A few months ago, I did a post (entitled "I'm Falling out of Love") about how I'd read a new book by one of my favorite authors and hated it. I wrote really really mean things about the book, so mean that I'm not even linking to the post, and wondered "What if stupid Wando Passo has ruined David Payne for me forever? What if I've fallen out of love?" I clicked "Publish Post" and thought no more of David Payne.
Until my friend Meaghan, who I work with at a bookstore during the summers and who had scheduled David Payne for a book signing, forwarded me an email he'd sent to her that said (I'm paraphrasing here) "Are you the Megan of the By & By blog? If so, we should probably cancel the event. PS I'm sorry you didn't like the book." (David Payne probably doesn't say 'PS,' but I do.) Poor Meaghan straightened things out with Mr. Payne, but she did have to admit that the Megan of the By & By blog was one of her seasonal employees (since I had mentioned both her and her bookstore in the post) and apologize for my being such a shrieking hateful harpy.
Although I would have liked Mr. Payne to sign my tattered copies of his four other books, I thought it best not to attend the signing event a few weeks ago. Meaghan said it had gone well, and that, I thought, was that. Not so.
When I reported for my first day of work this morning a smiling Meaghan held out a copy of Back to Wando Passo and said, "David Payne left you a present." Confused and contrite, I said, "But I already have a copy. . .and I didn't even like it." "Look inside," she responded, almost giggling. So I looked inside, where I found this inscription:
I have read a couple of letters to the editor recently from people who complain. I only have one thing I am tired of, and that is complaining. Don't people have enough in their lives to fulfill them? Life is too short to live it in negativity.
Webster's dictionary defines democracy as government by the people, especially the rule of the majority.
A rule by the majority means just that. The majority in the United States have voted and their votes determine the rules. A few people believe their opinions should outweigh the majority.
If you want to change the way things are done, do it through your congressmen. Write letters to those who make the decisions.
Make your voice heard through the proper channels rather than complaining and trying to impose your opinions on the majority. Go to the polls and vote for people who you believe will see your side.
--Shirley, Virginia Beach
To Shirley:
I've failed a grand total of nine students in my seven years of teaching, but you would not have passed my 12th-grade Government course with your rudimentary understanding of representative democracy and how it actually works in America. When faced with this freebie of a final exam question
In the context of American democracy, explain what Larry Flynt meant when he said, "Majority rule only works if you're also considering individual rights. Because you can't have five wolves and one sheep voting on what to have for supper."
you would have been unable to discuss our Founding Fathers' fears of a tyranny of the majority or the safeguards they built into the Constitution to prevent such tyranny from arising.
As for effecting change in our current political system by writing letters to our elected representatives or by voting for people who will actually represent our views, gimmee a fuckin' break, Pollyanna. It costs a lot of money to get elected to public office, and our office-holders are responsive to the interests of their donors, not their constituents. I hate to complain, but whenever I write a letter to either of my senators, I get a polite response thanking me for my input and explaining why I am wrong. So much for representative democracy.
Dissent -- or as you call it, complaining -- is the foundation of any healthy democratic system, as the citizens in a democracy share a responsibility for keeping their government in line. The fact that most Americans see democracy as nothing more than voting and occasional letter-writing is precisely what is wrong with American democracy.
But don't take my word for it. Thomas Jefferson, who we haven't heard from in a while, liked "to see the people awake and alert" and wrote that "the spirit of resistance to government is so valuable on certain occasions, that I wish it to be always kept alive." He, like many modern-day complainers, maintained that "dissent is the highest form of patriotism"
Which more or less translates to, "Bite me, Shirley."
Today I went to the mall, where I managed not to A) be accosted by panhandlers or B) buy anything. I did, however, see this oddity in the parking garage:
truck reads: TEAM BRING IT
Finally The Rock Comes Back To Virginia Beach
YOU SICK FREAK (x2)
Layin the Smacketh Downeth
Then I went to Target, where I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but where I did buy some sweet camouflage gauchos. Thus far, I have not gotten into the camo trend or the gaucho trend, but there they were --$9.99 -- and I thought "why not kill two birds with one stone." As a result of these magnificant pants, I now heart both camouflage and gauchos. You'd have to be a pretty sick freak not to.
If you, like me, are prone to both insomnia and obsessive thoughts (coupled, of course, with compulsive behaviors), it is not a good idea to search the National Sex Offender Public Registry for nearby sex offenders just before going to bed. Because you will find them. 73 of them, in fact. And then you will lie awake for most of the night thinking about the bad things they did and wondering whether the doors were really locked the last time you got up to make sure the doors were still locked.
"You're usually even-steven. (yes) Today, there's a temptation to inappropriately vent stress and mistakenly call it 'passion' when it should be called 'temper tantrum.' (huh? I've been on vacation for over a week, so I'm pretty not-stressed. Plus I'm not really the temper tantrum type) You can avoid frustration through exercise." (uh-oh)
I totally fucked that one up. I woke up at 1:26 pm and languished in bed for another half an hour (it was raining, which for some reason always frees me of any obligation to be productive. Plus I'd already slept till 1:30 in the afternoon!). Then I spent pretty much the rest of the day lying on the couch reading. The closest I came to exercising was walking down a flight of stairs to take the trash out. I felt exactly zero temptation to throw a temper tantrum.
Shows how much you know, Holiday Mathis (the horoscope lady).
I'm flattered by the attention, I really am, but it's getting weird. I mean, I'm thirty. And I look like I'm twenty. I routinely get carded not just for alcohol but also for cigarettes (in a state where the smoking age is 18). Last month a clueless colleague even asked me for my hall pass.
I'm sure you're all very nice people, but what in the world makes you think that a 20-year-old girl -- or even a 30-year-old girl -- would want to go out with you? You're old.
If you drove a fancy car and seemed to have all sorts of money, you could probably find some younger women who would date you for that alone, but I'm not really the sugar daddy type, and most of you seem to be more sketchy than wealthy. Some of you, judging by the diamond-encrusted bits of gaudiness on your left hands, are even married, and I'm so not a home-wrecking kind a girl.
I know you think it's sweet and chivalrous to approach complete stangers and offer to demonstrate your culinary prowess by cooking them dinner or to bestow upon them the handful of seashells you've collected while casually strolling back and forth in front of them, but it's not. It's creepy.
Please stop. Just admire me from afar.* Or better yet, find a nearby non-sketchy man in his 30s and enourage him to hit on me. That would be a refreshing change of pace.
*For those who don't know me personally, rest assured that the "just admire me from afar" bit was a joke. Those who do know me personally know that I would never actually say anything like that. And I'm not exactly beating off the paparazzi.
The grocery situation at my house can only be described as dire. I can't remember the last time I bought groceries in anticipation of actually eating a meal in my own home. Over the last week I can recall at least five trips to various wine shops and only one trip to a grocery store -- to purchase a frozen pizza.
I actually really love to cook. If you click on my profile thingy (or "jank," in Norfolkian teenage parlance) you will find "cooking" listed as one of my interests. But I've been busy lately and haven't done much cooking. Or grocery shopping.
A quick inventory this morning made it clear that I could no longer avoid the grocery store. My fridge contained the following: 1 can of Whole Foods Brand All Natural Ginger Ale (for mixing with bourbon), 12 bottles of Hoegaarden, half an orange's worth of orange wedges (for dropping into the Hoegaarden), 1 free range organic egg, and an almost empty jar of pasta sauce. The pantry is just as bare. This morning I actually stirred brown sugar into my tea, as I've been out of regular sugar for weeks.
It's not that I can't afford to buy groceries. I just don't feel like it.
So I lay around all day knowing that I had to go to the grocery store but never quite getting the urge to do so. Around 8 pm I finally set down my book and dragged myself off the couch to do the dreaded grocery shopping. There are two grocery stores within walking distance of my house, and I debated which one to go to. Gene Walters is slightly closer, it's generally cheaper, and it has a great wine selection (not that I needed wine). However, its produce and seafood departments suck, and some of its employees are a bit dodgy. Harris Teeter is a few blocks farther and a few cents more expensive, but they offer free cookies to kids of all ages. Also, their organic milk is significantly cheaper than the organic milk at Gene Walters -- economies of scale or some shit. Since milk was on my list, I opted for Harris Teeter.
