Weekends, I huddle in front of our gas fireplace in our home here in Seattle. I nestle up in a wool blanket and wear my wool socks so that I don't get too cold while we I talk with my parents in North Carolina.
Mom always asks, "What's the weather out there?" This month, I respond, "Like usual. Rainy, cloudy and cool. Highs in the 60s and lows in the 50s. What's it like there?" Something like, "Ninety-seven degrees with 100 percent humidity. My hair is frizzing everywhere."
The weather here in Seattle is one of the many markers of differences between the land of my childhood and the land of my adulthood.
I could ask, "How many SUVs did you pass on the road today?" The number would be high in North Carolina and low in Seattle proper, even though those of us in Seattle have more hills and snow and bumpy roads in the mountains to manage than North Carolinians living in the Piedmont have. "How many hybrids did you pass?" Here is Seattle, the question is more like which hybrids did you see the most, but in Raleigh, the answer might be, "How can you tell a hybrid from an SUV?" (I know that there are hybrid SUVs, but it seems to me that Hybrid SUVs are a paradox.)
In Seattle, we have a preponderance of Starbucks, Tully's, Seattle's Best Coffee, and other coffee shops. In Raleigh, on most corners you'll find a church instead of a coffee shop, and there are as many varieities of churches in Raleigh as there are coffee shops in Seattle: Methodist, Baptist, Presbytherian and so forth.
Dressing up in Seattle is significantly different than dressing up in Raleigh. Last week, my partner Ann went to a "semi-formal" event: in this context, "semi-formal" meant no blue jeans. In Raleigh, for sure you'd need to wear hosiery and pearls (and somethinkg fancy to cover all you parts.)
In Raleigh, complexions tend towards tan, and hair gets blonder in June if you're white. In Seattle, we're mostly pasty with dark hair unless we go get some highlinghts at the beauty parlour (that's Southern for Supercuts).
Seattle's the city for me, but I wouldn't mind a little more sun by June. I wonder if this year we'll have Julyuary, too. It's looking like it.
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Our Fair City
Seattle's mostly white. It's all over the news. Seattle is the fifth whitest city in the nation. Portland is first. That's what the 2010 census shows.
Before bin Laden's death, Seattle's whiteness was the talk about town. Lots of responses to the census figures were defensive. After all, Seattle's progressive and liberal, and we like to think of ourselves above the muck of racism. Besides, we also have the most racially diverse zip code.
I'm not surprised about the finding. When I first moved to Seattle in 1991, I lived near the university and, though I'm white, I felt uncomfortable about all the white people. I'm from the South, and I'm used to seeing more color. I went down to the south part of the city to Helen's Soul Food kitchen to eat beans and rice one day, and to find black people. I live near near Helen's Soul Food Kitchen now, and I have for some time, but now a lot of the black people in my neighborhood are moving further south in the city again.
When I completed my teaching certification program for Washington State, an African-American woman in my program from Alabama told me how uncomfortable she felt in Seattle, seeing white people in her grocery store and all. She preferred the South: "At least you know where you stand there. Here I don't know if people are really nice or not real," she said.
I was born in 1964 in a segregated hospital in Atlanta, and I went to an all-white elementary school for first grade before busing integrated my schools. When I was in second grade and my school was integrated, Michelle, an African-American second-grader with thick, tight braids, came to my birthday party. Apparently, this was a surprise. The generation before me just didn't have people of another race into their homes. Times can change quickly, however, and I was surprised by the surprise.
One of my first surprises in moving to Seattle was how white the north part of the city was. Another surprise was that I heard people talk regularly about the prejudice in the South, as if prejudice were absent in the Pacific Northwest, and all prejudice had pooled in the land of my birth.
When I was first teaching in a town just east of Seattle, I walked into another teacher's classroom, a history class, looking for a student whom I needed to talk with one afternoon in 1994. The teacher, a white man who was blind, didn't see me walk in. He was teaching students about the southern part of the United States. He talked about how it was a place of prejudice and bigotry like that was the only thing that was there. I almost got offended, but when I noticed that none of the students were paying attention, I decided not to worry about it.
I love Seattle. It's my adoptive home. I love its mountains and lakes; I love its fleece-wearning folk; I love its farmer's markets and its progressive politics. I belong here.
I still bristle, though, when I hear about the American South as if it's the pigsty of bigotry. There is bigotry in the South for sure. To me, the South's identity is inexorably tangled with the history of Civil War, with the identify of itself as a defeated nation seeking to maintain its heritage and its traditions in a new world where some of its traditions are clearly bigoted and, now, illegal--unconstituional even.
My birthplace not just a pigsty of bigotry; it is also a place of rolling mountains and long sandy beaches, fried chicken and shredded pork sandwiches, big family meals and churches on every corner. It's a place of syruppy accents and has a concentration of universities and research. At one point, a friend in Ireland told me that Research Triangle Park has the highest per capita of PhDs of any place in the world. Maybe it still does.
The South is bigger than its bigotry, just like Seattle is bigger than its whiteness. The census can't tell you that. For that, you have to go there. So if you're a world traveller and you haven't been to the American South yet, it's time you go discover its complex culture.
I can hook you up with a cousin for sure. Just be sure to mind your manners: say please and thank you and Ma'am and Sir.
Before bin Laden's death, Seattle's whiteness was the talk about town. Lots of responses to the census figures were defensive. After all, Seattle's progressive and liberal, and we like to think of ourselves above the muck of racism. Besides, we also have the most racially diverse zip code.
I'm not surprised about the finding. When I first moved to Seattle in 1991, I lived near the university and, though I'm white, I felt uncomfortable about all the white people. I'm from the South, and I'm used to seeing more color. I went down to the south part of the city to Helen's Soul Food kitchen to eat beans and rice one day, and to find black people. I live near near Helen's Soul Food Kitchen now, and I have for some time, but now a lot of the black people in my neighborhood are moving further south in the city again.
When I completed my teaching certification program for Washington State, an African-American woman in my program from Alabama told me how uncomfortable she felt in Seattle, seeing white people in her grocery store and all. She preferred the South: "At least you know where you stand there. Here I don't know if people are really nice or not real," she said.
I was born in 1964 in a segregated hospital in Atlanta, and I went to an all-white elementary school for first grade before busing integrated my schools. When I was in second grade and my school was integrated, Michelle, an African-American second-grader with thick, tight braids, came to my birthday party. Apparently, this was a surprise. The generation before me just didn't have people of another race into their homes. Times can change quickly, however, and I was surprised by the surprise.
One of my first surprises in moving to Seattle was how white the north part of the city was. Another surprise was that I heard people talk regularly about the prejudice in the South, as if prejudice were absent in the Pacific Northwest, and all prejudice had pooled in the land of my birth.
When I was first teaching in a town just east of Seattle, I walked into another teacher's classroom, a history class, looking for a student whom I needed to talk with one afternoon in 1994. The teacher, a white man who was blind, didn't see me walk in. He was teaching students about the southern part of the United States. He talked about how it was a place of prejudice and bigotry like that was the only thing that was there. I almost got offended, but when I noticed that none of the students were paying attention, I decided not to worry about it.
I love Seattle. It's my adoptive home. I love its mountains and lakes; I love its fleece-wearning folk; I love its farmer's markets and its progressive politics. I belong here.
I still bristle, though, when I hear about the American South as if it's the pigsty of bigotry. There is bigotry in the South for sure. To me, the South's identity is inexorably tangled with the history of Civil War, with the identify of itself as a defeated nation seeking to maintain its heritage and its traditions in a new world where some of its traditions are clearly bigoted and, now, illegal--unconstituional even.
My birthplace not just a pigsty of bigotry; it is also a place of rolling mountains and long sandy beaches, fried chicken and shredded pork sandwiches, big family meals and churches on every corner. It's a place of syruppy accents and has a concentration of universities and research. At one point, a friend in Ireland told me that Research Triangle Park has the highest per capita of PhDs of any place in the world. Maybe it still does.
The South is bigger than its bigotry, just like Seattle is bigger than its whiteness. The census can't tell you that. For that, you have to go there. So if you're a world traveller and you haven't been to the American South yet, it's time you go discover its complex culture.
I can hook you up with a cousin for sure. Just be sure to mind your manners: say please and thank you and Ma'am and Sir.
Monday, January 24, 2011
My Dinner with Annabella
Last night my partner Ann and I had dinner with one of our favorite people, our neighbor Annabella.
When we, two professional white lesbians, moved into this neighborhood, which had been part of the rough and tumble central district (or "CD") since the 1960s, we were a little nervous. Once, soon after moving into the neighborhood, a motorist slowed down on Martin Luther King Way to roll down his window and holler out, "We don't want you here!" We weren't sure why he didn't want us here. There were so many possibilities: white, female and gay heading the list. Once in those early years a cab driver wanted to refuse to take us home because "that neighborhood is too dangerous." Another time, we came home to a sharpshooter in the yard: a felon who had stabbed a policeman was holed up in the crack house a couple of houses down. Adolescents in bouncing cars raced each other around the circle meant to slow them down. The neighborhood's not so interesting any more, but it was when we first moved here. That was 14 years ago.
Annabella made us feel welcome immediately. One of the neighborhood elders, she called to reply to an open house invitation: "Hi. I'm Annabella. I"m your neighbor. I drink beer." She still doesn't say good-bye when she hangs up. She just hangs up, and I know the phone call is over. We have been fast friends ever since that first phone call. Both she and I have slowed down a little: her ninety years have slowed her down (though she'll point out that she still looks good, and she does), and brain tumors and such have slowed me down. We still drink beer together.
Last night, when we'd each gotten our beer, Annabella, who has lost many of her friends to Alzheimer's and death recently, made a toast: "Here's to those of us who are left."
Annabella shared stories from her past, stories from a time and a culture I've never known. Raised in New Orleans by her mother, who was "One hundred percent Cherokee Indian" and was quick with a switch, Annabella came to Seattle at the beginning of the second world war. Her husband-to-be Brad sent her $13 to pay for her train trip to Seattle. Her mother used the money for their rent. He sent another $13, and again her mother used the money for the rent. The next time, he sent a train ticket, and Annabella headed to Seattle.
Soon after Annabella arrived in Seattle, Pearl Harbor was bombed, and Annabella became a riveter, like Rosie. She'll still show you her muscle. When mechanics needed someone strong, they'd call for "the Indian." Once, a machinist wasn't paying attention and came so close to her head with his saw that he sawed a part down the middle of her long hair. She was okay, but she was mad. She's a Catholic woman, but she can curse a blue streak, which she says she did then. She repeated herself last night for effect, and other diners looked over to make sure everything was okay; then smiled when they saw it was her. When the war was over, Annabella says that everyone else cheered, but she cried. She loved working.
She and Brad cleaned hotels at night, leaving their two young girls in the car, and they hosted poker games until they paid for their home here in the CD. Her cooking and her looks earned them a little extra at the poker table.
