back at the start

Twelve hours from clean slate, from resolution, from here we go again. I'm feeling optimistically curious-- curiously optimstic? perhaps-- for what comes next: eager, rather than hopeful. Because if my 2009 demonstrated anything, it was the power of just doing. A year ago, I had no idea, no intention. But at some point I realized never had doesn't mean can't, so I did and now I do. I don't measure my achievement in miles, and I don't really think of it in past tense. I love this photo, and not just for the memories of that morning it inspires. I look at it and think, "I made that happen!" And now, whatever it is, I'll do it again.

too bad I don't write fiction

There is a story there, at the checkout in Walgreens, one that could go either way. As we both make our way to the no-waiting register, he hesitates and loiters, giving up his claim to be first. He could be half my age, but it doesn't seem he's being polite. Before I drop my armful of half-off impulses on the counter, I turn back to offer either, "Go ahead," or "Are you sure?" but his expression silences my gesture. I complete my purchase and walk out, leaving him alone to buy a pregnancy test and a Hallmark card.

Muppets!

imaginary nuts

"Is this officially an in-joke now?"

She is 12 and a half, a newish arrival to the world to having a verbal password into a group.

"It is!" I confirm, as we giggle through the aisles in search of imaginary nuts. (You had to be there.) She is, I must admit, too often too wary when I speak in exclamations. That she can't always tell when my rants are serious is not a credit to me, her mother. The stories she will tell won't be flattering.

But this one,this is a keeper, an grocery list mishap turned in to "that one time when." It is, we agree, each for her own reasons, the best trip to the grocery store ever. She couldn't explain, wouldn't guess, exactly what it meant to me, but I think the eavesdropping grandma smiling down into her cart in the baking aisle could.

closure

Hand on the doorknob, eyes down the hall: "Thanks for everything, Ms. P."

I nod, and we exchange see-ya-laters; this isn't goodbye but it is, so far, his second attempt to walk out that door. He had feared I'd try to celebrate him, so I didn't. He feared I'd try to give him something-- it's become a tradition-- so I refrained, calling him back only to hand him my card. His departure then, just like his graduation, an all-paperwork transaction with no pomp or circumstance or party. Maybe in May, maybe if he keeps his promise to me to walk through the ceremony.

I've told him (without basis) that his parents will appreciate it, that he'll someday be glad to have done it (perhaps), that two hours out of his life is not too much to give those of us who want the payoff and the photo memento (in other words, me). It's silly, I suppose. It's not like one cap-and-gown afternoon will trump nearly seven years (he was a sixth grader), but after all the laughs and the drama, the near-misses, close calls, and successes, the questions, the answers, the education in all senses, I'll take whatever closure I can get.

For now that boils down to a not-quite-casual doorway exchange and the choked-up feeling I got when he left.

Amen

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taking a break

This clip is not timely, and the song choice has nothing to do with anything I might want to say tonight. But I'm up to my ears in finals week prep, and thus especially prone to distraction. Flipping post-football channels-- which actually is unlike me-- I ran across the rerun of this. I didn't expect to like it--nobody else should sing that song-- but I enjoyed it, so here it is. Take the Japanese titles as an ESL touch (or evidence of who gets better bootlegs).

Joke of the Day, Except It's Not A Joke Edition

So the teacher e-mails the guidance counselor to confirm the origin of the new new kid.

"You said he's from Colombia. Is that right?"

"No, Hades," she types out just like that. H-a-d-e-s.

I pick up the phone.

"Hades?"

"Yeah, Hades."

(Insert pause full of furious brainstorming.)

"HAITI?!?"

She agrees that the kid is from Haiti. I, ladies and gentlemen, am the one in Hell.

and now, for my next act

To anyone and everyone who has ever said, "I don't know how you do it," when referring to my job, allow me just this once to eschew my traditional shrug of dismissal and instead offer an amen. Because me too neither, brother.

It's not that there's anything different about right now compared to always. It's not as if each individual day or hour or moment is really that hard. I throw it together and do what I can and get by, more or less or mostly. And every day something goes right, or somebody learns something, or at least I have a laugh.

But now and then I have a little out-of-body experience as I cope with some normal-for-me that becomes a periodic last straw. I hear myself, on the phone in my typical role-reversal with Guidance at the end of just another nobody-ever-told-me-the-US-constitution-graduation-requirement-was-now-my-responsibility-or-if-they-did-I-was-out-in-the-hall-with-pregnant-girl-number-four-(FOUR!)-day explaining that yes, we will take the heretofore unschooled fifteen year-old Haitian orphan just now transplanted into Missouri, and that yes, he'll be mine, and yes, we'll teach him English, and yes, I'll help you enroll him, and yes, we'll figure it out. It will be fine, I say and mean it in a code that also translates, "I'll take him off your hands."

I will, and I'm glad to, and it is, after all, my job, my ever-expanding-now-what-how-will-I-one-way-or-the-other position. It will happen, this much I can tell you. How? Well. I'll get back to you on that.

trouble

She leans forward across the desk that's shoved up next to mine, something on the tip of her tongue. She takes a breath then hesitates.

"I don't feel comfortable saying this," she says, whatever this may be. I have asked her no questions, personal or otherwise, invited no discussion. I'm just sitting at my desk finishing my lunch.

"Then you shouldn't say it," I emphasize, both sincere and relieved. "But," I add lightheartedly, "if there's something you need to ask someone, I have heard it all."

Two days later I hear it again, a different story from a different girl, unless her friend was running reconnaissance. I realize as we're talking, again out in the hall, that I had told a truth to which I've been a little oblivious: I have gotten pretty good at this. I am not indifferent to the dramas and the crises, but I am mostly unphased, at least on the surface at the moment, at least in my expression and tone.

When told about a pregnancy, a deadbeat dad, a lost job, a sudden move, a sheriff's knock upon the door, whatever else can knock a kid off-kilter in one five-day span, I can listen and I can calm. I can tell the truth as I see it and somehow reassure. Once upon a time these conversations filled me with above-my-pay-grade jitters; now I'd feel highly qualified to talk folks back in off the ledge. I don't know if word has gotten around or if they've just no where else to turn; I suspect both might be true. Regardless, I don't seek these troubles out. I just look up, and they're there.

in the hall

Once again, we're out in the hall, that public space always more private than a crowded room with three closed doors.

The convoluted details are nearly irrelevant, just one more example of life on the undocumented edge, one more object lesson on the fragility of a life not sheltered by paperwork. Many of us are one false move away from one kind of doom or another; the trip wires are just that much harder to see out in the shadows. Danger lurks everywhere. Story told and retold, he sadly spells out a conclusion that might satisfy the smug: his family figures they might as well return to South America, that for six years of hard work they have nothing to show but a family divided and a younger boy who speaks no Spanish. It's not the whole story, but for now it's the focus. I nod and consider.

Today he looks like an overgrown boy, every bit of teenager bottled up like the gel he has left on the shelf instead of sculpted into his hair. His voice is soft and stripped bare, no pretense, no bravado: "I just wanted someone to tell me it's going to be okay."

So I do.

As best I can, as honestly I can, I tell him what seems to me will happen, which worries of his are legitimate, and which are just catastrophizing. I tell him what I know and what I can guess; I tell him I understand. I hear reassurance in my voice even as I explain that I'm not sure. I feel the trust he has in me, and I try to live up to it.

For a few minutes, we talk, straightforward and seriously, until there's no more to say.

"You know where to find me," I say, and he thanks me, again. In separate directions, we each walk away.

whine

Sunday night is so Monday morning, never more so than when the Monday promises to lead off the first five-day work week in three. I'd say I'd barely remember what I need to do, but that's not true: I'm just trying to forget. Crunch time is here: paperwork deadlines and meetings, curricula to cover, big state tests, final exams. Between my shoulders I feel the tension that pulls between the three weeks remaining being too short and five days being eternity. Alas, the forecast says fifty degrees: too warm for snow.

P-T

I always work it in.

These four words are part of any initial exchange I have at my daughter's school: "I'm a teacher, too." As in, "So I know what you mean," as in, "I can relate," as in, "Don't try to pull one over on me." Except for the many for which I make an exception, I'm not a great respecter of teachers, at least without proof. Mostly it's the off-putting attitude that seems bundled with their certificates, that vague, "You're not, but I am." So my claim is some reverse psychology playing field leveler; it's likely all in my head, but I don't care. It can't hurt.

