the roller coaster

Ups and downs. Life is full of them. 

World events have put us on a roller coaster, and the one we're riding at the moment, folks? It's not the kiddie coaster. It's a rickety old thing that has vertical drops and loops, and you hope the harness passed its safety inspection. Given the appearance of the guy running the coaster at the moment --chomping on his cigar, smirking, muttering about pesky kids, counting his money --it's doubtful.

So what to do about it?

Hold on. Hold on to those you love and tell them that you love them.  Don't wait to do that. That will help you feel better because you're not on this ride alone. 

Hold on for a second and really survey the situation. It is okay to stop and think instead of reacting to everything immediately. Sometimes that's the best way to know and organize what to do next. Instinct is good, but we have frontal lobes for a reason. You may have to adjust your strategy depending on what part of the ride you're on.

Hold on to some of the anger. When you get off of this roller coaster (and it is when, not if), you make sure to mess up that guy running the coaster and you make sure no one ever pays to get on his death trap of a ride again. Even if you're feeling puky and exhausted and you're just thankful to be touching solid ground, you remember that anger and you use it. This ride is not okay. That any of us chose to get on in the first place is a mystery to me, yet here we are.

My emotions have been a roller coaster lately, too. They have made me unwise. That's not true. They didn't make me unwise. It was unwise of me to feel them (which is okay) and then allow them to make decisions for me. My emotional brain is not the best for making decisions under challenging circumstances. Panic is a crap leader (as are hatred, greed, etc.). That's why I have a frontal lobe. I plan to use it.

Deep breaths ...

one rainy night, soon

I would like to begin this blog post by blaming my friend, Dr. Bryski (who is a very clever writer --check out her novel, Book of Birds, if you haven't already!). I was talking to her, and --as happens often when I talk to her --she made me have an idea. All her fault. So if you hate this, blame her. But if you like it, I may have had a little something to do with it ...

Using the present tense is a thing now in writing. I'm used to good old traditional past tense with lots of -ed markers at the ends of verbs. Present tense? That's for poetry! Forget that. Harrumph. Who wants immediacy in their prose? 

Apparently lots of people, because it's being done a lot and quite successfully. As someone who writes both prose and poetry, I actually have no problem with it --I've just never thought to try it. I am going to try using it this weekend, however, in a story I've been wrestling with. 

I was discussing this with Dr. Bryski, and somehow, in the course of conversation, she dared me to write something in second person in the future tense. Or, I took it as a dare, as she is a very threatening kind of person with fangs who likes to challenge her friends to all sorts of wackiness.

If you're a writer, play with verb tense. Play with point of view.  Play with your narrator(s). Play with words. Play. Way too much serious stuff going on right now in the world. You're not hurting anything by trying something new. It is a nice diversion, to be honest --that's what I've found.

Here it is. Fewer than 500 words, so it should be pretty painless.

One Rainy Night, Soon.

 

You will meet me on a rainy night, when the streets shine in the lamplight. You’ll be walking the route you always walk: a right onto Emerson, down two blocks, a left onto Yale. Your umbrella will keep you dry, but not warm --that’s too much to ask for in October. You will huddle into your raincoat and curse yourself lightly for thinking it’s too early in the season for a hat or gloves.

You won’t notice me at first because I’m not at eye level. You’ll see the outline of a form on a stoop and think nothing of it. Who sees huddled forms in the low shadows on a rainy night? You will hear me before you see me.

Sobs will reach your ears, in between the scratchy passing of cars. You will look around to localize the sound, and you’ll be blinded as you scan between the bright lamplight and the night. Your pupils will adjust to the dark --only when they’ve grown large and eager will you perceive me shuddering on the steps.

Sadness, you will think, forgetting the cold momentarily.

But the cold will creep back in when you realize that you don’t know the cause of my misery, you don’t know me. You will feel powerless to help.

You will hesitate. Your instinct will be to comfort me, but endless horror stories (some true, most not) have taught you to ignore your instincts. You will stand there, shifting your weight, wondering which way to move. Continue walking? Approach me? You will sway forward, then turn towards me, then forward again.

I’m gonna get grabbed. Forward.

I’d want someone to help me. Back.