Now, at ninety, she still volunteers at the elementary school, which she has been doing for forty years. Every year she sells a dinner at the church auction to raise money for the school and serves about twenty people drinks and okra, jumbalaya and pie. Upsairs, the guests admire her hundreds of dolls and other antinques and sing, "God Bless America." Then everyone heads downstairs for dinner and their choice of pie: sweet potato or pecan among the four or five Southern offerings. Everyone gets a "lagniappe"as they leave, usually something like rubber gloves or a role of paper towels.
Annabella speaks her mind--loudly, since she doesn't hear too well--about race and politics, religion and foolishness. When she talks politics, she talks about Democrats and "those other ones." She and I don't see the world in the same way sometimes, but we've agreed not to talk about issues where we'll simply make one another mad. Sometimes she wades into rough waters, and I'll stop her to say, "Now you know we don't agree about that. You're not going to change my mind, and I'm not going to change yours. Why are you talking about it? Do you want to argue?" She just laughs and shrugs and gives me a high five.
When she's got a complaint, she'll share it and then she'll quote her mom: "If it's not one thing, it's two." That woman's got wisdom.
Annabella's neighbor, Mary
When we, two professional white lesbians, moved into this neighborhood, which had been part of the rough and tumble central district (or "CD") since the 1960s, we were a little nervous. Once, soon after moving into the neighborhood, a motorist slowed down on Martin Luther King Way to roll down his window and holler out, "We don't want you here!" We weren't sure why he didn't want us here. There were so many possibilities: white, female and gay heading the list. Once in those early years a cab driver wanted to refuse to take us home because "that neighborhood is too dangerous." Another time, we came home to a sharpshooter in the yard: a felon who had stabbed a policeman was holed up in the crack house a couple of houses down. Adolescents in bouncing cars raced each other around the circle meant to slow them down. The neighborhood's not so interesting any more, but it was when we first moved here. That was 14 years ago.
Annabella made us feel welcome immediately. One of the neighborhood elders, she called to reply to an open house invitation: "Hi. I'm Annabella. I"m your neighbor. I drink beer." She still doesn't say good-bye when she hangs up. She just hangs up, and I know the phone call is over. We have been fast friends ever since that first phone call. Both she and I have slowed down a little: her ninety years have slowed her down (though she'll point out that she still looks good, and she does), and brain tumors and such have slowed me down. We still drink beer together.
Last night, when we'd each gotten our beer, Annabella, who has lost many of her friends to Alzheimer's and death recently, made a toast: "Here's to those of us who are left."
Annabella shared stories from her past, stories from a time and a culture I've never known. Raised in New Orleans by her mother, who was "One hundred percent Cherokee Indian" and was quick with a switch, Annabella came to Seattle at the beginning of the second world war. Her husband-to-be Brad sent her $13 to pay for her train trip to Seattle. Her mother used the money for their rent. He sent another $13, and again her mother used the money for the rent. The next time, he sent a train ticket, and Annabella headed to Seattle.
Soon after Annabella arrived in Seattle, Pearl Harbor was bombed, and Annabella became a riveter, like Rosie. She'll still show you her muscle. When mechanics needed someone strong, they'd call for "the Indian." Once, a machinist wasn't paying attention and came so close to her head with his saw that he sawed a part down the middle of her long hair. She was okay, but she was mad. She's a Catholic woman, but she can curse a blue streak, which she says she did then. She repeated herself last night for effect, and other diners looked over to make sure everything was okay; then smiled when they saw it was her. When the war was over, Annabella says that everyone else cheered, but she cried. She loved working.
She and Brad cleaned hotels at night, leaving their two young girls in the car, and they hosted poker games until they paid for their home here in the CD. Her cooking and her looks earned them a little extra at the poker table.
Now, at ninety, she still volunteers at the elementary school, which she has been doing for forty years. Every year she sells a dinner at the church auction to raise money for the school and serves about twenty people drinks and okra, jumbalaya and pie. Upsairs, the guests admire her hundreds of dolls and other antinques and sing, "God Bless America." Then everyone heads downstairs for dinner and their choice of pie: sweet potato or pecan among the four or five Southern offerings. Everyone gets a "lagniappe"as they leave, usually something like rubber gloves or a role of paper towels.
Annabella speaks her mind--loudly, since she doesn't hear too well--about race and politics, religion and foolishness. When she talks politics, she talks about Democrats and "those other ones." She and I don't see the world in the same way sometimes, but we've agreed not to talk about issues where we'll simply make one another mad. Sometimes she wades into rough waters, and I'll stop her to say, "Now you know we don't agree about that. You're not going to change my mind, and I'm not going to change yours. Why are you talking about it? Do you want to argue?" She just laughs and shrugs and gives me a high five.
When she's got a complaint, she'll share it and then she'll quote her mom: "If it's not one thing, it's two." That woman's got wisdom.
Annabella's neighbor, Mary
Sunday, January 23, 2011
This Nation of Bifurcation
"The radio is at the root of the evil, their rule is: No silence, ever. When anything happens, the commentator has to speak without a moment's pause for gathering wisdom. Falsehood and inanity are preferable to silence. You can's imagine the effect of this. The talkers are rising above the thinkers." Harrison William Shepherd in Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna.
"A conclusion is simply the point at which you got tired of thinking." (from Ann's colleague Glen quoting an unknown source)
I often think now about Senator Gifford, the Arizona senator who was recently shot in the head by a guy with a gun. She had a bullet through her brain, and I had a tumor, and for sure we had very different experiences. Still, every time I hear a story about her progress, I feel a knot in my stomach. With reports of her progress, I remember opening my eyes. Seeing and hearing the people who love me. Sitting up. Learning to walk. Learning to use my eyes again. Those headaches."A conclusion is simply the point at which you got tired of thinking." (from Ann's colleague Glen quoting an unknown source)
I wish her and all who love her well.
Perhaps as a way to de-personslize the issue somewhat, I also think about the shooting in the context of our national dialogue, or lack of it. I seem to think about this aspect of the shooting differently than others, however:
"Be sure to understand both sides of the issue." "There are two sides to every story". These common statements drive me to distraction. There are seldom two sides to an issue or two sides to a story. There are usually at least two sides, but there are usually more and generally there is somehing unthought of in another dimension. I suspect that if we could graph reality, reality would requre multiple planes that two-dimentional graph paper does not provide.
Our language here in the United States, maybe in all English-speaking countries, simplifies issues by framing any issue around two sides: Democrats and Repuiblicans, liberals and conservatives, good and evil claim our politics and our ways of thinking. In debate, in the news media, and in schools we learn about "pros and cons."
Students, whose wisdom we often miss, may want to know, "What if I am in the middle, or even off of the imaginary line between pro and con?" Teachers often say, I have said it myself, "You must choose a side. You must find a place in line." We hear the cliche, "You are either for me or you are against me." And so we decide one or the other, for or against, true or false. Yet, really, we are often neither absolutely for or against, and many times a statement is neither completely true or entirely false.
This paradigm of slicing reality into two parts interests me because this limits our thought and our politics. It makes us think there are only two choices, only two ways of thinking or being.
As a senior in high school taking A.P. American History, I struggled, I realized later, because I was looking for the good guys and the bad guys, and these delineations were often unclear to me. I did not know how to understand the world differently than black and white, good and evil.
There are times when we must bifurcate, you might argue, and in our system this is true. Legislators must vote yea or nea on a bill, for example, though I would argue that this bifurcation may be cultural and not the only way to legislate: in Stones into Schools, Greg Mortensen describes a Pakistani jurga, similar to the South African elder meetings that Nelson Mandela describes in his autobiography. Here community leaders (all men: I"m not saying that's a good thing) come together around issues facing the community, and they come to consensus around a decision. They don't necessarily decide yes or no. They make a decision that they feel will serve their community.
You might also argue that in court a person must be found guilty or innocent. This is not true. A person is found guilty or not guilty, which could mean a lot of things, one of which is innocent and another of which is that the evidence isn't clear and convincing. It is, however, true that the person either goes to jail or does not. But then, "does not" has so many possibilities. Again, the lignusitic tendency towrds twos belies us.
What's my point? Now, a couple of weeks after those horrible Arizona shootings, there's a lot of national dialogue about civility. I think there should be dialogue about civility, but I don't really think that civility is at the heart of our national tension. I think bifurcation of thought is. I think we need to think beyond two sides of an issue, beyond gun-control or freedom, beyond good or evil, beyond us or them.
Our national imagination needs to grow. We need to find the third position, and the fourth, and so on. We need to see the greys between the black and white. Perhaps we need to borrow from the Eskimo language, which I hear has one-hundred words for snow. we need subltelties, complexity, and gradations.
I'm not sure that simply being nicer to each other, especially people we disagree with, is at the heart of our national division: our red states and blue states. I think we need to be able to hear one another, and if we define ourselves and one another along such stark lines, in such dualities, then how will our imaginations grow? How will we listen and shift if our intellect is so busy labelling?
What will this look like in my life? I"m not sure, but I think I'll start by trying to understand the news or colleagues in more than a two-pronged world. I think I"ll start with threes. You?
Mary
Keeping it in perspective, a few quotations on truth from my sister jenn's reading:
"She had a 'relationship' with the truth, she explained coolly, and like all relationships it required compromises." The Tender Bar: A Memoir, J. R. Moehringer. p. 23.
" I’ve nothing against people who love truth. Apart from the fact that they make dull companions. Just so long as they don’t start on about storytelling and honesty, the way some of them do. Naturally that annoys me. But provided they leave me alone, I won’t hurt them." The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfield (large print edition), p. 12.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Slow Learner
I must be a slow learner, but I did NOT learn everything I needed to know in kindergarten. I only remember learning a few things. I learned that other kids struggled in ways that I didn't when Tommy had a temper tantrum on the playground every day: since the playground was the most fun part of the day, I knew he wasn't faking his pain and felt bad that he always missed the most fun time.
When I saw my teacher in her bathing suit at our swim club, I learned that old people's legs are different than young people's legs.
I also learned some good songs at our church's program for kindergartners. I remember learning the hymn that celebrates the divine in the natural world, "This is my Father's World." I was surprised when, about forty years later, my grandmother chose that hymn for her memorial service:
This is my Father's world:
He shines in all that's fair;
In the rustling grass I hear him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.
This may have been my best lesson from kindergarten.
In church we also sang Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" (and my dad says it's not a hippy church):
Yes, how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky ?
Yes, how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry ?
Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Even in kindergarten I understood that the answer, blowin' in the wind, would be hard to catch, that it will take too many deaths til we know that too many people have died.
So yes, I learned some important things in kindergarten: I learned from Tommy that other kids struggled in ways that I didn't; I learned that old people had funny legs; I learned that the world's beauty whispers to me that God is with me; and I learned that war seems to never have an end.