What I didn't count on was finding my ex's car (SUV, actually) parked outside Harris Teeter and having to back-track to Gene Walters to avoid him. Seriously, I spend the whole day (while he's presumably at work) not grocery shopping, and when I finally decide to go to the store, that store, he's also grocery shopping there? Does god hate me or something?
Yes, I think perhaps god does hate me. Because a half gallon of organic milk at Gene Walters was a whopping $4.39, and I know at Harris Teeter it's only $3.19.
It is summertime, so expect to be accosted by panhandlers in the parking lots of Norfolk shopping plazas. I find it curious that many of these unfortunates do not appear to be homeless as they're wearing freshly laundered clothes and are obviously well-fed.
While most are harmless, some attempt to raise funds through either fraud or intimidation. Pocket change or offers of food or employment will get you an insult, as only "paper money" will satisfy them.
When three panhandlers approach in a pincer movement, or a disheveled stanger attempts to prevent you from entering or exiting your vehicle, it is not considered attempted robbery -- it's "freedom of speech."
If the Norfolk City Council will not address this problem, it is only a matter of time before this situation will escalate.
--Clint, Norfolk
To Clint:
I am deeply sorry that you are uncomfortable being approached by poor people on your way into Nordstrom or headed back to the office after a $30 lunch at Kincaid's (I would be too). It is equally unfortunate that these poor people do not conform to your preconceived notions of poverty and homelessness. You're right: if people are going to ask if you can spare a dollar or two they should look a bit more dirty and gaunt. They certainly should not appear to have any self-respect, as that would make it more difficult for you dismiss them as second-class citizens.
As to these pesky streetpeople being well-fed, unless you have recently donated a shit-ton of wonderfulness to our local food bank, it is much more likely that they are subsisting on cheap fast food -- which we all know is fattening and unhealthy -- than that they have taken a brief break from gorging themselves to con you out of your spare change.
Jesus, whose message you conservatives so love to misrepresent, commanded us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves and flat out told us that it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle (picture that!) than for a rich man to get into heaven. There's no ambiguity there. Give the panhandlers a dollar. It's not going to set you back that much. If you can't bring yourself to do that, maybe just stay away from shopping plazas for the rest of the summer. But good luck with that whole heaven thing.
And PS, you can't complain in paragraph one that panhandlers' clothes are too clean and then describe them as "disheveled" two paragraphs later. It makes it seem like you might be stupid or something.
I've spent the last few days visiting my family in their suburban DC home while talking shit about the suburbs (my family does not find this endearing, by the way).
I lived in various suburbs of DC for seven years after graduating from college, but I finally moved to Norfolk because, after much consideration, I realized that I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it (Norfolk) had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.
Okay, fine. Actually I moved to Norfolk because I hate the suburbs, I missed the ocean, and I wanted to teach someone other than rich privileged white kids.
Every time I go back to visit my DC-area friends and family, I'm sadly amazed to find another cookie-cutter development where trees used to be. I fear they're going to build McNeighborhoods until there's nothing left to McBuild on. Today I drove through one of these new developments after seeing a sign on the road advertising "luxury townhomes moderately priced from the $550s." I don't know about you, but I don't really consider $550,000 to be a "moderate" pricetag for much of anything. Plus, look at this place:
If I'm gonna drop half a million dollars on a dwelling, well, first of all I'm gonna need a sugar daddy. But. . .if I, with the help of my sugar daddy, am going to spend half a million dollars on a home, it will not be:
A) a townhouse B) in the suburbs C) situated next to a gas station D) totally lacking in the tree department E) identical to every other nearby dwelling F) brand spankin' new G) completely devoid of architectural character H) a soul-sucking pit of despair.
Apparently a lot of McPeople are into that sort of thing, though, because the sign said there were only three McTownhomes left.
I'm always a bit dumbfounded when I read the care instructions inside a t-shirt and find the recommendation "warm iron as needed." I don't iron much. I don't really believe in it. My primary fashion consideration is comfort, which is not to say that I don't have some kick-ass clothes. I just don't own anything that requires tucking. . .or ironing, really. So anyway, whenever I see that bit about using a warm iron on my t-shirts, I laugh a little. Because who the hell irons their t-shirts?
My mother, that's who. The other day I walked into her laundry room and found her happily ironing her outfit for the day, which included a red Polo (also not part of my wardrobe) t-shirt that wasn't even wrinkled.
You think that's bad? I've caught the woman ironing sheets before.
Like most cool people, I have a GMail account. The weird thing about using GMail (over, say, Yahoo! Mail or HotMail or something) is that Google searches your emails and gives you a list of sponsored links alongside each email you open. It looks like this:
Most of the time, these links make sense. If you send an email about how much you love Jeff Buckley, you get a list of links to Jeff Buckley sites. But sometimes the lists make me wonder what the hell Google thinks I'm talking about. For example:
An email exchange that contained the statement "flirty sparring is a good characterization" elicited a link to Catch Him and Keep Him, which promised to reveal "10 mistakes you are probably making to scare away Mr. Right!" Presumably, flirty sparring is one of them.
When Steve sent me a link to a site about the Monkey Chant, Google gave me a bonus link to BetaMonkeyMusic.com, where I could find "insane drum loops" from Nikki Sixx. 'Cause, you know, Mötley Crüe is a lot like those Bali natives.
As I read a nice long email from Patrick, a former student, I noticed a list of eight links to sites having to do with paper shredding simply because he'd described his summer job: "Basically, I am the Office Anything Boy. It rocks! I get to run all sorts of errands and edit a ton of paperwork, and shred classified documents and read all sorts of stuff I shouldn't!! OK, the last task I only got once because I let it slip that I had read what I was supposed to be shredding. Hey, at least I didn't make copies."
An email from an excited Steve announcing that "C-SPAN now carries the Prime Minister's Questions on their website!" generated links to SpiritualHumanism.org and the Progressive Universal Life Church, both of which offer free instant ordination but have absolutely nothing to do with the British Prime Minister.
I was invited by BasisTech.com to "extract meaningful intelligence from unstructured mulitilingual text" after a series of emails wherein Josh and I made fun of each other for A) being snobby about words and B) having attended rival institutes of higher learning. Me: (pointing out that Josh had spelled clique wrong) "I mean, really. . .surely they offer a course in remedial spelling at THE University." Josh: "In the hip-hop vernacular I am sure it is spelled click. I am sure they teach contextual interpretation at Mr. Jefferson's Institute for the fairer gender." (This is what you call flirty sparring.)
If you are currently using some lame-ass email account that refuses to provide you with such random and amusing solicitations, let me know. The little email gods are constantly asking me if I want to invite people to GMail. I can totally put you on the list.
If, amid a tropical downpour, you consult your pals and determine that the day is a much better day for curling up on the couch with a bottle of red wine than it is for working; if you then ditch work around 3:00, wading through two inches of rainwater to get to the wine store, and slog home with pals and wine in tow to drink for the next five hours; if you consume so much wine that you finally break out the Trivial Pursuit game you’ve been eyeing for hours and force your friends to play; and if, in response to the question, “which day of the week is named after a planet?” the sheer volume of alcohol coursing through your bloodstream causes you to triumphantly blurt out, “March!” when the answer is obviously Saturday, you are certainly going to pay for it the next morning.
Mother Teresa told us that "we can do no great things, only small things with great love." This is a concept I've been thinking a lot about lately and a statement I've been repeating to myself like a mantra: small things with great love, small things with great love, small things with great love, small things with great love, small things with great love. It's what I focus on when I'm near the edge.
Because, you know, the world needs saving and I'm just a regular old person. In the last ten days alone I have been urged, via email, to:
call for a Congressional debate on Iraq,
save the Chesapeake Bay,
sound the alarm on fake women's "clinics,"
tell Fila to support the rights of workers in its factories,
speak up for the oceans,
save NPR and PBS,
save internet freedom from AT&T,
resolve the crisis: don't shut down the UN,
stop global warming,
stop the Arctic refuge drilling.
Obviously there's a lot of stuff that needs to be saved or stopped. And these are just the alerts from the organizations I've asked to hear from. Who knows what other calamities are befalling the world as I sit at home sipping my cabernet? It gets overwhelming.
This is where "small things with great love" comes in.
