"Things Never Happen the Same Way Twice"

Ah, it's been 2 weeks since I last posted, which might have something to do with work and a little play. Things have been tumultous in the past 2 weeks, but not necessarily bad. I turned in my first paper, had to give up going to Much Ado About Nothing, had my first Oxford style tutorial and just won a coveted ticket to Kevin Spacey's perfprmance of Richard III. Those are only the big things that have heppened, but it's still really overwhelming. The one thing I have realized is that at some point I stopped being a tourist and started taking sights and places for granted, but that also coincided with a security within the people who've surrounded me for the past month. When I wrote my first paper one of my friends edited for me. If you've never had someone edit a paper then you have no idea how much trust you need to put into that editor on many different levels. For one, they will see your greatest flaws, and you WANT them to, but you also need to trust that mechanical flaws will not be the pawns by which to judge the person. Thank god I have a friend here who can not only be my editor, but someone who encourages my self confidence. But it's not just one person who has enriched this experience for me; there are many people who have wandered into my life this summer for the first time or as re-acquaintances who have shaped this experience into a time that will be achingly painful to say good-bye to. Though reunions are already planned and re locations are in the works, and next summer is just 11 months away, we will never have this place or time ever again. Words and pixels will replace these experiences, and will be the things we rely on to bring us back during the dead of winter to the croquet only, the Momma Swans, the pre-tutorial anxieties, the kebab carts, paper topics, Purple Turtles, Macbeth, bus rides and river walks. As things begin to wind down and people's conversations move from papers to departure times I have to remind myself to take this all in and savor the days we have left with each other in this time at this place. I reminded them about this during our last high table--to take a look around at the people on the benches because this moment will never be recreated. Though this might sound dreadful to some, it is my interpretation that these fleeting moments become a part of who we are. As I've already posted somewhere in cyber space: When you get used to a place it becomes routine, and that familiarity leads to complacency, but not with the friendships that have formed. Forever thankful for the people who surround me who give me laughter and love.

"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"

Longtime the Manxome Foe He Sought

The last couple of days have been difficult, and there are probably many people who think it's foolish to feel a little homesick and out of place in such a privileged experience. Firstly, there have been increased thoughts that this class I am taking, Restoration Drama and Literature, is not just out of my comfort zone, but out of my abilities to understand. I was really looking forward to delving into Paradise Lost, but we spent about one hour on it, on the first day, and then were told that we probably won't come back to it. I spent DAYS reading that book and annotating, AND doing my own research to prep me for discussions. Oh well. Next to the plays. I have always had a very diffcult time visualizing plays that I am not familiar with, and these 5 are no exception. I looked feverishly for video productions, and was only able to find one before I left. I find that I have to read numerous summaries before I begin reading the plays, then have to go back to the summaries as I am reading, just to make sure I am on the right track. Sometimes I don't feel worthy of being here, but was reminded this morning by my gracious (and all knowing) mother that I can persevere, and that I DO deserve to be here. As I trudge through the poems for today's discussion I have to keep telling myself that learning is about needing to ask questions, and to also remind myself that I need to STOP giving into reason. Nature should be my guide, but as you all know, my mind LOVES to get the best of me, and often prohibits me from success. This is my Jabberwock, and though I know it MUST be slain, I've yet to find my vorpal sword.

The other sources of discontent come from simply being homesick. With Aaron's birthday a few days ago, my mom's surgery yesterday, and my 4th wedding anniversary tomorrow, I just feel sad and disconnected from my sources of strength. As it is so cliche, I have to say, This too, shall pass, and things will move forward in this city of spires.

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"The Devil Can Cite Scripture for His Purpose"

Much anticipation for last night's performance of Merchant of Venice in Stratford-upon-Avon, not the least of which was surrounding Patrick Stewart portraying "villain", Shylock. We had heard rumors that the play was set in present day Las Vegas, and those rumors didn't disappoint. Vegas, on many levels, seems absolutely appropriate to breathe sin into the souls of all of the players, especially Shylock--the notorious money lender (who happens to be a Jew) who demands to be repaid with a pound of Antonio's flesh if he defaults on the loan. So is where we begin--at a casino in Vegas where Bassanio and Antonio agree to ask Shylock for the money that will allow Bassanio to travel to "Belmont" in order to pursue, and woo, a wealthy heiress, Portia (Insert an Elvis impersonator, portrayed by Lancelot, crooning tunes throughout the rest of the play).

Yet we do not ever get to "Belmont", rather we travel to a stereotypical, Debutante yielding, southern town. Portia is supposedly a southern belle, with a creepy resemblance to Dolly Parton, both in appearances and speech. She and her mistress, Nerissa, are presented as talk show hostesses preparing for some type of game show that will allow Portia's suitors to compete for the chance to marry her. They look, and sound, like bimbos. And though we soon learn that this public Portia is merely a facade to protect the vulnerable and HIGHLY insecure private Portia, I have a very difficult time appreciating this artistic license. One of the reasons I always admire Portia as one of Shakespeare's greatest heroine's is due to her strength and wittiness. I could barely see a glimmer of her in this version.

There were also quite a few stereotypes that were brought to the forefront in this version, and though they subtly exist, peppered throughout the original version, these were uncomfortably evident. The only conclusion for the superficial southern belle, the incoherent Mexican, the gangster-thug-best-friend and the neanderthal-brute Prince of Morocco is to try and spread the politically incorrect stereotypes around so the play doesn't overtly drip with anti-Semitism. But the play IS anti-Semitic and in the 21st century we have to recognize that, not try to bury it beneath comic relief. Has the world learned ANYTHING about the dangers in turning someone else's suffering into laughter? And is it REALLY accurate to say that a southern belle suffers as much as a Jew? Or even MORE than a Jew? But maybe that's the point--in keeping true to Shakespeare's time, who would have cared if a Jew suffered, even the loss of his only child? (Which brings me to a brief blip about Jessica, rather, the actress who played her: She. Was. Awful.)