I also learned some things in kindergarten that I had to unlearn, however. Though I don't remember this experience personally, research shows that some young people before kindergarten may begin to identify as queer, but in kindergarten many of these young ones learn that queer is not okay, and these students go underground until maybe fifth or sixth grade. Perhaps I went deep underground, since I didn't come out until I was thirty years old.
In kindergarten, I learned to be quiet if to speak up might mean I'd get left out on the playground. In sixth grade, I learned that silence is collusion. When my friends on the school bus bullied Bernie, the girl who wore cowboy boots, I didn't join in their taunts, but I also didn't stop them. My principal pointed out that in this I was like the Germans who were silent as Jewish people disappeared from their neighborhoods. My teacher said the principal was too harsh, but I knew he was right. My kindergarten lesson of being silent in the face of injustice in order to protect myself is a lesson I am still trying to unlearn.
I also had to unlearn the habit of excessive persistence. Like Kenny Rogers sang, "You have to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run." In high school I finally learned that I had to make decisions about how long to persist when, realizing I was not having anything close to fun, I quit the high school basketball team. While quitting the basketball team may seem trivial to you, for me it was not. Through junior and senior high school, I often felt lonely, and my identity as a good student who was also an athlete was central to my self-definition.
I finally realized that I needed to redefine myself and that this redefinition would begin with quitting the basketball team. Later in life, in another painful time of letting go, I had to quit my marriage in order to be myself, and now with these tumors, I have had to give up so much in order to find the kernel of who I am.
I suppose if I had learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten, I might have been a guru or a saint, but in this life I am neither, so I am glad to keep learning, and in that learning is the constant spirit of grace, learning again and again that God is with me everywhere.
Mary
When I saw my teacher in her bathing suit at our swim club, I learned that old people's legs are different than young people's legs.
I also learned some good songs at our church's program for kindergartners. I remember learning the hymn that celebrates the divine in the natural world, "This is my Father's World." I was surprised when, about forty years later, my grandmother chose that hymn for her memorial service:
This is my Father's world:
He shines in all that's fair;
In the rustling grass I hear him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.
This may have been my best lesson from kindergarten.
In church we also sang Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" (and my dad says it's not a hippy church):
Yes, how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky ?
Yes, how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry ?
Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Even in kindergarten I understood that the answer, blowin' in the wind, would be hard to catch, that it will take too many deaths til we know that too many people have died.
So yes, I learned some important things in kindergarten: I learned from Tommy that other kids struggled in ways that I didn't; I learned that old people had funny legs; I learned that the world's beauty whispers to me that God is with me; and I learned that war seems to never have an end.
I also learned some things in kindergarten that I had to unlearn, however. Though I don't remember this experience personally, research shows that some young people before kindergarten may begin to identify as queer, but in kindergarten many of these young ones learn that queer is not okay, and these students go underground until maybe fifth or sixth grade. Perhaps I went deep underground, since I didn't come out until I was thirty years old.
In kindergarten, I learned to be quiet if to speak up might mean I'd get left out on the playground. In sixth grade, I learned that silence is collusion. When my friends on the school bus bullied Bernie, the girl who wore cowboy boots, I didn't join in their taunts, but I also didn't stop them. My principal pointed out that in this I was like the Germans who were silent as Jewish people disappeared from their neighborhoods. My teacher said the principal was too harsh, but I knew he was right. My kindergarten lesson of being silent in the face of injustice in order to protect myself is a lesson I am still trying to unlearn.
I also had to unlearn the habit of excessive persistence. Like Kenny Rogers sang, "You have to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run." In high school I finally learned that I had to make decisions about how long to persist when, realizing I was not having anything close to fun, I quit the high school basketball team. While quitting the basketball team may seem trivial to you, for me it was not. Through junior and senior high school, I often felt lonely, and my identity as a good student who was also an athlete was central to my self-definition.
I finally realized that I needed to redefine myself and that this redefinition would begin with quitting the basketball team. Later in life, in another painful time of letting go, I had to quit my marriage in order to be myself, and now with these tumors, I have had to give up so much in order to find the kernel of who I am.
I suppose if I had learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten, I might have been a guru or a saint, but in this life I am neither, so I am glad to keep learning, and in that learning is the constant spirit of grace, learning again and again that God is with me everywhere.
Mary
Sunday, December 19, 2010
P. S. 26 The Winter Solstice
Every year we celebrate light in the darkness with a solstice party. We decorate our home with lights and candles and the season's religious symbols from various faiths, and we invite the same twelve people every year to join us.
The celebration is sort of like the movie Same Time Next Year except that there is no Alan Alda and as far as I know there is no sex. Our friends who see one another only this once a year quickly move into in-depth conversations about the state of their lives and their spirits.
We are a mix of faiths, occupations, gay and straight, ranging in age from 44 to 66. We are a diverse group in some ways, but last night ten of the twelve of us were wearing the same brand of socks: Smart Wool. Two pairs of those who attended wore matching patterns.
I think SmartWool socks also tend to be worn by those who are politically liberal. I'm pretty sure no one there is a Republican or a Tea Party member. In some ways, we are a diverse crowd, but in others not so much. We mostly wear the same socks, for example. Each of us would describe ourselves as politically liberal. We are all women, and I'm pretty sure we all listen to NPR.
I think it's important to understand perspectives of people much different than I am, but I don't often seek them out. When I lived in Dallas, I would watch tele-evangelists on the t.v. from time to time, usually after "This Week with David Brinkley." I realize I still generally seek out other perspectives when it's safe and convenient.
Today in the doctor's office I read an article in People magazine about the Palins. This is my somewhat weak attempt to understand popular culture, but both People magazine and the public's apparent fascination with Sarah Palin astonish me. I feel more befuddled after reading the article than I did before.
Sarah Palin shoots a gun and teaches her daughter to shoot one. The magazine had photographs of this, and this I understand. She's aligning herself with the NRA, and at the same time she's challenging the perception that those who shoot guns are men. Besides, shooting a gun with accuracy is fun. Back in the day, I shot at targets. I was a pretty good shot.
Where the Sarah Palin phenomenon gets a little weird to me, is where she and her family are on a reality t.v. show: she, her husband, and all of their kids, including one who has Down's syndrome, and adding in a grandchild. Her family's on display. I understand that much of popular culture watches these reality shows, but doesn't the whole drama seem a bit undignified? And does it not it appeal to voyeurism? Somehow I associate prudishness with the right, so this gaudy self-revelation doeswn't fit my understanding of the right.
The Palins take ten percent tithing literally and identify as Christians, but Sarah Palin never attended a specific church. Now, mind you, I admire her tithing, and the lack of a specific church affilation seems lonely but doesn't bother me. Still, I'm surprised her religious independence plays well with the right.
I certainly acknowledge that my research has been shallow. I'm not sure how to understand this Palin phenenon. The conservative journalist George Will I understand, and I always hated it that the most intellectual voice on This Week was the Republican's voice, but at least he helped me understand and respect another perspective. He and I have similar values in some ways. We both value informed opinions, articulate logic, and a respectful sense that one is listening to those who disagree.
George Will has always seemed like someone with an informed and considered opinion. Sarah Palin, on the other hand, seems to argue that being informed isn't important for public officials. Being one of the guys, especially a beautiful one with spunk and a good shot, seems to be what's important. It's not so much that I don't understand Sarah Palin. It's that I don't understand those who follow her.
I am more perplexed about the Sarah Palin phenomenon now than I was before reading that People magazine article. I want to understand, but I doubt next year's Solstiec Party wsill include anyone wearing Tea Party socks. I wonder if people in the Tea Party wear a common sock: maybe red, white and blue with a made in the U.S.A. tag. That would reaffirm my apparently uninformed stereotype.
Mary
The celebration is sort of like the movie Same Time Next Year except that there is no Alan Alda and as far as I know there is no sex. Our friends who see one another only this once a year quickly move into in-depth conversations about the state of their lives and their spirits.
We are a mix of faiths, occupations, gay and straight, ranging in age from 44 to 66. We are a diverse group in some ways, but last night ten of the twelve of us were wearing the same brand of socks: Smart Wool. Two pairs of those who attended wore matching patterns.
I think SmartWool socks also tend to be worn by those who are politically liberal. I'm pretty sure no one there is a Republican or a Tea Party member. In some ways, we are a diverse crowd, but in others not so much. We mostly wear the same socks, for example. Each of us would describe ourselves as politically liberal. We are all women, and I'm pretty sure we all listen to NPR.
I think it's important to understand perspectives of people much different than I am, but I don't often seek them out. When I lived in Dallas, I would watch tele-evangelists on the t.v. from time to time, usually after "This Week with David Brinkley." I realize I still generally seek out other perspectives when it's safe and convenient.
Today in the doctor's office I read an article in People magazine about the Palins. This is my somewhat weak attempt to understand popular culture, but both People magazine and the public's apparent fascination with Sarah Palin astonish me. I feel more befuddled after reading the article than I did before.
Sarah Palin shoots a gun and teaches her daughter to shoot one. The magazine had photographs of this, and this I understand. She's aligning herself with the NRA, and at the same time she's challenging the perception that those who shoot guns are men. Besides, shooting a gun with accuracy is fun. Back in the day, I shot at targets. I was a pretty good shot.
Where the Sarah Palin phenomenon gets a little weird to me, is where she and her family are on a reality t.v. show: she, her husband, and all of their kids, including one who has Down's syndrome, and adding in a grandchild. Her family's on display. I understand that much of popular culture watches these reality shows, but doesn't the whole drama seem a bit undignified? And does it not it appeal to voyeurism? Somehow I associate prudishness with the right, so this gaudy self-revelation doeswn't fit my understanding of the right.
The Palins take ten percent tithing literally and identify as Christians, but Sarah Palin never attended a specific church. Now, mind you, I admire her tithing, and the lack of a specific church affilation seems lonely but doesn't bother me. Still, I'm surprised her religious independence plays well with the right.
I certainly acknowledge that my research has been shallow. I'm not sure how to understand this Palin phenenon. The conservative journalist George Will I understand, and I always hated it that the most intellectual voice on This Week was the Republican's voice, but at least he helped me understand and respect another perspective. He and I have similar values in some ways. We both value informed opinions, articulate logic, and a respectful sense that one is listening to those who disagree.
George Will has always seemed like someone with an informed and considered opinion. Sarah Palin, on the other hand, seems to argue that being informed isn't important for public officials. Being one of the guys, especially a beautiful one with spunk and a good shot, seems to be what's important. It's not so much that I don't understand Sarah Palin. It's that I don't understand those who follow her.
I am more perplexed about the Sarah Palin phenomenon now than I was before reading that People magazine article. I want to understand, but I doubt next year's Solstiec Party wsill include anyone wearing Tea Party socks. I wonder if people in the Tea Party wear a common sock: maybe red, white and blue with a made in the U.S.A. tag. That would reaffirm my apparently uninformed stereotype.