Tonight, meaningless mission accomplished, I immediately turned parent as I listened to the trio who spend near as much time with the girl as I. I smiled as I digested the praises that were sung by the Comm Arts teacher who really does seem to appreciate her. And then I laughed-- though not in disagreement-- at the former cheerleader who proclaimed the girl, "an eccentric young woman" (quirky had already been taken). "What a nice way to put it," I said, meaning, "is that the best you can do?" as I pictured what opinion I'd be putting a front on if I trotted that phrase out to a parent. It's an experience, being on the other side.

As I left I was satisfied that these strangers know my child well enough and will do all right by her; in my mind, it's mostly up to her. Of course, a glowing academic report makes it easier to assume that they'll do no harm and might help her. Flattery works even on skeptical me.

nothing

It's a fine line down the slippery slope that separates doing from did or intended or used to back in the day. Out of the habit, I am struggling mightily to write here. The back side is littered with fragments of thoughts, incomplete drafts, the detritus of can't-quite-make-it-work. I try and fail, try and fail, try and fail. And yet, I have not quit, though you'll have to take my word, being nothing here to prove otherwise. I suppose this is strategery 432, writing about not being able to write in the hopes that it leads to writing. Not yet, anyway.

Happy Birthday, Stan the Man

Happy 89th birthday to a St. Louis treasure

by Bernie Miklasz

Eighty-nine years ago today, Stanislaw Francizek Musial was born in Donora, a small mining town in western Pennsylvania. His father Lukasz, a Polish immigrant, almost immediately began to call the boy "Stashu."

Later, after the young Musial had grown up to become one of the greatest baseball hitters who ever lived, he'd be known by another nickname in every ballpark in America: "The Man."

When he retired in 1963, Musial owned 17 major-league records, 29 National League records, nine All-Star Game records. If you grew up in St. Louis, by now you know the math, which is so familiar that it must have been taught in the public and private schools: seven-time batting champion, a three-time MVP, and a 24-time All-Star, .331 batting average, 3,630 hits, 475 homers.

In St. Louis, Musuial is an icon and a treasure and our most beloved citizen. And given all of the impromptu harmonica concerts he's given through the decades, Musial probably ranks second on the list (to Chuck Berry) of our most famous musicians.

Musial represents a sweeter time in America and a softer, gentler side of our sporting culture. He never turned down an autograph and was always a gentleman to his fans. He didn't draw his hitting prowess from a syringe. Baseball wasn't a job; it was a reason to smile.

The Man isn't as nimble as he used to be, and he's cut down on travel. Every now and then a rumor goes around that Musial is enduring a serious illness, and is in trouble. But it turns out to be a false alarm, and Stan bounces back again, just as he did in 1962, when he batted .330 after a lot of folks thought he was done.

Musial is doing amazingly well. He still goes to the office of Stan the Man Inc. every weekday to be with his friend and business manager, Dick Zitzmann. Musial stays for an hour or two, signing autographs and opening mail that's arrived from around the world. And then Zitzmann and Musial usually head to lunch.

Three or four times a week, Stan and Lil — his extraordinary bride of 69 years — go out to dinner. Sure, The Man has his share of bad days, but he's rarely scratched from the lineup. The brightness of his eyes hasn't dimmed, and the laughter hasn't stopped.

"I'm often asked what keeps Stan going," Zitzmann said. "The answer is, 'People.' He just enjoys being around people. He lights up. Stan loves his fans as much as they love him."

So today Stan and Lil will celebrate his 89th birthday with family members and close friends. There will be terrific food, and a beautiful birthday cake, and lots of memories.

And Musial, as always, will be surrounded by love.

Which means it will be a perfect birthday.

Has any athlete — ever — felt as much love, and given as much love, as Stan Musial? There will never be another like him.

Every new day with Stan Musial is a blessing. Happy birthday, Stan

Taking the progress out of health care reform

It's been a long time since I posted here. Guess I haven't I haven't had much to say. Then I saw this.

multi

Today's one of those days when I look up from correcting the Portuguese spelling (not that I know uma palavra of Portuguese) in a letter home to a family who doesn't realize that the location of their new apartment will require the deeply SPED son to change schools while talking to a graduate who has stopped by discuss his moral turpitude immigration problem and college applications while putting together a Spring schedule for the Vietnamese newcomer who is terrified of change while supervising make-up work for the kid who is suddenly failing my Civics class while explaining the Industrial Revolution and nativism and the need to keep trying to a girl whose history teacher has just told her she's not worth her time and she might as well quit while trying to get ready for my next class while loaning lunch money while making a note to check with the clinic about the ringworm and the pinkeye and the teenage miscarriage while my lunch grows cold and it occurs to me: there must be an easier way.

10 years in 7 minutes

I'd embed this if I could.

Tuesday

I seem locked in a mortal battle with Tuesday. Though I always win in the end, knock wood and good genes, the work week's second round always seems on the verge of outlasting me, smug when I check the calendar or clock and react with a half-defeated, half-agitated, "Still!?!" So to remind myself that life is for living and that it all counts, whether it's the weekend or some red-letter day or not, three small victories from the annals of Tuesday, November 10:

• Finding the words to help my daughter find her way from sobbing mess to a smiling, "I feel a lot more confident now."
• Making it to the Y at 8:45 p.m. Making excuses takes far more energy.
• Refusing to accept, "I don't get it. I can't," and creating the space, at least for ten minutes, for the kid to focus and listen and learn.
  

Six months from now I'll likely be unable to pick out this 24-hour period out of a line-up of fall semester school days. From even that distance, Tuesday was Tuesday was Tuesday, indistinguishable except that they aren't. Each matters, and if one doesn't, well, that's on me. Life is for living, seven days a week, not enduring or wishing away.

a glimmer

The calvary has arrived in the form of a girl born during my first quarter of college. Impossibly, this means she is a fully degreed grad student nearly as old as the newlywed me, and not, say, a sixth grader who wandered down the wrong hall. She is yet another English major taken hold by the late realization that after all she wants to teach; it is the circle of work life complete in its best interview clothes.

Given that hers must be the most temporary and ill-paying of part-time jobs in a school, she is wondrously qualified-- meaning, she wants it. She is motivated in that twenty-two year-old way, full of fragile confidence. So my job-- assisted is far more labor intensive than do-it-myself-- is to help her help me. Then, theoretically, we both win. It might, I daresay, work.

At the end of day 1.5 I felt nearly accomplished. Kids got taught, lessons got planned, papers got graded and entered, paperwork got dispatched instead of shuffled and piled. Kids were engaged just a little bit more. I suppose that, minimally, that is my job description; these activities are not unusual. But for the first time in a while I left without any mental accounting of who got gypped or ignored or put off. We may have actually done all we needed to do.

What's different? It doesn't hurt to have a witness, but it's more a chance to breathe and focus, to dump the I-don't-have-time-for-this and do my job-- every other day until December.

make up work

In my defense, everything happened in October. Football and football, Bruce Springsteen again, the marathon, the marathon, the marathon. But four posts! Four! Good grief. When so much happened! It shouldn't be excuse; it should be fodder. Perhaps I'll get around to the rest of the running stories, the tales of the girl, the students. I have a list, actual pen-to-paper, of things I don't want to forget. Perhaps I should commence typing.

return

It is all habit.

Witness, both of you, the precipitous drop in the number of posts here, from daily to now and then sporadic, as my time and my energy and my random thoughts have been redirected elsewhere. To slip out of the rhythm was hardly my intention-- the neglect here nags-- but it happened, not unlike (or totally different) from my verge-of-flagging running routine.

After the marathon-- have I mentioned I ran one?-- I had a near week of officially sanctioned not to mention physically mandated rest. I walked, first stiff then sore, maybe twice in seven days before I ever tried to run. But eventually I got in what felt like mile 27 and then one or two more and then I was busy, I was tired, I was lazy. It rained. This was not a long stretch-- I'm only 16 days removed--but after 30 mile weeks it felt like ditching, or at least strolling the edge. Life just might have gone on. The Y track is too small, my calves are too sore, the December race is a mere 5K-- how could it matter? A forty-five minute drive home from work is more than enough time to devolve from "let's go" to "let's not"; a stretch on the couch is easy to justify.

But today I did not sit down despite just beyond brisk weather; I shushed my internal monologue and went. I just did it, as they say. Once out and back in, slow, but somehow stronger, it felt that the switch had been flipped. It feels better to have gone than to have not; it feels good to be breathless and sweaty. This time, I think I'll remember that. And if I don't, maybe I'll come here and read it.

the start

They call it The Moment: the point in marathon when the runner knows she will finish. For me, this time, this first time, I think I'd call it The Start. I'd sat on the curb for nearly ninety pre-dawn minutes as Geary Street filled in around me with dozens then hundreds then thousands of runners. I stretched, and I watched, and I waited, as calm as I now feel in the comfort of my living room couch. I record this atypical absence of butterflies now both to remember and to verify that it was real.

