Night Vision

I woke up this morning feeling full of life's grace. What the hell does that mean? I really don't know, but somehow I felt very much at peace. Last night I was overwhelmed, in a good way, by my first meeting with students and faculty at Godinez High School. Despite the fact that we only have about 800 students enrolled in only the ninth and tenth grades, both sides of our gym bleachers were packed with parents and students... so much so that the faculty sitting in the principal-dubbed "penalty box" had to stand up to make more room for parents who never seemed to stop filing in. My memories of feeling uneasy when my child psychology professor at Chapman told us that a contributing factor to the generalization that Latino students struggle more academically than any other ethnic group in the United States was the lack of parental involvement were at the forefront of my mind as I witnessed her theory's defeat. And when one of our school counselors started translating everything that our principal said for the sake of Spanish-speaking parents, I realized that disengaged parents may plague some schools with large Latino populations, but was happy to see that there are things we can do to make sure that doesn't have to be an accepted reality.

As Sal and I began to recruit for speech and debate after the principal finished his opening remarks, I could not believe the level of enthusiasm. Where I only had three interested students at Fairmont last year (and granted, we had much less time and opportunity to recruit, coming in last-minute and with no guidance as I did), I came home last night with the contact information for 32 interested students. Sal told me not to be disappointed when only half of the students followed through and only half of that half were competitive (his first group five years ago had only nine students), and I'm still preparing myself for the worst, but as I called to inform families of our first meeting on Thursday, I got strong commitments from 20 out of 32, and the remaining 12 include one half-committed student who promised to give me one last meeting (where I'm confident Sal and I can drive it home as the most important thing they can do at Godinez) and 11 families that I just haven't yet managed to catch anywhere but on voicemail. And yes, I'm sure that it helped to have Sal, a Spanish-speaking city councilman who coaches the largest and most successful team in Southern California at my elbow, but he left after only 14 students had signed up and 17 more filed by in the next half hour or so. But it's because I have Sal in his current evolved state that I expect a much bigger running start than he himself had a few years ago.

Anyway, I woke up this morning at an early 6:00 and felt like jumping out of bed. I texted Sal some ideas for maintaining the enthusiasm, which culminated in this evening's phone calls for a Thursday meeting before I leave town for a week in San Francisco followed by a week in Utah, and cooked a big batch of my feta eggs for myself and anyone else who wandered down-- Jacob and Fenn as they got ready for their summer landscaping jobs with Uncle Dave, Katherine as she prepared for her summer Camp DaVinci, Hannah and Bronte as they enjoyed their lazy free summer mornings.

I then realized that that only leaves me today and tomorrow to try to take the time for the Museum of Tolerance, which I had decided I wanted to revisit for the first time since high school when I realized I will be teaching Eli Wiesel's Night first thing with my new students.

The last time I went to complement my studies of the holocaust as a junior in high school, the museum was experiencing a surge of popularity as a result of a special exhibit it had installed in its tolerance portion about the Rodney King beatings and riots. It was strange to see how much it had changed. Pictures of the smoking twin towers were the first sight that greeted me and the Rodney King materials had been replaced by a "Tolerance Diner" (an unclear allusion to the sit-ins?) where you view videos on your jukebox about prejudices we harbor about policemen who are too quick to shoot dangerous victims. I was touched to tears by the Civil Rights video that was there the last time I visited, almost sobbing as pictures of the four little girls who were killed in the Birmingham churches scrolled by, juxtaposed with images of their mothers, swooning and wailing at the graves of their little ones, as if they hoped they were only sleepwalking through a nightmare. They did a nice job of timing the plunging of my heart into the depths of despair right before sending it soaring back up on wings of hope by showing images of Martin Luther King, Jr. speaking, but of course even his words of courage and encouragement are always tinged bittersweetly when you remember his ultimate fate.

At this point, it was strange, because I was taking more time than the group I entered with, so I watched a film called "In Our Time" about the continued struggle with genocide in places like Rwanda and took the tour of the holocaust portion of the museum all alone. It was so odd to experience this vicarious experience they set up at the museum-- walking through the streets of Berlin in the years leading up to the Nazi occupation, overhearing conversations about the growing threat of Hitler's regime in an outdoor cafe, choosing between the entrances marked "Able-bodied" and "Children and Others" at the gates of a concentration camp, viewing films and listening to the narratives of holocaust victims in a room shaped like the ovens-- alone. Because it seems like the thing that often strikes me most when studying the holocaust is how it is the stories of the families struggling to stay together and of people reaching out to help others that make studying it somehow bearable, though still intolerable and horrifying. I kept expecting to feel really sad to find myself facing this all alone, but there was something about the quiet and the time for uninterrupted introspection that made the entire tour almost holy, if only I still believed in a god. As I listened to a woman talk about watching in horror as Nazis threw babies from a hospital window into a train car, I felt simultaneously hopeless and yet grateful for the chance to face the harshness of life at its extreme, alone. And Eli's words came to me there, the ones that I underlined while reading them last week: "I was the accuser, God the accused. My eyes had opened and I was alone, terribly alone in a world without God, without man. Without love or mercy."