I can't end the war in Iraq, but I can call for that Congressional debate. I can't ensure equality for women the world over, but I can treat everyone I encounter fairly and equally while donating to Planned Parenthood. Acting alone, I can't save the Chesapeake Bay or the world's oceans, but I can pick up trash whenever I'm on the beach and refrain from pouring toxic chemicals down the storm drains. I can't guarantee that Fila or any other company pay its workers a living wage, but I can refuse to buy their products if they don't. I certainly can't single-handedly stop global warming, but I can do my part by walking to most places (unless there's a tropical storm blowing through like there was today) and by scowling at anyone with the audacity to drive a Hummer.
Lately I have found the "small things with great love" mantra most helpful at school. I am (in case you hadn't picked up on this) pretty passionate about what I do for a living. A big part of the reason I became a teacher is because I want to make the world a better place and because I want to inspire others to want to make the world a better place. I am an incredibly idealistic person, and there are occasions on which I actually begin the school day thinking, "This is it, this is the day I change the world. Because this is Lorax day, this is the day my kids find out that 'UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.'" But that's not the way things work. Lorax day doesn't change the world, but it's a small thing I do with great love.
So I keep reminding myself that, as a teacher, I "can do no great things, only small things with great love." Sometimes my kids inadvertently remind me of this too. It would be a great thing if I could completely eradicate racism and bigotry, but I can't. However, one of my students recently told me that, as a result of my class, “a lot of people became more accepting, or less willing to laugh at other cultures’ traditions or rituals" and cited as an example "the chant with those men."
The chant with those men is the Ramayana Monkey Chant, native to Bali, that my students watched in the film Baraka. When they first saw the monkey chant, they laughed and thought it was "weird". . . in a cultural-superiority kind of way. Then I made them watch it again (and, um, maybe again) and they ventured that it was "sorta cool." Over the course of the year, the monkey chant became cooler and cooler as my kids grew more and more tolerant. If we finished class a few minutes early, I could count on someone asking, "Hey, can we watch the monkey chant?" and the rest of the class responding, "Yeah! Monkey Chant!" Right before any test. . .monkey chant. Somebody's birthday. . .monkey chant. Minutes before their AP exam. . .monkey chant. Last day of school. . .monkey chant. One of my kids even downloaded the chant and set it as the background music on her MySpace page. Dude, the monkey chant ROCKS!
Here's the thing about the monkey chant: it's a small thing. It's certainly not a thing I ever anticipated being a vehicle of tolerance and acceptance. But here's the thing about great love: you can't underestimate it. Teacher who really really wants you to appreciate and respect other cultures + heartfelt cultural ritual that happens to be pretty cool + curious students = great love. It's powerful, that great love, no matter how small the thing.
After six years of teaching at a school I absolutely loved in a part of the state I absolutely didn't, I transferred to a part of the state I absolutely love to teach at a school I absolutely don't. The motto of my current school district is "all means all," a pedagogy to which I fully subscribe. It was my adherence to this philosophy that led me to choose my current district over the five or six others in the area. Unfortunately for me, but mostly for the students, "all means all" is a complete and utter crock of shit.
I have just returned from my school's graduation ceremony where the names of the honors graduates, who are predominantly white, were read before the names of the other graduates, who are (you guessed it) predominantly black.
Why stop there? I mean, we offer five different diplomas. Why not call the names of the kids who earned Advanced Studies diplomas first, followed by the names of the Standard diploma kids, then the Tech-Prep diploma kids, then the Vocational diploma kids, and lastly the Special-Ed diploma kids? Maybe at the end we could even give a little shout-out to all the kids who dropped out over the course of their high-school careers once they internalized the message that we just didn't give a fuck about them.
If all means all, you call everybody's name in alphabetical order. You don't segregate kids at their fucking graduation. If all means all you assign your best, most dynamic teachers to teach your weakest kids and let the worksheet queens "teach" the honors kids. If all means all you sure as fuck don't assign the most hated teacher (for good reason) in school to teach a course to students who have already failed it once (or possibly more). If all means all you come to work every day and do your damndest to reach all the kids -- even the kids who aren't yours, even the kids who seem unreachable. Hell, if all really means all you don't even have honors vs. regular classes in the first place.
Okay, that's all. End of rant. I'm going to go smoke a cigarette. Or five.
Because I truly value their feedback, I always ask my kids to fill out an anonymous course evaluation at the end of the year. I also always forget that kids who have spent all year asking, "how much is this worth?" before completing any assignment are not likely to devote much time to providing me with detailed constructive criticism if they're not being graded on how constructive that criticism is. Behold:
Q: Did you find this class interesting and/or intellectually challenging? Explain. A: It was very challenging to my intellect, which is a rare thing since my intellect is hardly matched by much else. A: It was not very interesting, but it was challenging because the topic of the class is retarded.
Q: What is the most important thing you learned in this class? A: Super Size Me! A: To behave. A: I don’t know. A: Patrick is incredibly creepy. A: Don’t order pizza and have it delivered to class.
Q: If you were the teacher, what type of homework would you assign to help your students understand the textbook readings? A: Instead of assigning homework at all. Just don’t assign it at all. A: Not reading the long book, because it was boring and used the words non one (sic) knew. A: Questions to go along with the unit (PS get a less boring book).
Q: What was the best thing about Human Geography class? Why? A: The people they made the class so enjoyable. Window side represent! A: Deforestation. A: It was always funny. A: Hanging out in class when you weren’t going crazy. A: It was a chill environment it wasn’t like AHHHHHHHH all the time it was more like Wheew. . thank God I have AP Geo test… . . OOOOOO OOOO AND DAN that kid was crazy
Q: What was the worst thing about Human Geography class? Why? A: The topic. A: Patrick being creepy. (from a different kid) A: Tests were ridiculous. Why? You tell me. A: My pet peeve was when you would give out a map and people would cry for the first hour. I mean, hello, it’s a geography class.
Q: What grade do you think you deserve in Human Geography? What grade do you think you’ll get? A: I absolutely deserve an A. I worked hard and did a darn good job. Alas, I believe I will receive a B because of some error, or miscalculation, or the American government plotting against me. How you could give me a B and sleep at night is beyond my reasoning. A: I think I deserve an A and I know I’M REALLY CLOSE TO IT BUT I NEED LIKE 0.8 MORE! A: A “B” please. Probably a C which would really really suck. (hint hint)
Q: What could you have done to be more successful in this class? A: Actually put your study tips to work. A: Made more of an effort to actually read the book and not use it for something else like painting nails.
Q: Anything else you want to tell me? Advice? Suggestions? Secrets? Now’s the time. A: Ur sweet! A: Don’t show Super Size Me again. I will never ever enjoy fast food for the rest of my life. A: Maybe you should call up that guy that was hitting on you in the bookstore. A: Try not to bore your kids next year. A: Don’t get too attached to any of your new children. I plan on being your favorite until ’08, at which time you’ll cry and possibly transfer. A: The tests could have been a bit less out of control on the difficulty meter. A: Stop snitchin. A: Maybe just enjoy the pizza next time. A: Be chill and stop snitchin. A: Don’t be so anul (sic) all the time. A: Hell no! Do how you do [my last name here] live on!
When I was a kid, my dad used to take me and my sister and brother to see the Tidewater Tides (now the Norfolk Tides) play minor league baseball. It was there that I developed a deep and abiding love of baseball and there that my brother, somehow, didn't. (Or maybe he just hates baseball because my dad likes it, I don't know.) Collectively, these Tides games with my dad are some of my fondest childhood memories. I remember how the anticipation would build as I rode to the games in the back of my dad's green VW bug. I remember scampering up to the cheap seats when it began to rain, waiting out the rain under the narrow overhang in the hopes that play would resume, and moving down to the abandoned expensive seats to enjoy the remainder of the game once it finally did. I remember dragging my mom to a game and looking at her like she had fourteen heads when I discovered she'd brought her cross-stitching in case the game got boring (boring?!). I remember bringing my glove (which I had to share with my sister) to the games and praying that I'd catch a foul ball. I remember being terrified that a foul ball might come my way and hit me in the face before I could get the glove up, and that my dad would be disappointed his little girl hadn't been keeping her eye on the ball. I remember seeing Darryl Strawberry (who we later cleverly took to calling Darryl Strawbaby, although I don't remember why. Coke?) play before he became famous. I remember getting lots and lots of promotional Tides and Mets stuff (the Tides are a Mets farm team), including a sweet Tides duffle bag that years later I let my now-baseball-hating brother have.