As I have always said about this particular play--it makes me uncomfortable to see it billed as a comedy, albeit a tragic comedy. In this version, Shylock's conversion to Christianity was painless, unemotional and inconsequential. His yarmulke was taken off his head, his tallit slid from his shoulders and he turned and walked out, with the most emotion coming from Gratiano, who violently spit at his back. The saving grace of this production was it's closing scene, which was speechless except for Elvis singing "Are You Lonely Tonight". The lights faded to blue and each character was left standing alone on the stage, whilst Portia twirled uncomfortably in the middle of them all, having only one of her 5 inch heels, weeping. That was the most powerful and tragic scene of the performance, and well worth the 3 hours leading up to it.

"I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,-

A stage, where every man must play a part;

And mine a sad one." Antonio, I.i.77-79

Experience vs. Liberty

My first day of class was yesterday afternoon--it was definitely something to write home about. The cap for the class size here is 6, with an exception for the Shakespeare page to stage class, which is 12. On the information sheet we received upon arrival, professors gave nice, detailed instructions as to when and where they'd be meeting the class. Ours simply said, " Walk past Brown's restaurant and the Catholic church and 2:00 and I'll be looking out for you" (insert furrowed brow and re-read). I intermittently asked around if anyone knew this man (just enough to seem intrigued, but not enough to come off as desperate) until finally my right-sided lunch buddy said, "Yes (pause), he's very British". I asked if he wore a monocle or used a scarf covered cane and unfortunately my hopes were dashed when he informed me that no, he merely swaddled his shoulders with rabbit fur.

So begins my anticipation of Dr. West. We've been informed that Oxford professors, or any British professor for that matter, is called a Doctor, and if we choose to refer to them as professors, we'll be quite "daft". I am not making this up, and not using these words to sound Oxfordian. It turns out Dr. West has the ability to melt the fear within all six pupils as he chatted to us about his compulsive coffee drinking, his work at "The Other College" and his admittance that this particular course is a new adventure for him as well (not to be mistaken as a newbie in any sense--he's been a teacher at Oxford and Cambridge for quite some years, yet usually focuses on Milton). Our regular meetings are usually twice a week, in his office at his "home" Oxford college. Oxford contains 39 colleges, each one focusing on a different subject matter or age level.

Today was spent studying--and vigorously trying answer the questions he posed to all of us yesterday. The one that continues to throb in my head, though, has to do with experience vs. liberty. I come back to this because I believe there might be some truth behind the claim that it is impossible to achieve ultimate liberty beneath the layers of experience. For myself, this is in the form of understanding expectations of this program and the knowledge of the difficult tasks that lie ahead of me. Academically, I cannot be fooled by Dr. West's warmness and comfort-ability--and this is not as dire as it might sound to some of you--rather, a little bit of pride that gleams with each summer successfully completed. Yet, on the other hand, a slight twinge of sadness when I begin to understand that this is not, in fact, Hogwarts. It's finding the balance between the two that will be a challenge, and that balance means the difference between living a solitary life, and one of sinful balance (insert smiley face) but if ever there was a place to seek this out, it is here.

"The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:

They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way" P.L. XII 646-49

Down the Rabbit Hole

We are here--after a frightening near miss of our plane in Boston, we made it to England on Tuesday morning around 11:00. Thanks to JetBlue's known mechanical problems on our plane at RDU, we had to make an emergency landing at JFK--20 minutes before we were scheduled to land in Boston. As the temperature in the cabin neared 100 degrees, and our leisurely layover in Boston began melting away, it became quite clear that we were going to have a problem. Thanks to my parents, who were already stationed in BOS, Delta held the gate for us, as Aaron and I rushed past security, down the long moving sidewalk and up to the terminal where we were whisked in to board. And we may have had to pay off a rental car driver to get us to the correct terminal . . .

So our adventure began, and as I sit in this cottage in Oxfordshire, it's hard to imagine that we almost didn't make it. After touring the countryside over the past three days, it's hard for me to imagine being anywhere else, ever. If you've not been here, then you must know that the contrast between the green landscape and the gray skies, flecked with a constant pulse of gold, is how most days begin and end. There is something inspirational in this weather, rather than the depressing reputation it often garners. Though my summer reading has yet to be unpacked, I've been studying this place and the people with an intensity I hope not to lose over the next 7 weeks.

I feel like I've been plonked down somewhere that looks, and sometimes feels, similar to real life, but with a very different energy. As I exited Alice's Shop in Oxford this morning, I was reminded to eat whatever says, "Eat Me", and to drink whatever says, "Drink Me", and to take my chances with the Queen of Hearts, even if it means showing up for tea with a motley crew. How else should adventures begin and end?

"I wonder if I've been changed at night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, 'Who in the world am I'? Ah, that's the great puzzle!" ---Alice

U-Turn

Ok, for all of you who I was not able to contact this week, it's about time for your last update for the summer. After arriving in Santa Fe, with Aaron and Lola, we were able to spend an entire week out there, before having to pack everything up and head back home to NC. I had some medical problems that needed to be dealt with via surgery, so my hero, and husband, packed up the car and drove the three days back with our pup, while I hopped on a plane last Monday afternoon to get this taken care of. I am OK, but was absolutely DEVASTATED that my summer in Santa Fe had to come to such an abrupt end. Still trying to reconcile it, but also understand that everything happens for a reason, and also thankful that I have such an amazing family and extended family through many of my close friends. My mom met me as I got off the plane in NC (she flew down from VT that afternoon) and scooped me up to nurse my broken body and mind back to better health.

So there you have it. My long anticipated summer has come to an end. Now I just have to figure out what to do with myself for the next 6 weeks!!!

Trip Minus 24 hours

So for all of you who wish to be updated this summer on my experiences in Santa Fe, this is the place to be. I will try to update regularly, and will begin by a pre-trip entry.