Not that I can even begin to comprehend the truth that concentration camp victims faced (and face)-- in fact, when my friend asks me if I think my Latino students will even begin to comprehend any of the emotion Wiesel is exploring in the book they are required to read, I can only say no, but can anyone, really? And I know it sounds glib, trite, and overused for me to say this, but I guess that's why we keep studying it; so we can make sure we won't have to face it ourselves. So we can become more actively engaged in making sure no one has to face it, something we can't currently claim to have accomplished. And it's that last fact that makes me start to feel this morning's peace slip from my grasp. Ever since I watched, of all things, The Constant Gardener, I can't seem to find the comfort I once found in pursuing teaching as my life's calling. It didn't help that I watched Hotel Rwanda and The Last King of Scotland soon after and in the depths of my worst teaching experience so far. There are so many more important, and more practical, things to be done, yet I feel so unfit and unqualified to do them as a spoiled academic white person.

"There is so much to be done, there is so much that can be done. One person-- a Raoul Wallenberg, an Albert Schweitzer, a Martin Luther King Jr.-- one person of integrity can make a difference, a difference of life and death. As long as one dissident is in prison, our freedom will not be true. As long as one child is hungry, our life will be filled with anguish and shame. What all these victims need above all is to know that they are not alone; that we are not forgetting them, that when their voices are stifled we shall lend them ours, that while their freedom depends on ours, the quality of our freedom depends on theirs.... Our lives no longer belong to us alone; they belong to all those who need us desperately." --Elie Wiesel, Nobel Peace Prize Acceptance Speech, December 10, 1986

My New Favorite Show

I want to have their robot babies... before I'm forced to wake up from that dream and remember that I'm dead. Does anyone else hear the influence of Radiohead's paranoid android? Or is that a duh statement?

Nick Hornby on Nick Drake

I only have a lot invested in books, but I got my whole life invested in music. I thought I couldn't go wrong with Nick Drake, especially in a room full of people who've got the blues. If you haven't heard him...man, it's like he boiled down all the melancholy in the world, all the bruises and all the fucked-up dreams you've let go, and poured the essence into a little tiny bottle and corked it up. And when he starts to play and sing, he takes the cork out, and you can smell it. You're pinned into your seat, as if it's a wall of noise, but it's not-- it's still, and quiet, and you don't want to breathe in case you frighten it away. (A Long Way Down 194)

Hornby on Heartache

I don't know you. The only thing I know about you is, you're reading this. I don't know whether you're happy or not. I don't know whether you're young or not. I sort of hope you're young and sad. If you're old and happy, I can imagine that you'll maybe smile to yourself when you hear me going, He broke my heart. You'll remember someone who broke your heart and you'll think to yourself, Oh, yes, I can remember how that feels. But you can't, you smug old git. Oh, you might remember feeling sort of pleasantly sad. You might remember listening to music and eating chocolates in your room, or walking along the Embankment on your own, wrapped up in a winter coat and feeling lonely and brave. But can you remember how with every mouthful of food it felt like you were biting into your own stomach? Can you remember the taste of red wine as it came back up and into the toilet bowl? Can you remember dreaming every night that you were still together, that he was talking to you gently and touching you, so that every morning when you woke up you had to go through it all over again? Can you remember standing too close to the edge of an Underground platform? No? Well, fucking shut up, then. Stick your smile up your saggy old arse. (A Long Way Down 44)

Watch And Be Amazed

When I used to nanny the kids in a family that lived up the street from us when I was in high school, the youngest kids, Eden and Hunter, would watch Blue's Clues obsessively. Every time Steve came on the screen, I would squeal, "He is SO cute. He's my boyfriend!" and the older siblings, Aenon and Emma, would groan. Well, it turns out getting busted for pot, if that was in fact what robbed me of watching him on Nickelodeon as Emma gleefully proclaimed, was the best thing that ever happened to him...and me.

Teaching Grandma Roene how "it's hard out here for a pimp"

Growing up Mormon, I wouldn't dream of watching an R-rated movie by MYSELF, let alone an R-rated movie about a pimp-turned-gangster rap star with my GRANDMA. But today, in the process of performing the proper duties of a granddaughter as my grandma's caretaker following cataract surgery, I somehow lost my mind.

When I first got home from my outpatient Granny pick-up, I confronted the prospect of spending the hours running from 9:30 until 1:20, when we would drive her to her opthamologist for her follow-up check-up, with a woman I can usually only withstand for ten minutes. I patiently endured as much as I could of an hour of the old biddies on The View yelling at each other about Paris Hilton after Barbara Walters giddily shared the news of her "exclusive" phone interview with the convict who, with the aid of a spiritual advisor during these long nine days (with only one day off) in prison, has found God and wants to sell dollhouses with her name on them for some good cause or other. After they managed to make Seth Green talking about the brilliant Robot Chicken look boring, though, I knew I needed to get out, so I asked Grandma if she wanted me to try to find the bakery her friends recommended for good scones to bring her one of her favorite English treats. Blasting my music (as much as my gentle indie music can be "blasted") down Brea Blvd., I managed to recover my good granddaughterly compassion by the time I returned about fifteen to twenty minutes later.