When I was older and we lived in DC, not Tidewater, I became a die-hard Orioles fan. I cut many a class in college to watch an important game, emailing my understanding professors: "Sorry, I can't make it to class this afternoon -- it's Opening Day. . .the O's might sweep the Yankees. . .it's game four of the ALCS." This lasted for years until Peter Angelos traded away half the team in 2000, scattering my favorite players far and wide. My beloved Mike Mussina willingly defected to the fucking Yankees, Harold Baines went to the White Sox, Mike Bordick to the Mets, and BJ Surhoff to the Braves (he cried when this was announced, and I cried the first time I saw him play for the Braves). Only Cal Ripken, Jr. remained, probably because that bastard Angelos knew he'd be assassinated if he so much of as thought about trading Cal. Even after this shake-up I hung in there through the signing of Albert Belle and the manager-ships of Ray Miller and Mike Hargrove. But it's been years since I really loved the Orioles and years since I've followed baseball religiously. I miss it.
And since I now live a mere five minutes from Harbor Park, home of the first baseball team I ever loved, I feel a Tides game coming on.
That the Dixie Chicks are still considered radical -- and by such a fluffy, mainstream publication as Time -- for saying three years ago that they were embarrased by the president, a sentiment now shared by the majority of Americans, is disheartening. That they've finally decided to embrace this label and thumb their noses at the country music establishment is pretty damn cool.
Although I'm not a fan of today's popular country music (which, for the most part, is complete musical crap), I've loved the Dixie Chicks since the first time I heard "Wide Open Spaces." I own all their albums, including their latest -- a gutsy and thorough declaration of independence from the vapidity and jingoisim that currently passes for music in Nashville.
I like the new album well enough, but what I really like is that these girls are not fucking around. They've made a conscious decision to create the kind of music they want to create and to speak their minds, regardless of the impact this has on their ability to sell records. Said one of the chicks, "I'd rather have a smaller following of really cool people who get it, who will grow with us as we grow and are fans for life, than people that have us in their five-disc changer with Reba McEntire and Toby Keith. We don't want those kinds of fans. They limit what you can do." In other words, "Fuck you if you don't like us. We'd be insulted if you did."
I guess that attitude is pretty radical, and I like the Dixie Chicks more for it. If record sales are any indication, so do a lot of other people. Apparently that following of really cool people isn't as small as they thought.
Although you're not supposed to, I have several favorite students. They are either very much like me or nothing at all like me -- in between students, while generally nice, are somehow not my favorites. One of my favorite students of 2005-2006 is a young lady to whom I often refer as mini-me because, duh, she reminds me of my tenth grade self. In reality, this chick is way cooler than I was in the tenth grade. For example, yesterday she came to school in a t-shirt that said "stop the genoicide in Sudan." When I complimented her on it, she whipped out an order form and explained that she'd had the t-shirt custom made and that she was selling them to, get this, raise money to donate to an organization working to stop the genoicide in Sudan.
If memory serves, the coolest, most activist things I did in the tenth grade were to A) sign a petition at the Earth Day Festival requiring curbside recycling in Virginia Beach (it worked) and B) plant two trees in honor of Arbor Day, one of which died and the other of which is now almost as tall as my parents' beach house (3 stories!). I also vaguely remember being the cause of a major fight between my parents after my dad, a nuclear submariner with the Navy, found out that my mom had been writing monthly checks to Greenpeace to shut me up about the importance of saving the whales. And, if it counts for anything, I totally fell in love with a guy who had long unkempt hair and really really liked Jane's Addiction. But genoicide wasn't even on my radar.
There's a point to all this.
This favorite student of mine stopped by after school yesterday to talk about what she'd just learned in Algebra class:
Global warming doesn't exist. It's just something politicians made up to get votes.
Social norms are not to be questioned.
Jesus is the only true god, and it is important to live by his laws.
Her generation is ruining the world.
Muslims pretty much just torture people.
That must be the "new" math I keep hearing about.
Here's the thing about teaching: I get to talk about global warming, lying politicians, social norms, Jesus, who's ruining the world and how, Islam, and the Geneva Conventions. I'm a Social Studies teacher and, believe it or not, all that shit is in my curriculum. But I don't get to preach, and I tend to err on the side of caution. Oh sure, today I said that nobody at FOX News even knows how to read and I did once claim to be smarter than our current president, but I said those things to make my kids laugh and not to make them believe what I believe.
I don't even necessarily want my kids to believe what I believe, at least not in the way that this Algebra teacher seems to. What I really want is for my kids to think for themselves after examining all sorts of different viewpoints. If they end up believing what I believe, cool. And if they end up thinking FOX News is quality journalism, obviously they're fucking retarded. Okay really, if they end up thinking FOX News is quality journalism, I'm okay with that as long as they've actually thought it through.
Because thinking is pretty much what education is all about. But forcing your beliefs on other people, especially when you're a grown-up and the other people are 15, is not teaching, it's preaching. And although the two words rhyme, they're completely different in spirit. This Algebra preacher has clearly chosen the wrong profession. School is for challenging one's existing views and expanding one's mind. If you want people to remain exactly where they are knowledge-wise, or worse, to accept everything you tell them without thinking, I'm sure there's a nice church nearby. Failing that, you could always apply at FOX News.
If you haven't read any David James Duncan, you're really missing out. An excerpt from the chapter "What Fundamentalists Need For Their Salvation," in his most recent book, God Laughs & Plays:
To allow televangelists or pulpit neocons to claim exclusive ownership of Jesus is to hand that incomparable lover of enemies, prostitutes, foreigners, children, and fishermen over to those who evince no such love. And to cede the word "Christian" to earth-trashing literalists who say "the End is nigh" feels rather like ceding my backyard henhouse to weasels.
In addition to his intelligent and spiritual nonfiction, Duncan also writes beautiful and spiritual fiction. His novel The River Why is one of my all-time favorites, as I may have mentioned once or twice before. If you find yourself wandering around wishing you had an uplifting, enlightening, thought-provoking, funny book to read, grab anything by David James Duncan and you won't be disappointed.
As I was walking up to school this morning, I noticed a young lady getting off the bus and was struck by what she’d brought to school to aid her in the pursuit of knowledge: a pencil.
A lone pencil is an interesting statement of one’s expectations for the school day. Arriving at school with nothing but a pencil says, “I’m fairly certain that no one in this building is going to give me anything (handouts or graded papers, for example) worth taking home, so I haven’t brought a backpack or a binder or even a slim folder in which to transport such items. It’s equally unlikely that anyone will ask me to complete an assignment I find meaningful enough to bother with, so I have no need for paper. However, I haven’t given up on them yet. There’s a slim possibility that one of these adults whose job it is to reach me and teach me might say something today of such interest and importance that I’ll want to write down. Thus, this pencil.”
I hope someone inspired her to use that pencil today.
More than likely, though, someone chastised her for being unprepared and tomorrow she’ll come to school with nothing, if she comes at all.
You know things are bad over at Bush, Inc. when they revive a bigoted campaign pledge made in the hopes that the Religious Right would be stupid enough to re-elect them and then promptly abandoned once those hopes were realized. So, that constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage you haven't heard of since the presidential victory dance? It's back.
Of course, a 31% approval rating calls for drastic measures. Nixon resigned, for example. Bush, Inc., though -- in a bold fit of strategery -- is opting for something different. Instead of attempting to determine what exactly has caused 69% of Americans to believe he's doing a crappy job, Bush, Inc. has decided to just keep right on truckin'.
According to a Gallup polll conducted in May, only 50% of Americans support a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage. 50% may sound like a lot, but it's only half. It's not a majority. It's certainly not the 2/3 majority needed in both Houses of Congress to propose a constitutional amendment, and it's nowhere near the 3/4 majority needed for ratification.
Perhaps this is because at least half the country values the Constitution a bit more than our current president does and recognizes that it is a legal document based on the lofty ideals of justice and equality, and that to write discrimination into that lofty legal document would be just a wee bit contrary to what the Founders had in mind. Or perhaps that 50% realizes the existing 27 amendments to our Constitution were written -- for the most part -- to keep the government out of our personal lives, and that the one time we attempted to bring about social change by amending our Constitution (Amendment XVIII: Prohibition), we decided 14 years later that it was a pretty dumb idea (Amendment XXI: Repeal of Prohibition).