This dance will continue for a few seconds while droplets tap out a steady rhythm on your umbrella. Finally, you’ll arrive at a compromise.

“Hello,” you will call from your safe distance on the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you’ll hear in response, my words torn from me like wailing babies during a complicated birth.

You’ll hesitate again. You will waver on uncertain legs.

“You don’t sound fine,” you’ll say eventually. “Is there anything I can do?”

Inside, you'll hope I will say no because you are afraid of what I will ask for. You'll hope I will say no because it’s cold and you’re tired and you want to go home.

I won’t say no.

…

Several hours later, rain will slide down the windows of the coffee shop as we continue talking. You will make a joke about investment bankers and chuckle. I’ll smile for the first time since you’ve known me. You will take a sip of coffee, the mug sitting warm in your hands, and you’ll smile at me.

 
“How you doing?” you’ll ask.

“I’m fine,” you’ll hear me answer without the thick voice that chokes back tears. I will sound like I mean the words this time.

 
And on that rainy night in October, you will save my life.

   

10 things for thursday

1. Notice one choice when you come across it --bonus for a choice which involves a habit.

2. Smile when you see at least one person for the first time today.

3. Drink at least one glass of water without doing anything else at the same time.

4. Take three deep breaths.

5. Check your posture at least once today.

6. Ask at least one person how they are doing and listen to the answer.

7. Take one hour away from electronics and give it to nature.

8. Tell a loved one that you love them.

9. Listen to a piece of music that does one of the following: brings tears to your eyes; makes you sing along; or makes you shake something on your body.

10. Leave one thing in the same or better condition than when you came across it.

And have a good day.

[Wrote this to myself, but you can use it if it helps.]

everyday heroes: fairness

Okay, so today's everyday heroes aren't really ...um, how shall I put this? Real? Yeah, they're fictional. Then again, way back when, Matilda Mae (from Shel Silverstein) was an everyday hero of mine, ...and so was MacGyver, so I suppose there's some precedent for using imaginary people as heroes --at least for me. Is there some kind of rule I can't do that? Not waiting for an answer ...

Anyhow ...

Once upon a time, when the Americans with Disabilities Act had some teeth, there were three kids and an eye doctor. That eye doctor? She's my hero. Actually, the kids are pretty cool, too. 

(These four always volunteer when I explain the fairness of providing accommodations --i.e., a change in equipment, format or the environment in order for people with disabilities to do what everybody else does --to people who don't have disabilities. What selfless heroes! It's a hard concept for people to understand. They are particularly helpful when people without disabilities say, "Hey! How come they get all that extra stuff??? That's not fair!" But I digress. Back to our story ...)

Well, these three kids had six eyes between them --two each, in case you are mathematically-challenged or think this is science fiction. Two of the kids, and therefore four of the eyes, worked fine. They could see things up close. They could see things at a distance. They could see all kinds of things. But the other kid, and the other two eyes? They couldn't see much at all.

That's where our eye doctor comes in. Now our eye doctor has to make a living. She's very nice and all, but she does have to charge for glasses. Let's say she charges $600 --glasses, & she throws in the exam for "free". The people who pay for the glasses have, what do you know, $600. What are the odds?

There is a choice to make. This has suddenly become Choose Your Own Adventure, but without the adventure. The choices are these, and we want to be fair:

• Buy the kid who can't see the glasses for $600, so that all of the kids can see clearly; or 
• Decide, "No, we cannot afford glasses for everyone, and we don't want one kid to get special treatment. The other two will feel bad!"

What should the eye doctor do? What is fair? 

I'm curious to hear what you think ...

on this day in history

No. I'm not going there. That whole thing leaves me feeling as though my faith in humanity has been horribly misplaced. 

Instead, I would like to share a moment with you from somewhere inside a public elementary school somewhere in the U.S. 

Perhaps you've heard of them, the public schools? They are dungeon-like places. I am fortunate to be a guard and not an inmate, so it works out well for me, except that I am terribly incompetent from what I understand. Better that my job be eliminated so that they can replace my dungeon with some shiny new SuperMax with competent guards (so determined to be because they don't work in a public school --yes, that's all it takes!).

But I digress. Not going there, the author reminds herself ...