That's when Grandma suggested we start watching the first of her three latest rentals from Netflix, handselected by my Aunt Katherine. Looking at the choices, I burst out laughing when I discovered that my aunt had chosen Hustle & Flow. I openly admitted that it was a ridiculous selection, but also conceded that I had been wanting to see it. Still, I maintained my sanity and opted for The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. Despite a description that included an intriguing allusion to St. Francis of Assissi and its setting in the city I have selected as the destination for my fourth of July holiday, we quickly lost interest as it became apparent that it was a documentary about a crazy hippie who feeds and names a flock of the wild offspring of some escaped domestic pet parrots in San Francisco. As he rambled on about Mingus, a parrot he originally brought into his home to tend after it broke its leg that later refused to leave, my grandma asked me when the story was going to start for the second time. I tried to explain the concept of documentary plots once more, but the look on her uncomprehending face convinced me my battle was a futile one, so I finally asked her if we should just turn it off. The relief on her face as she snatched up the remote was the only answer I needed.

I struggled to make small talk, avoiding the third movie about Russian ballet as long as I could, but when Grandma started getting after me again for not going to church, my rebellion kicked in. In some deranged corner of my brain, I decided the best way to demonstrate my long-suffering kindness was to avoid pointing out that she hasn't partaken of the Sacrament since I can remember either in favor of satisfying my curiosity about Hustle & Flow. The tables had finally turned. Now it was Grandma's turn to pretend to be entertained by D Jay and his harem.

She did a pretty good job of playing it cool. She only made one comment after D Jay dropped a few F bombs: "Do you think people understand what that word even means? I looked it up once in that dictionary of ours that is so big that it requires a stand whenever you use it, and I couldn't find it. Do you know what it means?"

"Haha, I've never thought to look."

Poor Grandma, my grandma-- who always knows she can get her sour granddaughter to stop scowling at her religious diatribes and impertinent questions about one's love life by signaling her current, though probably short-lived political alliance with these words (and the question and its follow-up exclamation never varies): "What do you think about W.? I can't BELIEVE what he's done to this country!" She demonstrated as much hip tolerance as she could, but when one of the striptease dancers at D Jay's wife's joint of employment performed some kind of acrobatics with her ass that made it shudder and quake inhumanly, she quietly said she thought she better try to grab some rest before her second appointment.

I admit: for a minute, I thought about apologizing and turning it off. But truth be told, I knew I'd feel like a total poseur if I ever walked up to a checkout line with the film in my hand, so I decided I better take advantage of Katherine's brazen audacity and kept watching.

An hour later and halfway into the film, I realized it was time to wake Grandma up for her appointment. On the way home, Grandma politely asked me how the movie was. I explained how much I was enjoying it and in summarizing my perception of where it was probably headed, I predicted D Jay would be a hit. "He hasn't made it big yet, but I think he's about to."

"Well, good. We've given them just about the right amount of time to make it, so let's go home and see how he's doing."

I suggested I should take it home to finish it and mail it that evening, but not wanting me to leave yet, Grandma insisted I watch it at her house. But that's where her tolerance ended.

"What does that (that meaning the swearing she had just inhaled audibly and indignantly about) do for you, Nicole?"

"It doesn't do anything for me. Not the swearing, anyway. I'm just watching it because I'm interested in the story."

"Is there a story? I hadn't noticed."

My turn to be indignant: "That's not fair. You didn't even watch the first half of the story, Grandma. You were sleeping in the other room. You have to at least watch it before you dismiss it as having no plot."

And then the war was on. I should have just turned it off, especially since I had to stop or rewind it every time my Aunt Lisa came in and looked at me with a "I-can't-BELIEVE-you're really-watching-this-with-Roene" look which I pretended not to notice before Grandma started talking to her loudly about anything she could think of to block out the sounds she didn't want to hear. And it didn't help me feel too victorious in my cultural conquest when Lisa always seemed to walk in during the recording session scenes that are clearly supposed to inspire club-style swaying in the audience, making me keenly aware that even this nerdy white-girl English teacher wasn't cool enough to watch this movie, let alone her granny who, I had noticed earlier that morning, had scrawled the title of a newspaper article she found last year on a piece of paper and affixed to her fridge: "The Unraveling of Society: No More Manners or Etiquette!!"

When the movie was finally over and as I drove home after struggling to make small talk with Grandma before excusing myself so I could get home to work some more on the finishing paperwork for my teaching credential, I started laughing so hard I couldn't stop. I suddenly remembered something the nurse had said to my grandma after I thanked her following her explanation of post-operational procedures: "She's a nice Nicole. Not like some other girls by that name who are in the newspaper these days."

My response? "Maybe that's because it's only my middle name. My first name is Roene, too."

Something I Can Get Behind

I've been feeling a bit without anchor these days. As a result, I've been looking to belief systems I thought I left behind long ago and still think I may have to keep marching forward beyond, but THIS is something I can get behind...

