The other day I got into a discussion with a friend about life (deep, huh?).
My friend said that life is so structured and rule-bound, that it is our job as individuals to fight the rules and expectations as much as possible so we don't get pushed into conformity.
I have always thought of life as big and messy and that it's our job as individuals to find a small corner of the world in which to build an organized and ordered space for ourselves.
What do you think? How do you see the world? Is it one of rules that you must fight against, or is it one of infinite possibilities that you have to make sense of?
Showing posts with label Stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stuff. Show all posts
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Sunday, December 23, 2012
I'm No Musician
I have two articulate, intelligent friends that I'll call John and Jane Doe. One day John told me that he and Jane agreed that public schools teach children how to be losers and failures, and in general make kids feel bad about themselves. I was flabbergasted because, as John knows, I'm a public school teacher.
"It's interesting that you and Jane have that opinion when neither one of you have experience in education," I said.
"What are you talking about?" John was incredulous. "Both of us attended public schools."
And I love listening to the cello.
People who have attended public schools have opinions based on their experiences as students. They may have positive and negative memories of good and bad teachers. Those opinions are important and should be part of a discussion on how to improve our public schools. But changes in the schools shouldn't be based on the opinions of people who have no background in education and no experience in teaching. Changes should be based on input from teachers themselves, and based on solid research.
Interestingly, John has told me on other occasions that he couldn't do what I do; that he doesn't know how I do it. Apparently he does know that I'm doing it all wrong. To be fair, when I told John that I didn't realize he thought I was producing losers and failures each year, he said I'd misunderstood him. Hmm. By the way, John and Jane would describe their own public school experiences as positive, and each has a pretty healthy dose of self esteem. I'm sure neither one of them would describe themselves as losers.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Nativity
A friend who has been helping me work on my Spanish skills invited me to assist in giving out food "baskets" at her church last Saturday morning. "They need Spanish speakers," she told me. "You can practice your Spanish."
"Will you be there?" I asked her. My Spanish is functional at best.
She laughed. "Yes, I'll be there. If it gets too uncomfortable for you, just let me know. It's no big deal and you don't have to stay if it doesn't work out."
Saturday morning was chilly and damp, but I was glad it wasn't raining. At 8:00 a.m., dressed in warm layers, I met my friend at the enormous, newly renovated, mission style church. I followed her to a squat, narrow building separated from the church by a parking lot. Inside was a room with six long tables, each lined with dozens of cardboard boxes packed with food and toiletries. Taped to the end of each table was a sheet of paper with a large number written on it. Families had signed up earlier in the month, and the boxes were prepared according to the size of each family. People who were receiving the food would show up at their prescribed time, drive through the parking lot and down the alley stopping next to double doors, where their name was checked off a list as a box of food was loaded into their car.
My friend and I were in charge of the cars entering the parking lot. We talked to the drivers, putting yellow half sheets of paper on car windshields and asking them to unlock trunks or back car doors, wherever they wanted the food to be placed. If they didn't have the yellow paper, we asked them to have some form of identification ready. Then we directed them to drive, a few at a time around the corner and down the alley for their box of food.
As it turned out there weren't many Spanish speaking families but still it was fun chatting with people as they drove up in their vehicles. Almost all of the people were friendly and upbeat. Some were picking up boxes for more than one family and many of those cars were packed with adults and kids. The people thanked us and most said, "Merry Christmas" or "God bless you." A half an hour had gone by when my friend pointed to a young couple standing with a blanket covered baby stroller, next to the building. "There you go, Nancy," she said. "Time to practice."
I walked over to them and said, "Hello." They were both not much more than five feet tall. The woman's plain round face was pale and her eyes were round and dark. Strands of her dark hair peeked out from under a blue scarf. She was wearing a yellow and pink flowered polyester dress under a brown sweater and she had on lime green pants. She smiled briefly but was quiet. She rested her hands on the metal bar of the old stroller. The worn fleece blanket covered whatever was inside. The man's broad face was smooth and tan, and he had black hair and small dark eyes. He was wearing jeans and work boots and he kept his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his navy blue Nike hoodie. He smiled a little. "¿Habla español?" he asked in a barely audible voice.
"Un poco," I said. They stood very still as they responded to my questions with either, "sí" or "no". In my elementary Spanish I asked if they were there to get a box of food and wanted to know if they had their yellow paper, pointing to the sample I had pinned to my day-glo orange safety vest. No, they didn't have the yellow paper but yes, they had identification. They didn't have a car. I pointed to the side of the building and showed them where they could stand on the sidewalk to join the line of vehicles in the alley waiting to get food.