On this day in history (20 January 2017), somewhere inside a public elementary school in an undisclosed location, two boys were about to restore my faith in humanity.

To set the scene, I work with these two first graders once a week; ordinarily, there is a third with them, but he was out at a dentist appointment. They receive special education services, which are provided to students to supplement their classroom programs. These two young men have had difficulty learning to read. This is why we work together.

Imagine two six-year olds, one built like a future linebacker, and the other a wiry little fellow with boundless energy. They have had a successful lesson, despite me asking them to draw as part of the activity. One of them (the future linebacker) also has difficulty with fine motor skills, and writing and drawing is very challenging for him. He wanted to refuse. He didn't.

These two had a successful, if draining, lesson (I was, after all, required to keep up with six-year olds). At the end, as at the end of every session, there is a reward provided. By definition, when a student receives special education services, they are working on skills that are hard for them to learn. It's how and why they get services. Working hard should be rewarded. I pay them. It's their job, so I give them money, a quarter each time they come and participate successfully.

They save up their money to buy prizes --trinkets, toys, stickers, and knick-knacks. I have organized a catalogue containing these items into sections, with items that are least exciting costing the least (50 cents for a sticker) and that are the most exciting costing the most ($2 for play dough!). This helps them work on delayed gratification, but I won't bore you with those details or the research behind it as I am an incompetent and clearly haven't thought this through.

On this day in history (20 January 2017), these two little fellows made a decision. They decided to pool their money. Both contributed equally. They wanted to buy a box of crayons for $1.50. They hadn't thought it through completely (one box of crayons, two kids ...), but they wanted to buy it together. Yes, the young man with issues with being able to use crayons wanted to buy ...crayons; the other one had not talked him into it. They just knew they wanted to work together to buy crayons and they wanted to share. 

This seems like a little thing. It is a little thing. I'll tell you this, though: that little thing, spontaneously done by two six-year olds who had no idea about world events that were unfolding outside that public elementary school on this day in history, made my day. It more than likely made my next four years and maybe longer.

**Follow-up: I gave them each their own box of crayons because melty heart. One of them asked if their classmate who was at the dentist could have one, too. We might be okay, people.

**UPDATE 21 January 2017: My friends L.M. Bryski & Michael Topic gave me a great idea! 
If you would like to be supportive, please contact a local school in your area --preferably one in an area that has more economic challenges --& see about donating art supplies for kids there. These might include crayons, markers, scissors, glue, paper, ... . 
Not all kids are fortunate enough to have these supplies in their homes, & not all kids are into this kind of thing, but for a kid with ideas, art supplies can be like gold. Keeping it local impacts your community. I love the idea of people helping themselves!

great aunt bertha fussbudget's mirthless legacy: part one

Once upon a time (because that's usually when these stories take place), there lived a young lady named Evangeline who only had the bare necessities: food, water, shelter, clothing, and joy in her heart. She happily went down to the river every morning to wash. She fed herself on the bounties that the forests and the fields provided her. She slept in a simple shack with a bed covered in a quilt she had made and a wood stove which kept the shack warm. She had sewed herself a few plain garments --enough, not too many. All of this was sufficient for Evangeline's contentment.

Then, one day, the lawyers came to visit (if you are familiar with lawyers, you know that this never leads to anything good ...). 

"Evangeline, your Great Aunt Bertha Fussbudget has passed away. She has left you a small legacy," they informed her.

"How lovely!" said Evangeline, as she was prone to say about just about everything. "What's a legacy?"

"Why don't you come along with us to our offices, and we will explain in more detail?" the lawyers requested, and since Evangeline was an agreeable sort of person, she agreed.

She piled into a large town car with lawyers, marveling at the new car smell as she did. Off they drove, into the City, which Evangeline had heard about but had never visited as her parents weren't into that kind of thing.

Once there, she and the lawyers piled into an elevator (a real elevator!) and headed to the top floor where their offices of shiny chrome and leather and glass stretched as far as the eye could see. It was like a bright summer's day, but with cold metal substituting for the brilliant heat of the sun.

"Please have a seat," they invited her, once they had entered a meeting room with a sizable glass table with steel legs.