We are leaving tomorrow morning between 10-11 AM, meeting up with my roommate, Karra, outside of Burlington, NC, and heading west into Tennessee where we will find a place to stay outside of Nashville. I am nervous, but not for reasons easily explained. For one, I have been on some meds for bronchitis for a little less than a week, and the prednisone has really, seriously messed with my system. It almost simulates anxiety, which we all know is no stranger to me! I am thankful that Aaron and Lola will be my co-pilots.

Nerves are also stemming from this whole experience of reaching my destination by car, rather than by train or plane, which were my modes 5 years ago. Totally confounded, but I fear that my adoration for Santa Fe might be diminished by such un-romantic means of getting there. Will it still be as spiritual and inspirational as it was in 2005? It's a new chapter that I have to embrace. There are going to be a lot of changes from the time I spent there 5 years ago, and I do need to recognize that these things will weave themselves into my collective experiences.

Ok, wish us luck for the 1800 mile road trip ahead of us! Our plan is to be in Santa Fe by Monday afternoon!!

Will keep you posted!

Burger #2

Ok, I experimented with round one, and now I think I have a much better game plan, thanks to some lovely suggestions by you friends and family!! I ended up sauteing onions, butter, olive oil until soft, then finished it off with syrup. VERY good, especially the smokiness of the onions. It was too sweet, though, and I need it to be much less.
This time, I will keep the crumbles of cheese IN the patty (they were delicious!) but also make a cheddar-maple cheese sauce that will go over the burger. To top it off, I am making a Macintosh-Cabbage slaw (with a DAB of horseradish) and buttered/grilled Kaiser roles. The maple will also go into the slaw, as will cider vinegar to give it some tang.

I will let you know more after dinner tomorrow!! Keep the suggestions coming! The more the merrier!!!

Build a Better Burger Part 1

So I love to cook, and no, this is not an imitation of Julie Powell. Far from it. I am blogging about ONE food, one purpose: to create a winning burger for the contest Build a Better Burger. HA! I am doing this because I have been watching the competition for 6 years now, and finally, have decided that I CAN try to compete........
I have come up with a unique idea for this grilled delight: combine all of the fabulous flavors from my roots in Vermont and mash them all together with beef and stick them in between some bread . . .Tonight is my first attempt at this Frankenstein-ish creation. I went to Whole Foods, the only retailer here who sells Grafton Cheddar, and was able to snag the last 8 oz. wheel! Good start. Until I realize all of the sourdough buns/rolls are sold out, so I have to stick with plain Kaiser. Any suggestions for other yummy buns? I found my Grade B syrup, at a wicked high price, but it's cool: it's from Brattleboro! Onto radishes and apples. Too bad apples are way out of season, so I settle for two kids: Granny smith (I know, not really VT but the tang will be so good!) and a firm-enough Gala. We'll see which one works better, though I believe my Granny will win.
So far I can't get enough maple flavor into the mayonnaise spread. I added 2 T. to 1/2 C. mayo and it tastes weak.....any more would make it too sweet. Hopefully, the grated radishes will add the hint of heat I am looking for, though I may need to break down and switch to fresh horseradish. Just seems SO cliche!!! Any other Vermont-y type heat sources you can recommend?
The cheese crumbles are mixed into the meat mixture. YUM! Grill goes on in T-45 minutes. Until then, just think VERMONT!!!

Sweet Surrender

I came to school this morning with knots in my stomach. I could not eat. I was so concerned about seeing my students, my senior girls who I have had for 2 years. They were my initiation. I am their finale. I waited in front of my hallway, watching the door for these girls who have given me laughter, hope and tears. The first one came in, head in her hands, crying. I have never seen this girl not smile. I ran to her, as tears welled up in my eyes, I threw my arms around her and guided her to my room, her arms clinging to my torso, my shoulder soaked from her tears. I ushered her, along with two of her friends, into my empty room. She sat atop a desk, I sat next to her, crying, saying only that I wished I could take this pain away from her; I cannot, so tell me what you need. After ten minutes I had six more of my girls in my room. I made some phone calls, pulled some strings . . . Some simply came to me. They were silent with tears for thirty minutes. I hugged them all, tightly, and told them how sorry I was, and how precious it is that they are here, together, to grieve and support.
Then I asked them if they thought about what their names would be when they married. Laughter. Precious, precious laughter. And questions. And more tears.
What would they do for graduation in memory of A? Ah, someone wanted to let out balloons. No, no. If they pop, birds will eat them and die. No surprise. They all laughed. Hippie Kinzie. Always thinking about the little animals and the environment!
Ok, how about butterflies? We can order them. Um, really? They all looked at me, what? What is wrong with this? Well, when you get them, most of them are usually dead.
What, pray tell, is your suggestion?
Thank god, I thought you would never ASK! Much laughter.
Flower petals. Flower petals on the football field.
Fabulous. We are all appeased!
Now, they need something constructive. PLANT A TREE! YES! Perfect. Survey the scene. Here is the perfect spot. A cherry tree . . . No, NOT a weeping willow. With a bench underneath it.
They were talking about me on Friday. They decided I was the one to go to if there was any problem. Love my "mediocre hippie style" . . . and what on earth does 'wicked' mean, anyway? More tears and laughter. Still no answers for them. But I surrendered to this beauty.
Tomorrow is the funeral. Things are not going to be easier tomorrow. If only I could have them for four hours again tomorrow . . .
There is no protection I can give to them. No answers that will make them sleep at night. Teaching is about learning, especially learning how to let go--and then turn around and embrace. If you offered me hundreds of thousands of dollars to quit this job, I would not.
Think about that--and ask yourself if you are willing to surrender.

