care on nights and weekends was problematic.

Often the care here was substandard. Americans reported the highest rate of lab test errors and the second-highest rate of medical or medication errors.

The findings underscore the need to ensure that all Americans have quick access to a primary care doctor and the need for universal health coverage — so that all patients can afford the care they need. That’s what all of the presidential candidates should be talking about.

BOO!

They Didn't Give Me a Stick

Here's something I wrote yesterday; it almost made me late for the Peace Walk (again). "They" say you have found your passion when time slips away while you're doing it.

Isn't this image a hoot? The perfectly groomed, fashionably suited, model teacher in her heels smiles radiantly. I'd buy a ticket to see the looks on my kids' faces when she walked in with that pointy stick- ha!




Teaching English 9

Warm up for handstands and somersaults,
Peruse the roll call rows of too-tall and not quite
Broken hearts, urgent news, hollow eyes, big drama,
Asking, no, pleading, “Who will come along?”
Hands flail and pages fly, looking for a sign.

Life is here, in its lovely and misbegotten forms,
I’ll take the one who sits in a sacred slump
Of hungry bedhead and yesterday’s clothes or
The earnestly fresh, breathless, breakfasted.
This is no place for the particular.


Misplaced modifiers and Tybalt’s temper,
Right now, Ms. C., there are bigger fish to fry,
Let’s at least make something,
Pots or end tables or computer programs.
Why love, death, and grammar?

And now, for something totally different

Because it seems like I complain all too often here, I thought I'd take the opportunity to say this:
This was a good week at school! We are studying Romeo and Juliet in English 9, and I loooooove teaching Shakespeare to kids who are new to it. The creative writers are, well, this term's creative writers just are. Some classes are more into it than others, and I've learned not to take it personally. Also, I'm in the midst of planning a big Link Crew event, and that's moving along without major glitches.
Having just come off last week's three-day week, I thought this one might feel like a crawl, but it didn't. The kids are learning, I'm caught up (relatively speaking), and there are no big crises at hand.
It has been a good work week :-)

Who, Me???

This is the poem from The Writer's Almanac today. There was something about it that rang true- ha! I thought I would share it.

Poem: "I.D. Photo" by Rachel Hadas, from The River of Forgetfulness. © David Robert Books, 2006. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

I.D. Photo

Since I can feel my radiant nature shine
Out of my face as unmistakably
As sunlight, it comes as a shock to see
The features that apparently are mine.

Mirrors are not a lot of fun to pass,
And snapshots are much worse. Take the I.D.
Picture taken only yesterday
(Take it-I don't want it): sallow face

Pear-shaped from smiling-lumpy anyway,
Droopy, squinty. General discouragement.
I'd blame the painter, if this were in paint,
But can't avoid acknowledging it's me,

No likeness by an artist I could blame
For being bad at matching in with out.
What I see, alas, is what I get.
Victim and culprit are myself and time—

Having seen which, it's time to turn aside;
Look out from, not in at, an aging face
That happens to be mine. No more disgrace
Lies in having lived then having died.

Am I Preachin' to the Choir?

Thomas Friedman's Op-ed column today ends with this:
"So if you want to be a green college kid or a green adult, don’t fool yourself: You can change lights. You can change cars. But if you don’t change leaders, your actions are nothing more than an expression of, as Dick Cheney would say, “personal virtue.”

It drives me nuts when people tell me they don't really follow politics, or worse, that they don't vote because "Politicians are all alike" or "It doesn't make a difference who wins an election; it's all just politics, and we are powerless." ARRRRRRRGH! No they ain't and and yes it does!!!!

Read Friedman's column to understand why:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/21/opinion/21friedman.html?th&emc=th

I Love Fall

This is a lonesome song, but so beautifully done by Eva Cassidy. I wanted to share it.

Sunday Fun

Warning: If you care to follow this post all the way through, there's a lot of cutting and pasting, due to my inept blogging skills. Sorry about that.

I know I've said it before, but Stephen Colbert has to be one of the funniest people on the planet. I am in love with him. If anyone knows what I have to do to make him my boyfriend in the next life, let me know.

I will do ANYTHING.

A Colbert quote:

“Dick Cheney’s fondest pipe dream is driving a bulldozer into The New York Times while drinking crude oil out of Keith Olbermann’s skull.”

I didn't actually hear him say this, but Maureen Dowd did, and that's good enough for me. In her column she challenges him to come in and write a guest op-ed. Of course he accepted the challenge. Read about it here:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/14/opinion/14dowd.html?em&ex=1192507200&en=20f45a4743acfc14&ei=5087%0A

If you want to be astonished by his bravery and amazed by one of the funniest productions of political satire imaginable, watch his May 1, 2006 speech at the White House correspondents dinner. His words are genius; the look of fury on Dubyah's face as he sits RIGHT THERE makes life worth living. Colbert is brave, honest and so utterly sexy I could eat him alive- ha!



It takes awhile to load, and all of it isn't there because he went on, and on, and on... with his truthiness. You can find a transcript of it here:
http://politicalhumor.about.com/od/stephencolbert/a/colbertbush.htm

If you want to be thorougly entertained every night, watch his show on The Comedy Channel. I rarely miss it.

For Alex

How is it that we
Humans straddle the fences
Of joy and sorrow?

His mother’s delight,
A longed-for, cherished newborn
Looks on with wise eyes

While her aching heart
Sinks into the memory
Of the world-weary.

They're Meanies

Here I go again, going all political on you. But this op-ed from today's NYT is too good not to post, and since it so perfectly expresses what I fear (and I do mean fear, as in that creepy feeling one gets when stumbling upon a terrible truth) is the right wing's thing, I'm doing it. They can dress it up in religious rhetoric, appropriate taxation, or patriotism, but the truth is, they're Meanies.
Thank you, Mr. Krugman



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

October 5, 2007
Op-Ed Columnist
Conservatives Are Such Jokers
By PAUL KRUGMAN
In 1960, John F. Kennedy, who had been shocked by the hunger he saw in West Virginia, made the fight against hunger a theme of his presidential campaign. After his election he created the modern food stamp program, which today helps millions of Americans get enough to eat.

But Ronald Reagan thought the issue of hunger in the world’s richest nation was nothing but a big joke. Here’s what Reagan said in his famous 1964 speech “A Time for Choosing,” which made him a national political figure: “We were told four years ago that 17 million people went to bed hungry each night. Well, that was probably true. They were all on a diet.”

Today’s leading conservatives are Reagan’s heirs. If you’re poor, if you don’t have health insurance, if you’re sick — well, they don’t think it’s a serious issue. In fact, they think it’s funny.

On Wednesday, President Bush vetoed legislation that would have expanded S-chip, the State Children’s Health Insurance Program, providing health insurance to an estimated 3.8 million children who would otherwise lack coverage.