A Package from the Little Sis of Rufus and Martha

Right before leaving for a birthday weekend with the parents in Murrieta on Friday, I stepped out on the front porch to find my second birthday present (the first being a ticket to see the Arcade Fire live at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles from a friend who knows me well enough to give me the best birthday present I've ever gotten) hand-addressed by the little sister of two of my favorite musicians.

Yep, in the process of researching to answer my questions about Rufus Wainwright's latest musical developments, I found out that he was touring with yet another talented Wainwright, Miss Lucy Wainwright Roche. The last time I found a sibling connection to Rufus in Martha, I found another favorite artist, so I eagerly checked out Lucy's myspace and fell in love with the tracks she had posted there. As the weeks passed and there still wasn't any sign of the promised iTunes releases, I decided to return to her myspace, where I found an announcement that you could order her EP using paypal. So, I eagerly placed my order.

I don't know if the handwriting on the envelope really matches the handwriting on the CD or if the handwriting on the CD is Lucy herself or just a producer's, but I'm choosing to believe, and getting far too excited about it (can you see the sign of my overeager unwrapping in the gash that runs from Lucy's Brooklyn zipcode down the front?), that Lucy handwrote my name and address, gratified to find an early fan on the other coast. What an indie wannabe...

Recall: No longer Alaska-bound...

Hi again,

Not thirty minutes after I proclaimed my news in an effort to bolster my spirits and calm my fears about my new Alaska adventure, I finally heard back from a school in Santa Ana offering me a position teaching at their school. I began pursuing this position when a Santa Ana city councilman who also coaches southern California's largest speech and debate team at Fullerton Union High School asked me to help him start a new program at this new high school in Santa Ana, wanting to change the lives of Latino youth in this community and the negative perception of Santa Ana schools in general. It sounds like a tall order, but anyone who knows Sal Tinajero personally, knows he can do it if anyone can. And I'm honored that he wants me to help him do it. (And for you Fullerton folk, don't worry. Sal isn't abandoning FUHS; we will be working as partner campuses).

When I didn't hear back from the school last Thursday, I assumed the rumors that they would need to fill the positions with teachers who had been displaced from other schools in the district were true and proceeded with my Alaska plans, hoping to find a position long-distance with Sal's help as new grade levels opened up next year (the school is starting out with only freshmen and sophomores this year, slowly phasing in more classes until the entering sophomores graduate as seniors in 2010). Godinez High School will begin its first year of operation this coming fall and I will work in a small English department comprised of five English teachers to get things started for the entering freshmen and sophomores. Working in a small department at a brand new school offers me unique opportunities to provide input in curriculum decisions. I'll also probably have more chances to use my Spanish minor here than in a Yupik village!

Can you hear me trying to convince myself that this is the better option? Needless to say, I'm still coming down from yesterday's romantic projections of my Alaska future, but the practical voices of my mother and pragmatic friends and family have convinced me that I have more of a future here...and that running away from our woes isn't really possible, not even in the wilds of Alaska, since, as a wise person once said, "Wherever you go, there you are." So, I'm sending this more than anything to prevent the pain of more incoming congratulatory remarks on an adventure that I've decided to save for summer vacations. Go ahead, say it. It's the big elephant in the room: SELL-OUT! Here are some previews of the landscape, wildlife, and adventures I will continue to find here.

Still begrudgingly,

Your California Girl

An announcement

Dear Friends,

As some of you know, I am moving on from my brief stint in California, where I have finally finished up coursework to attain my California teaching credential. So, where will life take me next? I have been employed by the Bering Strait School District in Alaska! I will be the only 6-12 English teacher in a school in Elim, teaching approximately 85 Yupik Indians. I'm already finding a lot of healthy distraction from current woes and worries by working with the social studies teacher there to create a cross-curricular unit on the Iditarod, which passes through my future village just days before the mushers cross the finishing line in Nome, the nearest "big city" (population 3000), seventy miles north of Elim. My future colleagues tell me there is plenty to keep me occupied in Elim, though, from salmon and crab fishing, to hiking to the hot springs ten miles away.

Anyone who has had to listen to me moan and groan about this year's dramas and heartaches knows that this is just the change I'm needing. In the meantime, here are some sneak previews of how life will look for me next year, courtesy some photos taken by the kindergarten teacher from my school.So, no, I haven't lost my mind entirely...not yet. But yes, I will need to hear from you a little more regularly to keep me from falling full-fledge into insanity! :) I will be leaving in time to arrive in Elim by the 8th of August, stopping over in Anchorage for a day or two to get outfitted in my snow gear and to try to stock up on as much food as possible before I have to start getting it shipped to "the bush." Wish me luck! I know it's not going to be the romantic tale of discovery and enchantment I'm sometimes tempted to weave, but I'm not cutting myself off to the possibility of a little magic either! I can't wait to tell you all about it.