Mary
P. S. 27 You have termites in your smile.
The Grinch, Dr. Seuss's story of a lonely abusive monster whose heart grows three sizes when he learns that money is not at the heart of Christmas, is on pay-per-view. Do you find this as ironic as I do?
Mahalia Jackson, The Grinch, and egg nog have been for me central to preparing for Christmas for as long as I can remember--until The Grinch went pay-per-view last year. The irony overwhelms me. On principle, I just cannot pay for The Grinch. I purchased the movie on VHS and again on DVD, but that was for my convenience. I and all the children in the country could at that time still watch the classic for free on t.v. The decision to go pay-per-view with this movie seems so wrong to me.
Fortunately, even in the corporate world of cartoons, miracles still happen. When we couldn't record The Grinch because we hadn't paid for it, we watched the high school drama"Glee" instead--the episode in which Sue plays the grinch. Thus we saw the little Cindy Lou Who and heard the Whos singing despite the shinnanigans of corporate types.
Back to Joyful, Joyful.
Mary
Mahalia Jackson, The Grinch, and egg nog have been for me central to preparing for Christmas for as long as I can remember--until The Grinch went pay-per-view last year. The irony overwhelms me. On principle, I just cannot pay for The Grinch. I purchased the movie on VHS and again on DVD, but that was for my convenience. I and all the children in the country could at that time still watch the classic for free on t.v. The decision to go pay-per-view with this movie seems so wrong to me.
Fortunately, even in the corporate world of cartoons, miracles still happen. When we couldn't record The Grinch because we hadn't paid for it, we watched the high school drama"Glee" instead--the episode in which Sue plays the grinch. Thus we saw the little Cindy Lou Who and heard the Whos singing despite the shinnanigans of corporate types.
Back to Joyful, Joyful.
Mary
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
P. S. 15 World Enough and Time
Yesterday I visited two colleagues' office and was overwhelmed by the amount of stuff.
Lest I sound like a neatnick, which would be ironic, I should confess that when I was a child, neighborhood children and cousins always wanted to visit my bedroom and my siblings' rooms, as other children with less patient mothers were so impressed by our mess. Not only could a person not see the floor or any other surface in our rooms, but one would have to dig through layers to find a surface. When I got into bed, I would simply crawl in under the covers and all the stuff. As a college freshman, I (and my roommate Angelique) kept the room so delightfully messy that our boyfriends broke into the room when we were out of town and straightened it up for Valentime's Day. That was love. As an adult, when I was chair for the Humanities department in a new school, I kept so many textbooks and papers (yet to be graded, I'm sure) on the floor that the office became a part of the unofficial tour. Guests came to marvel at the mess.
In the home where I grew up, my father's study is as cluttered as my bedroom was when I was a child. My sister and brother had similarly messy rooms. Clutter is in my genes.
I have such a long history of clutter and such a genetic disposition towards clutter that impressing me with disorder is difficult, but yesterday, when I visited two colleagues' office, I was impressed. The office is at most four square yards. In that space are two desks, two office chairs, one tall filing cabinet, two computers, two tall bookshelves, and twenty-three boxes (You have to look down--under the desks where most people would put their feet--and up--on top of file cabinets and bookshelves-- to find them all.) . There are seven piles of paper with approximately 800 pieces of paper in each one, 18 files that are not in the filing cabinet, 15 three-ring binders, 727 books, and six giant post-its with 23 smaller post-its on them. There is the cozy feel of home: one Mexican rug, one art hanging from India, and eight children's drawings. You can find the word "To Do" thirteen times: once on a box, once on a scrap of paper, once on a folder, four times on the giant post-its, and so forth.
This place has the feel of too much to do and too little time. Other colleagues step in for a moment just to grab some resource as they run by. One colleague's backpack is tossed on the floor. The other totes her stuff in one of those suitcases that airline attendants pull through the airports. People scurry by, looking neither left nor right. In the nearby conference room, teachers meet to write curriculum. They'll need to rush back to their schools at the end of the day to see how their classes went with substitutes.
Before brain surgery, I filled the nooks and crannies of my days with too many to do lists and stacks of dusty papers. I rushed from my car to the classroom and ran to the restroom in any spare moment. I arose at 4 am, so that I could be at the gym by five to swim and lift and rush through my sun salutation before my work day began.
My physical spaces were as cluttered as my time. I had stacks of ungraded papers, revised and re-revised lesson plans, and unpaid bills. A couple of times, I fell racing about with stacks of papers in my arms. The papers fluttered into the rain until I jumped up and grabbed them and ran on.
Since brain surgery, I slow down and focus. I must. If I try to dash around like I did before, my head will hurt, and I will fall over stuff. This new way of living in space and time is a gift. I sold many of my books. I have a few folders in the filing drawer in my desk, but I only take a piece of paper if I really need it. There is not so much stuff around both because it's difficult for me to read paper and because I can't lift even a three-ring binder very easily. The space, I find, gives me mental and emotional space, too. Though I'm dealing with brain tumors and their after-effects, I'm more centered and spacious in my self than I was before.
My time, too, has more room in it. I cannot rush from moment to moment or room to room so I do not rush. I plan my days so that I can complete my responsibilities in a way that doesn't require me to hurry. I leave early to be sure I'm at places on time. I say, "I'm sorry, but I'm busy then. Can we plan for another time?" I drive slowly. I am no longer part of Merton's contemporary violence which is overwork. I can stop to say hello. I can ask a friend how they are and wait to hear the answer. I can notice the wet smell of fall. I can get lost in the intricacies of a leaf's architecture. I can.
Gotta go so that I'll be early for hocus pocus. Mary
Lest I sound like a neatnick, which would be ironic, I should confess that when I was a child, neighborhood children and cousins always wanted to visit my bedroom and my siblings' rooms, as other children with less patient mothers were so impressed by our mess. Not only could a person not see the floor or any other surface in our rooms, but one would have to dig through layers to find a surface. When I got into bed, I would simply crawl in under the covers and all the stuff. As a college freshman, I (and my roommate Angelique) kept the room so delightfully messy that our boyfriends broke into the room when we were out of town and straightened it up for Valentime's Day. That was love. As an adult, when I was chair for the Humanities department in a new school, I kept so many textbooks and papers (yet to be graded, I'm sure) on the floor that the office became a part of the unofficial tour. Guests came to marvel at the mess.
In the home where I grew up, my father's study is as cluttered as my bedroom was when I was a child. My sister and brother had similarly messy rooms. Clutter is in my genes.
I have such a long history of clutter and such a genetic disposition towards clutter that impressing me with disorder is difficult, but yesterday, when I visited two colleagues' office, I was impressed. The office is at most four square yards. In that space are two desks, two office chairs, one tall filing cabinet, two computers, two tall bookshelves, and twenty-three boxes (You have to look down--under the desks where most people would put their feet--and up--on top of file cabinets and bookshelves-- to find them all.) . There are seven piles of paper with approximately 800 pieces of paper in each one, 18 files that are not in the filing cabinet, 15 three-ring binders, 727 books, and six giant post-its with 23 smaller post-its on them. There is the cozy feel of home: one Mexican rug, one art hanging from India, and eight children's drawings. You can find the word "To Do" thirteen times: once on a box, once on a scrap of paper, once on a folder, four times on the giant post-its, and so forth.
This place has the feel of too much to do and too little time. Other colleagues step in for a moment just to grab some resource as they run by. One colleague's backpack is tossed on the floor. The other totes her stuff in one of those suitcases that airline attendants pull through the airports. People scurry by, looking neither left nor right. In the nearby conference room, teachers meet to write curriculum. They'll need to rush back to their schools at the end of the day to see how their classes went with substitutes.
Before brain surgery, I filled the nooks and crannies of my days with too many to do lists and stacks of dusty papers. I rushed from my car to the classroom and ran to the restroom in any spare moment. I arose at 4 am, so that I could be at the gym by five to swim and lift and rush through my sun salutation before my work day began.
My physical spaces were as cluttered as my time. I had stacks of ungraded papers, revised and re-revised lesson plans, and unpaid bills. A couple of times, I fell racing about with stacks of papers in my arms. The papers fluttered into the rain until I jumped up and grabbed them and ran on.
Since brain surgery, I slow down and focus. I must. If I try to dash around like I did before, my head will hurt, and I will fall over stuff. This new way of living in space and time is a gift. I sold many of my books. I have a few folders in the filing drawer in my desk, but I only take a piece of paper if I really need it. There is not so much stuff around both because it's difficult for me to read paper and because I can't lift even a three-ring binder very easily. The space, I find, gives me mental and emotional space, too. Though I'm dealing with brain tumors and their after-effects, I'm more centered and spacious in my self than I was before.
My time, too, has more room in it. I cannot rush from moment to moment or room to room so I do not rush. I plan my days so that I can complete my responsibilities in a way that doesn't require me to hurry. I leave early to be sure I'm at places on time. I say, "I'm sorry, but I'm busy then. Can we plan for another time?" I drive slowly. I am no longer part of Merton's contemporary violence which is overwork. I can stop to say hello. I can ask a friend how they are and wait to hear the answer. I can notice the wet smell of fall. I can get lost in the intricacies of a leaf's architecture. I can.
Gotta go so that I'll be early for hocus pocus. Mary
Saturday, October 16, 2010
P.S. 7 Who am I?
Who am I?
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord,"
from "Have you done your homework yet?" and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
of the Land of Starbucks,
the Mountain,
and the U.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an auntie,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Senora Alissa Lopez,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire
to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord,"
from "Have you done your homework yet?" and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
of the Land of Starbucks,
the Mountain,
and the U.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an auntie,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Senora Alissa Lopez,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire
to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
PS4 who am i
Like many poetry-reading teenagers, I connected with Emily Dickenson's "Are you a nobody? I'm a nobody, too." When my sophomore English teacher Mrs. Smisson invited us to create a graphic symbol of ourselves, I cut out a large question mark. Today, I'm more of a semi-colon than a question mark, but the question still intrigues me: Who am I?
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord," and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an aunt,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Apparicio y Maria,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord," and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an aunt,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Apparicio y Maria,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Summer #8: I heart grits.
Summer #8: Finally, the month of Junuary here in Seattle has passed, so maybe we can get on to our beautiful Northwest summer. Though Seattle feels like home to me, I have not yet adjusted to cold and cloudy April-May-June weather. As a Southerner, I know that June should be in the 90s, both in terms of temperature and humidity.
Growing up in the South, from time to time someone would say to me, "You don't seem like a Southerner." Maybe that was code for, "You seem like a lesbian," but I never seemed like a Southerner to myself either. In my advancing age, though, I recognize my Southernness. I heart grits. I love a good story and know that hyperbole, more than precision, reveals a narative's truth. My favorite places are the white sandy beaches and blue-green waters of the North Carolina coast. I have a healthy respect for lightening and do not shower or talk on the phone during a thunderstorm, like some fools here in the Northwest do. I love the banjo in bluegrass music and feel at home in a church. Steel magnolias, strong Southern women, are my role models. In the Southern woods, I am aware of the dangers of tics and copperheads.