But nevermind that. Here's what Bush, Inc. knows: 1) their constituent base of right wing conservative fundamentalists doesn't like gay marriage, 2) liberals and moderates pretty much do, 3) almost everyone is pissed off about the war (hence the 31% approval rating), 4) a bipartisan anti-Bush movement is not good, 5) same-sex marriage is an issue they can easily manipulate to divide Americans and distract us from the real issues that might cause us to notice what a shitty president we have.
Personally, I think it's a pretty big gamble. Because here's what Bush, Inc. doesn't know: My mom supports same-sex marriage. My mom -- a devout Catholic who has never voted Democrat in her life, who thinks homosexuality is kind of "icky" -- is totally opposed to a ban on same-sex marriage on the grounds that "it's not very nice." And if Bush, Inc. can't get her on board, I think it's safe to assume it can't get 75% of the American public on board.
That doesn't mean I'm not going fight this potential same-sex marriage ban tooth and nail -- believe me, my senators will be hearing from me -- but it does mean that I have more faith in what Senator Jefferson Smith (in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington) called "a little bit of plain, ordinary, everyday kindness -- and a little lookin' out for the other fella, too" than in the smoke and mirrors of today's Republican party. Because after all, that everyday kindness -- in the form of justice and equality -- is "the blood and bone and sinew of this democracy," according to the idealistic and endearing Mr. Smith.
My department chair: Months ago I asked you if I could teach something next year that I'd taught before (US Government -- my passion -- or US History) in addition to what I'm currently teaching (Human Geography) so that I could have at least one period a day where I felt like I knew what the hell I was doing. Instead, you have me teaching World History, a subject I've never taught before. You've made my job harder, not easier.
A cute guy at the grocery store: I thought you were attractive until I noticed you were wearing a Bush-Cheney t-shirt. Are you serious with yourself? There are like ten people on the planet who still like Bush, Inc. enough to admit it, and you're wearing their fucking t-shirt?! In this town?
That guy at the beach today who warned his family to "watch out for the faggots": Are you aware that the f-word is akin to the n-word? Or that just because men are flamboyant doesn't mean they're gay? Or that you're teaching your children to hate people based solely on their sexual orientation? Or that homosexuality is not a communicable disease?
On behalf of the internets I'd like to welcome my little brother back to the blogosphere, which he abandoned (along with speaking to me) about two weeks ago after we had an argument about baseball, of all things. Little bro' insisted baseball was for pansies and that he (and anyone with two arms) could play major league ball. Big sis, who fucking loves baseball, asked if perhaps little bro' had grown a wee bit too angry and pointed out that he wasn't much fun to be around anymore.
My brother was less than receptive (to put it mildly), but I'm kind of the teacherish motherish make-everything-better type and I love him more than just about anything else in the world -- way more than baseball -- so I persisted, encouraging him to have hope for the future and to see the humor even in bad situations, even though I knew he didn't want to hear it. (And he didn't: "I'm gonna go now because I really have to pee," he said to me. "No you don't, you just don't want to talk to me anymore," I countered. "That's true," he acknowledged, "but I'm gonna go anyway.")
That was two weeks ago, and I've spent most of the last two weeks worrying about him (worrying about shit is my thing). But at long last my brother called me this afternoon just to chat, and then this evening he emailed me the link to his new blog, where I discovered this:
I'll just try to find some kind of humor or hope in all of it 'cause I'm really not that guy that's constantly complaining and bringing everyone down and what not and I think hope is an important thing to hang onto. . . .I'm gonna try and look for some kind of light somewhere and try to not get bogged down along the way.
Last week one of my colleagues lent me a very cool (from an educational perspective) artifact to use in class: a burqa. My students and I had learned about religous fundamentalism in general -- and its effect on women in particular -- earlier in the year, so the burqa thing was not news to them. As a teacher, I was pretty excited about the burqa, but as a woman it totally creeped me out, and if I thought about it for more than a few seconds that burqa made me angry. Even after seven years of teaching, I still forget that your average high school student is not nearly as nerdy or indignant as I am, so I mistakenly expected my students to feel pretty much the same way upon seeing the burqa.
"You look silly," one kid said. "Is it hot under there?," a bunch of kids asked. "Oooh, take a picture," another kid urged. "You should go knock on Mr. E's door and see what he does," suggested one of my favorite girls, as if it were Halloween. The closest they came to righteous indignation was arriving at this consensus: "Wow, that must suck."
Um, yeah, I think living under a regime that thought so little of you that it attempted to render you invisible by forcing you to cover yourself from head to fingertip to toe, made it illegal for you to receive an education, forbade you from leaving your home unless escorted by a close male relative, stoned you if it thought you'd had sex outside of marriage, and outlawed laughter would be pretty fucking "sucky."
The current president is reportedly "troubled" by the possibility that a group of Marines in Iraq murdered about 24 unarmed civilians in Haditha and then lied about the incident to cover up the massacre. Bush assures us that those involved in the murders will be punished. You know, kind of like the people responsible for torturing prisoners at Abu Ghraib or for leaking Valerie Plame's name were punished.
Oh wait.
I'm pretty fucking troubled myself: troubled that this asshole hasn't been impeached yet.
My best friend since we were 13 is in town this week visiting her parents, who still live out in Virginia Beach where we grew up. I've been taking advantage of her proximity by basically spending every possible minute with her (and her husband and her kids). This evening she called around 8:00 (after dinner with her mother-in-law) to give me directions to her sister's house (also in VB), and it was clear from the suckiness of those directions that she was already wasted. But I didn't realize just how wasted until I arrived and found her rocking out to the Muppet Movie soundtrack. On vinyl.
She was so wasted that her husband finally said, "Honey if you don't stop I'm gonna chain you to something. And I'm not kidding." (He was kidding.)
This would be the same bff whose baby peed on me yesterday. She totally deserves a little rocking out. But, um, the Muppets are an odd choice.
I am not a baby person. I mean, I like babies well enough, but they don't really do much and I generally like to give them back to their parents once I've grown bored with them. I am not one of those women who gets all goofy and emotional around babies. I have never experienced what I call baby fever -- an intense yearning for a baby of one's own brought on by the mere sight of someone else's baby.
Today, though, I came very very close. I spent the afternoon cuddling my best friend's adorable 10 week old son. I really enjoyed this experience: he was so sweet and cuddly and soft, and he smelled so good and babyish. His little baby hands kept grasping mine and he kept nuzzling his little baby face into my neck. I wouldn't let anyone else hold him or let his mom put him down for a nap. I started to feel the faintest tickings of my own biological clock. Then he peed on me, and I thought, "You know, cats are nice."
And PS, yes, that is a beer in my non-baby-holding hand. A girl has to have her priorities.
Um, I know freedom isn't free, but I'm really confused about whose blood is doing what these days. I thought the blood of Jesus Christ had washed away all my sins and that the blood of countless American soldiers was responsible for the many freedoms I enjoy. Now I find out it's been Jesus the whole time? What the fuck?
Ask my brother and sister, or anyone who knew us well during our childhood, and they will tell you this: sound travels at the beach. In an effort to keep us from annoying the neighbors, my parents reminded us of this at least 25 times a day when we were kids living in (then) sparsely populated Corolla, NC.
No, we could not call down from the upper deck to ask a question of someone in the driveway. Why? Sound travels at the beach. No, we could not, instead of using the phone, yell down the street to find out what time our friends' families were going to the beach. Why? Sound travels at the beach. No, we could not take the radio outside onto the deck. Why? Sound travels at the beach, and the neighbors did not want to hear Michael Jackson's Thriller album, nor -- as we got older -- did they want to hear Naked Eyes, some old Zeppelin album, anything by REM, or the latest from The Cure. Standing on the deck chatting with the cute guys building a nearby house? No way: sound travels at the beach and, also, that's trampy.
When we were kids, we found this whole "sound travels at the beach" thing pretty annoying. We used to roll our eyes and mimic our parents as they said this. It became a running joke, but one we internalized. We still spend a lot of time in Corolla, which in the summer months is well beyond sparsely populated. We find ourselves saying to one another indignantly, "Dude, turn down the radio, sound travels at the beach," and bitching about noisy neighbors: "Don't they know sound travels at the beach?" We're startled to discover that we're not kidding. Sound does travel at the beach.
My neighbors for this Memorial Day weekend at the beach clearly did not get the sound travels memo. They have been shouting to (and at) one another since they arrived, not just from their upper deck to their driveway, but from their upper deck to the end of the street and from inside their house to the person in their outdoor shower downstairs. To make matters worse, they sometimes do this as early as 8:00 in the morning. And they have New York accents. Not the endearing Tony Soprano kind of New York accents, but horrible whiny, nasal New York accents.