Forever Young

Tragedy has struck my school this weekend. One of our seniors was killed in a car accident on Saturday night . . . struck by a car driven by three other of my students. They said she was killed instantly. She was the passenger in a car driven by another student. Five lives in all have been ruined. One has ended.
Today we have a scheduled teacher workday; there are no students at school. It's raining. I am sitting at my desk looking at the 30 empty desks staggered on my ugly carpet and I wonder why this has happened. Of course you will all say there is no reason. I know that. As a teacher, who does not have children of my own, my goal is to protect my students from pain. I have no control over this. As I wipe my swollen, sore eyes in anticipation for tomorrow I can only hope that this will bring out the best in this community, not vengeful rumors and blame.
They are already blaming themselves. And there are already rumors. Some were drinking. Refused a breathalizer. The car was going 70 mph. She never had a chance.
Tomorrow will be the most difficult day I have ever had. The living must go on living. Tomorrow's essential question will never be answered.

Toolboxes

I have read Elie Wiesel's memoir of the Holocaust, Night, approximately ten times. Each time I read it with my classes I have to stop a little bit earlier than the time before. Each time I read it tears well up in chapters 3, 6 and 8. Each time I see something within this man that pushes me to my utmost limits as a human being. This time I decided not to remain idle any longer.
I have taken my liberties with my English classes and have been questioned about my motives. I show Hotel Rwanda after reading Wiesel's memoir; I show the documentary Ghosts of Rwanda; I keep on my board the legal definition of genocide, as defined by the Genocide Convention from 1948. Often times my class feels more like social studies. But it is all worth it. I believe we cannot study Night without following through with Wiesel's message to promote zero tolerance when it comes to genocide. I would not be doing my job as an English teacher if I gave my students one piece of the puzzle, and I have been brought up to not expect someone else to do my job for me. This has led to the most profound moments of my life; even as I write this my eyes are watering and I have chills.
When my tenth grade students came to me in January they had not learned the term 'genocide'. They had never heard of Rwanda. They knew very little of the Holocaust. Darfur was a new 'concept'.
I now have 36 letters written to the Secretary General of the United Nations urging him to do whatever it takes to stop the genocide in Darfur. I also have 36 toolboxes. This was the task I gave to my students:
To create a REAL, tangible toolbox that will help you recognize where you can make change and will help you to make that change in regards to the acceptance of difference and the elimination of difference.
Many different things can go in your toolbox and there are a number of questions that you need to consider in the creation of your toolbox.

* Where do I have the power to make real change?
* Who is in my universe of obligation?
* What will I need in my toolbox to sustain me when this work gets hard?
* What will I have in my toolbox that will help me to remember why this work is necessary?
* What do I have in my toolbox as far as a ‘difference alarm,’ to wake me up when I need to do the work?
The toolbox itself needed to be symbolic of their quest for change. With each object they used they had to also write a short description about HOW it would be used and it's purpose. Let me share with you a few things that are surrounding me at this moment. Try to keep dry eyes. I certainly cannot.
Antibiotic Ointment: to keep infectious ideas about genocide from spreading.
Permanent Marker: to help people understand we need to permanently eradicate genocide.
Megaphone: so people cannot say they could not hear the genocide victims asking for help.
Glue: so people will stick to the promises they make, including the countries who ratified the Genocide Treaty but who have yet to acknowledge Darfur.
Vile of Ashes: to represent lives and humanity lost during genocide.
Night Vision Goggles: to allow you to see the truth about genocide while the rest of the world is kept in the dark.
Puzzle pieces: if a few pieces of the puzzle are missing then the puzzle as a whole is worthless, just as the world. If a few places in the world are forgotten about the rest of the world should feel worthless.
History Book: to remind people about the past so we can learn from our mistakes.
Paper Clips: for people who are discriminated against to stick together and make their voices heard to change people's views.
Rubber Band: to remind people to be flexible
Aluminum: so when people cover up these horrors they can see their reflection of ignorance staring back at them.
Screws: represent a STRONG solution to end genocide. What will endure longer? A house put together with tape, or one built with screws?
Door Stopper: to remind us never to close the door on countries who need our help.
A Chicken: to remind us that backing down from difficult situations is cowardly. Also, to remind us that it IS ok to back down from bullies who will try to persuade the world otherwise.
Q-Tips: so people can clean out their ears to hear clearly what is happening.
Eyeglasses with Wipes: to see the reality of how cruel our present world is by seeing clearly. If they get grimy, clean them with the wipes.
Mirror: to allow you to see yourself clearly and the power that you have.
Candle: to illuminate parts of the world that need light shed on them.
Bar of Soap: to cleanse the world of hateful thoughts.
A Net: to capture people's attention
Band Aids: to allow those who are hurt a chance to heal
Microphone: to give to people whose cries for help are not being heard.
Compass: to guide us back on the path of zero tolerance when we lose our way.
Pencil and Paper: documentation.
A Clock: so people realize that time is running out.
Energy Drink: so the world wakes up to what is happening.

These are just a few of the hundreds of objects my students have chosen to put in their toolboxes. I am beyond humbled. The last part of this project was a formal letter, as I mentioned above. More than anything, I want these students to be recognized for their work and compassion. They want to know if the UN will respond. I cannot tell them they will. I only hope that they realize their power to make a difference. Without acknowledgement, that might be difficult. I will end this with what I will put in my toolbox, and an excerpt from a letter written by one of my 10th grade students. I also will encourage you to make your own toolbox, and USE it.
Poisonwood Bible: to remind me how dangerous it is to preach my beliefs
Picture of the Dalai Lama: reminder that kindness is just as infectious as hatred and oppression CAN be overcome.
Picture of my sister: reminding me that one person can make a difference
Coffee: to keep me going when I want to give up; also acts as a wake up call for the rest of the world.
Bleach: to disinfect the world of discrimination
Seeds: to plant change wherever I go

Here's an excerpt from a letter. Read it, then go write your own.
When the Holocaust ended in 1945 people all around the world were ashamed that a country could get away with killing millions of people with no one stepping in. Many promised that "never again" would such a terrible thing occur. What many of those people do not realize is that 400,000 people have already been killed in Darfur, and 2.5 million people have been displaced. Up until a few weeks ago I myself had never even heard about Darfur, and the genocide has been going on for over 5 years. I understand the United Nations if doing certain things to help, but I am convinced that more must be done to end this genocide.
The UN must continue to send troops to Darfur and the refugee camps. Furthermore, we in the United States must do whatever we can to get other countries involved. The UN must educate more countries about what is going on and remind them to honor the Genocide Treaty. 139 countries ratified the Treaty, and I know if all of those countries come together we will have more than enough resources to help one country . . . It is your responsibility to ensure these countries take necessary action at any cost . . .One thing is for certain: pretending there is nothing more that we can do is not an option.