Like many of my immigrant students, I have two homes. I am a Southerner, but I am a Northwesterner, too. Years ago, at an education conference, a Boston speaker stopped to comment on my fleece and Birkenstocks: "You're dressed like a stereotype, aren't you?" this bow-tied, round-eyed glasses Yankee said to me. I laughed at the irony of it. I suspect he interpreted my laughter as an acknowledgement of how clever and observant he was. I dress like a Northwesterner. I eat my tofu and organic Spinach. I march for immigrant rights, Martin Luther King and gay pride. I protest war. I remain seated in my two-inch high chair at outdoor concerts, even in the rain. I love folk music. I wear gortex and sensible shoes. My favorite places are the blooming hillsides reaching towards snow-capped Mount Rainier. In the Northwestern woods, I watch for bears.
Not only am I bicultural, but I'm bilingual, too. I know that in the South "ya'll" is always plural and in the Northwest, "liberal" has a positive connotation. Imagine that. Mary
Growing up in the South, from time to time someone would say to me, "You don't seem like a Southerner." Maybe that was code for, "You seem like a lesbian," but I never seemed like a Southerner to myself either. In my advancing age, though, I recognize my Southernness. I heart grits. I love a good story and know that hyperbole, more than precision, reveals a narative's truth. My favorite places are the white sandy beaches and blue-green waters of the North Carolina coast. I have a healthy respect for lightening and do not shower or talk on the phone during a thunderstorm, like some fools here in the Northwest do. I love the banjo in bluegrass music and feel at home in a church. Steel magnolias, strong Southern women, are my role models. In the Southern woods, I am aware of the dangers of tics and copperheads.
Like many of my immigrant students, I have two homes. I am a Southerner, but I am a Northwesterner, too. Years ago, at an education conference, a Boston speaker stopped to comment on my fleece and Birkenstocks: "You're dressed like a stereotype, aren't you?" this bow-tied, round-eyed glasses Yankee said to me. I laughed at the irony of it. I suspect he interpreted my laughter as an acknowledgement of how clever and observant he was. I dress like a Northwesterner. I eat my tofu and organic Spinach. I march for immigrant rights, Martin Luther King and gay pride. I protest war. I remain seated in my two-inch high chair at outdoor concerts, even in the rain. I love folk music. I wear gortex and sensible shoes. My favorite places are the blooming hillsides reaching towards snow-capped Mount Rainier. In the Northwestern woods, I watch for bears.
Not only am I bicultural, but I'm bilingual, too. I know that in the South "ya'll" is always plural and in the Northwest, "liberal" has a positive connotation. Imagine that. Mary
Friday, June 25, 2010
Summer #2: Flash Dance
Summer #2: There are things I haven't told you, but now that we've gotten closer, I'm ready to open up. Last fall I started having hot flashes. What a bizarre experience. Always colder than anyone around me, I was getting ready to start a professional development seminar for about a hundred people when the school's principal asked how I was. "Hot."
I stripped down to the essentials, a cotton tank and my britches, and looked around. No one else seemed affected. I felt like a hot coal must feel. Or a radiator. Not a person near a radiator. A radiator. Heat smoked from every pore, and I discovered pores in my scalp that had never made themselves known before. I thought maybe I was having a heat stroke, but no one came to my aid. They all seemed unaware of the heat tsunami I was experiencing.
I tell you this so that you'll know for sure how much I suffered: piggy flu, pneumonia, radiation for a brain tumor, and hot flashes. A friend staying with us called to say she had head lice while she was here, but we didn't get them. I was glad, though it would have made a good story.
I have not experienced dramatic emotional reactions, yet, though perhaps that's to come. When Ann, who is remarkably calm and centered, was going through this, she kicked a hole in the wall. I was in the kitchen, and I could hear her upstairs slamming doors and drawers more and more assertively. Finally she yelled down, "Honey," (she wasn't really thinking honey), "Do you know where my blue shirt is?" I hollared that I didn't, and she sighed dramatically. I heard her slamming things around again, this time in my closet. I knew she thought I'd hidden her blue shirt among my clothes. Then everything got quiet.
Ann came down in her pink shirt and stood quietly by me until I looked at her and asked, "Did you find it?" She responded, "I kicked a hole in the wall." It was like a child confessing having stolen candy from the grocery store. I laughed, and we went upstairs to survey the damage: yep,a size ten and a half hole in the wall.
The next day Ann fixed the hole and found the shirt. In her own closet. This is one of my favorite stories about her. When I asked if it would be okay to write about it for the blog,she said, "Why not. You've told just about everyone we know."
A few years ago, before my brain tumors, we went with our friend Ellen S. to see Menopause the Musical. There were seven men in the audience (I counted). I seemed to be ther only person under fifty years of age. The audience howled with laughter as the women on stage sang, fanned themselves, went to the bathroom every few minutes, and had temper tantrums. I didn't laugh. I was terrified.
We're in for a cool, damp summer here in the Northwest, but I'm guessing I'll be plenty warm. Mary
I stripped down to the essentials, a cotton tank and my britches, and looked around. No one else seemed affected. I felt like a hot coal must feel. Or a radiator. Not a person near a radiator. A radiator. Heat smoked from every pore, and I discovered pores in my scalp that had never made themselves known before. I thought maybe I was having a heat stroke, but no one came to my aid. They all seemed unaware of the heat tsunami I was experiencing.
I tell you this so that you'll know for sure how much I suffered: piggy flu, pneumonia, radiation for a brain tumor, and hot flashes. A friend staying with us called to say she had head lice while she was here, but we didn't get them. I was glad, though it would have made a good story.
I have not experienced dramatic emotional reactions, yet, though perhaps that's to come. When Ann, who is remarkably calm and centered, was going through this, she kicked a hole in the wall. I was in the kitchen, and I could hear her upstairs slamming doors and drawers more and more assertively. Finally she yelled down, "Honey," (she wasn't really thinking honey), "Do you know where my blue shirt is?" I hollared that I didn't, and she sighed dramatically. I heard her slamming things around again, this time in my closet. I knew she thought I'd hidden her blue shirt among my clothes. Then everything got quiet.
Ann came down in her pink shirt and stood quietly by me until I looked at her and asked, "Did you find it?" She responded, "I kicked a hole in the wall." It was like a child confessing having stolen candy from the grocery store. I laughed, and we went upstairs to survey the damage: yep,a size ten and a half hole in the wall.
The next day Ann fixed the hole and found the shirt. In her own closet. This is one of my favorite stories about her. When I asked if it would be okay to write about it for the blog,she said, "Why not. You've told just about everyone we know."
A few years ago, before my brain tumors, we went with our friend Ellen S. to see Menopause the Musical. There were seven men in the audience (I counted). I seemed to be ther only person under fifty years of age. The audience howled with laughter as the women on stage sang, fanned themselves, went to the bathroom every few minutes, and had temper tantrums. I didn't laugh. I was terrified.
We're in for a cool, damp summer here in the Northwest, but I'm guessing I'll be plenty warm. Mary
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
NL #37: The Keys to Understanding Southerners
NL #37: Some poeple think that the key to understanding Southerners is understanding the Civil War. That's true, but also understanding hyperbole, vocabulary (like y'all) and cultural phenomena (like grits) are keys to understanding Southerners.
Here are the main things you need to understand about the Civil War: 1) It is called The War Between the States or The War of Northern Aggression 2) It is not in the past. It is ongoing. When my grandmother M. used to say, "That wind came through here like Sherman marched through Georgia," no one would ask, "Sherman who?" That's like asking, "Michael Jordan who?"
When I was teaching a US history class a few years back, my original teaching partner had a nervous breakdown (no, I do not think I drove her to it), and my colleague Don took her place. Because it was November and the class was still in Plymouth, Don and I agreed that we needed to decide what to teach and what to skip. "Let's skip the Civil War," he suggested. "It's not that important." Don grew up in the Northwest. Raised in the South, I nearly dropped my teeth.
About language, an arena in which Southerners excel, the word, "y'all" is probably Southerners' most significant contribution to American English. "You guys" leaves out half of the population and the Spanish "ustedes" is too formal. "Y'all" is the word. By the way, it's plural. You don't say "y'all" to one person.
The elegance of hyperbole may be the Southern storytellers' greatest contribution to literature. Ann is from Texas, not the South, and I have finally taught her not to correct me when I say something like,"That meeting took twelve hours." The point is the experiential truth, not the fact of the meeting's length. That meeting (pretty much any meeting) seemed like it took twelve hours. My friend Marion, from New York, excels here as well. Marion also loves musicals, so in her soul I suspect she is part gay Southerner.
Of course, we use hyperbole all the time to talk about our misery: I'm starving. I'm dying. I can't take another step. Sometimes I wonder how people who have experienced starvation, the threat of death, and such exhausion that they cannot take another step hear these expressions. I know when people say (and they often do), "My head is killing me," I want to say, "Really?"
In terms of Southern cultural phenomena, I can't really explain grits. You have to eat them. Eat them before they dry into a plastic pancake. That's my tip. No Southerner allows food to stay on the plate long enough to get cold like that. Also, don't put sugar in them. Texans may do that, but Southerners do not.
See y'all tomorry. Mary
Here are the main things you need to understand about the Civil War: 1) It is called The War Between the States or The War of Northern Aggression 2) It is not in the past. It is ongoing. When my grandmother M. used to say, "That wind came through here like Sherman marched through Georgia," no one would ask, "Sherman who?" That's like asking, "Michael Jordan who?"
When I was teaching a US history class a few years back, my original teaching partner had a nervous breakdown (no, I do not think I drove her to it), and my colleague Don took her place. Because it was November and the class was still in Plymouth, Don and I agreed that we needed to decide what to teach and what to skip. "Let's skip the Civil War," he suggested. "It's not that important." Don grew up in the Northwest. Raised in the South, I nearly dropped my teeth.
About language, an arena in which Southerners excel, the word, "y'all" is probably Southerners' most significant contribution to American English. "You guys" leaves out half of the population and the Spanish "ustedes" is too formal. "Y'all" is the word. By the way, it's plural. You don't say "y'all" to one person.
The elegance of hyperbole may be the Southern storytellers' greatest contribution to literature. Ann is from Texas, not the South, and I have finally taught her not to correct me when I say something like,"That meeting took twelve hours." The point is the experiential truth, not the fact of the meeting's length. That meeting (pretty much any meeting) seemed like it took twelve hours. My friend Marion, from New York, excels here as well. Marion also loves musicals, so in her soul I suspect she is part gay Southerner.