Since Saturday, their car alarm has gone off four times. You know the last time a car was stolen in Corolla? Yeah, never. I don't even lock the doors to the house, let alone my car, and these jackasses are guarding their Dodge Caravan like it's Blackbeard's treasure.
Isn't there a local ordinance for this one? I'd like to be able to call up the Sheriff's Department: "I have some noisy neighbors. With New York accents," I'd say. "Shit! New York accents?!," they'd reply, "We'll be right there!" and they'd rush over to disable the minivan alarm and inform the obnoxious New Yorkers of what everyone else already knows: sound travels at the beach.
Unlike two of their three children, my parents are staunch conservatives who voted for Bush in both 2000 and 2004 and who resolutely maintain that this was not such a bad move given the alternatives (that loser Gore and that god-awful Kerry, respectively). They are also, like many in their generation, big fans of Bruce Springsteen, so I wasn't surprised when they told me they'd be forgoing this year's traditional Memorial Day weekend at the beach because they had tickets to his concert. And because I think it's good for them to broaden their horizons, I didn't mention that The Boss has grown decidedly more anti-war and anti-Bush of late.
I just talked to my mom, who called to chat before she left for the concert. As we were getting off the phone we had this little conversation:
Me: Well, have fun at the concert.
Mom: Hey, who's Pete Seeger? (this seemed like a non sequitur to me, but we're talking about a woman who once responded to my query of "are we out of beer?" with "we're in the kitchen. . .come on in," so I usually just roll with it.)
Me: He sings protest songs, Mom. Militant political protest songs. Remember that Christmas you bought Brian (my militant left-winger of a little brother) the entire Pete Seeger collection?
Mom: Uh-oh.
Me: (still lauging) I'm sure ya'll will have lots of fun. You know Bruce Springsteen hates the president, right?
Mom: (laughing a bit herself now) Stop laughing. Dad said he didn't know what the concert was about when he bought the tickets. He tried to pawn them off on Laura (my sister) and Brian, but they didn't want them. (Laura, no doubt, because she has other plans and Brian because he shares my view that John Mellencamp, not Bruce Springsteen, is the true musical spokesman for America's working class.)
Me: Okay, well have a great time, Mom.
Mom: (unconvincingly) I'm sure it will be fine.
Me: (more laughter)
Mom: I'll call you tomorrow to tell you just how not-fine it was.
So my parents have paid good money (lots of money, I bet) to see Bruce Springsteen sing the protest songs of a movement they actively avoided in their youth and to listen to him criticitize their president.
I think it actually probably will be fine. My brother and I once caught my Dad humming along to a Joan Baez (protest) song. "You like Joan Baez?," we demanded incredulously. "I like her music, but not her politics," my dad replied. My brother and I looked at each other quizzically and then launched into a joint lecture about how her music is her politics, how art is frequently political, and how you can't divorce art from politics. My dad listened politely and finally said, "I just think she has a pretty voice." We shook our heads in exasperation, but it's this attitude that will carry my parents through tonight's Bruce Springsteen concert. They may disagree with the lyrics (okay, they'll definitely disagree with the lyrics), but they'll enjoy the singing and the actual music. And they will certainly never admit it, but I bet they'll even agree with a thing or two The Boss has to say about the mess our current president is making of the world. After all, my parents are not retarded. They just sometimes vote that way.
Update 05.29.06: My mom's review of the concert: "It was totally awesome! I'm going to buy the CD today!" (at Wal-Mart, probably, which will cause poor Pete Seeger to roll over in his grave.)
I teach a high school course in Human Geography. Yesterday’s class was about how the developed world is fucking the developing world over. This is actually in my curriculum -- they call it Dependency Theory (but they don’t use the f-word). To illustrate this topic, I began class yesterday with a little PowerPoint presentation set to Bob Marley’s “Babylon System.” While this might sound cool to you, the opening notes alone were enough to elicit a chorus of moans and groans from my students, who whined, “Haven’t we already heard this song?”
You have already heard this song, but I like “Babylon System,” okay, kids? And here’s the thing: you do too. Because what I notice whenever I play “Babylon System” (or any other song) in class is that you’re paying attention. Sure, I could stand up and talk about Dependency Theory, but it would sound like this: “blah blah blah IMF, blah blah blah third world debt, blah blah blah corporate colonialism, blah blah blah sweatshops,” and within three minutes your eyes would glaze over and you’d start whispering to the kid next to you or surreptitiously text messaging your friends.
I get it: caring about stuff is so not cool. That became clear to me way back in November when we talked about Female Genital Mutilation (also in my curriculum) and all you had to say was that it’s “pretty wack.” I also get that music is cool, which is why I use it to trick you into learning about stuff you would otherwise pretend not to care about.
So go ahead and complain about having to listen to “Babylon System” again. You're not fooling me: your eyes are glued to the screen, half of you are tapping your feet, and a handful of you are even singing along under your breath. And that, despite your whining smokescreen, is what tells me you might be a little more into this whole learning thing than you like to let on. It's how I know I'm doing my job successfully and what gets me out of bed every morning. These are the moments that constitute the joy of teaching.
So thank you, kids, for yesterday's little moment. It probably seemed like I didn't care whether or not you were engaged, but I was just pretending. You know, kind of like you were pretending you're too cool for school.
PS: For an amusing examination of Bob Marley’s popularity among the frat boy set, click here.
On my walk home from school this afternoon, I swung by my favorite local independent bookstore to pick up the copy of Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping they'd special ordered for me. By the register was a nice little stack of these stickers:
So, even though I was there specifically to purchase a book about defying the culture of consumerism, I bought one. I mean, it was only $3. How could I pass that up?
I couldn't. And you shouldn't either. Click here to get one of your very own. As it turns out, a portion of the proceeds are donated to groups like Amnesty International, the Sierra Club, MoveOn, and Rock the Vote, so it doesn't even count as vapid consumerism.
I just discovered this on the back of my box of Harris Teeter brand Wheat Snack Crackers:
What wonderful things crackers are! Unequaled in the kitchen, crackers are a stalwart worker. They are a dedicated palate to hold an imagination's worth of delectable toppings. . .they are a tool to excavate hearty dips and spreads. . .they are willingly drowned in our soups and crushed on our casseroles. All in the name of better taste. With this honorable service in mind, our traders created a line of the finest crackers available. . .each ready and eager to be served. Enjoy!
You know, I like crackers as much as the next guy, but I don't know that I'd go so far as to describe them as stalwart workers. I mean, they're crackers, for the love of god. And you're going to have a really tough time convincing me that these crackers are eager to be served. What, they're just dying for an opportunity to excavate one of my hearty dips? Puh-leaze.
Somebody actually gets paid good money to write these odes to crackers, probably better money than I get paid to teach the children. But I can sleep at night.
The article says that most of the protesters recognize the DVC is a work of fiction and they just wanted to "encourage people to study the Bible to learn the truth." While I agree that the DVC itself is a fictional story, the religious part of it -- the part that people are so pissed about -- is probably not any more fictional than, say, the Bible.
The best part of yesterday's DVC protest? The original plan was to spell out "Jesus is Truth," but, um, not enough people showed up. And there was a heckler.
About two years ago, I left my fiancé six weeks before our wedding and five days after we'd moved in together. This was one of the more difficult things I've done in my life, and it probably goes without saying that I agonized over the decision. However, I'm confident that it was the right decision, and it's not one I've regretted for so much as a split second since I made it. On occasion, though, I do think about how close I came to a marriage that would have made me miserable, and I breathe a little sigh of relief while thanking my lucky stars for my friend DH.
It was DH who -- exactly eight weeks before my wedding, on the very day I'd mailed the invitations -- was the first to give voice to the doubts I'd been harboring for at least a month when he studied me carefully and finally said, "I don't think you should get married."
This turns out to have been a view shared by a surprising number of my friends, not because they didn't like my fiancé (because everybody likes him) but because they could tell I wasn't happy. There's a lot of gray area between support and enabling, and I'm grateful that my friends chose collectively to lean toward the supportive side despite their concerns. I am equally grateful for the insight of DH, who admittedly had little to lose and probably enjoyed playing my knight in shining armor simply for the ego boost, but who forced me to examine my relationship and evaluate my future.