Desolate Beauty

I was in Phoenix last weekend with my cousin, visiting our ailing grandmother. I came in from the east, K came in from the west and we met up for one of the best weekends I have had in years. Between hospitals visits, a full day of rain and a lingering flu-like sickness for K, we managed to laugh and reminisce and come into our grown-up selves. Though gma continued to call us kids and apologize each time, we would simply smile and tell her we are always going to be "kids" in her eyes. K and I tempered gma's needs and ailments with short outings, mostly to the local Starbucks and grocer, but once on a leisurely stroll among the neighborhood. While walking K pointed out that she found the desert landscape to be "desperate", and quite unpleasant to be surrounded by. Though she has found beauty and inspiration in the cactus which thrive, there was something about the desert that seemed to drain the beauty out of everything else within it. K is an artist of the highest caliber, and her work is absolutely stunning. One of my most favorite pieces she created was in fact based on one of these prodigal cactus': a yellow background with retro-esque "bursts" of green. And by the way, this is fabric K is creating. You roll your fingers over her "landscape" and they tumble from cool and smooth to an almost prickly softness within the green. It has been years since I have seen or felt this piece, but this is what I remember. And the beauty of it can never be adequately preserved by words. This revelation that K found her inspiration's surroundings to be desperate was not entirely shocking to me. I completely understand where she is coming from. The conversation continued with me telling her how mystical Santa Fe is, though very different from Phoenix, the beauty and inspiration stems from similar landscapes. Later, she thought she may of offended me with her statements about the desert and I told her absolutely not. In fact, many people feel the same way as K does and it's not offensive at all, though it absolutely made me ponder my love for such an empty space. These are my thoughts upon further consideration, though to be honest, I still wonder WHY I keep such a strong connection to a place I have spent so little time.
The desperation on the outset is in fact an oasis for incredible, mysterious life that would never survive in the abundance of water and temperate climates. The sunsets are magnificent due to the lack of trees marring the skyline and soaking up it's rays. The mountains do not resonate greens and reds and oranges in the fall; instead they act as mirrors, reflecting the purity of the sunrises and sunsets. When it rains the ground does not remain damp. You can almost see the moisture evaporate back into the atmosphere and the cactus drink only what they need. It's a lesson in survival and primitive spirituality. The vast landscapes of our deserts are often peppered with shrubs, giving off an illusion of life that is unlike any other desert in the world. Native Americans have suffered on these lands, yet they anticipate each day by reading the signs of this mysterious landscape. They have forged their way through the unwelcoming temperatures and spines of growth and found the beauty hidden beneath the surface in the shades of turquoise and silver. The inspiration I find there is simply in the pure frankness of what it is. In many ways I find the desert indicative of my own search within me for peace and beauty. It forces me to take nothing for granted in terms of survival, which is why the apricot trees, sage brush and coyotes are completely enticing to me. The inspiration of the cactus will continue to tingle within K, and the rest of you should only hope to find your own desolate beauty that inspires as much talent as K has. Good luck.

Oh Chicago

So I am having my students write about one of their most memorable moments, and I decided to read them this tomorrow . . . . I think they will be baffled, and if there are swears in it, no problem, I will omit them . . . More to come on their moments, at this point I am humbled by their experiences . . .

Chicago’s Union Station is filled with food vendors, bars and newsstands but not a single book that has been written by anyone other than Danielle Steele and contemporaries. My twelve-hour layover looked daunting without the prospect of a nearby bookstore. I asked all sorts of Chicagoans if they could point me to a bookstore within walking distance, and with wrinkled brows and shaking heads they all gave me the terrible news. In the heart of one of the most prosperous and active cities, there was no bookstore to be found!
I sulked away, defeated, tired and angry and I wondered how I could incorporate the latest issue of People Magazine or Cosmopolitan into my thesis on Short stories. The irony of the situation was tearing me apart! I had twelve, full, uninterrupted hours, with no looming obligations or friendly distractions to potentially work on my study. Although I had a lap top, writing was out of the question due to my exhaustion and complete lack of creativity. I settled on drowning my sorrows in comfort food from McDonalds.
There’s nothing like a Big Mac and French fries to console you through the blues, but when I scanned my seating options I realized I would have to share my space with a stranger. After spending the past 24 hours with strangers giving me cannibalistic stares in Amtrak’s smoking car and harassing me for the last bottle of white zinfandel on board, the last thing I wanted to do was interact with another stranger. Before I had time to contemplate my options I was shoved into a table by a man who was more eager than I to acquire his Big Mac. The occupant was a guy in a suit and trench coat and as I repositioned myself so I was not sitting on the table, I gave him a sheepish grin before I plopped myself down next to his chicken tenders.
He smiled and said, “Hi!” but I turned away from him and proceeded to stuff my face. I was on my third bite when I heard a buddy from the train say, “Hey! Did you find a bookstore yet?” I looked up, wiping the Special Sauce from the corners of my mouth, and shook my head. “No. And I am fucking all set with The Windy City. Intellectual my ass!” Chicken Tenders stopped mid bite and my train buddy held a fry suspended in the air. I have GOT to work on that inside voice I thought, and then proceeded to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s just that I am stuck in this train station and I really wanted to find a bookstore and there doesn’t seem to be one anywhere near here.”
The conversation that followed was a positive example of why it pays to let your inside voice squeak out now and then. Chicken Tenders drew me a map on a napkin and explained where the closest bookstore was. Within the next ten minutes I was standing in the Sears Tower in a local bookstore holding three collections of short stories! I stood in the fiction section and breathed in the woody smell of paper and ink. I ran my fingers over the glossy spines of paperbacks and the rough jackets of the newest releases. I listened as the clerk answered the phone and graciously explained to a customer that although they did not currently have it in stock, he would be happy to order it and she could pick it up in two days.
I realized then, that I was standing in the tallest building in North America with no desire to tour the observation deck or buy souvenir key chains and shot glasses; I was tingling with ecstasy as I read the index cards scribbled with staff persuasions beneath their favorite books. On the second floor of the Sears Tower, in a room the size of my country kitchen, I viewed the skyline of the city through the titles of the books.
Joyce Carol Oates and Alice Walker glistened with familiarity; Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf glowed with compassion from their ranks on the shelves; Stephen King nodded a New Englander’s welcome while Chris Bojalian flashed his Vermont signature on the front table. My rising anxiety had been completely halted with this unlikely source of comfort.
I paid for my three books and asked the clerk if he had any Annie Proulx stories. He told me that her new volume of Wyoming shorts was on its way and asked me if I would like to reserve one for pick up later that week. I hesitated, with an unexplainable longing to say “Yes”, realizing that this enormous metropolis was only as big as its smallest bookstore. I wished that my twelve hours in Chicago would not pass so quickly. “No. No thank you, I’m only here for a few more hours.”
Maybe the clerk heard the disappointment in my voice and suspected it was because Annie Proulx wasn’t in yet. Or maybe he could sense the real disappointment, like having to leave an old friend you have just met. Or perhaps he was simply treating me like any other local customer who comes in. Regardless, he allowed me a few more minutes of bliss by asking about the stories I chose.
“Hey, that one you have by Brockmeier,” he said pointing to the green paperback in my hand, Ait=s really good. Not super well known yet, but he=s won some O. Henry’s. Did you read the staff pick on it? I looked at the book and tried to come up with a more intelligent answer than, “Um, no. I just looked at the cover and liked it.” Before I could answer he was walking toward a shelf, pointing at an index card. “Check it out if you want. I wrote it.” He walked away, back to his register, while I stood staring at his recommendation. It’s really not that big of a place after all. I whispered to myself.