The sounds in my memory are muffled; sharper is the edge of the cold breeze that blew up from the bay and the coarse cotton feel of my off-white throw-away gloves. The wind may have calmed as we shuffled then walked around Powell to Post to the gate to the next 26.2. I couldn't tell you. I know the black Goodwill fleece that I was coached to buy then discard heated through quickly and I left it a mile out with the gloves.

I boggled, slightly, at those who pulled off to the sidewalk to pose with the sunrise over the not-golden-but-grey Bay Bridge. They may well have passed me minutes or hours later, but race as photo op does not fit into the uninterrupted progress that is, to my mind by definition, marathon. Forward through the city streets, up the hills, up the hills, up the hills. Around the curve of the water, through the misty forest, down the glorious decent by the cliffs. Eyes lingering, mind memorizing, or trying, feet moving, always moving.

I'm not sure I remember everything I saw or could have seen according to the route and the map and the pictures, but I remember how I felt for every minute of that race. I was ready. And then, I did it.

portrait

She is quiet in what seems a particularly Asian way, hands folded and passive: a stereotype in a seat. Though she's making friends with those girls who can relate to her word-by-word journey, her voice is barely known to her other teachers. She comes and goes, sits and works, sits and thinks. And while, with the aid of the electronic translator we do confirm that even at home she is known as shy, she nods with the slightest of smiles when I say, "You're not shy with me."

I'm thinking, and so is she, of the times when the times interest and vocabulary fizz together and spill out in a gush of excitable pretty-much-English. Then she's herself, a sixteen year-old girl, and not a student not trapped by I-don't-know-how-to-say. She tells me of a squirrel she kept as a pet, of her plans for university, of a relative's unfortunate brush with the casino, of any topic we can muster. For weeks in this way I've been assembling a mosaic portrait, but today, through one exclamation in a little makeshift poem it felt as if I got a glimpse of the real person she is:

My name is Tiên.
My name
is important to me.
I am not Tina!
My name
is from Vietnam.
My friends know my name.

me

As far as they know, I'm a runner.

Let slip or exclaim you're doing a marathon soon, and no matter how you couch it-- I am a beginner; I am slow; sometimes I walk-- that tends to be the impression. And while I give myself credit for the grammatical progression from, "I run" to, "I am a runner," applying the label is still a novelty, a shade of identity still complete with the tags.

Forty years later-- perhaps coincidence, perhaps not-- I'm doing something new, something that most of my circle rightly greeted with, "What?!" They're with me now, alternately bemused and impressed as they look through the lens of Before. No one, of course, will support me or appreciate the accomplishment more than those who saw it unfold, but there are other useful perspectives out in the world. A stranger's acceptance of my self-description, while far less substantial, is a different kind of confirmation, a little lesson in reinvention. It's not permission, but perhaps it's a signal.

In a sense--a debatable sense, but one that means something to me--I am who I say I am. When those who have no reason to believe but also no reason to doubt take me at my word, I find it oddly encouraging. It's a reminder, not that I'm pulling it off, but that by doing it, I become who I am.

taper madness

I would totally feel better if I went out and ran around the block. I know this with absolute certainty. Nevermind that it's after eleven p.m., pitch black and cold, and that my street doesn't have streetlights not to mention blocks. Not to mention the fact that the ten godawful slow miles today already aggravated my knee, and I'd get barely anywhere before limping home feeling worse than when I started. That is entirely irrelevant. I need endorphins, stat. Or whatever biological compound that would quell these quite literal jitters. Perhaps I'll start smoking just so I can quit; that jones might outweigh this one. Maybe. Or at least distract me from the loop of based-oh-so-slightly-on-reality thoughts that are racing through what's left of my mind. Five months of training will pay off-or not--two weeks from today if the meantime doesn't kill me.

If I don't get sick. I think my throat hurts. What if everyone in school gets the flu? If I'm not more injured than I already know. If the physical therapy doesn't make it worse. Maybe the x-ray didn't show the real problem. If it's not too humid or not too hot or not too cold or if whatever fitness I've built doesn't drain completely away as I sit here and rest. I know it won't. How could it not?! They say it won't; I think they're lying. Not getting 20 in must invalidate everything; I bet you think so, too. If I don't gain weight or if my shoes aren't wrong or if halfway through I don't lose a contact lens. What if I get a migraine? If I don't eat the wrong thing. If there aren't lines for the johns. If I'm not too slow. What if I have to walk and they turn me around? What if those walkers get in my way? What if I just can't do it? With everyone watching!

I know that I can. I have come this far, and getting it done is the only option. I'll be fine. My knee will be better, and if it's not, I'll still do it. I know. I do. I believe. Or at least I would if I could go run 'round the block.

good help

Ambushed again by my own tears, I must admit to myself the obvious: I am a crier. From poised to can't-speak-fighting-back I go in an instant, equal parts surprised and self-conscious. I am always, always unaware and oblivious until I hear the catch in my voice. Then I'm done for, my internal scales finally measuring the last straw right as they are tipped to the teary.

I'm not sure, entirely, that this propensity is a flaw, but damn if it doesn't derail a good riot act. Hard to continue a rant when one can't choke out the words. Not that I had raised my voice to the not-quite-competent receptionist for whom I suspect I'm now a dinner-time story. But I did perhaps relentlessly endeavor to point out the error in canceling the first of my three back-to-back appointments without telling me and then chiding me for being early. It's an appointment book; I get it. It's not catastrophe. Except when the outcome of a nearly six-month goal seems to be riding on information now unknown for yet another of my few remaining days. Then, for a moment, it feels as if it is.

Welcome to life in a medical office, Miss I'm-new-here-and-I-didn't-think. Next time, I beg you, call!

Protect Insurance Companies

Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

high tech

"What?" says the girl, eyes full of at-me or with-me as she seeks the source of my chuckle. She looks at the monitors, she looks at the screen, she looks, again, at me. As if there's nothing just a little bit funny about the two of us propped in my bed side-by-side, each with a lap-full of keyboard, sharing the wireless and vaguely inappropriate TV. I "nothing" her question away, and we click and we giggle--one of us wondering if she should be cringing--until she nudges me to check another tab. She's e-mailing me, from six inches away. What an excellent use of technology.

I do not take this opportunity for any questions, for any capital-C-Conversations or capital-P parenting, though I do sneak a sideways glance at her inbox. Instead I just match her animated emoticons pixel for pixel in a nonsense string of replies and make a note to remember.

with a smile and a wave

At first he was the kicker, the punchline to my stats. Every time I rattled off my inflated roster of old timers plus freshmen plus transfers, I'd segue from the total to the tally of special needs and conclude with a flourish: "Plus the mute kid!" As in, "What am I supposed to do about that?!"

Not much, it turns out.

This morning he turned up with his aunt and heretofore unknown brother and checked out for San Diego, where he'll live with his mom. Five signatures later, his problems are no longer mine; my day is that much less complicated. I'm disappointed, frankly. Oh, I do feel the relief of one less prep to my day, but mostly, I'm sad to see him go, sad for progress interrupted.

Not that I am the answer, not that I knew what to do, really, but it felt like we were figuring it out. After a few false starts, I had found English work that seemed to be on his level; I learned that in Civics, he liked the maps. I slapped my forehead when he sneaked into Scrabble and spelled out, "hola" to a girl. I talked to him as any other kid. Maybe that's all it was. But he was listening, lately, doing what I asked, learning, maybe, or at least learning to trust me. Or perhaps he was just counting the days. His is one story I don't ever expect to hear; I only hope that someday, he tells it.

the goal

Leaned back, feet flip-flopped apart, too big for his chair, elbow propped on the desk behind, he looks ready for something, something not school: I badger him into position, back into my boundaries. It's a habit, though questionably productive.

A month into school-- already a month-- and we're still figuring each other out. I do, however, know his secret, not that it would take a super sleuth. When a kid snatches his notebook up to his chest and then "reads" a story far more elaborate than could be contained in few penciled phrases, well. I am a professional. And he is a talker, an aspiring charmer, all quick-moving defense and constant, one-step ahead strategy. It would seem less effort to learn how to write. And read, maybe, though I'm not yet sure how much is can't and how much is doesn't. His scores are fine and his homework's complete and his friends, I'm sure, are willing.