"Oh, thank you!" she declared, plunking herself down into a leather chair that immediately tilted and slid away from her slightly, bridling at her enthusiasm. "Oh my! Well, this is a fun chair! I should say before we find out what a legacy is, that I am terribly saddened by the passing of my Great Aunt Bertha. I didn't really know her, to be honest, but passings are sad things --therefore, I think I must be sad about her passing. Yes, I must be. I'm sorry to interrupt. Please don't let me keep you from your work! So, what is a legacy ...?"

"Well," one of the lawyers began, once he could get a word in edgewise, "the legacy your Great Aunt Bertha left you is a large sum of money, as well as the use of a large, well-appointed Victorian in the City."

"How lovely!" Evangeline exclaimed for the thirty-sixth time that day. "Money is something that makes people happy, right? And although I'm not certain who this large Victorian is who has been appointed to me, I'm sure we'll be able to work well together ..."

"Yes ...," continued the lawyer tentatively, not certain whether Evangeline was being deliberately ditzy, and not wanting to insult someone who would be paying his fees either way. "Anyway, there is a stipulation on the terms of the legacy. In addition to the money and the house, your Great Aunt Bertha has left you a brooch. She states that, in order for you to keep the money and the house, you will need to keep the brooch on at all times --you may never take it off. If you do, the rest of the legacy will be forfeited."

"Hmmm" said Evangeline as thoughtfully as she could (she did not ordinarily do a great deal of thinking --such a happy soul she was), "...Well, if she wanted me to have the legacy, and she wanted me to wear the brooch, why not? What could possibly go wrong?"

...

virginia

My mother grew up in Virginia as the Civil Rights movement was building momentum. There was a time when the Commonwealth (no, Virginia is not a state, although I honestly couldn't tell you what that means) talked of closing down the schools to avoid integrating them. 

Full disclosure: my mother is white. For her, this would have meant "separate but equal", with 'separate' meaning only white classmates and white teachers, and 'equal' meaning all kids got to attend public school, but her access to smaller class sizes, appropriate materials, etc. would have honestly been better than would be provided to a black student of the same age. Considering funding was permitted to be unequal, this would be a natural consequence.

To her family's credit, this was never an okay thing. I remember her talking about this, but I've never asked for details. I should do that. All I can guess is that my grandfather, who had grown up poor, was sympathetic. 

He ended up as a journalist and that put him in contact with members of Congress (back when talking to journalists was still acceptable). Another piece of the puzzle that I have is that, when the Civil Rights Act was being passed in 1964, he had managed to get her a pass to sit in the gallery at the Capitol through his contacts. Since she grew up in Northern Virginia, it was an easy trip into D.C. It made an impression on her --she talked about it years later. He wanted her to see it for a reason.

I also grew up in Virginia, not far from where my mother grew up. When I was growing up, schools were integrated, and there was no talk of closing them down. Thinking back to early childhood, I had friends who were white, black, Salvadoran, Lebanese, Taiwanese, ... . We were a mix, and we were all in there together. My very favorite teacher --fifth grade --was a very large black man who had played football as a defensive tackle, but he was not at all scary. He was as a nice a teacher as you could have, and I learned a lot in his class. It was a very different time and situation from when my mother was growing up.

At the same time, there was a local geographical location in our area where the poor black families lived. They had lived there for generations. It was known locally and on maps as "N***** Mountain" (I don't like the word, so I've left some letters out, but we all know that word). Naturally, it was at the bottom of the 'mountain', which was actually a big hill. Subdivisions were starting to be built (it was the 1980s), and yet, we were still calling the area where these people lived by that name, and progress was crisply stepping over the area where they called home. Driving by, I could notice, even at that age, that their houses were not built as sturdily as the one I lived in. I'm sure I must have gone to school with kids who lived there, but I never knew it.

Clearly, Virginia had changed, but some things had not changed.

Now, I work in schools in another state (a state, not a commonwealth, but I couldn't tell you what that means ...). I have visited families in their homes which remind me of the ones I drove by thirty years ago. The climate and geography are different, but the holes where there should be windows are the same. There are still families living at the bottom of that mountain, and they are doing what they can. We all are. But we still have further to go. 