Your Arctic Monkey,

Nicole

Broke, but Happy, Happy, Happy

I don't have a cent to my name, but I haven't been this happy in a long time. Nothing extraordinary has happened and this feeling hasn't come suddenly-- instead I have found healing with the passage of time and a growing awareness of the things that remain in spite of recent losses. The people who love me who surround me have gently reached out and little words and gestures have accumulated to remind me that I am worth something more than I sometimes feel.

Today I helped my aunt put the finishing touches on a beautiful mural on the wall of the elementary school where I attended kindergarten, third, fourth, and fifth grade. The first year spent there was time spent at Grandma's while we found a house in Laguna Niguel; the second, third, and fourth years were years of heartache, when we moved back to Grandma's for the sake of Chris's cancer treatments. I learned to read in the third grade there; books were the first thing I found to solace my anxious heart.

I am grateful. For art, friends, laughter, a fulfilling job... so many things.

Medicated...and Letting Go...

Listening to strong, self-reliant women, disconnected from the emotion of the past few weeks thanks to some mind-numbing anti-depressants. Seems like just another easy way out, but if it's what medical professionals suggest, I guess I'll trust them. For now, anyway. Life has been more of a battle lately than it should and the other areas of my life need attention. Patty Griffin sings my truth:

Ain't no talkin' to this man
Ain't no pretty other side
Ain't no way to understand the stupid words of pride
It would take an acrobat, and I already tried all that so
I'm gonna let him fly
Things can move at such a pace
The second hand just waved goodbye
You know the light has left his face
But you can't recall just where or why
So there was really nothing to it
I just went and cut right through it
I said I'm gonna let him fly

There's no mercy in a live wire
No rest at all in freedom
Of the choices we are given, it's no choice at all
The proof is in the fire
You touch before it moves away
But you must always know how long to stay and when to go

And there ain't no talkin to this man
He's been tryin' to tell me so
It took a while to understand the beauty of just letting go
Cause it would take an acrobat, I already tried all that
I'm gonna let him fly
I'm gonna let him fly
I'm gonna let him fly

Taking a Day

I woke up this morning and called in sick. Should have done that long ago.

I keep trying to move beyond heartache, listening to bitter songs like Elliott Smith's "Just Somebody I Used to Know," but I can't convince myself that I don't still love or need him.

My therapist is absolutely correct when she says this feels like amputation.

She asked me if I felt any resentment and I had to say, "No, I wish I did. I only feel loss. I just miss him."

And the tears flowed.

And she was right when she said, "Your heart is still broken."

Hanging Her Dirty Linen Out to Dry

The moment he entered the Laundromat, the mood in the room altered drastically. Her face drew tight and her eyes filled with equal parts disrespect and fear. I kept expecting her to pick up the phone and call the police at any moment.

I had flown out to spend two weeks with James in Indiana, in a town called Jeffersonville on the banks of the Ohio River, across the shore from Louisville, Kentucky. James had told me he had dated people here who had ultimately told him that they could never introduce him to their parents because he was mixed (half-black, half-white). Since they were mostly high school relationships, part of me dismissed it as youthful ignorance. But I had to admit that sometimes I noticed people staring at us as if we were an anomaly that threatened them when we would walk around grocery stores or antique fairs with our arms linked or our hands entwined. When he helped me move my things across country, I had gotten pulled over for speeding in Texas and the officer asked me to go sit in his car where he drilled me about the nature of my relationship with James as his canine barked threateningly in the back before issuing me a ticket for going 15 miles over the speed limit.

We had dropped off my clothes at the Laundromat to be laundered on Easter Sunday. James had taken them in for me and paid ahead of time. As we drove away, he said he had noticed some resentment from the woman who took my clothes, as if she was upset that we had come on Easter Sunday; as if we were the reason she wasn’t able to be in church rather than at work. He said he had even apologized that she was stuck there and wished her a happy Easter. I could envision him doing it in the sweet and genuine way he had about him.

As it came time for me to pack to leave a few days later, we went to pick up my laundry. A new woman was there and when I asked her for my clothes, she went to get them and then told me how much I owed her.

“Oh, no. We already paid.”

“Well, I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you had, it would say that here on this receipt.”

“Hold on just a second.”

I walked out to the car to explain to James, trying to figure out what we should do and getting ready to pull the money out of my wallet to pay it again. But James would have none of it. Although he hadn’t said so initially, he had suspected that the resentment he had felt before had been partially racially-motivated and he was taking this as confirmation.

Her entire affect altered the moment James walked in the door behind me. When he began to confront her about this injustice, things turned ugly. As he asked the same questions I had asked before, her tone changed and she began threatening to call the police. I have never felt anything so tangibly dark before or since. She was not talking to him like a human being; she was treating him like a monster. I was baffled. Didn’t she realize to whom she was talking? No one could be more polite or less threatening. I could beat up James before he could even begin to think about harming a woman two times my size. And whatever happened to “The customer is always right?” As time went on, he unwillingly found himself giving her what she wanted, even insulting her intelligence by asking her if she could write when he asked her to write a contract agreeing to ask the woman who had served us before if she recalled us paying and promising to pay us back after making the proper inquiries. As she attacked him from her place of privilege, he did the only thing he could think of to defend himself: attacked her from his. And while that continues to haunt him to this day, I’m sure she only chuckled privately about how she was able to put him in his place.