Sometime soon we need to talk outside of my grand central classroom so I can introduce our goal for the year: enough progress that he can be as proud of himself on paper as he is on the ballfield. If I were his coach, it might be easier to prove myself to not be the opposition, but, if he ever stops giggling at the notion of a girl who loves football-- I'll take whatever in--perhaps we'll gain some ground.

the mutual admiration society

It's a last-minute catch-up before he crosses the border, the last time we'll see each other, unless it's not. It's a handshake and a hug and a quick accounting of what's next and what's going on. He tells me, "School, always school," when I ask of his intentions, and he lays out his indefinite yet solid plans: maybe Cancun, for work and university, not sun, maybe Tijuana, which makes me cringe. He acknowledges my qualms, agrees that it's not a good place, but, "You gotta go where the opportunity is."

I love this kid. His attitude is the standard by which I judge all others: despite his realism, he is undaunted. When he says, "life is what you make it," I believe.

So it makes me smile when he excuses my messy desk as "just busy," when he flatters by asking how I do "so many good things." It touches me when he says he's glad to know me, that "[one] doesn't meet many people like you." Likewise, Fernando, I'm sure.

I know that I'm not half the woman he thinks I am, let alone the teacher, but when he leaves, I feel as if I could be.

to reiterate

I think I'll make a sign, or better yet a series. Paper the hallway down to my door with a Burma Shave shout-out no one would get.

Every single one of you has something you’re good at.

Every single one of you has something to offer.

And you have a responsibility to yourself to discover what that is.

That’s the opportunity an education can provide.

--President Barack Obama

I read those words and remember why I work in a school.

I read, from the same speech, a straight-talk encouragement that every teenager should hear, and I say, "Amen."

"But at the end of the day, the circumstances of your life – what you look like, where you come from, how much money you have, what you’ve got going on at home – that’s no excuse for neglecting your homework or having a bad attitude. That’s no excuse for talking back to your teacher, or cutting class, or dropping out of school. That’s no excuse for not trying.

Where you are right now doesn’t have to determine where you’ll end up. No one’s written your destiny for you. Here in America, you write your own destiny. You make your own future."

That's the "controversial" "propaganda" I cannot share with my students. How did it come to this?

Leonard Pitts: What Are We Saving the Children From?

by Leonard Pitts
in the Miami Herald

Well, that was close.

Surely, we are all relieved that at least some children were protected this week from the diabolical Barack Obama. It was touch and go there for awhile after the White House announced its plan for the president to give a back-to-school address to America's kids. They might have gotten away with it, too, but for conservative pundits and politicians who spent last week raising a ruckus about this scheme to indoctrinate our youth into the president's socialist cult. They were able to convince an untold number of schools to prohibit Tuesday's speech from being shown on campus and an untold number of parents to keep their children home.

By this decisive action, untold millions (thousands?) of our kids were saved from exposure to subversive sentiments like ``pay attention,'' ``listen to your parents'' and ``every single one of you has something to offer.''

That mission accomplished, one wonders if conservatives will be equally energetic in rescuing kids from other things that threaten them.

Our children need all the help they can get, after all. They are coming of age in an America where, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, one in four girls between ages 14 and 19 is infected with at least one of four dangerous sexually transmitted diseases (human papillomavirus, chlamydia, genital herpes, trichomoniasis). An era where, according to the National Center for Children in Poverty at Columbia University, more than 13 million kids live below the poverty line. An era where, according to the Education Department, despite noteworthy progress in recent years, one in four public-school eighth graders lacks basic grade level reading skills, and one in five fourth graders can't do the math.

What's arguably more frightening in the long view is that they're coming of age in an America so hyper-partisan, shrill, silly and incoherent that a pep talk to school kids -- surely the most plain vanilla presidential duty this side of pardoning the turkey at Thanksgiving -- gets treated like it was Osama bin Laden giving an al-Qaeda recruitment speech in lower Manhattan on Sept. 11.

It is an absurd controversy, but in a nation of birthers and truthers, death panels and tea parties, absurdity has become our default setting -- as has political violence, whether rhetorical or real.

Last week, for goodness sake, we heard about a healthcare reform proponent biting off the finger of someone who disagreed with him. Meanwhile in Arizona, an alleged Christian minister made headlines preaching and praying for the president's death.

If America were a person, you'd sedate it. You might even have it committed.

This is not politics, it's a temper tantrum, a national hissy-fit that calls into question -- and not for the first time -- whether a nation so vast and varied still can, or still wants to be, a nation.

A few days ago, a woman running for office in Pennsylvania e-mailed me about her encounter with a voter who objected to the idea of, as he put it, paying for his neighbor's health insurance. She reminded him that to live in a society is to be interdependent. We all pay for libraries, we all pay for national defense, we all pay to school our kids. Except, he said he doesn't want to pay to educate someone else's kids, either. We are not interdependent, the man insisted. We are alone, each man in it by and for himself.

You might call that view an aberration. My fear is that it is a harbinger. My fear is that we are a people stampeded by and toward political extremes, and that in our shrillness, our ignorance, our paranoia, hatefulness and fear, we dig a trench through common ground and make this nation ungovernable.

If we want to save our children from anything, maybe we ought to save them from that.

the socialist propaganda

Prepared Remarks of President Barack Obama
Back to School Event

Arlington, Virginia
September 8, 2009


The President: Hello everyone – how’s everybody doing today? I’m here with students at Wakefield High School in Arlington, Virginia. And we’ve got students tuning in from all across America, kindergarten through twelfth grade. I’m glad you all could join us today.

I know that for many of you, today is the first day of school. And for those of you in kindergarten, or starting middle or high school, it’s your first day in a new school, so it’s understandable if you’re a little nervous. I imagine there are some seniors out there who are feeling pretty good right now, with just one more year to go. And no matter what grade you’re in, some of you are probably wishing it were still summer, and you could’ve stayed in bed just a little longer this morning.
I know that feeling. When I was young, my family lived in Indonesia for a few years, and my mother didn’t have the money to send me where all the American kids went to school. So she decided to teach me extra lessons herself, Monday through Friday – at 4:30 in the morning.


Now I wasn’t too happy about getting up that early. A lot of times, I’d fall asleep right there at the kitchen table. But whenever I’d complain, my mother would just give me one of those looks and say, "This is no picnic for me either, buster."
So I know some of you are still adjusting to being back at school. But I’m here today because I have something important to discuss with you. I’m here because I want to talk with you about your education and what’s expected of all of you in this new school year.

Now I’ve given a lot of speeches about education. And I’ve talked a lot about responsibility.

I’ve talked about your teachers’ responsibility for inspiring you, and pushing you to learn.

I’ve talked about your parents’ responsibility for making sure you stay on track, and get your homework done, and don’t spend every waking hour in front of the TV or with that Xbox.

I’ve talked a lot about your government’s responsibility for setting high standards, supporting teachers and principals, and turning around schools that aren’t working where students aren’t getting the opportunities they deserve.

But at the end of the day, we can have the most dedicated teachers, the most supportive parents, and the best schools in the world – and none of it will matter unless all of you fulfill your responsibilities. Unless you show up to those schools; pay attention to those teachers; listen to your parents, grandparents and other adults; and put in the hard work it takes to succeed.

And that’s what I want to focus on today: the responsibility each of you has for your education. I want to start with the responsibility you have to yourself.
Every single one of you has something you’re good at. Every single one of you has something to offer. And you have a responsibility to yourself to discover what that is. That’s the opportunity an education can provide.

Maybe you could be a good writer – maybe even good enough to write a book or articles in a newspaper – but you might not know it until you write a paper for your English class. Maybe you could be an innovator or an inventor – maybe even good enough to come up with the next iPhone or a new medicine or vaccine – but you might not know it until you do a project for your science class. Maybe you could be a mayor or a Senator or a Supreme Court Justice, but you might not know that until you join student government or the debate team.

And no matter what you want to do with your life – I guarantee that you’ll need an education to do it. You want to be a doctor, or a teacher, or a police officer? You want to be a nurse or an architect, a lawyer or a member of our military? You’re going to need a good education for every single one of those careers. You can’t drop out of school and just drop into a good job. You’ve got to work for it and train for it and learn for it.

And this isn’t just important for your own life and your own future. What you make of your education will decide nothing less than the future of this country. What you’re learning in school today will determine whether we as a nation can meet our greatest challenges in the future.

You’ll need the knowledge and problem-solving skills you learn in science and math to cure diseases like cancer and AIDS, and to develop new energy technologies and protect our environment. You’ll need the insights and critical thinking skills you gain in history and social studies to fight poverty and homelessness, crime and discrimination, and make our nation more fair and more free. You’ll need the creativity and ingenuity you develop in all your classes to build new companies that will create new jobs and boost our economy.