Of course, we use hyperbole all the time to talk about our misery: I'm starving. I'm dying. I can't take another step. Sometimes I wonder how people who have experienced starvation, the threat of death, and such exhausion that they cannot take another step hear these expressions. I know when people say (and they often do), "My head is killing me," I want to say, "Really?"
In terms of Southern cultural phenomena, I can't really explain grits. You have to eat them. Eat them before they dry into a plastic pancake. That's my tip. No Southerner allows food to stay on the plate long enough to get cold like that. Also, don't put sugar in them. Texans may do that, but Southerners do not.
See y'all tomorry. Mary
Thursday, May 13, 2010
NL #19: Where I'm From
NL #18: My friend Miss Marion says that my writing is getting increasingly Southern. Not a surprise. Right after brain surgery, friends said that my Southern accent got much stronger (maybe that was because my parents were there or maybe the doctors triggered something in my brainstem.) When I returned home after surgery, I craved the foods of my childhood: spaghetti (my first word), “pineapple delight” (a kind of green Jell-o fruit, nut and marshmallow concoction), a banana and mayonnaise sandwich on Wonder Bread and chocolate milk. After radiation, I craved banana and mayonnaise sandwiches, only we don’t have that tasty Wonder Bread, so I have to make do with a flaxseed muffin, which doesn’t squeeze into a tasty dough ball like Wonder Bread does, but it’s adequate.
I find that for most people in the Northwest, the South is an unknown and uninteresting collection of red states, bigotry, and chauvinism. While there is some truth to the stereotype, the area is of course much more complex than that.
My final year of teaching, I opened the year teaching freshmen a unit on reading and writing poetry. I borrowed heavily from Linda Christenson’s excellent book, Reading, Writing and Rising Up, and we studied George Lyons’ poem “Where I’m From,” using this poem as a model to write our own. As usual, I wrote with the students, modeling my process and, in this instance, seeking their input for my revision. In the flurry of cleaning out my classroom before my brain surgery, I lost that poem, but I’ve written a similar one below.
In the poem I wrote for that class, I attempted to articulate something more complex about the South for this group of students, most of whom had never been to the Southern United States but many of whom had grown up in places in Africa and Latin America and knew plenty about stereotypes of homes they have left. Students helped me revise that first poem, so it was much better than this one.
Here and There
Grits and fried chicken, pulled pork barbeque sandwiches, fried okra—
Fried anything really:
The foods of my childhood.
White steepled churches in every block,
A white and a black part of town,
The A & P and Piggly Wiggly:
The images of my childhood.
“Yes, Ma’am” and “No, Sir” and “I’d know you anywhere.”
“Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?”
White sandy beaches, hot enough in summer to blister my feet and
Rolling mountains painted swaths of autumn greens, reds and golds.
Winter snows on Christmas lawn displays,
Spring’s blooming dogwoods and daffodils,
Summer thunderstorms, electric over the graying ocean.
“Amazing Grace,” “Over the River and Through the Woods, to Grandmother’s House We Go,”
And “In My Mind, I’ve Gone to Carolina”:
The music of my youth.
Here in Seattle, my second home,
We eat tofu and organic greens,
Ride our bikes miles to our church,
Shop at the Pike Place Market,
Nod our heads to say hello.
A season of wet and
A season of dry,
Tulips and crocuses drooping in the rain.
Christmas trees frocked with the white of real snow,
Still growing in the winter woods.
Tourists clog downtown sidewalks, studying their maps,
They ride the elevator to the top of the Space Needle
And ride the Ducks, two layered amphibious carts,
Around town, blowing their kazoos.
Here and There I sing,
“What a Wonderful World.”
I find that for most people in the Northwest, the South is an unknown and uninteresting collection of red states, bigotry, and chauvinism. While there is some truth to the stereotype, the area is of course much more complex than that.
My final year of teaching, I opened the year teaching freshmen a unit on reading and writing poetry. I borrowed heavily from Linda Christenson’s excellent book, Reading, Writing and Rising Up, and we studied George Lyons’ poem “Where I’m From,” using this poem as a model to write our own. As usual, I wrote with the students, modeling my process and, in this instance, seeking their input for my revision. In the flurry of cleaning out my classroom before my brain surgery, I lost that poem, but I’ve written a similar one below.
In the poem I wrote for that class, I attempted to articulate something more complex about the South for this group of students, most of whom had never been to the Southern United States but many of whom had grown up in places in Africa and Latin America and knew plenty about stereotypes of homes they have left. Students helped me revise that first poem, so it was much better than this one.
Here and There
Grits and fried chicken, pulled pork barbeque sandwiches, fried okra—
Fried anything really:
The foods of my childhood.
White steepled churches in every block,
A white and a black part of town,
The A & P and Piggly Wiggly:
The images of my childhood.
“Yes, Ma’am” and “No, Sir” and “I’d know you anywhere.”
“Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?”
White sandy beaches, hot enough in summer to blister my feet and
Rolling mountains painted swaths of autumn greens, reds and golds.
Winter snows on Christmas lawn displays,
Spring’s blooming dogwoods and daffodils,
Summer thunderstorms, electric over the graying ocean.
“Amazing Grace,” “Over the River and Through the Woods, to Grandmother’s House We Go,”
And “In My Mind, I’ve Gone to Carolina”:
The music of my youth.
Here in Seattle, my second home,
We eat tofu and organic greens,
Ride our bikes miles to our church,
Shop at the Pike Place Market,
Nod our heads to say hello.
A season of wet and
A season of dry,
Tulips and crocuses drooping in the rain.
Christmas trees frocked with the white of real snow,
Still growing in the winter woods.
Tourists clog downtown sidewalks, studying their maps,
They ride the elevator to the top of the Space Needle
And ride the Ducks, two layered amphibious carts,
Around town, blowing their kazoos.
Here and There I sing,
“What a Wonderful World.”
Monday, May 10, 2010
NL #16: Small Town Cool
My father grew up in the small NC town voted most like Andy Griffith’s Mayberry. His father and uncle owned a hardware store together in the downtown, and he went to school with most of the white kids in town and from the country. African American kids who lived, literally, on the other side of the tracks led separate lives.
Each summer, our family went to the beach with three house-loads of grandmothers, aunts (pronounced “aints”) , and first, second and third cousins once, twice and thrice removed. Uncle Don’s family and Aunt Sumner’s families both had ski boats, so we would take the boats to the sound and spend the day waterskiing while the older folks sat on the shady bank to eat watermelon and cheer us on. In the mornings, Uncle Jake and Jake, Jr. would go fishing in the surf and then, when the sun got strong, would haul their plentiful guts back up to the deck, drink Budweiser from a can, and gawk at bikinied girls through binoculars. Sometimes they would holler out. I knew even then that this was not cool--small town or otherwise.
My father recently suggested that I put a clothespin on the spoke of my "tricycle" so that I would make that thumping noise as I ride. This, he explained, is what he did as a child. This was small town cool. I pointed out that my "tricycle" is a trike--much cooler and adult.
I remember that when Dad got older, he and his friends drove around town in the summer heat with the windows rolled up so that folks would think they had air conditioning. (If you've not been in NC in the summer, it's about 100 degrees with 100 percent humidity.) This, too, was small town cool.
My theory is that some people just understand cool and others don't. My dad, like my siblings, probably would have been cool anywhere.
I grew up in suburban Raleigh and was never suburban cool: I didn’t smoke pot on the school bus (or anywhere else); I preferred the Rocky Horror Picture Show to Friday the 13th part eight; I preferred James Taylor to Molly Hatchet; I preferred to curl up with a book than a boy.
Now I live in the city and I’m not city cool, either, but fortunately I’ve aged out of the importance of cool.
Yo--mary
Each summer, our family went to the beach with three house-loads of grandmothers, aunts (pronounced “aints”) , and first, second and third cousins once, twice and thrice removed. Uncle Don’s family and Aunt Sumner’s families both had ski boats, so we would take the boats to the sound and spend the day waterskiing while the older folks sat on the shady bank to eat watermelon and cheer us on. In the mornings, Uncle Jake and Jake, Jr. would go fishing in the surf and then, when the sun got strong, would haul their plentiful guts back up to the deck, drink Budweiser from a can, and gawk at bikinied girls through binoculars. Sometimes they would holler out. I knew even then that this was not cool--small town or otherwise.
My father recently suggested that I put a clothespin on the spoke of my "tricycle" so that I would make that thumping noise as I ride. This, he explained, is what he did as a child. This was small town cool. I pointed out that my "tricycle" is a trike--much cooler and adult.
I remember that when Dad got older, he and his friends drove around town in the summer heat with the windows rolled up so that folks would think they had air conditioning. (If you've not been in NC in the summer, it's about 100 degrees with 100 percent humidity.) This, too, was small town cool.
My theory is that some people just understand cool and others don't. My dad, like my siblings, probably would have been cool anywhere.
I grew up in suburban Raleigh and was never suburban cool: I didn’t smoke pot on the school bus (or anywhere else); I preferred the Rocky Horror Picture Show to Friday the 13th part eight; I preferred James Taylor to Molly Hatchet; I preferred to curl up with a book than a boy.
Now I live in the city and I’m not city cool, either, but fortunately I’ve aged out of the importance of cool.
Yo--mary
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
NL #12: “How’s the weather?”
NL #12: My colleague Joanna stays dialed in to the weather channel. I’m not much of a weather buff myself, but I love how fascinated she is by weather, and her enthusiasm has me paying more attention. All the recent volcanoes and floods do make it seem a bit like Armageddon is on its way—or maybe it’s already here.
Today in Seattle we’re having all four seasons: Cloudy and cold with sun-breaks and some chance of thunderstorms and hail. Azaleas are blooming and we’re talking hail. Crazy.
My friends May and Paul first moved here one October, just as the rains began. They learned quickly to go outside at any sign of a shadow because a shadow indicates sun, or at least light. When the sun finally emerged in early July, May and Paul spent the long days outside, knowing that they had to appreciate the sun when it showed itself but not knowing that the sun would probably shine until October. They finally got sun-weary and went inside. They returned to the South.
When my sister planned her first trip to Seattle, I told her that July and August were pretty dependably sunny, so she scheduled a visit for late July. We went to Paradise, the blooming fields below Mt. Rainier. It was rainy, cloudy, foggy and cold. For a brief moment, the clouds parted. We raised our rain hats and glimpsed Mt. Rainier before it was again shrouded in clouds. I guess summers are generally dependable, but, well, it is the weather.
A few years back, Ann and I decided to risk a summer storm and an iffy weather forecast and went for a hike over a ridge to a mountain lake. The hike in was beautiful: the sun shone; there was a pleasant breeze; sunlight danced on the water. As we lay down beside the lake to enjoy our lunches and a nap in isolation, we congratulated ourselves on taking the risk that others had not braved. Just then, “Kaboom!” Thunder clouds rolled over the ridge and we raced back to the parking lot, slipping on wet snow and pausing to crouch when it seemed like the lightening was right on us. We weren’t so clever as we thought.