In anticipation of the veto, William Kristol, the editor of The Weekly Standard, had this to say: “First of all, whenever I hear anything described as a heartless assault on our children, I tend to think it’s a good idea. I’m happy that the president’s willing to do something bad for the kids.” Heh-heh-heh.

Most conservatives are more careful than Mr. Kristol. They try to preserve the appearance that they really do care about those less fortunate than themselves. But the truth is that they aren’t bothered by the fact that almost nine million children in America lack health insurance. They don’t think it’s a problem.

“I mean, people have access to health care in America,” said Mr. Bush in July. “After all, you just go to an emergency room.”

And on the day of the veto, Mr. Bush dismissed the whole issue of uninsured children as a media myth. Referring to Medicaid spending — which fails to reach many children — he declared that “when they say, well, poor children aren’t being covered in America, if that’s what you’re hearing on your TV screens, I’m telling you there’s $35.5 billion worth of reasons not to believe that.”

It’s not just the poor who find their travails belittled and mocked. The sick receive the same treatment.

Before the last election, the actor Michael J. Fox, who suffers from Parkinson’s and has become an advocate for stem cell research that might lead to a cure, made an ad in support of Claire McCaskill, the Democratic candidate for Senator in Missouri. It was an effective ad, in part because Mr. Fox’s affliction was obvious.

And Rush Limbaugh — displaying the same style he exhibited in his recent claim that members of the military who oppose the Iraq war are “phony soldiers” and his later comparison of a wounded vet who criticized him for that remark to a suicide bomber — immediately accused Mr. Fox of faking it. “In this commercial, he is exaggerating the effects of the disease. He is moving all around and shaking. And it’s purely an act.” Heh-heh-heh.

Of course, minimizing and mocking the suffering of others is a natural strategy for political figures who advocate lower taxes on the rich and less help for the poor and unlucky. But I believe that the lack of empathy shown by Mr. Limbaugh, Mr. Kristol, and, yes, Mr. Bush is genuine, not feigned.

Mark Crispin Miller, the author of “The Bush Dyslexicon,” once made a striking observation: all of the famous Bush malapropisms — “I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family,” and so on — have involved occasions when Mr. Bush was trying to sound caring and compassionate.

By contrast, Mr. Bush is articulate and even grammatical when he talks about punishing people; that’s when he’s speaking from the heart. The only animation Mr. Bush showed during the flooding of New Orleans was when he declared “zero tolerance of people breaking the law,” even those breaking into abandoned stores in search of the food and water they weren’t getting from his administration.

What’s happening, presumably, is that modern movement conservatism attracts a certain personality type. If you identify with the downtrodden, even a little, you don’t belong. If you think ridicule is an appropriate response to other peoples’ woes, you fit right in.

And Republican disillusionment with Mr. Bush does not appear to signal any change in that regard. On the contrary, the leading candidates for the Republican nomination have gone out of their way to condemn “socialism,” which is G.O.P.-speak for any attempt to help the less fortunate.

So once again, if you’re poor or you’re sick or you don’t have health insurance, remember this: these people think your problems are funny.

Here's Looking at Us, Kids

It's Tuesday, and the following people have been in my classroom, observing my teaching THIS WEEK:

A principal was in for a "walk-through" observation; these are new this year. Actually, she didn't walk through, she sat down for about ten minutes after coming into the classroom unannounced and tapped away at her pda-- recording how the classroom is arranged, what teaching activity is occurring at that moment, whether the "essential question" for that piece of curriculum is posted, how the kids are responding, etc.

A speech-language specialist was in, to sit with a student who gets her services. She helps the student, and makes suggestions for modifying the curriculum for her needs.

A para comes in daily with a special ed student to help him.

A visiting teacher from Germany came to Creative Writing, as she was curious about how it's taught in the US.

I have friendly relationships with all of these people, they say nice things to me about my teaching, the classroom, the kids, and their attentiveness and responses. I have nothing to hide, I feel fairly secure about my teaching skills, and I've been at it long enough now to know that some days are diamonds and some days are stones, that those who don't actually DO my job really don't have much of a clue about what it actually takes to do it. But geeze. If I was a first-year teacher and all these people who are not my students were WATCHING, I'd be a wreck.

The evaluating, observing, testing, coaching, mentoring, and managing of teachers seems to be the thing in education these days. There is actually an adage teachers used to repeat back in the day that goes something like "shut the door and do your thing"- boy is THAT a thing of the past.

Oh, and did I mention that Monday was a 13-hour day? After a day of school, there were parent-teacher conferences from 4-8. I teach two sections of freshmen, and there was a freshman parent meeting that night, so business was booming at conferences. I can't complain about parents who care enough to come in and check on their kids, now can I? So I won't, but 13 solid hours of being "on", in addition to all the observing is, for an introvert like me, a bit, um,.........taxing.

I have a group of actors coming into each of my freshman English classes Thursday to conduct a discussion of a play the kids will see that morning. Am I the hostess with the mostess or WHAT?

Thank heavens I love my job. But it's the KIDS I love about my job. Anyone remember the kids???

NYT Excitement

The most exciting thing that's happened to me lately is that the NYT has decided to scrap their genious plan of allowing only paid subscribers to access certain columnists and has opened the entire online paper to cheap-os like me. Since I'm lame and can't seem to come up with anything original to post these days, here's a goodie from Thomas Friedman:


http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/30/opinion/30friedman.html?ex=1191902400&en=336cfbe0723157c7&ei=5070

Sorry I still can't seem to get a link right. You'll have to copy and paste this to your browser.

Here I Am in all my Whinyness

Don't like to complain, but I'm pooped. I'm in the thick of the first term with the creative writers; their first piece has come in and I need to finish grading it before the next one rolls in. Crunch time. The freshman are writing too, and that always adds more work to an already busy assessment routine for them. It will let up, though, as the creative writers turn to poetry and script writing.

The byproduct of this is that my creativity dipstick reads about two quarts low. I'm burning the candle at both ends and my brain's a bit on the mushy side. Also, school is a very social place, and to be honest, socializing takes a lot out of me.

Introvert, thy name is Roxanne.

I miss feeling good at blogging. I don't like posting just to post, but I do it because I want to continue blogging.

I'm tired. I'm whiny. I think I'll stop now.

Conquered the Crud

The crud I was afflicted with is nearly gone, and school rolls on. The freshmen are settling in. They are a good bunch, typically energetic, at times completely off the wall, and mostly working hard at trying to keep up and fit in.