In the short space of two weeks, I had become aware of multiple areas of privilege that I had been taking for granted. I realized that I have the privilege to go out in public holding hands with people, without worrying what they will think of me. I can ask questions of customer service representatives without them feeling threatened. I have even benefited from educational and career opportunities shut off to James in large part because of the color of his skin, making it much easier for me to swallow my pride and pay for my laundry two different times. As I asked him for permission to write about this experience, he even pointed out a detail that I had not had to concern myself with—he said that he would have grabbed my laundry and peeled out of the parking lot without paying if it had not been for the threatening-looking white man sitting in the window behind us. Because every time James has to muster the nerve to pursue justice for himself, he is forced to scope the place out to make sure it’s safe. And it wasn’t.

We hold these truths to be self-evident.
All men are created equal.
All are granted unalienable rights.
And among them?
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
But with these rights come responsibility. Those with freedom must protect their rights from those who seek to expand their own power at the expense of equality and freedom. But above all, is the importance of loyalty. Times of trouble necessitate closeness. For surely we must all hang together or we will undoubtedly hang separately.

A cute boy brings a new perspective of Murrieta...

As he noted, it still looks an awful lot like Agrestia from Weeds, but somehow he's also managed to capture some beauty. Sometimes I forget that looking at our world from a new perspective can really help us gain a greater appreciation for what we have. Call me ungrateful, but I still hate living here. Seattle, here I come.

iTunes Fortune-telling

Go to the music player of your choice and put it on shuffle. Ask the following questions and use the song titles as your answers. NO CHEATING!

How does the world see me?
Song: “Little Yellow Spider” Artist: Devendra Banhart
Comments: A song about the importance of all animals on the earth, and the limitations of only listening to one perspective. This cultural relativistic humanist (wow—a double -ist!) likes it!

Will I have a happy life?
Song: “Time and Time Again” Artist: The Counting Crows
Comments: I think the lyrics speak for themselves:

“I wanted the ocean to cover over me
I wanna sink slowly without getting wet
Maybe someday, I won’t be so lonely
And I’ll walk on water every chance I get

“Time and time again
Time and time again
Time and time again
I can’t please myself.”

What do my friends really think of me?
Song: “My Funny Valentine” Artist: Carly Simon
Comments: THIS makes me so happy; I have always said that this is one of my favorite love songs, about loving someone in all of their imperfections, even possibly BECAUSE of them sometimes. Definitely something that anyone who is willing to count me as their friend must do…

Do people secretly lust after me?
Song: “Walking After Midnight” Artist: Patsy Cline
Comments: Apparently I’M the one who does all the lusting. Figures…: “out walkin’, searchin’ for YOU.”

How can I make myself happy?
Song: “A Shift”
Artist: Richard Buckner Comments: I think that’s someone telling me I SHOULD move to Seattle. Or me just really wanting to do it and projecting that on to it…☺

What should I do with my life?
Song: “Look Up!” Artist: Mirah
Comments: None necessary; agreed.

Why should life be full of so much pain?
Song: “Please Please Please” Artist: Fiona Apple Comments: I knew my iPod was possessed…this is UNCANNY:

“Please please please
No more maladies
I'm so tired of crying
You'd think I was a siren
But me and everybody's on the sad same team
And you can hear our sad brain screaming.”

How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
Song: “Billy Liar” Artist: The Decemberists Comments: Hahahahaha; a story about a boy masterbating while watching a neighbor undressing. What the hell?

“Will you stay here,
for a while, dear,
‘Til the radio plays something familiar?”

Will I ever have children?
Song: “Thunderbolt” Artist: Patrick Park
Comments: May God strike me dead if I do…THAT’S how I choose to interpret this fortune…

Will I die happy?
Song: “All Over Now” Artist: Aimee Mann
Comments: I think this elegant break-up song works for describing a death:

“Oh you can write the play
And every word I say
But I don’t have to stay
To see the credits

’cause it’s all over now
Yes it’s all over now
And I’m free”

What is some good advice for me?
Song: “It’ll All Work Out” Artist: Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers Comments: A message to STOP STRESSING? Methinks so… “It’ll all work out eventually…”

What is happiness?
Song: “Mystery” Artist: Indigo Girls
Comments: Sounds about right…

What is my favourite fetish?
Song: “Vegan in Furs” Artist: Of Montreal
Comments: So, does that mean I love hypocrites? 

How will I be remembered?
Song: “That’s the Way” Artist: Led Zeppelin

Comments: This is how I remember my brother, who passed away a few years ago, so I have to say I wouldn’t mind if this were to be how I was remembered, too.

The Indigo Girls create a space for i-Pods in the classroom

Husband
These poems are your rival.
They undress me.
They keep me up nights.
Turn my eyes to soft fruits
ripe and realized.

Husband
These poems are my best friend.
They listen to my monotony,
my unceasing repeating.
Against their patience I can never sin.

Husband
These poems are my passionate suitor.
They go down on one knee.
They beg me, “Marry me. Marry me.”
I find
I give them my hand.