We love Seattle and we also love the countries we visit in Latin America. One similarity between Seattle and Latin American countries near the equator is that each has two seasons: wet and dry. Seattle’s wet season is generally Oct-June. That's a long wet season. There are so many differences—in Latin America most official business is in Spanish, it gets warm enough to swim, and color is in. In Seattle, not.
In North Carolina, where I grew up, there are four seasons: Winters it usually snows; Spring enters beautifully with dogwoods and daffodils blooming against a clear blue sky and golfers in their funny outfits enjoying the 70 degree, low humidity weather; Summers are hot and muggy with afternoon thunderstorms that will rattle your fillings; Fall reds and golds in the mountains look like swaths of paint across the landscape. There’s a kind of poetry about this dance of the seasons.
Seattle’s weather invites stand-up comedy more than poetry. This is a beautiful place: in what southerners call the spring, azaleas and tulips bloom in the rain; in the winter, rain falls as snow in the mountains; in the fall, rains water the evergreens and in the summer—ah, the summer—sunny blue skies show off the water and the mountains that surround us. Here, we live ten months for two. But even then, sometimes the weather rains on our parade and our two sunny months shrink to one.
How’s the weather out there? Mary
Today in Seattle we’re having all four seasons: Cloudy and cold with sun-breaks and some chance of thunderstorms and hail. Azaleas are blooming and we’re talking hail. Crazy.
My friends May and Paul first moved here one October, just as the rains began. They learned quickly to go outside at any sign of a shadow because a shadow indicates sun, or at least light. When the sun finally emerged in early July, May and Paul spent the long days outside, knowing that they had to appreciate the sun when it showed itself but not knowing that the sun would probably shine until October. They finally got sun-weary and went inside. They returned to the South.
When my sister planned her first trip to Seattle, I told her that July and August were pretty dependably sunny, so she scheduled a visit for late July. We went to Paradise, the blooming fields below Mt. Rainier. It was rainy, cloudy, foggy and cold. For a brief moment, the clouds parted. We raised our rain hats and glimpsed Mt. Rainier before it was again shrouded in clouds. I guess summers are generally dependable, but, well, it is the weather.
A few years back, Ann and I decided to risk a summer storm and an iffy weather forecast and went for a hike over a ridge to a mountain lake. The hike in was beautiful: the sun shone; there was a pleasant breeze; sunlight danced on the water. As we lay down beside the lake to enjoy our lunches and a nap in isolation, we congratulated ourselves on taking the risk that others had not braved. Just then, “Kaboom!” Thunder clouds rolled over the ridge and we raced back to the parking lot, slipping on wet snow and pausing to crouch when it seemed like the lightening was right on us. We weren’t so clever as we thought.
We love Seattle and we also love the countries we visit in Latin America. One similarity between Seattle and Latin American countries near the equator is that each has two seasons: wet and dry. Seattle’s wet season is generally Oct-June. That's a long wet season. There are so many differences—in Latin America most official business is in Spanish, it gets warm enough to swim, and color is in. In Seattle, not.
In North Carolina, where I grew up, there are four seasons: Winters it usually snows; Spring enters beautifully with dogwoods and daffodils blooming against a clear blue sky and golfers in their funny outfits enjoying the 70 degree, low humidity weather; Summers are hot and muggy with afternoon thunderstorms that will rattle your fillings; Fall reds and golds in the mountains look like swaths of paint across the landscape. There’s a kind of poetry about this dance of the seasons.
Seattle’s weather invites stand-up comedy more than poetry. This is a beautiful place: in what southerners call the spring, azaleas and tulips bloom in the rain; in the winter, rain falls as snow in the mountains; in the fall, rains water the evergreens and in the summer—ah, the summer—sunny blue skies show off the water and the mountains that surround us. Here, we live ten months for two. But even then, sometimes the weather rains on our parade and our two sunny months shrink to one.
How’s the weather out there? Mary
Monday, April 26, 2010
NL #7: I Stand for Hope
NL #7: This weekend, I saw two films at the Langston Hughes African American Film Festival. They were great fun and very moving. As you know, I love experiencing cultures different than the one I grew up in, and seeing performances with an African American crowd is one of my favorite things to do because the experience—like church services-- is so different than seeing a performance with a white crowd: lively and interactive.
The first time I saw a film with a primarily black audience was during college, when I went to see The Color Purple at Crabtree Valley mall in Raleigh. The house was packed. Four of us were white; the rest black. Throughout the movie, the audience hollered out to the screen in a way that I had never experienced. I remember especially the moment in the film where Shug leans down slowly to kiss Celie. The audience was absolutely still and quiet. I’m not sure anyone exhaled. Finally, a man in the front right shouted, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Oh, Lord, she did it!” and the tension broke into laughter.
Friday night my friend Chris and I went to Doubletime, an independent film focused on two double-dutch teams, one from Raleigh NC (my hometown) and another from Charlestown, SC, as they prepared for and then competed in the 2004 International Double Dutch championships at the Apollo in Harlem. Before the movie, two local double-dutch teams performed and encouraged young ones in the audience to perform. The theatre was packed and there was plenty of appreciative applause and laughter.
Throughout the film, as jumpers, their coaches and parents talked about their experiences, we got to know some of the competitors and watch them practice and perform: there was more applause and laughter and “Mmm. Hmmm.” At the end of the film, the directors ran a “Where are they now?” Tia made the honor role in middle school (everyone clapped); Erica delivered her Bat Mitzvah speech on strong women; Antoine was working in a beauty salon; and Tim, articulate and sweet with a Masaii leap and Obama ears, entered The University of North Carolina at Charlotte, studying electrical engineering and jump rope. For this, the mark of academic success, there was vigorous applause. I’m pretty sure we all left laughing and feeling hopeful.
Saturday night Ann and I went to a more sobering film, Soundtrack to a Revolution. The film told the story of the1960s Civil Rights movement through old film clips, interviews with those still living, and music. The film certainly showed the power of music to bring people together, but though I’ve seen them before, those images of dogs and fire hoses and batons tearing at young black people take my breath away, make me a bit sick to my stomach, even with the hopefulness of the music. This night, I left with more complex emotions: hope in the way that masses changed public policy and sadness at how much one human can hurt another.
Today, as I go into a remarkably diverse classroom, I remember how differently those of us from different cultures have experienced working with groups and learning, and I feel lucky to continue learning from this teacher and these students as they learn from me. Here, too, I can feel the complex emotions of hope and fear. But here, in middle school, I experience mostly hope.
What do you stand for? I stand for hope. Mary
The first time I saw a film with a primarily black audience was during college, when I went to see The Color Purple at Crabtree Valley mall in Raleigh. The house was packed. Four of us were white; the rest black. Throughout the movie, the audience hollered out to the screen in a way that I had never experienced. I remember especially the moment in the film where Shug leans down slowly to kiss Celie. The audience was absolutely still and quiet. I’m not sure anyone exhaled. Finally, a man in the front right shouted, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Oh, Lord, she did it!” and the tension broke into laughter.
Friday night my friend Chris and I went to Doubletime, an independent film focused on two double-dutch teams, one from Raleigh NC (my hometown) and another from Charlestown, SC, as they prepared for and then competed in the 2004 International Double Dutch championships at the Apollo in Harlem. Before the movie, two local double-dutch teams performed and encouraged young ones in the audience to perform. The theatre was packed and there was plenty of appreciative applause and laughter.
Throughout the film, as jumpers, their coaches and parents talked about their experiences, we got to know some of the competitors and watch them practice and perform: there was more applause and laughter and “Mmm. Hmmm.” At the end of the film, the directors ran a “Where are they now?” Tia made the honor role in middle school (everyone clapped); Erica delivered her Bat Mitzvah speech on strong women; Antoine was working in a beauty salon; and Tim, articulate and sweet with a Masaii leap and Obama ears, entered The University of North Carolina at Charlotte, studying electrical engineering and jump rope. For this, the mark of academic success, there was vigorous applause. I’m pretty sure we all left laughing and feeling hopeful.
Saturday night Ann and I went to a more sobering film, Soundtrack to a Revolution. The film told the story of the1960s Civil Rights movement through old film clips, interviews with those still living, and music. The film certainly showed the power of music to bring people together, but though I’ve seen them before, those images of dogs and fire hoses and batons tearing at young black people take my breath away, make me a bit sick to my stomach, even with the hopefulness of the music. This night, I left with more complex emotions: hope in the way that masses changed public policy and sadness at how much one human can hurt another.
Today, as I go into a remarkably diverse classroom, I remember how differently those of us from different cultures have experienced working with groups and learning, and I feel lucky to continue learning from this teacher and these students as they learn from me. Here, too, I can feel the complex emotions of hope and fear. But here, in middle school, I experience mostly hope.
What do you stand for? I stand for hope. Mary
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
DAR #29: Genesis
DAR #29: The Southern Baptist church where I grew up comprised an eclectic congregation of hippie Southern Baptists, professors from local colleges and universities, artists and young parents like mine who wanted to attend a church more liberal than they were. We were as likely to sing Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” as any hymn and to read The Velveteen Rabbit as any Bible stories. The church took a stand against the Vietnam War and had a sister church, a storehouse church with a primarily black congregation. Today they also have a sister church in Cuba.
After I graduated, the church tussled with questions of rightness and then decided to ask the minister to perform a gay union ceremony. That was too far. The church was expelled from the Southern Baptist Convention and is now an American Baptist Church. Today, the church has two ministers: a straight man whose intellectual sermons would make many more traditional church-goers cringe and a lesbian who, just by being both a woman and a gay person, makes those same folks cringe.
It is, and always has been, a lively place of spiritual quest, passion for social justice, community. As many Southern churches are, it’s large with a downstairs sanctuary that seats maybe four hundred and three upstairs balconies where my friend Ande and I sat so that we could slip out when things got boring and go to the local park to swing on the swings. We always wore our bell-bottom blue jeans with peace sign patches to church, so we were appropriately dressed for both church and the park.
For such a large place, the sanctuary feels intimate. There are rich stained glass windows and hues of gold, purple and blue that make it seem—somehow—cozier. If you go there today, my dad will probably be sitting on the right as you enter, in the fourth row, behind the Corrells, and my mom will be the one who hits the high note in the choir
I didn’t realize the church was so unusual until I tried to find a home church in Dallas. I assumed Dallas churches would be similar to the church in which I had grown up, but with different people. I visited 17 churches and the closest I found was a Universalist congregation that met in a very brown room. It felt more like college than church, so I gave up on it.
Now Ann and I are part of a Methodist congregation, much smaller but in many respects similar to my first congregation. This congregation, at the forefront of the move to “reconcile” with GLBTQ persons, supports us as a couple and has been a tremendous support throughout our time with my tumors. I am guessing that they are praying for us today as we go to find out if this radiation has been successful and that they will be there for us no matter what comes next.