We need every single one of you to develop your talents, skills and intellect so you can help solve our most difficult problems. If you don’t do that – if you quit on school – you’re not just quitting on yourself, you’re quitting on your country.
Now I know it’s not always easy to do well in school. I know a lot of you have challenges in your lives right now that can make it hard to focus on your schoolwork.
I get it. I know what that’s like. My father left my family when I was two years old, and I was raised by a single mother who struggled at times to pay the bills and wasn’t always able to give us things the other kids had. There were times when I missed having a father in my life. There were times when I was lonely and felt like I didn’t fit in.

So I wasn’t always as focused as I should have been. I did some things I’m not proud of, and got in more trouble than I should have. And my life could have easily taken a turn for the worse.

But I was fortunate. I got a lot of second chances and had the opportunity to go to college, and law school, and follow my dreams. My wife, our First Lady Michelle Obama, has a similar story. Neither of her parents had gone to college, and they didn’t have much. But they worked hard, and she worked hard, so that she could go to the best schools in this country.

Some of you might not have those advantages. Maybe you don’t have adults in your life who give you the support that you need. Maybe someone in your family has lost their job, and there’s not enough money to go around. Maybe you live in a neighborhood where you don’t feel safe, or have friends who are pressuring you to do things you know aren’t right.

But at the end of the day, the circumstances of your life – what you look like, where you come from, how much money you have, what you’ve got going on at home – that’s no excuse for neglecting your homework or having a bad attitude. That’s no excuse for talking back to your teacher, or cutting class, or dropping out of school. That’s no excuse for not trying.

Where you are right now doesn’t have to determine where you’ll end up. No one’s written your destiny for you. Here in America, you write your own destiny. You make your own future.

That’s what young people like you are doing every day, all across America.
Young people like Jazmin Perez, from Roma, Texas. Jazmin didn’t speak English when she first started school. Hardly anyone in her hometown went to college, and neither of her parents had gone either. But she worked hard, earned good grades, got a scholarship to Brown University, and is now in graduate school, studying public health, on her way to being Dr. Jazmin Perez.

I’m thinking about Andoni Schultz, from Los Altos, California, who’s fought brain cancer since he was three. He’s endured all sorts of treatments and surgeries, one of which affected his memory, so it took him much longer – hundreds of extra hours – to do his schoolwork. But he never fell behind, and he’s headed to college this fall.
And then there’s Shantell Steve, from my hometown of Chicago, Illinois. Even when bouncing from foster home to foster home in the toughest neighborhoods, she managed to get a job at a local health center; start a program to keep young people out of gangs; and she’s on track to graduate high school with honors and go on to college.
Jazmin, Andoni and Shantell aren’t any different from any of you. They faced challenges in their lives just like you do. But they refused to give up. They chose to take responsibility for their education and set goals for themselves. And I expect all of you to do the same.

That’s why today, I’m calling on each of you to set your own goals for your education – and to do everything you can to meet them. Your goal can be something as simple as doing all your homework, paying attention in class, or spending time each day reading a book. Maybe you’ll decide to get involved in an extracurricular activity, or volunteer in your community. Maybe you’ll decide to stand up for kids who are being teased or bullied because of who they are or how they look, because you believe, like I do, that all kids deserve a safe environment to study and learn. Maybe you’ll decide to take better care of yourself so you can be more ready to learn. And along those lines, I hope you’ll all wash your hands a lot, and stay home from school when you don’t feel well, so we can keep people from getting the flu this fall and winter.
Whatever you resolve to do, I want you to commit to it. I want you to really work at it.

I know that sometimes, you get the sense from TV that you can be rich and successful without any hard work -- that your ticket to success is through rapping or basketball or being a reality TV star, when chances are, you’re not going to be any of those things.

But the truth is, being successful is hard. You won’t love every subject you study. You won’t click with every teacher. Not every homework assignment will seem completely relevant to your life right this minute. And you won’t necessarily succeed at everything the first time you try.

That’s OK. Some of the most successful people in the world are the ones who’ve had the most failures. JK Rowling’s first Harry Potter book was rejected twelve times before it was finally published. Michael Jordan was cut from his high school basketball team, and he lost hundreds of games and missed thousands of shots during his career. But he once said, "I have failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed."

These people succeeded because they understand that you can’t let your failures define you – you have to let them teach you. You have to let them show you what to do differently next time. If you get in trouble, that doesn’t mean you’re a troublemaker, it means you need to try harder to behave. If you get a bad grade, that doesn’t mean you’re stupid, it just means you need to spend more time studying.
No one’s born being good at things, you become good at things through hard work. You’re not a varsity athlete the first time you play a new sport. You don’t hit every note the first time you sing a song. You’ve got to practice. It’s the same with your schoolwork. You might have to do a math problem a few times before you get it right, or read something a few times before you understand it, or do a few drafts of a paper before it’s good enough to hand in.

Don’t be afraid to ask questions. Don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it. I do that every day. Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of strength. It shows you have the courage to admit when you don’t know something, and to learn something new. So find an adult you trust – a parent, grandparent or teacher; a coach or counselor – and ask them to help you stay on track to meet your goals.

And even when you’re struggling, even when you’re discouraged, and you feel like other people have given up on you – don’t ever give up on yourself. Because when you give up on yourself, you give up on your country.

The story of America isn’t about people who quit when things got tough. It’s about people who kept going, who tried harder, who loved their country too much to do anything less than their best.

It’s the story of students who sat where you sit 250 years ago, and went on to wage a revolution and found this nation. Students who sat where you sit 75 years ago who overcame a Depression and won a world war; who fought for civil rights and put a man on the moon. Students who sat where you sit 20 years ago who founded Google, Twitter and Facebook and changed the way we communicate with each other.

So today, I want to ask you, what’s your contribution going to be? What problems are you going to solve? What discoveries will you make? What will a president who comes here in twenty or fifty or one hundred years say about what all of you did for this country?

Your families, your teachers, and I are doing everything we can to make sure you have the education you need to answer these questions. I’m working hard to fix up your classrooms and get you the books, equipment and computers you need to learn. But you’ve got to do your part too. So I expect you to get serious this year. I expect you to put your best effort into everything you do. I expect great things from each of you. So don’t let us down – don’t let your family or your country or yourself down. Make us all proud. I know you can do it.

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless America.

classic

Looking for some kind of Labor Day-ish music, I ran into these 1985 Paris videos again. I'm not entirely sure he was entirely sober, but they sure were having a good time, and watching these always makes me smile-- and not just at Nils Lofgren's fashion victim outfit.

the lunatic fringe

So it turns out that if I were to stream the duly-elected President's Back-to-School speech into my classroom next week I would be eligible for the same suspension as the teacher who played NWA's "Fuck Tha Police" to her class without permission. Both, I'm told, are in the same category--get this: potentially objectionable--and thus students or their parents must have the choice to opt-out. Stay in school? What socialist propaganda!

I cannot believe there's an audience for this, or that we give them the power. Do you think he wants to quit yet, to give up trying to govern the wingnuts and those who pander to them? I'd walk away myself, except they pay for my health care.

.

Miss M

I am both tickled and mortified (in a long-ago, distant way) as I sit in the center of an unfamiliar classroom and try to lose my oh-my-goodness expression as the oh so young woman in her I'm-a-grown-up suit begins to address us parents with a shaking voice.

I have so been there. Not quite in my element, not quite making any impression save, "Wow, you sure look young!" As I said, it's been a while. Now the kids who were my first 7th grade students are some ridiculous age-- twelve plus eighteen, or so I figure: potential colleagues, more-or-less peers. My memories of that time are as vague as something near half a life ago should be: I can see a few faces, recall a few names, feel the dread that curly-haired kid in 4th hour inspired. My strongest recollection of that gig, save the paltry paycheck, is that when it ended I gave all my materials away.

Did I think I'd never again be a teacher? Was I just running from junior high? Though it seems a key life decision, I can't remember the timing or my intent. It's true, however, that after turning down a high school job the next fall I didn't reclaim the big desk until nine years, four states, a dozen jobs, and a master's degree later. Perhaps by then I was ready. I was certainly no longer the same girl I saw peeking over her notes at me tonight.

party

The duranguence is blaring but only the lime and white balloon arches sway across the dance floor: soon the space will be filled with cowboy hats and tight ponytails, boots and strappy sandals, but for now the night is too young. At the surrounding tables,teenage girls in short dresses and their coolly untucked boys drink cans of Bud as they text and pose for pictures,and none of the grown-ups says a word as they pass the time until the cake and the last of the quinceanera rituals by mentally tallying this party against the last and the next; they're all different, they're all the same. Only the middle school girls are in a hurry as they flutter between the ladies' room and the corner back by the kitchen where they circle, and bounce to the music, and imagine their turn.