And the Dream Becomes a Reality

When was the last time you asked yourself, or those around you, if Martin Luther King, Jr's speech had succeeded in becoming more than words? Maybe you take it for granted, as I usually do, that segregation is simply a word in our history books that is defined by more words. Sure there are stories that make the news every so often of hate crimes and stubborn individuals, but haven't there always been those stories since the beginning of our existence? The things which do not make the news are the unions that happen each day, the bridges which are built by small, nondescript interactions in the lunch rooms and classrooms of this country. When I asked my students to write what their favorite parts of English class were, and then their least favorites, during their final day with me this Monday, the answers I received were not surprising. Some enjoyed reading, some hated writing, some loved the movies and many of them liked making "new" friends. Huh. Really, new friends as established juniors in high school? I scanned my room at the formed groups among computers and what I saw actually took my breath away. These were the same groups of students I have had for 90 days, and most of them I taught last year, so we can count them up and say I've had them for 180 . . . . I saw my Latino soccer star at a round table with 3 self declared "rednecks"; two black Gospel singers looking up music with my KKK history buff (not a supporter); my football superstar, with a nickname of "Tank", quietly drumming a desk while listening to stories told by an Exceptional Student, who's been outcast by his peers as a total "loser". These relationships had been forming since August, yet I was oblivious to their formations! But I think that's the whole point. These are not forced interactions and they are not Kumbaya circles responding to themes from To Kill a Mockingbird. These are teenagers, who will inevitably become adults in our world very shortly. Do they still see the difference in skin color? Absolutely. Don't you? Do they have opinions about immigration? You bet. But they are inadvertently closing the gaps between basic human needs and the human condition. There will always be discrepancies within our society and unfair treatment among our peers, but these relationships are not the ones worth paying attention to. The relationships to focus on in this new year are the ones which are brewing all around us; the ones which will not be on the news. Focus, instead, on the people sitting behind you at a restaurant and the consumers at your grocery store and the students at your schools and be in awe at how far we have come, even in the whisper of 90 days.

"I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood."

A Timid Embrace

As I embark on my final week with my American Literature classes, or I should say one last day, I look back on this semester and wonder how on earth I will be able to transition back to my world literature mentality. World lit was my catapult into the teaching world, and somewhat of a security blanket, though I do not describe this leap as a secure prospect. I have grown to love my classes this year, in large part due to my familiarity of faces and attitudes. ( I taught about 90% of them last year) I cannot say for certain they feel the same way about me, and they do not have to in order for me to be successful. I am leaving behind more than just attitudes; I leave behind the safety of Harper Lee and John Steinbeck . . . the authors who have already gone through their banishments and ignorance, and the crackles under 451 degrees. Last year I didn't know any better as I ventured into Night and Things Fall Apart. Sometimes ignorance is truly blissful with these things. As I look at my rosters with unfamiliar names I wonder how they will react to my veteran philosophies. And yes, I think I can call myself a veteran at this point. Will I be able to finally read Elie Wiesel's chapter 9 aloud? Will Oedipus Rex be left by the wayside to writing scores and contemporary affairs? The bottom line is this: do I still have it in me, yes after JUST one year, to rally these students who have been abandoned in this "holding pen" by people who make the rules and pay my salary?
Will I be able to endure another child coming to school with a black eye and broken spirit? Change, as we all know, is inevitable. Lately I wonder how much change I am able to support. Does it really matter that we no longer have an AP and out superintendant is an intern? Can it get any worse than this?
After many sleepless nights the answer to all of these questions is YES. I can endure, and things can get much worse, especially for my students. I have a student who can barely read and his handwriting looks more like a first graders than an eleventh. He has been mine for the past two years, first in English 2, now in English 3. As we were finishing our last novel, Barbara Kingsovler's The Bean Trees, I realized he would not be able to do the group readings I had scheduled for the last 5 chapters. In fact, he had barely followed along for the entire book, so what good would it be now to have him struggle with the ending? I asked him to get a computer, to look some things up for me. Although his reading and writing skills are very low, his moral and comprehensive skills are higher than most of his classmates. "K, would you please look up the backgound information of all the presidential candidates? I am curious to see what you find out." K's eyes light up immediately. His passion is history, and can recite all of the supreme court justices in our history. He has said to me before, as we read TKAM, that he thinks it's a shame when so many people focus on the "evil" white people during segregation, that people need to know more about Atticus Finch than the KKK. This student happens to be black. He wants to know if I agree, then wants to know if I think Obama's campaign will turn into a race against black and white. He has the most faith in the people of this country, and those figures who made it so great in the first place. Then he asks me how to get into law school, and if I think it's easier to get a PhD. or a degree in law. I shake my head in disbelief at my colleagues who toss him into the "retarded holding pen". I tell him to make his own decision based on the information he's found, but not before he lets me know the NAACP was founded in 1906.
Then I look at him and let him know I will also be his teacher next year, for English 4. Is it worth it? Yes. Can I go back to roots and move forward at the same time? Absolutely. I think the supreme court justices teach us that on a daily basis . . . at least they teach some very impressionable students.