Feeling grateful and anxious to know the MRI report. I’ll let you know what we learn. Mary
After I graduated, the church tussled with questions of rightness and then decided to ask the minister to perform a gay union ceremony. That was too far. The church was expelled from the Southern Baptist Convention and is now an American Baptist Church. Today, the church has two ministers: a straight man whose intellectual sermons would make many more traditional church-goers cringe and a lesbian who, just by being both a woman and a gay person, makes those same folks cringe.
It is, and always has been, a lively place of spiritual quest, passion for social justice, community. As many Southern churches are, it’s large with a downstairs sanctuary that seats maybe four hundred and three upstairs balconies where my friend Ande and I sat so that we could slip out when things got boring and go to the local park to swing on the swings. We always wore our bell-bottom blue jeans with peace sign patches to church, so we were appropriately dressed for both church and the park.
For such a large place, the sanctuary feels intimate. There are rich stained glass windows and hues of gold, purple and blue that make it seem—somehow—cozier. If you go there today, my dad will probably be sitting on the right as you enter, in the fourth row, behind the Corrells, and my mom will be the one who hits the high note in the choir
I didn’t realize the church was so unusual until I tried to find a home church in Dallas. I assumed Dallas churches would be similar to the church in which I had grown up, but with different people. I visited 17 churches and the closest I found was a Universalist congregation that met in a very brown room. It felt more like college than church, so I gave up on it.
Now Ann and I are part of a Methodist congregation, much smaller but in many respects similar to my first congregation. This congregation, at the forefront of the move to “reconcile” with GLBTQ persons, supports us as a couple and has been a tremendous support throughout our time with my tumors. I am guessing that they are praying for us today as we go to find out if this radiation has been successful and that they will be there for us no matter what comes next.
Feeling grateful and anxious to know the MRI report. I’ll let you know what we learn. Mary
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
DAR #24: Call me...
DAR #24: Call me Mary. Or Miss Mary. Or Ms. E., Sister Mary, Em. Don't call me Merv or Casper (junior high nicknames), Marybell (only my Dad can call me that), Sweet Mary (that's Ann), or Goldie (Alex seems to think that, like Goldilocks, I can be a bit particular about the temperature or music volume.) I am thinking about nicknames, how some are shorter than the given name and some are longer, and why we give them.
Several friends, like me, have one letter names: e, g, gangsta j and sistah j, eL, em (that's me), and pea (not pee). This makes sense because in this world of TLAs (Three Letter Acronyms) and FLAs (Four Letter Acronyms) we're always shortening words. When my parents were first dating, Dad (always ahead of the curve) called Mom "SAM" because those were her maiden initials. An older gentleman in the small town where Dad grew up did not approve: "What did your Dad call your Mom? Mike? Bill? Some man's name. That such a shame because she's such a beautiful lady."
Shortening names makes sense in this TLA culture, but then there are the nicknames that are longer than the person's name. Back in the day, my grandmother renamed my Great Aunt Ben, for example, (whose real name was Magnolia though no one called her that), for the cartoon character "Ben Puttin' It Off." Apparently, procrastination has been inthe family for some time, so I don't know why Dad hassles me about that Roth information. Obviously, procrastination's in my genes, and I have no control over it.
My Aunt Cindy for a while was "Flea Bitten Hound Dog." I don't know why. Later she became "Flea" or "Hound Dog." Many of you know that I call Ann "Ann-a-Plan." In the car one day, I was trying to create an expression that read the same forwards and backwards, like "A Man, A Plan, A Canal: Panama." Ann likes to make plans, so I started there: Ann a Plan. But backwards that reads Nalp a Nna, so instead I made her name a poem: "Ann-a-Plan; Eat a Bananna; Drink a Cherry Coke." Every now and then I call her "Eat a Bananna" or "Eating Banannas" and we get funny looks in the grocery store. I've never called her "Drink a Cherry Coke". That would be wrong.
We rename people and we name inanimate objects. Mom called her VW Rabbit, "Thumper." My friend Sean introduces his bike as "Heidi." We named a plant in the front yard "Precioussss" from Gollum in The Hobbit.
So back to the question: Why do we name and rename people and things?
Awaiting your wisdom. Mary
Several friends, like me, have one letter names: e, g, gangsta j and sistah j, eL, em (that's me), and pea (not pee). This makes sense because in this world of TLAs (Three Letter Acronyms) and FLAs (Four Letter Acronyms) we're always shortening words. When my parents were first dating, Dad (always ahead of the curve) called Mom "SAM" because those were her maiden initials. An older gentleman in the small town where Dad grew up did not approve: "What did your Dad call your Mom? Mike? Bill? Some man's name. That such a shame because she's such a beautiful lady."
Shortening names makes sense in this TLA culture, but then there are the nicknames that are longer than the person's name. Back in the day, my grandmother renamed my Great Aunt Ben, for example, (whose real name was Magnolia though no one called her that), for the cartoon character "Ben Puttin' It Off." Apparently, procrastination has been inthe family for some time, so I don't know why Dad hassles me about that Roth information. Obviously, procrastination's in my genes, and I have no control over it.
My Aunt Cindy for a while was "Flea Bitten Hound Dog." I don't know why. Later she became "Flea" or "Hound Dog." Many of you know that I call Ann "Ann-a-Plan." In the car one day, I was trying to create an expression that read the same forwards and backwards, like "A Man, A Plan, A Canal: Panama." Ann likes to make plans, so I started there: Ann a Plan. But backwards that reads Nalp a Nna, so instead I made her name a poem: "Ann-a-Plan; Eat a Bananna; Drink a Cherry Coke." Every now and then I call her "Eat a Bananna" or "Eating Banannas" and we get funny looks in the grocery store. I've never called her "Drink a Cherry Coke". That would be wrong.
We rename people and we name inanimate objects. Mom called her VW Rabbit, "Thumper." My friend Sean introduces his bike as "Heidi." We named a plant in the front yard "Precioussss" from Gollum in The Hobbit.
So back to the question: Why do we name and rename people and things?
Awaiting your wisdom. Mary
Monday, April 5, 2010
DAR #23: This Little Piggy...
DAR #23: Generally in the US, my interactions with pigs have been with a knife and fork. For Easter dinner yesterday, as with many Easters, we had tasty ham. Where do pigs picture in the resurrection story? Not so high, I think.
Growing up in NC, I loved NC barbeque: pulled pork in a vinegar sauce. Whenever I visited my grandmother in a small town in Eastern Carolina, she took me to "The Grill" for a barbeque sandwich, hold the cold slaw, and a chocolate milk shake. This was what my grandmother would call "a good eat."
A couple of times I remember getting closer to the piglike qualities of pork with a pig roast: once at the medieval fair in the 8th grade and again at a fraternity pig roast (no. I was not in a fraternity. I just liked pig.) The whole apple in the pig's mouth seemed a bit grotesque to me.
In Latin America I had more interaction with the squealing kind of pig. When I first arrived in the jungled foothills of the Michoacan mountains in the small town of Camelote, (Mexico) for one summer, my three comrades and I were given directions to the sewing school where we would stay: "Take the main road to the corner where there's a pig and turn left, then right. The sewing school will be on your right." These are common directions in this small town, and I was afraid we might miss the pig, but there was no chance. This pig was as big as two kegs. Big Pig. We had pigs in the yard behind the school, but I never went there. I think Juan was the only one to go there, to bury Alex's soiled silken briefs--an unpleasant story.
One morning I was walking back from Seniora Alisa Lopez's home (she was teaching me to cook: my tortillas were thick and not round, but I understood the bean recipes--one slab of lard for whole beans, two for refried beans); as I was walking down the dirt road, I heard a racket ahead of me. That two-keg sized pig was flying across the road, chased by a dog. The pig hurdled the fence, and the do-- which could not--stood outside barking. That pig could fly. A few weeks later, I awoke to an awful squealing that went on all morning. Everyone in that little town had pork for a month.
When Ann and I visited our sister church in Guarjila, El Salvador at the century's turn, we heard a similar squealing one morning. When we had arrived, a young pig--perhaps even a piglet--was tied to a stake in the yard like one might tie up a dog. As the pig squealed for an hour or so, we worried that this family might be slaughtering its pig for us, but when we emerged the piglet was in the backyard, unfettered. When we asked why (remember that our Spanish is not too good, so this was a challenge), they laughed. The pig was new to them, and young pigs will return to their mothers, but if you run them around the house three times, they get confused and will stay at their new home. That must be where my parents got that idea and ran me around this Seattle home.
mary
Growing up in NC, I loved NC barbeque: pulled pork in a vinegar sauce. Whenever I visited my grandmother in a small town in Eastern Carolina, she took me to "The Grill" for a barbeque sandwich, hold the cold slaw, and a chocolate milk shake. This was what my grandmother would call "a good eat."
A couple of times I remember getting closer to the piglike qualities of pork with a pig roast: once at the medieval fair in the 8th grade and again at a fraternity pig roast (no. I was not in a fraternity. I just liked pig.) The whole apple in the pig's mouth seemed a bit grotesque to me.
In Latin America I had more interaction with the squealing kind of pig. When I first arrived in the jungled foothills of the Michoacan mountains in the small town of Camelote, (Mexico) for one summer, my three comrades and I were given directions to the sewing school where we would stay: "Take the main road to the corner where there's a pig and turn left, then right. The sewing school will be on your right." These are common directions in this small town, and I was afraid we might miss the pig, but there was no chance. This pig was as big as two kegs. Big Pig. We had pigs in the yard behind the school, but I never went there. I think Juan was the only one to go there, to bury Alex's soiled silken briefs--an unpleasant story.
One morning I was walking back from Seniora Alisa Lopez's home (she was teaching me to cook: my tortillas were thick and not round, but I understood the bean recipes--one slab of lard for whole beans, two for refried beans); as I was walking down the dirt road, I heard a racket ahead of me. That two-keg sized pig was flying across the road, chased by a dog. The pig hurdled the fence, and the do-- which could not--stood outside barking. That pig could fly. A few weeks later, I awoke to an awful squealing that went on all morning. Everyone in that little town had pork for a month.
When Ann and I visited our sister church in Guarjila, El Salvador at the century's turn, we heard a similar squealing one morning. When we had arrived, a young pig--perhaps even a piglet--was tied to a stake in the yard like one might tie up a dog. As the pig squealed for an hour or so, we worried that this family might be slaughtering its pig for us, but when we emerged the piglet was in the backyard, unfettered. When we asked why (remember that our Spanish is not too good, so this was a challenge), they laughed. The pig was new to them, and young pigs will return to their mothers, but if you run them around the house three times, they get confused and will stay at their new home. That must be where my parents got that idea and ran me around this Seattle home.
mary
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