The creative writers are a bit quiet and don't seem to be as tuned in to the artsy-fartsyness of it all as the classes I've worked with in the past, but the year is new. I think it's important to give them a feeling of having a place to let go and rev up their creative engines, but this group seems a bit reticent. I'm waiting for something to happen that gives them the push they need to get comfortable and allow their individual natures to shine in their writing. Sometimes there's magic in a class like creative writing; I guess it won't always be there, and instead of doing somersaults to make it happen, perhaps I need to work on my own acceptance.

I'm taking a class in Tai Chi Chih, which is a simplified version of the traditional Tai Chi. I've always been curious about those groups of people I've seen practicing their slow, dance-like meditations in an outdoor setting. I'm in the early stages, but the form seems to be a good fit for me. I'm a walker, not a runner, and I'm hoping the ease and grace of this provides a good foundation for physical meditation. A whirling dervish I ain't.

A-choo!

We're one week into the school yaer, and I have a cold. Yuk. Usually, it takes at least three weeks for the germs to spread themselves around. I slept so much this weekend one would think I'm headed for the depression ward. Nothing like that snotted-up, groggy feeling when one is trying to inspire a class of sleepy ninth graders to want to understand parts of speech or do a "close reading" of short story on a Monday morning.
Oh well, I'm usually good for one cold per school year; I'm getting it out of the way early this time.

When the Posting is Easy

School's on. The freshmen are in honeymoon phase and the creative writers are quiet and confused. I'm up early to enjoy the summer feeling of days with nowhere to go, nothing in particular to do, but it's fake now; it's Saturday during the school year. It's early in the year, the caught-up time when there's no ungraded homework in my bag and lesson plans are (for this moment) making perfect sense and firmly in place.

It feels good to get back to the rhythm of Saturday peace walking, grocery shopping, and laundry, with a Netflix movie waiting for the end of the day.

Ahhhhhh, the simple life.

Here's a poem for this morning:





Just at dawn
Minnesota pines
Mimic the silhouette portraits
We made of each other
In third grade.

They inhale,
Pausing and posing
As their dark splendor
Presses cut-out shapes
Against a water color sky.

Skoo Pome

My students
I shouldn’t call them “my”
They don’t belong to me
I only borrow them for a short time
And life is long.

The ones who sit in the back,
The ones who ask me why why why
do we have to learn this STUFF?
The shy smile
Never raising a hand and
Ducking slightly, looking at the desktop
when I’m looking for an answer,
Or sitting in the very front
And hating it.

Chatterboxes
Jocks and techies
Fashionistas
Intellectuals
Geeks and Goths
Drama queens and emos
Sick dudes
Good kids
The Popular People.


The one who talks with her hands,
The one who sleeps in class,
The one who saw me in Target
the day I looked like I just crawled out
from under a rock and said,
“You look different when you’re not in school.”
The one who keeps secrets of the secret war,
The one who called me a bitch to my face,
Almost.

BST
MCA
SAT
ACT
NHS
NWEA
NCLB
AYP
EBD
ADHD
ODD
ESL
BFD
WTF
TMI

Cell phone
iPod
IM
Email
P.ersonal D.igital A.ssistant
Blue Tooth
WiFi
Laptop
Log in
Password
Copy code
Lunch PIN
Smartboard
Google
Moodle
Turnitin

FAQ

Here’s a book,
where’s my chalk?

Just Made It

Sometimes I write a poem when I'm supposed to be doing something else. This morning, I almost missed the peace walk because of it. I got there in time, but I looked pretty ratty. I barely got a chance to run a comb through my hair (my mother used to say that, "At least run a comb through your hair!") before I grabbed my sign and rushed out the door to pick up my friend Heidi. Good thing I wasn't headed to a beauty contest- ha!

Here's the poem:

Forgetting

I look out the window to see the petunias
bob their heads in agreement with the rain.
There’s a birdfeeder under that morning glory vine,
but you’d never know it. In the winter,
when snow piles halfway up to the top,
I remember the vine, and think,
“Nah, that doesn’t happen.”
It’s five-thirty, and I remember the summer
light staying until almost ten.
“That doesn’t happen either,” I tell myself,
“maybe nine, but certainly not ten.”

Not Bad Apples

Workshop has begun, and I can feel my school head settling in. I already miss my carefree summer head. Just get me into the classroom with kids, and I'll be fine.

I know it's "that time of the year" when I approach the back door and smell the crabapples that have dropped beneath the tree. Their rich scent ushers me into fall evey year.

Sunday Morning Silliness

These quizzes are everywhere on blogs. I took this and liked the result, so I'm posting it- ha! Although I don't like to admit it, the time out part is probably true. I think that means I can be a stickler for nice behavior. Hmmmmm. I've been told I'm "Teacher-y." That's probably the nicest way to say it.

A Wikipedia character study reports this about Kanga: "Piglet says she 'isn't clever'" and also that she can write her name, but "there's no other indication that she can read or write." This, for an English teacher. Yikes.

So Kanga's not the brightest bulb in the box. But she's "caring" and "kind-hearted." I'll take it.

Try the quiz yourself, and see who you are, in the 100 Acre Wood of Pooh.


Take the 100 Acre Personality Quiz!

And then there are the rewards...

I've spent the last several days working on a freshman orientation program we will begin this school year. The best part of it was being with the kids. Doing this kind of work can be frustrating in many ways, but the kids always save me from throwing up my hands and running out the door in a fit of drama. Imagine what it's like to be greeted with hugs and sheer delight in seeing your face, after a couple of months of vacation. That's the kids. Gotta love 'em. And I gotta remember this, oh, say about next March.

Since vacation is ending, I thought I'd post this piece I wrote a couple of years ago, after helping with a move in another of the district's schools. It explains how I became a teacher, why I still am one, and how I'll change my life if I win the lottery, even though I don't play.

I Love School

Recently, we high school teachers helped those at other schools in the district get ready for construction work that will take place this summer. I worked for several hours moving boxes and furniture and wrangling garbage. It's the kind of work that erases all bitterness about having to make student loan payments at age 50.

My journey to college is a long, complicated story of missed opportunities and poor decisions, the result of which is a splendid, now 30-year-old daughter, and a lot of experience checking groceries, framing art, and performing office tasks. I spent 10 years as a medical office manager, for which I was paid a ridiculously low wage and, get this, was offered no medical insurance. Hence, by the time I got to the university at 41, I really wanted to be there. I agonized over whether to begin my studies at the local community college, where tuition and expenses would be considerably cheaper, or go for the complete university education I longed for. Here's how my decision-making process functioned in this instance:

A slip of junk fluttered from my car insurance bill, offering back-to-school scholarships of $5,000, $2,500, and $1,000 to hopefuls who could explain, in a limited number of words, why they wanted college. I wrote my essay and decided that if I got any of the three offerings, it was a "sign" that I was to follow my dream and shoot for the university. I got the $2500. So I loaded up the truck and moved to university. Bigger school, junky car.