What Would Frost Do?

It is with much sorrow that I have to accept my denial to study at Oxford this summer. The news came by post and fell into my hands like the scorching letter 'A'. My initial reaction was one of embarrassment, as I had configured a fantastical tour of London and the Abbey's with my closest friends and family. I still have not informed them of this defeat. My hope is they will forgive my premature planning and move on as if Oxford was never an option. The next stage was one of introspective reasoning. Where has my desire to write among pioneers of such a luxurious language led me? Am I to be relinquished among the doubts and insecurities, which plague English teachers, for the rest of my career? The apricot trees in Santa Fe mesmerized my imagination and I have been longing for the Tudor ceiling beams in desperate hopes of rekindling my love affair with words. The question that I am struggling with is the very same question I asked my sister only a couple of weeks ago: "What defines you?" I have to swallow my own response and say that this decision cannot define me. The things which define me are around me on a daily basis, and a passport will not add to that definition. I will be spending my summer in Vermont, at the flagship campus on which Robert Frost professed his admiration for the students. The golden buildings that rise out of the sparkling snow in February will be my home. Though I have yet to see them among the spouting grass in summer, I cannot think my father was wrong when he detoured our drive to Burlington to let me know what future could be awaiting me. Tudors will have to wait, for now, as I begin this new affair with the history of Bread Loaf among the whispers of Seamus Heany and the camaraderie of Frost enthusiasts. Each semester I begin my classes with a reading of "The Road Not Taken"; this poem has sentimental meaning to many readers, yet mine comes from my own father's recitation of it during my bleakest moment. "Honor" is not what I feel as I accept my post among the brilliant landscape in Vermont, which is only accessible from the back roads. I am humbled and ecstatic, with the knowledge that my father would never steer me in the wrong direction.

Amtrak Romance

I am in need of a good romance, and here is the best one I wrote. I am hungry for travel, can you tell?


Finally, you have shown your majesty! I have been waiting for you since last night, as I tried to appease my longing by playing childish games with the Prairies. My only solace was knowing that you had no choice but to come; it was only a question of daylight, as I prayed you would not be shrouded by the darkness that can be so cruel and unforgiving to your countenance.
I am shocked by the smoothness of your face up-close. Ha! And you have fooled us all! Hardly a blemish, though you must be guarding your past within the lines that run deep within your surface.
The snow is trying, desperately at times, to cover your amber rocks and prickly vegetation. But you know, it is too early just yet to allow these to slumber.
There’s a tiny, frozen pond, guarded by Spruce, that has sealed its surface with ice from the migrating birds for the season. Unlike the soil, it cannot wait any longer to sleep.

Your city is below us, so far that the skyscrapers look like toothpicks rising out of your base. The sky is clear, but it only gets bluer as we ascend.


A barbed wire fence warns of a ranch, but the only signs of life are the grey, bristly plants that have no interest in admiration.

Every so often we glide through a tunnel and your jagged, blasted walls make me thankful for your graciousness. You may threaten a collapse, but maybe only to those who are unworthy. The locomotive cracks and creaks around your curves, careful to respect your temperamental invitation. As I peer over your side I wonder how many you have thrown off before us in their vain attempts to speed. In all of our greed you have allowed us passage for a price that some think is too steep. You have forbidden us to travel through you, unnoticed. After all these years it is finally clear to me who is the Jester and who is the Queen.

As we bend through a tunnel my head begins to feel your massive height. Maybe my brain is going to explode out of my ears, or maybe that’s just how it feels. When we leave the darkness of this manmade womb, I am greeted by your pines and snow that have conquered the beautiful shades of orange and your scraggly shrubs. It is the only life form fit enough for your summit.
But wait!
Footprints in the snow uncover the sacred hiding place of the elusive cat!
What are you hiding up here?
A creature so misunderstood within our civilization that it can only find sanctuary on your highest peak. You are what myths are made of!
Where lines and cracks once were, the pines have revealed their unsurpassed omnipotence. They thrive on the absence of oxygen, their height towering above their cousins down below. They taunt the greedy consumer, though you have protected them with your impassible terrain.

Far ahead of us looms the snowy peaks of your siblings. They soar so far into the blue that I mistook them for clouds! What a fool I am to think a cloud would dare blemish this scene!
There is a foreign rumbling coming from the earth, and at first I mistake it as a grumbling coming from you.
Then it’s source sheepishly reveals itself; a freight muscles past us and for a moment I am shaken from this romance. But it doesn’t take me long to realize that the slow, lumbering cars filled with coal have a way with seduction, and the passion continues.
They told me of the Bald Eagles and coyotes. They said you hid them well but often exposed them as a reminder of your glory. You must have outsmarted me this time, as I press my head against the glass, eager to see my kindred spirit, but your trees are guarding them well. You have this way of taunting me, but I will be back.
I see you have finally allowed the water to flow from your peak! After years of turmoil between you and the river, it looks like you have given into your ego and allowed her to cleave smoothness into your roughness. She allows you to have life and as she carves her way deeper into your core she exposes more and more of your guarded wisdom. I can see that it has taken you years to cooperate, and with all due respect, I think she is more powerful than you.