As my friend and I continued to greet people and talk to each other I kept glancing at the young family as they inched along the sidewalk next to the cars in the alley, keeping their place in line. I wondered how long they had lived in the area and how they had found out about the food boxes. I wondered if they'd had to walk very far that morning. I wondered about the child who must be sleeping in the stroller. The church provided one service in Spanish each Sunday so I thought maybe they attended each week. I felt good that there were places like this where families could get some help and I was glad I was there to be a small part of it.
More cars arrived and we were kept busy talking to drivers, asking for yellow papers and directing them to the line that curved around the building. Eventually I noticed the young couple slowly pushing the stroller back through the parking lot toward the street. They didn't have a box of food with them. "What happened?" I asked my friend.
"They hadn't signed up. Their name wasn't on the list."
"Oh no," I said.
"There might be some food left over when we're finished at noon," my friend said. "Maybe they'll come back."
I watched the couple walk through the parking lot to the sidewalk. They stopped and the man sat down on the small stone wall that edged the lawn of the church. The woman stood facing him, her back straight with her hands on stroller, showing her round sillouette. For the next twenty minutes or so I kept an eye on the young family. They stayed there at the end of the driveway; the man sitting and the woman standing, with the stroller between them. Maybe they were waiting to see if there would be extra food. Eventually I saw the man stand up and follow the woman as she pushed the stroller off of the grass and onto the sidewalk. I watched them walk together along the sidewalk until my view was blocked by the huge church. "There they go," I said to my friend.
"Maybe they'll come back," she said.
"Will you be there?" I asked her. My Spanish is functional at best.
She laughed. "Yes, I'll be there. If it gets too uncomfortable for you, just let me know. It's no big deal and you don't have to stay if it doesn't work out."
Saturday morning was chilly and damp, but I was glad it wasn't raining. At 8:00 a.m., dressed in warm layers, I met my friend at the enormous, newly renovated, mission style church. I followed her to a squat, narrow building separated from the church by a parking lot. Inside was a room with six long tables, each lined with dozens of cardboard boxes packed with food and toiletries. Taped to the end of each table was a sheet of paper with a large number written on it. Families had signed up earlier in the month, and the boxes were prepared according to the size of each family. People who were receiving the food would show up at their prescribed time, drive through the parking lot and down the alley stopping next to double doors, where their name was checked off a list as a box of food was loaded into their car.
My friend and I were in charge of the cars entering the parking lot. We talked to the drivers, putting yellow half sheets of paper on car windshields and asking them to unlock trunks or back car doors, wherever they wanted the food to be placed. If they didn't have the yellow paper, we asked them to have some form of identification ready. Then we directed them to drive, a few at a time around the corner and down the alley for their box of food.
As it turned out there weren't many Spanish speaking families but still it was fun chatting with people as they drove up in their vehicles. Almost all of the people were friendly and upbeat. Some were picking up boxes for more than one family and many of those cars were packed with adults and kids. The people thanked us and most said, "Merry Christmas" or "God bless you." A half an hour had gone by when my friend pointed to a young couple standing with a blanket covered baby stroller, next to the building. "There you go, Nancy," she said. "Time to practice."
I walked over to them and said, "Hello." They were both not much more than five feet tall. The woman's plain round face was pale and her eyes were round and dark. Strands of her dark hair peeked out from under a blue scarf. She was wearing a yellow and pink flowered polyester dress under a brown sweater and she had on lime green pants. She smiled briefly but was quiet. She rested her hands on the metal bar of the old stroller. The worn fleece blanket covered whatever was inside. The man's broad face was smooth and tan, and he had black hair and small dark eyes. He was wearing jeans and work boots and he kept his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his navy blue Nike hoodie. He smiled a little. "¿Habla español?" he asked in a barely audible voice.
"Un poco," I said. They stood very still as they responded to my questions with either, "sí" or "no". In my elementary Spanish I asked if they were there to get a box of food and wanted to know if they had their yellow paper, pointing to the sample I had pinned to my day-glo orange safety vest. No, they didn't have the yellow paper but yes, they had identification. They didn't have a car. I pointed to the side of the building and showed them where they could stand on the sidewalk to join the line of vehicles in the alley waiting to get food.