Although my friends give me more credit, I maintain there's a 99% chance I'd be married to the wrong guy right now if not for DH. Molly tends to agree with me: she once described DH in all seriousness as "a gift from God." And while she still carries his business card around in her wallet because she thinks DH is hot (and his picture is on his card), she was not referring to his appearance.
I'm not much on God, but I have been known to refer half-jokingly to DH as my guardian angel. And really, if you compare DH to Clarence, George Bailey's guardian angel in It's a Wonderful Life, you have to admit DH is a little easier on the eyes.
Apparently a "jump off" is a party. I didn't know this -- I had to ask my students. I strolled in to class waving the flyer as the bell rang and said, "Hey, what's a jump off?" The kids looked a little startled. One girl said sheepishly, "Um, it's like a trashy girl." "No, no," I said, "what if I were going to a jump off?" "Oh, that's like a party," they responded, relieved.
Even though ladies get in free (I like how that bit is in quotes -- like, is "ladies free, niggas $2" some sort of catch phrase I'm just not familiar with? What are those quotation marks for?!), and I'll be able to find the jump off simply by following the music, I don't think I'll be going. Why? Well, I'm not much of a dancer, and the flyer specifically states, "If you ain't gone dance don't bring yo ass!!!" That's three exclamation points, so I think he means business.
But if you want to go, feel free to hit Omar up. As long as you have him on the phone, tell him the dollar signs go before the numbers.
This is my little brother. Needless to say, he's got "angry" down. Note his proximity to both beer and attractive women. Nevermind the fact that he's at a cheesy sports bar and that the women are practically his sisters -- there's beer and there's chicks, and therefore there's no excuse for that grumpy face. And the middle finger. . .my god!
The thing is, angry is my brother's natural state. Being pissed about everything is like his version of happy. If he's not scowling and giving you the finger and calling someone a douchebag, something's not quite right in his world.
I have a secret though: he's not really that angry. He just pretends. Oh sure, he's fired up about Darfur and religious fanaticism and the erosion of our constitutional rights and all that, but he's not one of those people you hate to be around because they're so negative and they never stop bitching. He's more like a funny guy whose bitching makes you laugh. Sometimes even he has a hard time not laughing at his own angry act.
Occasionally though, he walks a pretty fine line. Referring to him as "Dad" is usually enough to make him snap out of it in a hurry, which is good because really my brother is this guy -- the happy one with a smile on his face and his middle finger being used only to grasp a can of Bud.
I like funny angry little bro' an awful lot, but it's funny happy little bro' I really love.
Prominently featured on the front page of today's New York Times : 1) a story about the most recently negotiated cease-fire in Darfur being just as meaningless as every previous cease-fire, as evidenced by Thursday's attack in which one woman was killed and 15 were raped by janjaweed militiamen; 2) an account of Southeast Asia's successful efforts to combat the avian flu; and 3) a story about post-9/11 conflicts between the NSA and VP Cheney over the constitutionality of intercepting domestic phone calls without warrants to do so (crazy-ass Cheney, as one might expect, contends that there's nothing in the Constitution to suggest this might not be permissible).
Prominently featured on the front page of today's Washington Post: 1) a story about the US Border Patrol's ineffective "catch-and-release" approach to curbing non-Mexican illegal immigration, and 2) a touching compilation of interviews with Iraq war veterans that details the difficulty of readjusting to life at home in the face of our indifference. (This story brought tears to my eyes. Read it!)
Prominently featured on the front page of today's Virginian Pilot: a story about the film version of TheDa Vinci Code coming out on Friday, and how some religious people won't touch it with a ten foot pole while others are pleased that it provides them with an opportunity to promote traditional Christian beliefs in the face of such blasphemy. You know, just in case you hadn't heard about that yet. Thanks, Virginian Pilot, for that bit of hard-hitting reporting on a topic of such global importance.
To be fair, the Pilot is an excellent local paper, and it did run the NYT's Darfur story on page A3, their avian flu story on page A22, and the Post's immigration story on page A11. But TheDa Vinci Code as front page Sunday news?! Come on.
TheDa Vinci Code, by the way, is complete crap as far as literature goes. The writing is terrible and the plot is even worse. What makes The Da Vinci Code interesting (and what I suspect explains its 159 weeks on the bestseller list) is its exploration of the historical suppression of the divine feminine. There's a whole body of reputable nonfiction on this fascinating subject, starting with Holy Blood, Holy Grail, the authors of which sued Dan Brown (and lost) for plagiarizing their work. For those interested in the religious aspects of The Da Vinci Code, I offer. . .
Five Books to Read Instead of The (Stupid) Da Vinci Code:
Holy Blood, Holy Grail by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln
The Chalice and the Blade by Riane Eisler
The Woman with the AlabasterJar by Margaret Starbird
The Gnostic Gospels by Elaine Pagels
The Gospels of Mary by Marvin Meyer
Or, if you like crap, just wait a few days and go see the movie.
It seems Hillary Clinton and Rupert Murdoch have more in common than having both been recently mentioned on my blog: Murdoch, who owns a significant chunk of the mainstream media -- including that beacon of fair and balanced reporting, Fox News -- will be hosting a re-election fundraiser for Clinton this July.
Not that Hillary is at the top of my "politicians I respect and admire" list (it's a short list), but is there anyone in politics who will not sell his or her soul to stay in politics? I mean, this is the guy whose network led the charge against Hillary's lying cheating husband. When she centered her ridiculous "stand by your man" routine around a "vast right-wing conspiracy," she was talking about Rupert Murdoch. But hey, if he can raise a few bucks on behalf of her campaign, I don't see why she can't overlook a little thing like completely biased pseudo-reporting that squelches any sort of meaningful political discourse.
Another Monday night, another exciting episode of 24. I know, everyone loves this show. Steve spends each Monday sternly reminding everyone he encounters that it's Jack Bauer Appreciation Day. I spend a small portion of my class time (my instructional time) on Mondays trying to get my students to stop talking about what's going to happen on 24, and a much larger chunk of that class time on Tuesdays trying to get the kids to shut up about what did happen on 24. Every Monday they ask me, "Are you gonna watch 24 tonight?" and every Monday I tell them, "A) I don't own a television and B) I want no part of 24." Every Tuesday they ask me, "Did you see 24 last night?" and every Tuesday some kid who actually pays attention in class says, "Dude, she doesn't have a TV!" and some other kid adds, "Yeah, and she doesn't even like that show."
The thing is, I used to. Like everyone else, I used to love 24. I was a devoted fan throughout seasons 1-3. I've spent more than a few Tuesday mornings at the proverbial water cooler animatedly discussing the events of the previous night's episode of 24 as if it bore some resemblance to real life and the characters were actually my close personal friends. I've even attended a season finale party or two. I see the appeal: the gripping suspense, those bad guys you love to hate, the fate of the world hanging in the balance, that hottie Keifer Sutherland. But in season 4 something changed for me. . .24 began to seem irresponsible.
I became more and more concerned about how expendable people are on 24, not just bad guys but good guys too. I started to keep a running body count. A lot of people died in each episode, most of them not-so-nicely. And we're talking episodes that are only supposed to represent an hour of real-life time.
Then there's the torture thing. The good guys frequently torture the bad guys to get information out of them, which I guess is supposed to be okay because the good guys need that information in order to save everyone from the bad guys. This is a serious moral question that deserves serious attention and contemplation. Instead, 24 portrays each instance of torture as if it's some sort of Machiavellian necessity not worth dwelling on.
And there's, of course, the stereotyping. Almost all the terrorists on 24 (at least in seasons 1-4) are Muslims who hate America simply because they are crazy Muslims. Nothing new here. Likewise, those who don't hate the terrorists must by definition hate America and therefore be on the side of the enemies. Hell, in season 4 the Secretary of State had his own son tortured because he had maybe gone home with some chick who knew some guy who had maybe been involved with planning season 4's attack.
I know it's only a TV show, but is this sort of thing really constructive? Do we really need to glorify such callous disregard for human life and fan the flames of bigotry and intolerance? See, there's no gray area on 24. There's good guys and there's bad guys and it's us against them. You are, as our simpleton of a president once said, "either with us, or you are with the terrorists." This is an incredibly dangerous mentality, which is why I've sworn off 24 and why I attempt to convince anyone who will listen (which, frankly, isn't a very large group) that 24 is perhaps more harmful than all of Rupert Murdoch's other enterprises combined.