Husband
This could be exciting: poems&me, you&me,
Menage a trois. Permanently,
Happily.

Husband
Is a woman poet permitted bigamy?
Husband
Answer me!
--Angela Jackson

“I don’t care if they’re not turned on; if I even see headphones, I’m confiscating those iPods.” I have a confession: one of the hardest things that I have had to learn to do as a teacher is refuse students when they ask if they can listen to their iPods when we’re writing essays. And I wasn’t fully committed to the confiscation of iPods until my own iPod was stolen out of my classroom, motivating my desire to protect students from the heartache (and financial strain when I soon after just had to replace it with the video iPod) that my over-attachment to that wonder gadget caused. As my iTunes crank through this computer, I know that music and rhythm can inspire the movement of my fingers across the keys on my keyboard more than silence can. Nothing underscores the beneficial effects of music to literary studies more than my experiences with “Language or the Kiss” by the Indigo Girls. When I discovered the lyrical artistry of the Indigo Girls’ lyrics while majoring in English, my commitment to language was solidified, particularly when I heard “Language or the Kiss.” I was attending Brigham Young University at the time and my dating experiences with men who were intimidated or turned off whenever I talked about anything too intellectual had made me start worrying that I was going to have to make a choice like that described in this song—between my desire to attain love and my love of English literature.

I bought the Indigo Girls’ live album after spending the semester studying Tennyson’s exploration of the conflict between commitments to love and community and commitments to art and self in my Victorian Lit. class. As I listened to the Indigo Girls develop this universal theme of the unresolved internal conflict that many artists face when they have to choose between love and fame in “Language or the Kiss,” I couldn’t help thinking of Tennyson’s girl who wove a tapestry and lived happily confined in a tower atop a town called Shallott until one day, one look in her mirror at a boy named Lancelot pimping his ride through the fields below compelled her to abandon the beauty of all of those years of work…and her life. It seems that the speaker of this song feels that pursuing love is tantamount to the Lady of Shallott’s suicide boat ride, which culminated in nothing more than a glance from Lance, who took a passing glance at her corpse and merely pronounced, “She has a lovely face.” Toward the beginning of the song, the speaker of the song explains, “Oh, the fear I've known—/ that I might reap the praise of strangers and end up on my own./ All I've sown was a song…” (9-12). She seems to think that if she pursues her career as a songwriter, she will always be lonely, only winning the affection of music fans, but never having time to develop close personal relationships outside of her fame. She may feel this way for many reasons: the life of a musician who must constantly travel as he/she tours may be too hard on a relationship (see references to being “alone in a hotel room tonight” in line 25), or it may just be that she wants to dedicate all of her time and attention to writing songs and she sees the time required to nurture love as distracting her from the focus she feels that it requires. The speaker concludes the song with this final verdict: “Unforgiving, the choice still is—the language or the kiss” (30-1). By ending with the words that give the song its title, the speaker makes it clear that the conflict remains unresolved for her, which could be interpreted positively or negatively: either she will always have to sacrifice one for the other (which is why it is “a calling that [says], ‘if joy, then pain’” (21-22)), or one day she will find someone who can love her and still allow her to dedicate herself to her art, because the song ends not with death, but with the persistence of the question and her hope that “the things that mean the most” (writing and art) won’t have to “mean the things I miss” (her desire for love).

In a song about an artist whose primary materials are words, this song provides an excellent specimen for literary study through its masterful use of language. Although she has been “made mute by the virtue of [the] decision” (7) described above, references to language as a motif are frequent in this song: laughter is like a language she can no longer speak after not using it for so long (6) and as she discusses her pressing desire to understand her future fate in the second verse, she chooses to describe her interest in astrology as a form of fortunetelling by writing, “I used to like that alone out on the driveway, trying to read the Greek upon the stars, the alphabet of feeling” (19-20). She references the Greek language primarily because so many constellations, including the Zodiac calendar, have Greek names (i.e. the Pleiades, Aries, Sagittarius, etc.). However, there is a clever pun in her use of “Greek”; for one who has chosen to repress her emotions of love in favor of a more logical commitment to her profession, the “alphabet of feeling” is, like laughter, a foreign language; it truly is Greek to her! As an old maid school teacher has retreated only further into her books for solace as the years have passed in her own lonely virginhood, I can definitely relate. In the third and final verse, she gives us a snapshot of her writing this song, which she calls “my studies with this paper and this pencil” that she is using to work “through the grammar of [her] fears” (26-27). Having chosen language over love, she is forced to use language as her coping mechanism. In other words, language is the source she elects in her quest for healing.