The University of Iowa offered me a full-tuition scholarship based a 23-year-old ACT score, no money in the bank, and my promise to maintain a 3.5 gpa. I was given decent PELL grants (remember decent PELL grants?) and a part-time job in the university payroll office, thanks to a dear friend whose uncle ran the place. She liked me and also wanted the office job I would be leaving (thank you, thank you, sweet Michelle).

Despite my good fortune, being a "nontraditional" student (wtf kind of label is that?) has its financial disadvantages, even compared to kids whose families can't afford to help much. No riding the coattails of parents' health insurance, or car insurance, nothing to do but stay and spend summer earnings on high u-town rent. No free laundry or going home for long periods of freeloading in general. As a result, I'm now a 50-year-old teacher with six years of experience and a student loan to outdo many of my 25-year-old colleagues. Not pretty.

But I'm not complaining, I can't begin to express what my time at the university did for me. Not here, not in a thousand words, probably not in a War and Peace-length tome. Besides, I learned that if I die before I finish repayment, the loan is cancelled, freeing my daughter from the burden of an encumbered estate. This discovery is making grad school more and more attractive.

If I win the lottery, I'm going to pay off my student loan and spend the rest of my life weaseling my way into the great universities across the country, starting with UC Berkeley in the West, moving on to Boulder and Ann Arbor, and finishing up in the east coast institutions of the Ivy League, probably crouched under a desk. Because I'm certain I wouldn't meet their admission standards, and I'm not legacy anything, even with a gazillion lottery bucks in my bank account. When I get too old to army-crawl in and find my seat on the floor, I'll play the age card, feeding on the pity and authority complexes of liberal professors who wouldn't dare to damage their reputations by ejecting an elderly, earnest, note-taking grandma for her refusal to conform to the restrictive policies of the man. For insurance, I'll use my lottery windfall to slip each of them a bribe; maybe a lifetime of weekly meals at the best restaurant in town. But I digress...

Last May, when I was doing the exhausting work of the decent people who were my supervisors for the three measly hours I spent doing their jobs, I wondered how my life might have turned out, had I not taken the chance to further my education. Instead, I'm a grateful teacher with student loan angst and a lottery dream. Cuz I love school.

Rainy Day Haiku

In an empty space
Once filled with jagged heartache
I now keep soft stuff.


(art by Kazuya Akimoto)

Woo hoo!

A little over a week ago, I bought a lap top. Today, I installed a wireless network at home. Now, I'm imagining being able to sit...in my living room, or in bed, or at a wired coffee shop, and lots of new places to grade creative writing student assignments submitted to the online program we use at school. This is a very exciting prospect, as there have been times when the walls of my home office have closed in on me while reading and grading those virtual piles of student writing.

I'm a bit amazed by all of this, as I'm not very tech savvy. I think I'll take it as a sign that my life is meant to be easier. This completely discounts the absolute nightmare I endured obtaining the "deal" I got on this equipment. Seriously, the fiasco meter was approaching ridiculous...and now I wait for the rebates. Let's hope the memory of the experience fades fast, while I sit back and enjoy the fruits of Circuit City hell.

The other day, I laid my tiny cell phone next to my little lap top and thought about how much less space these devices occupy than just a few short years ago, when a clunky wall phone hung next to a big ol' desk top computer. What a world!

A Card-Carrying Member of the Guild

Another goodie from The Writer's Almanac:


The Worriers' Guild
by Philip F. Deaver

Today there is a meeting of the
Worriers' Guild,
and I'll be there.
The problems of Earth are
to be discussed
at length
end to end
for five days
end to end
with 1100 countries represented
all with an equal voice
some wearing turbans and smocks
and all the men will speak
and the women
with or without notes
in 38 languages
and nine different species of logic.
Outside in the autumn
the squirrels will be
chattering and scampering
directionless throughout the town
because
they aren't organized yet.


Recently the subject of squirrels came up when my older brother was present. He called them "rats with bushy tails" and I felt compelled to defend them, as I love seeing them out in the world doing their squirrel thing. I wish I had known this poem at the time of the squirrel conversation. I'd have reminded him how those little rats with bushy tails serve as an example for us members of "the guild." While we attempt to worry our way toward answers, the little creatures who "aren't organized yet" are busy doing. Don't they have it all over on us?

Saving the Planet

In a recent post, I mentioned listening to Barbara Kingsolver discuss her new book about eating locally grown food, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. There is a movement afoot that promotes eating locally grown foods partly as a measure to lower carbon emissions created by the vast amount of food that is shipped across the miles. Did you know there's a name for people who eat only locally grown food? They're called locatarians.

In the New York Times there's an article that describes a study refuting this idea. It says that taking all aspects of food production into account, eating only locally grown food may not be the most responsible approach. This is completely counterintuitive to me, but that's why research is done, to discover the "truth" of what often seems to be a perfectly logical reason/answer/solution. Here's the address if you'd like to read The Times article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/06/opinion/06mcwilliams.html?th&emc=th

In my efforts to help preserve the planet, I often find myself flummoxed by the contradictions and complications of responsible consumption. An ex-boyfriend told me he saw a study that found when reducing total carbon emissions is the goal, it is more responsible to throw away rather than to recycle. He made the point that since global warming is the single most catastrophic threat to the planet, recycling is a poor choice. Though this made some sense, it shocked me to think that all of us who strip labels off cans, flatten food containers, sort, squeeze and schlep are having an overall negative effect. I still recycle; it just feels wrong not to. So much for hard data.

In the radio program Ms. Kingsolver talked about eating meat that was "harvested" locally as less disturbing to her conscience that eating bananas grown in tropical climates and shipped great distances in order for her to enjoy eating them. When my daughter was visiting, she mentioned that giving up meat would be the most practical personal choice she could make for the environment, due to the many ways meat production negatively impacts the environment and the principles of efficient land use for food production. Giving up her daily commute of around 60 miles would be fraught with complications, but eating a vegetarian diet is something she feels she could do rather easily, as she's done it in the past for extended periods. It seems a kind of epic justice occurs when the mass production and slaughter of animals for human consumption harms the environment we humans depend on for our own survival.

When I visited her awhile back, a group of us were discussing the pros and cons of our various efforts to help protect the environment, and how we often felt confused about how to be responsible stewards. Her husband made a comment that struck me. He said the kindest thing a great number of us could do for the environment is to simply drop dead. Most of the people involved in that discussion weren't yet born when the book The Population Bomb was published in 1968. I thought about how having only one child was her dad's and my mostly unconscious contribution to zero population growth.

At least I did something right.