As my friend and I continued to greet people and talk to each other I kept glancing at the young family as they inched along the sidewalk next to the cars in the alley, keeping their place in line. I wondered how long they had lived in the area and how they had found out about the food boxes. I wondered if they'd had to walk very far that morning. I wondered about the child who must be sleeping in the stroller. The church provided one service in Spanish each Sunday so I thought maybe they attended each week. I felt good that there were places like this where families could get some help and I was glad I was there to be a small part of it.
More cars arrived and we were kept busy talking to drivers, asking for yellow papers and directing them to the line that curved around the building. Eventually I noticed the young couple slowly pushing the stroller back through the parking lot toward the street. They didn't have a box of food with them. "What happened?" I asked my friend.
"They hadn't signed up. Their name wasn't on the list."
"Oh no," I said.
"There might be some food left over when we're finished at noon," my friend said. "Maybe they'll come back."
I watched the couple walk through the parking lot to the sidewalk. They stopped and the man sat down on the small stone wall that edged the lawn of the church. The woman stood facing him, her back straight with her hands on stroller, showing her round sillouette. For the next twenty minutes or so I kept an eye on the young family. They stayed there at the end of the driveway; the man sitting and the woman standing, with the stroller between them. Maybe they were waiting to see if there would be extra food. Eventually I saw the man stand up and follow the woman as she pushed the stroller off of the grass and onto the sidewalk. I watched them walk together along the sidewalk until my view was blocked by the huge church. "There they go," I said to my friend.
"Maybe they'll come back," she said.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
What You Might Not Want to Wear
Although the telephone recording suggests "business casual" and even gives the hint not to wear shorts, tube tops or tank tops some people are still unclear on the proper attire when reporting for jury duty. Here are some specific guidelines of what not to wear:
1. flip flops (the non discriminate colored Wal-Mart .89 cent variety)
2. baggy sweatpants
3. trucker hat, no matter if you're a man or a woman
4. oversized, bright red family reunion t shirt
5. bedroom slippers
6. warm ups
7. Nike black rubber shower shoes
8. a black, windshield repair, screened print t shirt, especially when worn two days in a row
9. waist length top with skin tight black leggings
10. wrinkled white short sleeved t shirt and track pants
1. flip flops (the non discriminate colored Wal-Mart .89 cent variety)
2. baggy sweatpants
3. trucker hat, no matter if you're a man or a woman
4. oversized, bright red family reunion t shirt
5. bedroom slippers
6. warm ups
7. Nike black rubber shower shoes
8. a black, windshield repair, screened print t shirt, especially when worn two days in a row
9. waist length top with skin tight black leggings
10. wrinkled white short sleeved t shirt and track pants
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Revenge
I see that Florida, Kentucky, and Missouri have passed regulation requiring drug testing for people applying for welfare. It's generated quite the buzz on FB, which is where I keep up on current events (who wants to watch smirky Rachel Maddow or crazypants Bill O'Reilly?).
Why the excitement? We're not so obsessed with people playing by the rules. It's not a battle from the War On Drugs, unless those who test positive will be referred for federally funded drug counseling. Although it might create additional jobs for urine analysts, it's won't stimulate the economy because new regulations generate cost.
There is the notion that people on welfare are drug addicts, or mentally ill, or illegal immigrants, or just plain lazy. Guess what? Children make up the largest segment of welfare recipients. Then why the FB post, urging people to spread the good news? It's because whenever the economy goes south we get grumpy and frustrated and we want someone to blame. Children won't fight back.
Go ahead and drug test welfare applicants. It won't affect me personally; I don't spend time worrying that the marginalized members of our society are playing by the rules. I'm more concerned about the wealthiest segment of the population cheating our economy. That definitely affects my day to day life.
Why the excitement? We're not so obsessed with people playing by the rules. It's not a battle from the War On Drugs, unless those who test positive will be referred for federally funded drug counseling. Although it might create additional jobs for urine analysts, it's won't stimulate the economy because new regulations generate cost.
There is the notion that people on welfare are drug addicts, or mentally ill, or illegal immigrants, or just plain lazy. Guess what? Children make up the largest segment of welfare recipients. Then why the FB post, urging people to spread the good news? It's because whenever the economy goes south we get grumpy and frustrated and we want someone to blame. Children won't fight back.
Go ahead and drug test welfare applicants. It won't affect me personally; I don't spend time worrying that the marginalized members of our society are playing by the rules. I'm more concerned about the wealthiest segment of the population cheating our economy. That definitely affects my day to day life.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Nothing Special
I was reminded today of some of my early childhood developmental shortcomings. I heard the stories (already told 37,638 times) of my difficulties in learning how to tie my shoes, and in learning how to tell time. Those stories prompted memories of my struggles in math, my inability to find my way out of a paper bag, and my ongoing confusion with left and right.