It's been a long way from Virginia to here, but we still have a ways to go.

blog post about nothing

Do blog posts have to be about anything in particular? Is that some kind of rule? 

I suppose from Day One in school, we're always asking kids, "What are you going to write about?" Not "What are you going to write?" 

"What are you going to write about?"

Well, I'm going to write about nothing. I'm just going to write. Why not?

We get so tangled up in writing about something, doing something, that we forget there's a whole lot of something in nothing.

Take silence for example. How many kinds of silence are there? We tend to want to fill it with a thousand other sounds when, the truth is, there are a thousand kinds of silence.

We want to accomplish goals. We forget to notice the little things along the road to the goal. 

Today, one friend shared a belly button she made for a doll, which she ended up finishing.

Another friend shared the back to a sweater she's making for me, which she will finish.

Another friend --whom I think the world of --shared that he's not feeling great, which is hard for him to do.

These may seem like nothing --might seem like that to the people who shared, but they're really something. They're not nothing at all.

And now, random pictures because I'm not sure how to end a blog post about nothing ...

Egg from Melina

Things my son likes to make

An ink experiment I was going to trash but didn't give up on -it's glowworm trails

What will your nothing be today? Bet it's really something ...

a tiny healthcare manifesto

Healthcare is not a right. 

Our rights are "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness", as laid out in the Declaration of Independence ...

But healthcare is a moral and ethical imperative. I can pull out a couple of verses from the Bible to support this view, if you're into that kind of thing. There is a reason for the Hippocratic Oath. 

And health is necessary to access all three things listed as rights in the Declaration of Independence.

So ...?

the myth of bootstrapping

He is a self-made man. She came from nothing. 

These are lovely stories, but they are fiction. One does not make one's self. One must come from somewhere.

The myth of bootstrapping is exactly that --a myth.

Think about it: where did you come from? Unless you spontaneously generated, an egg and a sperm combined and you grew in a womb. Someone raised you --maybe well or maybe not well, but someone raised you. People do not make it from infancy to childhood to adulthood without interacting with other people and without resources of some kind. 


What did you eat to survive? That was provided by someone. Nowadays, our food is shipped around from here to there. What roads did those trucks drive to get the food to you? Those were built using collected funds. Did the food come in through a port? Again, somebody organized that. Or maybe the food came from a farm? Farms are largely subsidized. Even if you got it from a dumpster, someone put it in the dumpster --and we have sanitation services in many of our communities. Clean water to drink? Thank water treatment, another form of infrastructure provided by people pooling their resources. And the list goes on ...

If you are reading this, you may have gone to school, or maybe you taught yourself to read. Either way, someone else was involved there, too. A teacher? A librarian? You're reading this on the Internet. Did you invent the Internet (this is sarcasm directed at everyone but Al Gore ...)? Did you generate your own electricity?

The point is, none of us are truly independent and we need other people. We are social creatures. We can't do it all by ourselves, and we don't. Even if you're not inclined to like people, you don't exist in a vacuum because you can't. 

There's a great program that pops up every once in a while on PBS in the US about a man named Dick Proenneke called Alone In The Wilderness. He recorded his time in the Alaskan wilderness in exquisite detail --I'm using the word 'exquisite', but he wasn't at all fancy. He just described the experience very well. He hunted, fished, built his own log cabin from the ground up, ... . This man made his own tools and hinges for his door, for goodness sake! He comes about as close as anyone can to being 'self-made'. Seriously, watch that linked video --he's incredible!

But guess what: a float plane brought him in, brought him supplies, and took out mail for him. He communicated with other people via his videos and journals.

No one can pull themselves up by their bootstraps alone. This is not to say there aren't people who have disadvantages and still manage to do extraordinary things. Those people, though, were aided by someone else, somewhere along the line. They utilized that aid to the best of their abilities, and great things happened. But were they self-made? Did they come from nothing? No.  

Community is important. People need people, or it's hard to survive. Here's hoping all of us --including our legislators, in their infinite wisdom --remember that. And when I need help (and occasionally, I do, even though I am Supergirl and Wonder Woman all rolled into one), I'd like to know that help is there. I have to be willing to do the same; it's only fair. The truth is, bootstraps require more than two hands.

extemporanea!