Shaken

Yesterday's collapse of the I-35 Bridge in Minneapolis brought feelings of shock and grief. I was having dinner out with friends, a belated birthday celebration for me, and as soon as we learned of the tragedy I felt an urge to get home, so I could follow the news. I found myself calling dear ones in the city to check on their wellbeing. According to news reports, many others were also doing this; cell phone connections were spotty. From 45 miles away, I felt personally shaken by the news.
I thought about how I was experiencing a small taste of the horror those in and around NYC felt on September 11. Of course we all felt it that day, but proximity definitely heightens the senses.
I thought about how seeing the ugly aftermath, and then the empty span of space for the next several years will keep these feelings closer to consciousness long after they will have passed for those who don't live around here.
I had a young friend who was so excited to have been accepted at NYU and had moved to New York for graduate school just before the 9/11 tragedy. She was a smart, capable young woman with serious ambition and an adventurous spirit. I later heard she had "come home" to Iowa within the semester. My heart went out to her as I imagined her trying to negotiate the landscape of that experience. I remember wondering whether to contact her, if perhaps she was weary of having to "explain."
The oppresive heat and humidity has lifted here today. The sun is shining and the air is Minnesota fresh. Television coverage from the wreckage has me thinking of the number of wounded and broken hearts that hover over the bright skies of the scene.

More Code Monkey

Does anyone remember the post about Jonathan Coulton who wrote the Code Monkey song? I posted the Youtube video of a dance that had been created for it. I still love this sweet, silly song, so here's video of Coulton singing it in a club in Seattle (where there are lots of code monkeys). This acoustic version is really nice. Listen carefully, and you can hear the audience singing along with the chorus.

Don't Even Think About It

I read about the workings of the subconscious mind in today's New York Times. The first few lines of the article piqued my interest; here they are:

In a recent experiment, psychologists at Yale altered people’s judgments of a stranger by handing them a cup of coffee.
The study participants, college students, had no idea that their social instincts were being deliberately manipulated. On the way to the laboratory, they had bumped into a laboratory assistant, who was holding textbooks, a clipboard, papers and a cup of hot or iced coffee — and asked for a hand with the cup.
That was all it took: The students who held a cup of iced coffee rated a hypothetical person they later read about as being much colder, less social and more selfish than did their fellow students, who had momentarily held a cup of hot java.

We've all heard about how our subconscious can push us to behave in certain ways without our "knowing" it. Remember hearing about movie audiences who bought more of certain snack foods when imperceptible images were flashed on the screen? The article says that one was made up, to promote the business of the ad man who claimed to have done it. Remember imitating Mr. Subliminal on Saturday Night Live to the amusement of "unsuspecting" friends?

According to the article it's more complicated than that. Isn't everything? But after reading it, I'm taking a fresh look at what's posted on the walls of my classroom. I'm thinking of replacing the poster that says "Question Authority" with "Suck Up." Ha!

Here's the link so you can read the entire article:
www.nytimes.com/2007/07/31/health/psychology/31subl.html?ex=1343620800&en=d63e52cd16496308&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

Sometimes there's magic

My daughter is here with me; she's asleep in the next room. She's an adventurous, grown-up woman with a husband, a home, a job, and a life completely independent from mine, but there are times when I look at her, and I still see the little girl who was my closest companion for so many years.

Last night, she lit up as she delighted in explaining the birthday gifts she brought for me:
A little nature box with a glass top and sides that she painted herself and inscribed on the bottom-"Put your precious finds in there, and you can look at them later. I have one myself."
Citrus incense- "Citrus always reminds me of you."
A miniature music box that plays "Imagine" when a tiny crank is turned- "Listen, Mom, can you guess the song?"
Tibetan prayer flags- "So you can let the wind carry your prayers"
Two books, one about peace and one about the origins of color- "So you don't already have this one? Whew!"
A small bag that is a replica of a Persian rug- "Doesn't it look like a magic carpet?"

Do you have times when you remind yourself to remember a particular moment, to memorize everything about it, so you can enjoy the memory of it over and over again? Last night was one of those times.

A Wish

I suppose it's evident from the content of this blog that I have an affinity for poetry. It's such a treat to have a poem from The Writer's Almanac delivered to my inbox and read by Garrison Keillor every day. Sometimes, when I read a poem, I find myself rereading particular lines again and again. Here is part of today's poem called "Kindness" by Naomi Shahib Nye. The italicized lines are those that drew me back today.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.


I have this quote from Theodore Isaac Rubin on the wall in my classroom:
“Kindness is more important than wisdom, and the recognition of this is the beginning of wisdom.”

I am making a wish for us; here it is: That both the delivery and receipt of kindess goes with us everywhere, like a shadow or a friend.

Kiss the Cook

This is today's poem from The Writer's Almanac. I love it. Do you ever feel like a schlump-a-dink in a sea of accomplished people doing meaningful work? This poem is the perfect antidote to that feeling. It's good to remember how something like making a satisfying meal contributes to the lives of those we love. And having just listened to Barbara Kingsolver talk about mindfully growing, purchasing, preparing, and eating our food, I am reminded here that we need to be grateful for the bounty (especially the local bounty) in our lives.

Acceptance Speech
by Lynn Powell

The radio's replaying last night's winners
and the gratitude of the glamorous,
everyone thanking everybody for making everything
so possible, until I want to shush
the faucet, dry my hands, join in right here
at the cluttered podium of the sink, and thank

my mother for teaching me the true meaning of okra,
my children for putting back the growl in hunger,
my husband, primo uomo of dinner, for not
begrudging me this starring role—

without all of them, I know this soup
would not be here tonight.

And let me just add that I could not
have made it without the marrow bone, that blood—
brother to the broth, and the tomatoes
who opened up their hearts, and the self-effacing limas,
the blonde sorority of corn, the cayenne
and oregano who dashed in
in the nick of time.

Special thanks, as always, to the salt—
you know who you are—and to the knife,
who revealed the ripe beneath the rind,
the clean truth underneath the dirty peel.

—I hope I've not forgotten anyone—
oh, yes, to the celery and the parsnip,
those bit players only there to swell the scene,
let me just say: sometimes I know exactly how you feel.

But not tonight, not when it's all
coming to something and the heat is on and
I'm basking in another round
of blue applause.

Alaska Dreamin'

Some day, I WILL see Alaska in person. Until I get to go, I'll always be a sucker for slide shows like this:

http://www.nytimes.com/packages/html/travel/20070722_ALASKA_FEATURE/blocker.html
(sorry, I still can't get this program to link to an address, so you'll have to paste this to your browser- I promise it's worth the effort)

Proofreading

This is Taylor Mali, the guy who is known for his spoken word performance, "What do teachers make?". I wish I could show this to students, but the language makes it "unacceptable for the classroom." It's funny, though, especially to an English teacher:

Summer Love

This summer I am involved with a group of high school students who are parents, or are about to be. I began the group by inviting six girls and two guys, former students in my creative writing class. In class, I saw how they loved to write about and share their experiences with pregnancy and parenting, and I thought it might be a good idea to continue to provide a place for them to do this. The only thing I was sure about when we began was that though I was more than willing to be a supportive adult presence, I had no desire to play “teacher,” in the sense of assigning or critiquing their writing, and that, within appropriate limits, they would direct our time together. What has developed is a small group of mostly girls that meets every other week in a local coffee house.