Sadly, I see our affair is coming to an amicable end. Pavement is visible and residents are threatening our privacy. Power lines are beginning to bully their way into our secret and I think some are becoming suspicious of us. As the pines start welcoming the leafless tress back to their neighborhood, and the rocks become slippery with moss, our time is quickly running out. So I bid you farewell, but find comfort in the fact that we will meet again. Not to worry, your beauty will not be marred by disrespect or greed; you have proven yourself stronger than that. As the light creeps further west, your face resigns itself to youth and I will bow out gracefully, thankful that the desert is on its way.

Long Live the Headmaster

There are three things I hate arguing about: politics, religion and sexuality. These are personal, fiercely personal, yet somehow people think it's alright to tell others what is right and wrong. We have all been there and experienced ignorant busy bodies. That's why this might come as a shock to most of you when I tell you how sad I am about Ms. Rowling's outing of her dear headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. When I saw it on the front page of The Post this morning, I thought I was reading a page out of The Enquirer. As all of you know me, I am a staunch supporter of equality across the board, especially when it comes to sexual preferences. I am not upset that Dubledore is gay, I am upset that Rowling outed him. Absolutely against his wishes. Dear J.K., even though the ink has dried on this epic masterpiece, the magic of Hogwarts and it's inhabitants is still very real to us loyalists. You awakened more than just imaginations and belief in pixie dust; it was hope for a more accepting and equal world. I am dreading reading the backlash of this mistake. For once, I might agree with some of the critics, but not because I am a bigot or a closed minded bible thumper. I need to ask why this was even an issue, and how it will affect the most real gay community. In a world that can be so permeated with hatred it was refreshing to literally become lost within the pages of this fantasy for the past seven years. I fear for the legacy of Hogwarts, especially for Dumbledore. I now agree with my sister, who thought that Rowling's portrayal in book seven of the wizard was pathetic. By the end, he was a sniveling excuse of a soul, who took his lifelong accomplishments and used them as excuses for self pity. She was right. And if Rowling intended this outing all along, then shame on her. His final moments should have been filled with triumph and personal acceptance. The backlash of this realization is going to be devastating for many of us. Our biggest fears are yet to be realized, but thanks to Rowling, our enemies are again, armed with ignorant shrapnel. For my part, I am going to petition to Time Magazine, and offer Dumbledore a chance at the Man of the Year title. There are no wizards who can fix this, not even with the most powerful Patronus. The only ones who have the power to change this are the muggles, and I, for one, definitely need a refresher in the Defense Against the Dark Arts. Who's with me? I will begin in Parliament this summer . . . .

Formative Observations-Final Chapter

I went back to my classroom after walking in the rain (it hasn't rained here in about 3 weeks) and sat at my desk in the back of my room. The students were watching the movie, thankfully unable to see my frizzy hair and red hot face. I watched the sillouettes of 27 students; each one was fixated in the 1982 version of George and Lennie and not one head was on the desk. Maybe you remember what Friday afternoons were like 15 minutes before the release bell, and if you don't I can only tell you that I began to cry, again, at this sight. I relieved my wonderful E.C. inclusion teacher, who had so graciously let me take a soggy walk. I dismissed my students with little words, and the lights still dimmed, shut my door and prepared to call the AP postponing our standard observation debriefing until Monday. When there was no answer in his office I decided to just take my things and leave him a note, hoping he would understand my need for a two day debriefing of my own. Unfortunately, when I opened my door, he was standing there talking to the music man so I would have to tell him in person. He is a tough nut to crack, to say the very least. In the year I have worked with him I have had little contact with him. Mostly, this is from my own intimidation of people who do not show emotion. It brings me back to a phrase my brother coined when we were young, looking at our father and trying to figure out if he was going to get spanked or laughed at. "Are your eyes smiling, daddy?" When I am in a situation where I cannot read a person's body language or facial expressions, I often repeat that phrase in my head until I leave the room. Unfortunately, there are rarely times when said person erupts in laughter, as my father did.
Looking at AP I could only hope that his "eyes were smiling" and he understood my emotional outburst in his office leading to my abrupt departure. "You cannot take anything personally". I do believe this is the slogan HR uses to hire fresh meat. I walked up to AP and immediately apologized for leaving his office during confrontation with student. He stared at me for about 2 seconds before saying, "Ok, let's go up and discuss your observation." I had a very long walk ahead of me and I did the only thing I really know how to do well: I started talking. Walking next to him as students pressured the drink machines and cheerleaders warmed up, I told him how I felt. This is roughly how it went: I love this job and the students and I know I shouldn't take things personally but sometimes, when you bend over backwards and put your life into seven hours, five days a week, and sacrifice family and friends and money and you watch your defeats and cheer your victories and live and breathe these hallways and their goals and affinity for Lennie and then you have the ones who you put even more into, if that is possible, and they come around and sock you so hard in the gut, where your heart is always, and I wonder what on earth am I doing?
It was now my position on his couch and as I waited and took lots of breaths he looked at me and nodded, then smiled, and told me it was all a part of this twisted life of teaching. Betrayals and passions and failures and, of course, those victories. I wondered how he had channeled my parents as I sat there feeling like I was looking at Bread Loaf for the first time. Or listening to "The Boxer" as my sister sat on the other end of the line. And before I knew it I was signing my Formative Observation Data Analysis thanking him for a wonderful beginning to my weekend.
Sometimes the formal observations are most telling in the informality of our lives and our weaknesses. Or strengths, depending on how you look at things.