I blame the running

A week without a post? This does not make me happy. But neither does the thought of declaring an official hiatus, de facto as it now is. What to do, what to do.

Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy

I'd been meaning to watch this for months. So here ya go.

comment of the day

From the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel's coverage of Favre's purple press conference:

"Words truly can't explain how I feel right now. I am so glad my wife said no 3 years ago when I wanted to name my first born son Brett!"

of all people

And there she is again.

The rules haven't changed but the secretary has, and thus a girl two years removed from my class stands framed in the doorway as I wait for what's-wrong-with-this-picture to register. Civics interrupted again.

"What are you doing here?" may be my first words, but she ignores any lack of welcome and claims a once-accustomed seat as I focus on my class. Until I realize what she's saying, where she's been, what it may mean.

"Now, wait," I say, my hands spread in a gesture meant to focus the attention of this presumed distraction. "Who did you talk to? What did he say?" And twenty more questions, give or take a dozen, that try to transform into truth her account of a friend's supposed enrollment in a community college the law has officially made off-limits to the paperwork-challenged. It doesn't add up in the way her stories never do.

But while I see the holes and feel the doubt, I have no choice but to believe, or at least hope, or at least make a wishful effort because so much depends for so many: a way into college is the grail. Recognizing my frustration with her something's-missing tale, she offers me her phone to hear the first-hand story, and I take it, despite the audience, intent on trying to understand the unofficial reality. For a few minutes I interrogate some nameless stranger, and his less-embellished account rings true. In his version, nobody says, "If you don't have a social security number, that's no problem," and yet he seems to have a Spring schedule. But as the call drops I still have only the vaguest hunch about how he slipped in and some guesses about how he'll be thwarted, or if. It's inconclusive. Her attempt to attend will be the test.

I rush through the boilerplate: "I hope this works out for you. That would be a good thing." I slow down and enunciate as if scolding a beginner: "I need to know exactly who you talk to, what they say, and what you do. You have to tell me what happens." Her nod reflects none of my urgency. I push my card into her hand and picture it lost or discarded as she claims she'll text me about going to college. We'll see if it comes to that.

the introduction

"My grandfather's name was Melvin,too."

His response, after a pause, is a surprised, "Really? That's cool," and I've a hunch that his hesitation was some unspoken variation of, "Was he from Puerto Rico?" Either that or he was just double-checking: his English is just on the verge. I affirm that he is, then, the second Melvin I've ever met, and I tell him that makes me happy because it does. I rarely have opportunity to say that name aloud; repeating it now almost feels like a talisman, and I'm pleased by the feeling it conjures.

But mostly I'm pleased for the student who has been but a name on a list to finally be coming to life. I've anticipated the arrival of this freshman class in a steeling-myself-way for months: they outnumber my sophomore through senior roster combined, they have a laundry list of special needs and issues, they've mostly been in a middle school program I call, for cause, Lord of the Flies. But, as always, "they" don't really exist, despite their preceding reputation. Instead of a group to confront I've got indivduals to meet and figure out how to teach; as they appear, I remember. So far there's this not-really-a-namesake whose helpfulnes is so-far endearing, an unfocused, outsize Junior; a Dominican ballplayer (football, too) who carries himself with that self-assured, big league ease at the age of 15; the smirking boy who will not speak. There is, heaven help her, a fourteen year-old gonna-be teen mother and her possible polar opposite, a wanna-be doctor who's been out of Ho Chi Minh City less than a week. There are dozens more, counting both the old and the new, and much learning to be done on both sides of my desk.

the benefit

It is not the mythical, may-be-a-figment runner's high: my weeknight miles aren't long enough for the endorphin flow. But each pound of the pavement seems to shake loose another care of the day until all I can do is breathe and wipe the sweat from my face as I bargain myself up and down the hills. As I race the sunset into the driveway, my shoulders slump: there's no tension left to hold them tight. It'll creep back in, even as I loosen my laces and look towards tomorrow, but for a while there, I do forget.

planning

I sit in a meeting, out of my element, surrounded by ninth grade teachers brainstorming ideas for some not-exactly-a-study-hall class, and amidst the talk of panel discussions and get-to-know-you games and parent contacts and syllabus, I feel a vague sense of shake-my-head wonder drift into my expression: how simple to plan what they'll all understand, at least in the most basic, bottomline way. When at least they all speak English.

Not that I have any interest, really, in teaching what we try not to call "regular" classes. "Content," we try to say, accent on the first syllable, not even, "mainstream," avoiding some kind of presumed insult. I prefer a different standard. And as soon as I figure out how I'm going to do something productive for the mishmash of needs --have I mentioned the six language disabled? the new Vietnamese girl? the 14 freshmen and 3 transfers? the selective mute? -- that populate my ever-growing class lists, I'm sure I'll remember why.

broken

My seventh grade daughter was in kindergarten when my grandmother died; to remember the year, I have to count back, do the math. Every time, the answer is a surprise. And so are the feelings that welled up when the handle of that depression glass plate snapped off as it slid off the loveseat and hit a stool on the way to the floor. That's what we get for dusting.

"That was my gradma's," I said more quietly than the girl frozen with "Am I gonna get it?" expected. I may not have replied to her meaningful, "Oh," though I managed to laugh at an offer to get scotch tape that may or may not have been an attempt at comic relief. But I could cry, easily and right now, for no reason at all. Except one.

It's not as if I picked out that tray as a token; my aunt sent it over with the companion bowl that I keep filled with napkins on the kitchen table. They aren't rare pieces, far as I know, and, once glued, that plate will still serve as well as it ever did as a candy dish, or tray, or collector of end-table detritus. It's not as if I'd ever sell it. And it's not as if she'd have cared, either, about its new flaw, especially one caused by her only great grandkid. It's just that once upon a time, long before the Alzheimer's that really took her away years before she died, my grandma filled it up with Christmas fudge and that awful fondant and set it out on that antiqued green buffet and, I've been reminded, I miss her.

Friday Afternoon Copy & Paste: Bill Maher

New Rule: Smart President ≠ Smart Country
from the HuffPo

New Rule: Just because a country elects a smart president doesn't make it a smart country. A few weeks ago I was asked by Wolf Blitzer if I thought Sarah Palin could get elected president, and I said I hope not, but I wouldn't put anything past this stupid country. It was amazing - in the minute or so between my calling America stupid and the end of the Cialis commercial, CNN was flooded with furious emails and the twits hit the fan. And you could tell that these people were really mad because they wrote entirely in CAPITAL LETTERS!!! It's how they get the blood circulating when the Cialis wears off. Worst of all, Bill O'Reilly refuted my contention that this is a stupid country by calling me a pinhead, which A) proves my point, and B) is really funny coming from a doody-face like him.

Now, the hate mail all seemed to have a running theme: that I may live in a stupid country, but they lived in the greatest country on earth, and that perhaps I should move to another country, like Somalia. Well, the joke's on them because I happen to have a summer home in Somalia... and no I can't show you an original copy of my birth certificate because Woody Harrelson spilled bong water on it.

And before I go about demonstrating how, sadly, easy it is to prove the dumbness dragging down our country, let me just say that ignorance has life and death consequences. On the eve of the Iraq War, 69% of Americans thought Saddam Hussein was personally involved in 9/11. Four years later, 34% still did. Or take the health care debate we're presently having: members of Congress have recessed now so they can go home and "listen to their constituents." An urge they should resist because their constituents don't know anything. At a recent town-hall meeting in South Carolina, a man stood up and told his Congressman to "keep your government hands off my Medicare," which is kind of like driving cross country to protest highways.

I'm the bad guy for saying it's a stupid country, yet polls show that a majority of Americans cannot name a single branch of government, or explain what the Bill of Rights is. 24% could not name the country America fought in the Revolutionary War. More than two-thirds of Americans don't know what's in Roe v. Wade. Two-thirds don't know what the Food and Drug Administration does. Some of this stuff you should be able to pick up simply by being alive. You know, like the way the Slumdog kid knew about cricket.

Not here. Nearly half of Americans don't know that states have two senators and more than half can't name their congressman. And among Republican governors, only 30% got their wife's name right on the first try.

Sarah Palin says she would never apologize for America. Even though a Gallup poll says 18% of Americans think the sun revolves around the earth. No, they're not stupid. They're interplanetary mavericks. A third of Republicans believe Obama is not a citizen, and a third of Democrats believe that George Bush had prior knowledge of the 9/11 attacks, which is an absurd sentence because it contains the words "Bush" and "knowledge."