When we met last night there were three girls, three babies (two on the outside, one who will be born within the month) and me. The boyfriend of the still-pregnant Angela has been attending. He was there when I arrived but left soon after, explaining that he had to go. Tiffany brought a portfolio of poems she had been promising us we’d get a look at. She also brought her son, a sweet, sleepy baby we had visited in the hospital just two days after his birth 16 days ago. I met his father in the hospital that evening. Tiffany asked me to phone her mom and verify that she was with me, so I did.

I had been leaving reminder messages for Emma before each meeting, and she joined us for the first time last night with her darling five-month-old son. Emma still communicates with the father of her child, but he lives somewhere in the South and has yet to meet his son. All of the mothers express that whether or not the fathers of their children will be in their lives for the long term is questionable. To greater and lesser degrees there are issues of mistrust, unreliability, and immaturity that are discussed regularly, but they all remain attached. All of the girls live with either one or both of their parents.

Angela’s baby has dropped, and she is experiencing some new back pain and other discomfort associated with late pregnancy. When I asked about a writing topic for the next meeting she volunteered “Labor and delivery.” She openly expressed increased anxiety as the big event draws closer. She works as a personal care assistant to a disabled young man, and when we talked about circumcision she expressed that though her unborn baby is a girl, if she were to have a boy she would definitely have him circumcised. She has attended to the problems her client has with his uncircumcised penis. She has plans to become a special ed teacher. She is determined to complete her first online college psychology class, which is set to begin 1O days after her due date. We’ve had conversations about her goals, and I do all I can to encourage her to believe she has the ability and strength of character to accomplish them.

Emma handles her son with the ease of an experienced mom and tolerates his extreme attachment to her with the patience of a knowledgeable parent of a five-month-old. When I asked her what she has been doing this summer, she said “Taking care of him and spending time with my family.” Throughout our time in Creative Writing class, her sweet, sunny personality was a constant, something I haven’t experienced with most of the teenagers I’ve come to know through teaching. She must have had bad days, but never let it show.

Tiffany tells us her son is doing what he has done since she brought him home from the hospital: sleeping and crying only when he’s hungry or needs a diaper change. She is the most outspoken of the group, telling Angela (rather loudly, but that’s just Tiffany) that sex with her boyfriend late in the pregnancy contributed to her quick labor and delivery. I have known Tiffany since she attended a summer class I taught to get struggling eighth graders ready for the demands of high school. Her matter-of-fact demeanor and the openness with which she shares the ups and downs of her life are familiar to me.

As I left the group last night, I pondered the purpose of our meetings and questioned what they offer to these girls. As a writing group, we lack structure and discipline. Sometimes our meetings turn to bitch sessions about the boyfriends or the gossip common among any group of teenagers. If things get too intense, I make an effort to redirect, but I mostly sit back during those times and keep still. Should I be doing more to aim their energies toward their writing? Should I be encouraging them to think less about their daily dramas and more about their futures? If I am supposed to be the all-knowing sage, dropping perfectly formed pearls of life-altering advice on these girls at precisely correct teachable moments, I am failing them miserably. Freedom Writers we ain’t. But what are we? To be honest, I don’t know.

Then I thought about what I do know, and that is that I love these girls. Yup, love them, and they know it. Whatever need in me this group fills, I’m pretty sure that it fulfills some of their needs too. Acceptance and stability can be scarce commodities in the lives of these young mothers. Though the shame and insecurity previously associated with teenage pregnancy has abated, the need for acceptance and assurance is universal. Showing up, for ourselves and each other, is what we do best. As long as they continue to show up, I’ll be there too, loving them and doing what I do and don’t do, still wondering if it’s enough.

*Names have been changed to protect privacy

Not that I am...

I like this guy's stuff- his name is Jarvis Cocker (no relation to Joe) and especially this cool, bitterchick anthem. The video is *funny too.
*No human beings were harmed in the making of this film.



Completely off topic, if there is one, but how cute is this?

Worlds Apart

There's a house for sale two doors down from my apartment building. It's a cute ranch that needs some work and the price has just been reduced from $125k to $119,500. Just for fun, I recently put my numbers into an online mortgage load calculator- my number came up at 74k- HA! There isn't a shack on a dirt road for sale at that price within 1,000 miles of me. But I digress... The house is empty, and I have peeked in the windows and sniffed around the back yard- it even has a sweet screened porch that looks onto a pretty, private back yard. I've fantasized about what I might do to make it a home I'd love to live in. This morning, I read this in The New York Times:

While real estate in much of the country languishes, property in Manhattan continues to escalate in price, and that includes parking spaces. Some buyers do not even own cars, but grab the spaces as investments, renting them out to cover their costs.

Spaces are in such demand that there are waiting lists of buyers. Eight people are hoping for the chance to buy one of five private parking spaces for $225,000 in the basement of 246 West 17th Street, a 34-unit condo development scheduled for completion next January. The developer, meanwhile, is seeking city approval to add four more spots.

Come on! 225k for a parking place?!?!?!!!

I'm all about the idea that people are usually far more alike than we are different. That folks are just folks, we all put our pants on one leg at a time, and we are all one in The Great Family of Man. Yadda yadda yadda. Then I imagine myself trying to make small talk with someone who travels in the circles of the $225,000 parking space, and I realize I have way more in common with those I see yelling at each other on The Jerry Springer Show, or working on a counterfeit social security number, or standing in the street with a cardboard sign than I do with the parking space magnates.

While I count myself among the blessed, I wonder how it is that some can have so much while others have so little. The peace-loving, nice lady, do-gooder in me thinks about minding my personal responsibilities to the poor, while the radical in me cries out for bloody justice and I wonder if any of those eight Manhattanites on the waiting list for a $225,000 parking spot would consider cabs and rental cars in exchange for shelter for a needy family or a debt-free college education for a working class kid. And if I traveled in the circles that would put me on that list, would I?