For the last couple of years, I've suspected that I might be average. Here are the clues I've gathered (in addition to the facts listed above):
1. My husband is much smarter than I am
2. My four children are much smarter than I am
3. My siblings and nieces are much smarter than I am
4. My friends are much smarter than I am
The indisputable evidence of the four points above are varied but include games of Trivial Pursuit, college acceptance letters, bi- (and on occasion tri-) lingualism, on-the-fly math calculations (without benefit of calculator, paper, or pencil), creative writing skills, athleticism, awards, trophies, ribbons, musical ability, people starting sentences with the word, "remember" when speaking to me, and most importantly the use of the word "cute" to describe my thought processes.
My conscientious parents consistently reminded me of how special I was when I was a child. I had believed for much of my 55 years that I was a bundle of untapped genius. As an adult, while I was busy working, child-rearing, cleaning, and wasting time, I was smug in the knowledge that although I hadn't yet done anything spectacular, I was a ticking time-bomb waiting to explode with unsurpassed talent that would be admired by the world, once I took some time to develop my God-given gifts.
When my children were of an age to more or less fend for themselves for a few hours each week, I began to dabble. I took violin lessons. I registered for Spanish classes. I joined a volleyball team. I signed up for a painting class. I pursued a variety of interests, with disappointing results. Hours of lessons, classes, practice, homework, and lectures led to a shocking discovery. I did not possess a hidden talent. My parents had lied. I am unique, it's true. But being unique does not, in fact make me special.
So what do I do with this new discovery? What is wrong with being average? I can't answer those questions, and it's been difficult for me to accept my place at the top of the bell curve. I've always suspected that not everyone is born with a spectacular talent. Some are born to clean the house and prepare the meals while those who are special, change the world. I always thought that I would be the flower and someone else would be the stem. It's time for me to feel the glory of the stem.
For the last couple of years, I've suspected that I might be average. Here are the clues I've gathered (in addition to the facts listed above):
1. My husband is much smarter than I am
2. My four children are much smarter than I am
3. My siblings and nieces are much smarter than I am
4. My friends are much smarter than I am
The indisputable evidence of the four points above are varied but include games of Trivial Pursuit, college acceptance letters, bi- (and on occasion tri-) lingualism, on-the-fly math calculations (without benefit of calculator, paper, or pencil), creative writing skills, athleticism, awards, trophies, ribbons, musical ability, people starting sentences with the word, "remember" when speaking to me, and most importantly the use of the word "cute" to describe my thought processes.
My conscientious parents consistently reminded me of how special I was when I was a child. I had believed for much of my 55 years that I was a bundle of untapped genius. As an adult, while I was busy working, child-rearing, cleaning, and wasting time, I was smug in the knowledge that although I hadn't yet done anything spectacular, I was a ticking time-bomb waiting to explode with unsurpassed talent that would be admired by the world, once I took some time to develop my God-given gifts.
When my children were of an age to more or less fend for themselves for a few hours each week, I began to dabble. I took violin lessons. I registered for Spanish classes. I joined a volleyball team. I signed up for a painting class. I pursued a variety of interests, with disappointing results. Hours of lessons, classes, practice, homework, and lectures led to a shocking discovery. I did not possess a hidden talent. My parents had lied. I am unique, it's true. But being unique does not, in fact make me special.
So what do I do with this new discovery? What is wrong with being average? I can't answer those questions, and it's been difficult for me to accept my place at the top of the bell curve. I've always suspected that not everyone is born with a spectacular talent. Some are born to clean the house and prepare the meals while those who are special, change the world. I always thought that I would be the flower and someone else would be the stem. It's time for me to feel the glory of the stem.
God is Love
Is love genderless?
Is love exclusive?
Can love hate?
Does love kill?
Does love seek revenge?
Is love selfish?
Is love an imposing?
Is love judgmental?
Is love powerful?
Is love stronger than hate?
Can love change the world?
Is love forgiving?
Is love joyful?
Is love hopeful?
Does love take sides?
Is love generous?
Is love exclusive?
Can love hate?
Does love kill?
Does love seek revenge?
Is love selfish?
Is love an imposing?
Is love judgmental?
Is love powerful?
Is love stronger than hate?
Can love change the world?
Is love forgiving?
Is love joyful?
Is love hopeful?
Does love take sides?
Is love generous?
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