Let me challenge you to try something silly tonight. There's too much seriousness going on in the world. Let loose! Have fun! Write some poetry!

Uh, yeah. Write some poetry. 

No, wait! Come back! Poetry can be fun! Yes, really!

Have you ever tried extemporanea? 

Extemporanea. 

They're basically just rhymes you come up with on the spur of the moment. So far as I know, the word comes from a line in a Dorothy Parker poem. It was probably used before then, but that's the most famous use, I think. Limericks (which have a rhyme scheme of AABBA, with the A lines rhyming and the B lines rhyming) tend to be extemporanea --nobody spends too much time thinking when they write limericks. 

Regardless of what rhyme scheme you use (limerick or otherwise), you get to let loose with rhymes about body functions (or misfunctions), the comedy that is human relationships, ...whatever you want goes, as long as you're having a good time! If you're into puns and wordy wackiness, I guarantee you'll enjoy yourself with extemporanea.

I've included a couple I came up with below to give you an idea of what they sound like. Mine have a ABAAB rhyme scheme:

The Upside of Memory Loss

There are blessings that come from amnesia; 
Sure, you can’t be too overly cautious,
But it provides analgesia
And is Milk of Magnesia
If experience is painfully nauseous.

Now memory can be like a plague,
Like a bad bone that needs some resetting, 
Or a gash on your leg;
Yes, it’s good to be vague,
And there’s blessed relief in forgetting. 

The Upside of Flatulence

Well, romance is really a gas
That won’t be burnt by invisible stink – 
But it’s best if you pass
Your air through an ass
That inspires that romance, I think.

It’s okay to let go of a weeper
In front of a potential mate – 
You’ll know he’s a keeper
When you deliver a sleeper
And he still asks you out on a date. 

See what I mean? These will never be seen in fancy poetry magazines (truth be told, they probably shouldn't be seen on this blog, either, but whatever ...). They're not designed for fancy poetry magazines. They're designed to be mildly outrageous and good for a chuckle.

If you're a writer, I hope you'll set aside a minute or two tonight to try your hand at some light extemporanea. Relax. Have fun. Give it a shot. Why not?

And please share if you try it. I'd love to read what you come up with. There's too much seriousness in the world, like I said. I'd love a laugh. 

not broken

Kintsugi (n.): the art of repairing broken ceramics with lacquer containing precious metals, originally developed in Japan.

-definition pieced together from the Interweb

We are a disposable society. Planned obsolescence? That's our thing. Why treasure the old when you could have newer and better? Why fix it when you could have shiny and unblemished? We apply it to goods. We apply it to people.

New is not better, though. New is new. It has value, but so does the old. If the new represents hope and potential, the old represents perseverance and experience. Scars have stories. Wrinkles have history. A lot of what we think of as useless and broken isn't. 

It's imperfect. 

It's banged-up. 

It's interesting --frankly, it's far more interesting than the perfect new thing you can pull from the store shelf.

The Japanese art of kintsugi was an interest of mine many years ago when I paid more attention to aesthetics (yeah, I sat around and thought about what I think is beautiful --doesn't everyone?). Last night, my friend Melissa brought it up again. I had been thinking about how hard aging was. When she brought up kintsugi, it made perfect sense to me --why so many people (myself included) experience that feeling of being devalued that goes along with aging. It's cultural.

In kintsugi, the pottery starts out unblemished. Then, it gets used. Life happens. Chips start to appear. Normal wear-and-tear occurs. Rather than running down to the corner shop to buy a newer model, the pottery is treated with reverence. Instead of slapping it back together with duct tape, the lacquer used to piece the ceramics back together has its own beauty and is filled with gold or platinum. The final product is a one-of-a-kind piece of pottery that glistens and shimmers with cracks. I find this beautiful --it's more beautiful than when it started.

We should treat ourselves with the kindness and reverence that pottery is treated with in kintsugi. We are one-of-a-kind. What has happened to us is part of what makes us special. There is value in the experience, particularly if we gain some wisdom from it. Effort is required to piece us back together sometimes, but we are worth it.

In 2017, please remember that you are valuable --and don't let anyone convince you otherwise. Chances are they're selling something; don't buy it. Treat yourself like the precious and unique  gift that you are.