Heavy thoughts, articulated more intelligently by minds much greater than mine. Speaking of great minds, today is the birthday of the brilliant 20th century poet Pablo Neruda. The radical in me loves this poem of his:

THE HEAVENLY POETS
What have you done
you intellectualists?
you mystifiers?
you false existentialist sorcerers?
you surrealistic poppies shining on a tomb?
you pale grubs in the capitalist cheese?
What did you do
about the kingdom of anguish?
about this dark human being
kicked into submission?
about this head
submerged in manure?
about this essence
of harsh, trampled lives?
You didn't do anything but escape
you sold piles of debris
you looked for heavenly hairs
cowardly plants, broken fingernails
"pure beauty" "magic".
Your works were those of poor frightened folk
trying to keep your eyes from looking
trying to protect their delicate pupils
so you could make for your living
a plate of dirty scraps
which the masters flung to you.
Without seeing that the stones are in agony,
without defending, without conquering,
blinder than the wreaths
in the cemetery when the rain
falls on the motionless
rotten flowers on the tomb.

Chipper stuff, huh?

It's also the birthday of Thoreau, who died in 1862. My do-gooder nice lady likes this Thoreau quote:

I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestioned ability of a man to elevate his life by conscious endeavor.

Today, I am more than grateful for not having to hang with the crowd making a grab for a $225,000 parking spot, nor ever having had to suffer in the kingdom of anguish. Now if I can just remember, every day, not to question my ability to elevate my life by conscious endeavor.

Weird Science

Surgeon General Sees 4-Year Term as Compromised - New York Times

A Photo and a Thought

Sharing this beautiful photo and a thought today:

"Never mind what I have been taught. Forget about theories and prejudgments and stereotypes. I want to understand the true nature of life. I want to know what this experience of being alive really is. I want to apprehend the true and deepest qualities of life, and I don't want to just accept somebody else's explanation. I want to see it for myself."
From an explanation of Vipassana meditation practice, by Bhante Henepola Gunarantana

Give 'em Hell, Michael

See Michael Moore speak the truth to Windbag Wolf on CNN.

Why is it that whenever one of MM's projects is covered by the mainstream media, the talking heads go to such lengths to criticize it? Go to this page and click on the video. If you love Michael like I love Michael, you'll be so proud:

http://www.alternet.org/blogs/video/56446/

Sorry I couldn't get the link to post, so you'll have to copy and paste this to your browser, but believe me, it's worth the effort.

Beautiful Barns

I just read an article from the University of Iowa's The Daily Iowan newspaper, on the disappearing barns of the Midwest. It cites their declining usefulness and the expense of upkeep as the causes for this. I have fond memories of playing in barns, when I would ride along with my dad on his sales route to dairy farms.

Awhile ago, I wrote about "helping" my dad do his work on dairy farms. I wrote "Dad's Truck" for a class, back when I was going to the U of Iowa. Here's what I said about barns there:
"I’d lay the parts on a rag and let them dry in the sun while Dad finished the service job and I explored the farm, with a warning to stay off the fences and away from the corn bin. I listened, as I was a good girl, and would head straight for the barn to search the musky hay loft where summer swallows careened closely over nests of mewing kittens and in winter, cattle shuffled and lowed below, huffing warm puffs of visible breath from their velvet noses."

I remember being jealous when kids who lived on farms would tell stories about swinging out of the hay loft on a rope. It seemed so dangerous and exciting; I wanted to do that. For "town" kids like me, the immensity of the barn inspired an awe on par with the feeling of being in church. Not until I visited a city did I actually realize that buildings existed which could dwarf the size of a barn. That probably sounds silly, but as a child, pictures of those city structures didn't produce much of an effect.

Reading the article in The Daily Iowan made me realize, once again, that somehow I have become old enough to witnes changes in the physical, social, and economic landscape of my home state. I was in high school in the early 70's, when farm commodity prices were high, land values rose, and a relatively small farmer could make a good living. Life on the farm no longer consisted of long hours of back-breaking manual labor as tractors with enclosed, air-conditioned cabs and ergonomically cushioned seats pulled implements that plowed and fertilized wider and wider swaths of ground, and huge combines did the harvest work. Livestock feeding and watering became more mechanized and eliminated the kinds of chores that kept farm families close enough to home to get back to the farm at least twice daily to perform them. Entire generations of animals were born, raised, bred, and slaughtered without ever setting foot in the mud of a sty or feedlot.

My sister, who was nine years older, experienced a time when farm kids were teased for coming off the school bus smelling like the manure on their shoes after doing early-morning livestock chores. When I was in high school in the early 1970's, most of them arrived in better cars than the "town kids" owned, smelling like the rest of us. They could participate in after-school activities and compete for after-school jobs, as the work on the farm required fewer hands. They had more spending money and fewer restrictions, as their parents, having been raised in the previous generation, were conditioned to trust them with the adult-sized decisions required of farm kids. Their parents didn't know much about setting a curfew; in their generation you'd have to be crazy to stay out late or drink beer to excess, as the wake-up call for morning chores came at 4 a.m., and no one cared or took up your slack if you were tired or hung over. Life in rural Iowa had changed.

Things changed again, in the 80's, when prices began to fall and failure to meet the payments on large, high-interest loans was becoming a big problem. Those who had over-mortgaged to buy more land and the latest equipment had the most trouble. More and more of the wives, and eventually the farmers themselves, took jobs in town to supplement income. Those unable to meet their obligations defaulted. Kids who had previously grown up with no other intention than to work an inherited farm often went to college rather than gamble their futures on the instability of markets and the weather. Farm auctions were commonplace; those who had the means bought up land and equipment and the corporate farm was born.

I started this post writing about barns disappearing in the Midwest. Their declining numbers is a symptom of all that has changed on the farm, as their function served a way of life that no longer exists there. Even though it means I'm getting older, I feel so fortunate to have had actual barn experience. Anyone who has, knows: Barns are beautiful.