People bitch and moan about taxes and spending, but they have no idea what their government spends money on. The average voter thinks foreign aid consumes 24% of our federal budget. It's actually less than 1%. And don't even ask about cabinet members: seven in ten think Napolitano is a kind of three-flavored ice cream. And last election, a full one-third of voters forgot why they were in the booth, handed out their pants, and asked, "Do you have these in a relaxed-fit?"

And I haven't even brought up America's religious beliefs. But here's one fun fact you can take away: did you know only about half of Americans are aware that Judaism is an older religion than Christianity? That's right, half of America looks at books called the Old Testament and the New Testament and cannot figure out which one came first.

And these are the idiots we want to weigh in on the minutia of health care policy? Please, this country is like a college chick after two Long Island Iced Teas: we can be talked into anything, like wars, and we can be talked out of anything, like health care. We should forget town halls, and replace them with study halls. There's a lot of populist anger directed towards Washington, but you know who concerned citizens should be most angry at? Their fellow citizens. "Inside the beltway" thinking may be wrong, but at least it's thinking, which is more than you can say for what's going on outside the beltway.

And if you want to call me an elitist for this, I say thank you. Yes, I want decisions made by an elite group of people who know what they're talking about. That means Obama budget director Peter Orszag, not Sarah Palin.

Which is the way our founding fathers wanted it. James Madison wrote that "pure democracy" doesn't work because "there is nothing to check... an obnoxious individual." Then, in the margins, he doodled a picture of Joe the Plumber.

Until we admit there are things we don't know, we can't even start asking the questions to find out. Until we admit that America can make a mistake, we can't stop the next one. A smart guy named Chesterton once said: "My country, right or wrong is a thing no patriot would ever think of saying... It is like saying 'My mother, drunk or sober.'" To which most Americans would respond: "Are you calling my mother a drunk?"

place holder

I wish I could remember how to write.

In my mind's eye I see half-formed phrases stacked up in ragged piles, the words too fuzzy and vague to decipher. I type and delete, type and delete, type and delete: none of it is what I meant or how I intended it to sound. I click back in time to when I had the hang and find no clues or instructions, just a barely familiar voice. I can't decide if it's a comfort. Meantime, the blank page is a bane.

$15K

8 years later, books.

going back

July 31. End of the summer, regardless of the calendar, or the weather, or that popular three-month refrain. August is definitely Fall. I am trying to be ready. My trunk is full of school supplies, both for me and for them. I've made my first reconnaissance trips into the timewarp of my classroom, the place where time seems to have stood still even though May 2009 is now "last year." It happens the same way every July: I make the long drive with a renewed awareness of the distance, the annual thought running through my mind as the odometer blinks forward: "Do I really do this every day?" It seems impossible and foreign, some one else's life. But then I arrive, finally, unlock my door and plunge in to the darkness, walking foward with my hand out to the light switch on the other side. I feel along the wall, surroundings not quite familiar, routine not quite remembered, but once I find the switch, flip it on, and look around, it's as if I never left.

The carpet is clean, true, my desk is uncluttered, the whiteboards are blank. There's a bit of blank slate in the air, but as my mental to-do list begins to fill itself in, the place mostly feels like home.

as a picture

The outfit was merely the era: some polyester print--wagon wheels, maybe?--blouse with a blue spread collar that matched the skirt. It's the countryside background, hands posed on a rail "fence", and the unfocused expression that make the photo unmistakably a school picture. That and the bangs climbing across my forehead at a steep though unsteady angle-- an unfortunate home haircut (not by me, but my mother) that would never otherwise have been recorded. For years I cringed at that portrait, hid the christmas ornament on which it was pasted on the back of the tree, but at least it clearly showed a moment in time.

My soon-to-be-seventh-grade daughter has had her share of "We paid for this?" pictures; I expect nothing different tomorrow. I will not, for one thing, be ponying up twelve extra dollars for Premium Retouching, or even eight for Basic-- yes, there are two levels of photoshop available for the middle school set. And again I say, "Seriously?" According to the graphic on the flier, Basic will remove what appear to be felt-tip pen spots added to the sample picture, while Premium "whitens teeth, evens skin tone, and removes blemishes, scars, and fly-away hair." And again I say, "Good grief." It's almost tempting, though. If the cleaned up packages weren't all near fifty bucks, I might buy one just to see if I recognize what I bet more closely resembles her future, post-middle school self.

so far

Everything is relative, and ain't that the truth. The money you have or the time you don't, the degree of surprise or disappointment. Whether it's worth it or whether it's not. Everything just depends.

Reaching what must be the midpoint in my marathon training, I've hit double digits. Two weeks ago, ten, and this weekend twelve. Miles, that is. At once. An eight-miler is somehow now recategorized as, "short," an adjective that I can still recognize as ridiculous even as I know it's now true. In the same way, all these numbers are big enough to inspire in others that slow shake of the head that's a cross between, "you're crazy" and "I'm impressed." My own reaction is more tempered. Don't get me wrong, I'm pleased with myself, but at the same time, the goal is 26.2. Less than half is not all that relatively speaking, which, we are.

I'll be curious to see how my perspective changes, or if it does, when I get to the end and look back. A year ago I had no earthly concept of what I could do; today I take it as a given. I find it hard to say, "I can't" and lately substitute, "I haven't." Because when I choose to, I'm certain that I will. What I've done is huge compared to what came before, but, still, it's only a fraction.

another pair

Scuffed rubber toes of red canvas Keds, one in front of the other on a gum-splattered sidewalk: that's the image in my mind. My feet, age five. The dirt path across the field that separated our subdivison from the shopping center, that wide plaza sidewalk that we strolled every day to the dime store-- McCrory's, not P.N. Hirsch--to buy candy bars or toy gunpowder caps or short-lived fish, the mosaic threshold of the Kinney's Shoes store a bit further down: it's all my recollection of a trip to the store to buy big kid shoes, white leather with suede racing stripes of red or blue, maybe green. As if I could run. As if all the pictures that I see with my mind's eye were gathered in that one day, or that one shopping trip. Could be. Either that, or my memory has conjured the visuals that accompany the story that I know is true. Could be. I remember sprinting down the carpeted store aisle to see how fast they would make me run.

A lifetime later, I sit next to two pairs of running shoes. Real running shoes, from a real running shoe store. One pair is months old and nearly worn out-- a first for me, ever. The other pair sits new in the box, laced and ready. My miles for today are already complete, but the little kid, or, maybe, the runner in me is tempted.

messages

"You must feel great. Good for you!"

"I do. Thanks! Now what are you going to do about school?"

His text had arrived out of the blue, as always. Always unexpected, never unwelcome, his notes always bring a smile and a question. "Slow night at work? Bored at home? Alone?" I can't help but wonder what prompts him to punch in an unpunctuated, "how are you," from two rivers away, but I never ask, and, sometimes, it's obvious.

But at first it's just the mandatory, "Not much," in response to my, "What's new?" so I tell him 160 characters of my can-you-believe it marathon story, and he tells me of 10 miles in Chicago and a 5K run for cancer, but the tone is too used-to, too don't-anymore. "Can't" doesn't suit him, so I pull out a reminder as tired as it is true:

"If I can do this, you can do anything," though the converse is equally true. More.

Later, he breaks what is likely an insignificant silence with college questions he's asked before. He has credits, hard-earned before the law changed again; to continue, he must pony up his trust along with inflated tuition in a different state, at a different school. I offer to make a few calls, to ask the tricky questions about ID and residence just to make sure. I tell him, "I know some people. It's no problem," and his, "yes, please," sounds relieved, though perhaps I am projecting.

By rights, he should be tired. He must be. He is. By now, he should have thrown his hands up and conceded. He won't. But by rights, he is wary. Skepticism keeps him safer, but all of it's so wearing. And yet wavering between determination and doubt, he once more sends me a message. How else could I reply?

a different era

I can picture it, easily. Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and Dad. A Sunday afternoon. A then-new portable black & white TV in the living room that must have been cramped. The original transmission of men walking on the moon, with Walter Cronkite setting the stage. I can picture it, though I wasn't a witness: my mother had some crazy idea about 10 week-old babies and naps.

I've often told her she should have propped me up in front of the television, just so I could say that I saw. Not that there would be in purpose in that; that history still wouldn't be my memory. As most of the events narrated or explained by Cronkite, it was just a little before my time. My image is from late in his career, sitting at the anchor desk with a symbol of the Iranian hostage crisis over his shoulder: an eagle in a cage.