To be honest, I haven't made much headway, but I'm hoping I'll win a few converts now that Tom Tomorrow's come out in support of me:
A few weekends ago my brother and I had talked about going up to NYC. UFPJ had organized a protest against the current war on Iraq, the impending war on Iran, and the war-mongering Bush administration in general. My brother and I both felt a sort of moral obligation to add our voices to the protest, but we also didn't feel like going to New York, and we doubted that any amount of protesting would change BushCo's approach to foreign policy.
I firmly believe that every single American citizen could be in the streets protesting and Dubya would merely pause to shake his head in condescending pity for our stupidity, and would then return to the business of fucking everything up. This is because the man actually believes that God talks to him:
2000: "I've heard the call. I believe God wants me to run for president. . . .I can't explain it, but I sense my country is going to need me. Something is going to happen... I know it won't be easy on me or my family, but God wants me to do it."
2003: "God told me to strike at al Qaeda and I struck them, and then He instructed me to strike at Saddam, which I did, and now I am determined to solve the problem in the Middle East." (By striking somebody, probably. Or maybe smiting.)
2004: "I trust God speaks through me. Without that, I couldn’t do my job."
Bush and his administration have demonstrated repeatedly that they don't really give a shit what the American people think. Why should they when they're doing God's work? 55% of Americans think BushCo deliberately misled the public into war and 60% of Americans believe that war has not been worth fighting. Big deal. 100% of Supreme Beings (of which there is, of course, only one) think Bush is doing a bang-up job.
This, however, is no reason not to protest, and I've felt guilty ever since I skipped the NYC protest. I felt especially guilty this morning when I read Melissa's lovely post, which reminded me that it's important to stand up for what you believe in, even when it seems that doing so is unlikely to change anything. Despite the fact that BushCo is impervious to dissent, there are lots of good reasons to protest, namely that it is the right thing to do regardless of the outcome. As Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter," and as Ghandi said, "Whatever you do may seem insignificant to you, but it is most important that you do it." And as Elle Woods said in Legally Blonde 2, "One honest voice can be louder than a crowd's."
This is (or used to be) essentially my whole m.o. as a person, and especially as a teacher. If my students learned nothing else, I hoped they would leave my class believing that they could make the world a better place. When the hell did I stop believing we could make the world a better place? I didn't go to a protest because it wouldn't do any good and New York was too far?! Yikes. When's the next protest? I'm so there.
Confession: I've recently exchanged an email or two with my ex-fiancé.
This is how he came to know that I have a blog on which he could post Thursday's witty "there she blows" comment, and also how I came to know that he has a blog on which he refers to me as a "shrieking, hateful harpy."
(So Steve, yesterday when I said I had no idea how the comment got there, I was kind of lying. Sorry. I'm totally coming clean now.)
At first I was really pissed about this whole harpy thing. In my head I compiled a long list of evidence that conclusively proves I am not a shrieking, hateful harpy (for example: I rarely even raise my voice, so "shrieking" is, you know, a bit of a stretch). But then I realized I am merely a literary device. Referring to your ex-fiancé as a shrieking, hateful harpy is funny, whereas referring to her as "probably the most sensitive person I have ever met" (as he recently wrote to me) is not. So I've decided to be a good sport about this. Hell, every blog needs a shrieking, hateful harpy.
For those close friends and family members who were present for years and years of the Megan & Bryce rollercoaster and who are now thinking, "Uh-oh. Emails? Here we go again.," rest assured, we are not going there again. For starters, Bryce and I now live several hundred miles apart, so to go there again would be impractical. Secondly, he steadfastly refuses to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and you know I'm not havin' that. Lastly, he is madly in love (and good for him, really) with a girl he refers to as Baby, which is a term of endearment that literally makes me cringe.
I have never allowed anyone to call me "baby." "Shrieking, hateful harpy"? Sure, knock yourself out. But "baby"? No fucking way.
My dad, die-hard Republican and defense contractor extraordinaire, is in town overnight for a briefing tomorrow. He took me to dinner this evening and we got to talking about politics (imagine that). This is a topic that usually does not end well for us (see the die-hard Republican bit above). However, this discussion of politics was oddly civilized. At one point my dad even said, "You may have a point there," which is a phrase I don't think I've ever heard him utter before. The most heated portion of our chat involved a discussion of whether the Democrats will regain control of Congress in the midterm elections (um, hellooooo, we're talking 32% approval ratings here. . .of course the Democrats are going to regain control of Congress) and what will happen in the 2008 election.
Here's where the $100 comes in:
Dad: And you think that momentum will continue right up until we get stuck with Hillary?
Me: (laughing incredulously through a mouth full of beer) Hillary?! I don't even think Hillary can get the nomination.
Dad: Huh?
Me: Well, for starters, she's a woman. And also, the Democrats have this strategy of running only namby-pamby, pandering to the middle wuss-bags, which Hillary actually is, but conservatives hate her so much there's no way the Dems would nominate her.
Dad: She's exactly like her husband. Everything she does is politically motivated. She has no conscience.
Me: I don't exactly think Bush has a conscience.
Dad: He does, you just don't like it. I think Hillary will run, and I think she'll win.
Me: You mean the election? The presidency?!
Dad: Yes.
Me: No way. There is no way we're electing a female president. Not anytime soon.
Dad: In 2008.
Me: Care to put some money on that?
So the bet is for $100. I asked my dad if we were betting on the nomination or the election. He said it didn't matter, he'd be happy to take my money either way.
Dad, honey, Hillary's a girl. You are so gonna owe me $100.
Today was Election Day in the City of Norfolk (as well as throughout the rest of Tidewater). We elected new city council members and a new mayor. Well, actually, I suspect we elected the same old city council members and the same old mayor, but my point is that those were the offices in question.
So anyway, since democracy is not a spectator sport, I voted this evening. And what's more. . .I walked to the polling place. It's 0.4 miles from my house! I know I've lived in the city for almost a year now, but I still can't get over the number of places I'm able to walk to. Work, for starters. Plus numerous restaurants/bars (including Cogan's!), two wine shops, the movie theater, the video store, two coffee shops (one of which is Starbucks and therefore doesn't count since I'd never go in there anyway), the hospital, the bookstore, the health food store, two grocery stores, and lots of cute little shops I've never even been in.
I think we ought to add "walking" to my list of things that are sexy. It might even be sexier than voting.
Although. . .I noticed a seriously attractive guy (a "very nice boy my age") at the polling place this evening. Sadly, he drove away in an SUV, so I guess the sexiness of voting (and being hot) gets kind of cancelled out by the non-sexiness of driving an SUV. That's the trouble with boys these days. . .
Last night I went to O'Sullivan's to see everyone's favorite local cover band, Lovesick Cousin. When I arrived, the O'Sullivan's marquee (yes, it's the kind of dive with a marquee) was advertising its nightly specials -- porterhouse & tilapia -- on one side and Lovesick Cousin on the other side.
I'm not sure about the porterhouse or the tilapia, but I enjoyed Lovesick Cousin for a good hour and a half before Steve looked out the window and noticed that those specials had been replaced with
Now, personally I would have gone with "hot ass pooter," but, you know, that's just me. We all had a good laugh about the change, including our twenties-ish waitress who claimed she A) was soooooo embarrased and B) had never seen anything like that before.
About an hour later we noticed some furtive movement on the other side of the marquee and witnessed the sign-changers in the act. Guess who. . .yep, our soooooo embarrassed waitress (and two of her pals). When they came back inside we sent Jay out to see what the sign said. He laughed all the way back to our table and reported that he didn't think he could repeat it "in mixed company." Then Steve went to check it out and came back still laughing. "So what does it say?," I asked. Steve just shook his head and said, "You just gotta go see it." So I did:
I bet that's not bringing in a whole lot of business.
PS: Click here to download Lovesick Cousin tunes, including an original that's especially fun if you've recently been dumped by an idiot you never should have been with in the first place who hopes you can still be friends (which I have).
Apparently a "jump off" is a party. I didn't know this -- I had to ask my students. I strolled in to class waving the flyer as the bell rang and said, "Hey, what's a jump off?" The kids looked a little startled. One girl said sheepishly, "Um, it's like a trashy girl." "No, no," I said, "what if I were going to a jump off?" "Oh, that's like a party," they responded, relieved.