There's TV, and Then There's Me

I haven't blogged for awhile because I've been working on redecorating my bedroom. The ease with which those words roll off the tongue make it sound almost as simple as the shows on HGTV make it look. I especially love the programs in which people like me, with a budget laughable in the purview of most professional decorators, are treated to the quick redo of a room in which only paint is purchased for the transformation.
To that, I say, "HA!"
These programs begin with a few creative stars idly scanning the furniture arrangement and possessions of the occupant, and in a fast half-hour, with time out for waaaay too many commercials, voila!, a picture-perfect, magazine-ready room sparkles its way onto my tv screen.
First, in fast-motion, the room is effortlessly cleared of furniture and all clutter that daily life demands (the clutter never returns; where does it go?), and a perfect, no-regrets paint job is applied without taping, cutting in, the schlepping of stools or ladders, or covering the floor or furniture to protect from spills and spatters.
Then, lackluster, sometimes downright ugly furniture is painted or recovered with fabric that happens to be lying around, and new window coverings are fashioned from old bed sheets with the flick of the sewing machine's on-switch.
Next, before viewers' eyes, the revived furniture is rearranged in practical, yet elegant configurations that only the spacially gifted can envision.
After perusing the rest of the homeowner's meager possessions, the perfect lighting and accessories appear from the ruins. An old lamp is given a shade fashioned from sticks and a few hunks of left-over fabric; previously-ignored art is re-hung; vases that just happen to be the perfect accent color are filled with flowers from the garden and artfully arranged (I once saw dead plants made into an attractive, fake, indoor topiary, perfect for the room's new French country decor- no lie!), and recycled candles are lit.
Finally, a wide shot of the room so amazes its inhabitants that they sometimes weep for joy! Hugs are exchanged all around, and the tv stars shine while the homeowners proclaim that the new space has given them a fresh outlook and will surely change their lives forever.
Whatta load o crap.
My room took ten days, though in the end I accomplished little more than the pros on the shows do in a half-hour. I sweated, grunted, and even cried during the process. The tears came while shortening a miniblind, and believe me when I say I don't cry over decor, ever... except for this once. One morning, after the previous day's wrestling with furniture, my body ached so severely upon waking I thought I was getting some weird disease. I've swallowed more aspirin in the past ten days than in the previous year. My legs are bruised and scratched, my checkbook is empty, and half of my clutter is now on display at the local thrift store while the other half pollutes the local landfill. But the room is done.
It ain't world peace and it certainly won't change my life, but I did it alone and with a minimum of whining, unless you count the aforementioned crying or the pissing and moaning patiently endured by my dear friend and daily walking partner, Heidi.
Oh, and it looks nothing like those showplaces on HGTV; not even close. Just where are those darn decorating wizards when you need 'em?

LOL

I remember falling in love with Woody Allen a long time ago; I think it was when I saw Sleeper. When he later proved himself to be a total perv, I kicked him to the curb as boyfriend material, but I still think he's funny. Today, the New York Times quoted this quintessential Allen joke from his book, Getting Even:

A man in asks his uncle, “Could it not be simply that we are alone and aimless, doomed to wander in an indifferent universe, with no hope of salvation, nor any prospect except misery, death, and the empty reality of eternal nothing?”
The uncle replies, “You wonder why you’re not invited to more parties.”

I lol-ed. Ever feel like this guy? Sometimes I do, but I've learned to keep questions like this to myself, cuz I need all the party invites I can get.

An old boyfriend and I used to joke about the Annie Hall scene from which this quote is taken:

Alvy Singer: Here, you look like a very happy couple, um, are you?
Female street stranger: Yeah.
Alvy Singer: Yeah? So, so, how do you account for it?
Female street stranger: Uh, I'm very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.
Male street stranger: And I'm exactly the same way.
Alvy Singer: I see. Wow. That's very interesting. So you've managed to work out something?

The people Alvy's talking to in this scene are both thin, blonde, perfectly groomed, and dressed in the latest styles. I think we laughed because we weren't. Ever. But we thought we had a lot of other things going for us...like the tendancy to pose depressing, existential questions. Come to think of it, we didn't get invited to many parties either...

Bah!- Another obnoxious forward

I'm back to complaining about the email forwards I often get from people who like to share their views with me, unsolicited. If you have been reading my blog, you will remember that I complained about one recently, in which immigrants were demonized. Here's another one from my inbox today. A "sweet" story about a child and his/her dog:

A dog had followed his owner to school. His owner was a
fourth grader at a public elementary school. However,
when the bell rang, the dog sidled inside the building and
made it all the way to the child's classroom before a
teacher noticed and shoo'ed him outside, closing the
door behind him. The dog sat down, whimpered and
stared at the closed doors. Then God appeared beside
the dog, patted his head, and said, "Don't feel bad fella'....
they won't let ME in either."

Where do people who send these types of messages get the idea that God isn’t allowed in school? I work in a public school where kids openly express their faith and beliefs all the time, posters in the halls announce the activities of Christian youth groups, and there is even “prayer at the pole,” in which a group of very committed Christian students occasionally gather at the flag pole before school to pray. Granted, these expressions and demonstrations are only Christian, but isn’t that, after all, the “God” to which this little story refers? And that’s what bothers me. I know the people who send these kinds of messages believe theirs is the one true religion, but for the 67% of the world’s total population who do not, the least they could do is be honest.

How about substituting the word Christ for God in these emails, and how about admitting that what they want are public schools where Christianity, not God, is “let in”? What kind of outcry would come from the person who sent me the story above if Buddhism, Scientology, or Islam was "let in" in the way she wants Christianity to be "let in" ?

News flash: One of the founding principles of this country is that no specific religion may be sponsored by the state. Why don’t some people get it? There is no prohibition on believers expressing themselves in public, and that includes public schools; a believer from any religion has an equal right to legal forms of expression, but a public school can’t promote Christianity or any other faith. Students can pray all they want, or speak and write about God, but teachers (and others in charge at school) can’t show a preference for a particular belief or make statements to suggest one particular religion is true and the others are false. And that includes Christianity, and I’m fine with that.

To me, sending these veiled pro-Christian messages either shows an ignorance of the law or promotes exactly the kind of rabid, exclusive religiosity that is the source of...terror. You know, Terror, that thing we have all come to fear? If you want your child to be in a “religious” school, fork over the tuition dollars to send him/her there. Cuz this is America. Those who say God is not "let in" at school might want to check into the laws of the land to which they pledge their allegiance, and to use the vernacular of many of those who promote this attitude of exclusivity in America, “Love it or Leave it.”

Opera in the Moooovies

Speaking of opera, remember this scene from Philadelphia? One of my favorites from all of moviedom:

">

(Don'tcha just love youtube?!?!? What a wonderful thing on the internets!)

I've listened to this aria without Tom Hanks' character's narraration, and it wasn't as moving. It's the combination of the story (this character's story, and the story he tells us from the opera), the way the scene is shot, and the music that makes it sublime.

I've never seen an opera live. One of those things I mean to do before I meet my "morta."

New Boyfriend

Here's something that will lift your spirits. Isn't the human voice capable of making the most beautiful music, more beautiful than any manufactured instrument? Paul Potts will make you a believer. This guy just won Britain's Got Talent. I think there's a similar show here called America's Got Talent and I hope I don't have this confused with Pop Idol/American Idol or one of those other t.v. talent shows. Anyway, Mr. Potts, who works for a cell phone company and has always loved to sing, just won the competition. The way the clip is produced is a little on the cheesey side, but it has the best sound quality I could find.



I'm a sucker for beautifully sung opera. It always brings me to tears, and this was no exception. I'm no opera oficionado, but I am familiar with this aria and love it. It's from Puccini's Turandot and is called "Nessen Dorma." There's something about this man's humble demeanor that adds to the charm of his performance.

Brian Lamb just lost his spot as my boyfriend. I hope he isn't too heartbroken.

In case you're interested, here's the great Pavarotti singing the same aria.
">
Considering the years of training and professional practice Pavarotti has on him at the time of this recording, I'd say Paul Potts' performance is pdg. You?