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!"