Years hence, Iran's in the news, again or still, but now virtually all the headlines and commentary that come into my home arrive via individual screens; news on our televisions is rare, save elections and the occasional catastrophe. Besides Obama, I'm not sure what my daughter will remember from the history of her childhood. I made sure she had no first-person memories of 9/11: she was only four. She hasn't complained about that yet, but, being her mother's daughter, I expect some day she will.

in print

I'm not entirely corrupted, but close. I'm kind of, more or less, doing my part. I still pay for the delivery of the local paper, four days, if not seven. Not that I ever unfold the newsprint as I carry it to the recycle bin from the yard. If it were still possible to cancel a subscription through the newspaper's website, it would already have been done. But as it stands, I read its stories online, the subscription fee nearly a charitable donation to a futile cause.

Books, I figured, were still less fragile than the fourth estate. Despite the fact that I've read fewer of them this year than ever in my life. A handful, no more. Few enough, I bet, to count on one hand. I am entirely out of the habit. Or at least I thought I was, until in three days I read two. It was like old times: I sat and read until I was finished, and then, the urge renewed, I went on to something else. It was like old times, except for the fact that I never laid hand on a book. Instead I read the Kindle versions using the freebie app for my iPod.

My 12 year-old is pretty sure this is a desecration; she may be right, but I'm not so sure. I'm positive there are consequences, unintended and otherwise, of this electronic shift. But to go from, "I need something to read," to possessing a new book in seconds? That's pretty much magic, to me. Not needing decent light in the room or even two free hands are bonuses as well. So far, I seem more likely to pay up for the convenience than for the paper version, so much that the ease of spending another $9.99 every time a craving or even boredom hits could in fact become a problem. I've been resisting the urge all day. Perhaps the bottom line will get me back to the library. In the meantime, there are worse habits than giving a writer another sale.

all wet

Yesterday, as I finally stepped out to run, the sky began to clear and the steady rain that had fallen all day slowed to a sprinkle then quickly disappeared. I was disappointed. A week ago, I ran further and more easily than I ever had in my life, and by the end of those eight miles, I was soaked to the bone. I trust you see the connection. What the heat and humidity had been taking out of me, a cooling rain put right back in. Finally, I felt like a runner, one who had a reason more concrete than just sheer power of will to believe she'd get to the end of 26.2. I may have even made a wish for every remaining summer Saturday to be equally wet. I should have thought that one through.

Or at least been more specific with my precipitation requests. Because I would never have asked for a summer storm to mark the beginning of a 32-mile bike ride, but that's what we got today. One wouldn't think anything could be that cold in July, but perhaps that's why some of it came down as hail. And yet instead of running for cover, we got on and pedaled through, eyes half-closed against the wind-driven water. "It's better than being hot," was more convincing after the downpour slowed and then stopped, but in the end, despite squishy shoes and a damp car seat-- perhaps the third time, I'll remember dry clothes-- I'm pretty sure that's still true.

Visiting

I may be a tourist, but at least I am a tourist who walks fast, stays out of the way, and knows how to use public transportation.

I'm just sayin'.

But then again, given that a fair number of establishments here can also be found at Disney World, maybe it's too much to expect visitors to act any different. Just an observation.

Not that I don't love the Chicago part of Chicago, as my resident friend once described it. Except for the sports teams, it's got so much goin' for it if I'd ended up here as part of that twenty-something Midwest tour, I don't think I'd ever have gotten home.

Another life, perhaps.

Meanwhile, it's time to head back to where the pizza is cracker-thin and the public transportation is non-existent. I'm looking forward to being there, too.

Happy Independence Day

That was a good day, too.

more like it

It's the phone ring, the door bell, the in and out, the up and down. It's the door standing wide open. It's shouted good-byes and, "Will you please take us?" and a flip-flopped walk down a hilly half-mile that no longer seems too long. It's swimming and skating and long, convoluted stories that don't mean anything to anyone else. Pit stops for frozen custard or tacos. It's conversations that start in the middle; it's notes left in the mailbox. It's showing up uninvited but not unwelcome, it's ten hours later and then, "See ya tomorrow." It's summer, suddenly, with a friend in the neighborhood, finally. The girl is happy, and so is her mom.

a definition

Progress:

Before, I never rode my bike in my neighborhood because it's hilly. Now I ride here because it is.

kids today

I first noticed him out of the corner of my eye as he rode lazy circles out close to the highway. And then again, one hill ahead of me, standing as he pedaled to the crest. Two thoughts: the first a kind of wordless satisfaction that the climb took the kid some effort, and then, as we both left the neighborhood and crossed through the new subdivision to the blacktop behind:

"Does your mother know where you are?"

Not that I knew where he'd come from or where he was headed or even that, really, he was going that far. I guess I've been brainwashed, too, as I had to remind myself that roaming around was once a vacation birthright, and still a good thing to do. Because I never see any kids out, despite summer, despite beautiful days. And I know they live here. I see the swingsets and free-standing basketball hoops drug out to the curb. I've waited behind school buses delivering from door to door to door-- one even stops at my house. And now and then, she'll walk to her friend's, or they'll hang out on the docks, or go down to the park. Even go for a walk with me. But more often than not, she's in while I'm out, and it's just me and the landscape crews traveling the too-quiet streets, except for that one day and that one kid who somehow discovered the right idea.

for life

I understand it's only a gesture, and a meager one at that. My contribution was minimal, my participation limited. In the scheme of things, it won't matter. Unless maybe, somehow, it does.

Four weeks ago, a man I never met received a diagnosis. His cough was not just a cough, but lung cancer, stage 4. His funeral was today. As I pulled back my hair to head out into the lingering heat, a friend who helped write his eulogy told me this blunt story, and I could not help but picture his daughter, a long ago classmate, sitting in the same funeral home parlor where my family gathered twice before.

Tonight as my mother and I circled my high school track amongst the survivors and fund raisers, our conversation turned, as it does each year, to another man gone too soon. "He was kind, and, funny, and generous to a fault." It's a litany I've memorized after thirty-one years. "Of all of us," continued my mom, describing her father-in-law, "he was the best person. So why did he have to die?" That unanswerable question, multiplied, is the reason for our walk, the reason for luminaria lit in the names of family, friends, and tonight, one complete stranger. Celebrate, remember, fight back.

Today was an off day for me according to the schedule that maps out my miles. Three yesterday, six tomorrow-- multiplied by 102 degrees, or maybe by 78 air conditioned laps. So this evening, instructed not to exercise, I instead laced up my shoes. Not to run but to Relay, an effort that trumps the rules.

tragedy

I admit I only knew the outlines of the story. I knew that Aaron Kampman, a Packer whose number 74 hangs in my closet, is one of four NFL players to play at and graduate from a tiny high school in Parkersburg, a tiny Iowa town-- remarkable in itself. I knew of the monstrous tornado that devastated Parkersburg in 2008, and I had read stories of coach Ed Thomas, and his role in putting that town back together.

But until today, when Ed Thomas was shot in the head, in front of players, in his team's weight room, I'd never heard too many of Ed Thomas's words. My loss.

Ed Thomas, in his own words, compiled by Mike Hlas of the Cedar Rapids Gazette.

I’ve always said my job is not to prepare our kids to be college athletes. My job is to make football a learning experience, and there are so many things they can learn from being a part of our team that will help them be successful later in life as a father, member of a church, or member of the community. There are so many intangibles we can teach that they can take with them.

I don’t have captains anymore—I went to a system of senior leaders. Around the end of February, I go over our senior leadership program with all of the next year’s senior football players and ask if they want to be involved. For seven weeks, I teach a morning leadership class to those who do. They are then responsible for the other players—whether it’s behavior, succeeding in the classroom, or working in the weightroom, they provide leadership for our program. I decided to teach leadership because I think it’s something that isn’t present in kids as often as it used to be. We have to show kids how to be leaders today.

I talk about leaders setting an example, the responsibility of being a leader, and the idea of being a servant and a giver. I talk about standing up to do what is right when nobody else will, and letting other players know when they’re doing something wrong. I also explain the importance of being a role model—that leaders have to set the tone for other players to follow. I talk about the respect that they have to gain with other young people. I tell them that everyone might not always like you, but you should act in such a way that they respect you.

Ethics is doing what’s right. It’s following the rules, and teaching football the way it ought to be played. Ethics is teaching young people about sportsmanship and how to conduct themselves in a first-class fashion regardless of whether they win or lose. I tell our kids that we’re going to go out and play hard, and we want to win as much as anybody. But when the game is over, we’re going to line up, shake hands, and be gentlemen, knowing that we did the very best we could. To me, that’s all part of ethics.