Having elected language over love, the song also makes use of strong and effective imagery to convey the depth of the speaker’s loneliness after having chosen language over love within the narrative of this song. The song opens with a clear image: a person is standing outside a house, looking in on a gathering of five people around a table with six settings, “and there was steam on the windows from the kitchen, laughter like the language [she] once spoke with ease” (3-6). Her description of the steam on the windows highlights the cold that she must feel outside of the warmth creating it inside, and she speaks about laughter as if it is a language that she has forgotten how to speak from not using it for so long, which also conveys her sadness. Since she is looking in from outside, almost like one who feels left out, we have to infer that she is the sixth guest that is missing, but since they had set a place for her, she must have been the one who chose not to attend. In the final verse of the song, she returns to the stars, which were earlier associated with feeling and the antithesis of language, but this time she is sitting “alone in a hotel room,” and when she “[squeezes] the sky out…not a star appears” (25-6). By pointing out the detail that she is alone in a hotel room, she makes it clear that she is touring with her band, which makes sense, since the alternative to love is dedication to her songwriting and touring requires constant road travel. She is looking to the sky for inspiration again, but since it was associated earlier with emotion, feeling, and relationships, she feels that she is not able to capture the stars, literally or figuratively. Perhaps she is starting to learn that to be a true star herself, she actually needs love to inspire her art?

I can only hope that the answer to that last question is “yes,” but as I sit here, still lonely and overwhelmed by the demands of my job as an English teacher and the unread books on my teeming bookshelves, I can’t help wondering…For now, I seem to have made the same choice as the writer of the song, but I still cling to the hope that someday I will find someone who can help me fuse both desires in one.

Me? True Blue?!

I haven't considered that concept since I renounced my once overzealous ties to BYU, where I dreamed of going, dedicating far too much energy to that dream, until I was confronted with its disappointing reality. But I don't mean it in the Cougar sense this time...My mom has gotten caught up in this color psychological survey book that designates personalities as blue, white, red, or yellow and she asked me to take it. Makes sense, but of course I can't help getting annoyed at her current obsession with it, as it reminds me far too much of a certain ex's obsession with another personality test like it, the name of which I can't really even remember now. Yes, I can see how people can be classified as this or that, but I hate it when people focus on it as all-defining, justifying their behavior or letting their major life decisions hinge on something like that. Call me idealistic, but I'd like to believe that we have a little more power over our lives...

Anyway, I don't mind most of the characteristics of the blue personality type--creative, self-doubting, sensitive to others, tolerant, motivated and hard-working, etc. But I'd like to believe that I'm NOT judgmental or unforgiving, which also seem to be traits of the blue. Just a case in point for how I'm not going to let a category rule or justify that kind of behavior, though.

So, this past week has been a doozy. My principal told me she'd do anything to secure me a position at this high school, but the thought of staying here only disappointed me, which was expected but also a little frustrating, since no other viable options have presented themselves as yet. I have an interview at an all girls' private school in L.A. on Tuesday and another at another L.A. school the week after and I'm still waiting on news from U Washington and Portland State, where I'd love to go get my MAT so that I could be in line to live and teach in either Portland or Seattle rather than living the rest of my days in the hometown to which I swore I'd never return. Anyway, since she told me the "good" news, I seem to be on self-sabotage mode in the classroom, convinced to misread anything my students do as another reason not to stay, which is unfair to them and hard on me. I haven't been sleeping, either, so my emotions have been near the surface. Plus, I started a three-course term at Chapman this term rather than the usual two-course option, so I'm just weighted down with way too much.

But the rational side of me knows that my other "options" really aren't good ones, even if they are presented as full options. If I stayed here, I'd be paid much more and could live with the parents one more year to pay off all the debt I've accrued this year so I can get back on my feet and even put some money down on a piece of property of my own. Speaking of debt...my Gilbert the Golf broke down again this week and this time cost me $900 on top of the $300 two weeks ago. All of this, the three-course tuition, and a trip to San Francisco on last month's meager one-week worth's of pay (only worked one week in December-January because of winter break). That means my credit cards originally designed only to be used to purchase my computer received hard hits.

I know that this sad truth that I'll be in the same place next year is truth nonetheless, as my decision to admit to Dan Frank that I might not be able to do Boston this summer after all proved. What is that? Only the ONLY good thing to happen to me this year--I got hired to teach at an academic camp at a beautiful boarding school in a city outside of Boston this summer. It would have been free rent and a nice healthy stipend (more than I'll make staying around here), but it would mean I wouldn't be here for new teacher training or the first day of school since my school has a nasty early August start date. I'm terribly sad, though, because I think Dan would have been the world's greatest boss. During the course of my interview, he told me that he really wanted me to teach some units from my music class, after which he asked me "the most important interview question of all--what are you listening to now?" When I mentioned Ryan Adams, he actually asked me if it was true that Ryan is dating Diana Ross's step-daughter (no, not anymore--he dated Leona Naess (another current fave) a few years ago), but the fact that Ryan Adams' personal dating life came up in a job interview was the clearest sign from God to me that I HAD to take this job. Part of me still feels that it is destined, so I told him the truth about the possibility of me not being able to come, but I'm hoping that he'll wait with me for a while before he tells me he has to look for someone to replace me. I sent the e-mail last night and immediately entered full-blues-mode, but I haven't heard from him yet and I am delusionally reading that as a decision on his part to give me some time (truth? probably just not checking his work e-mail over the weekend...).

Anyway, I clearly still have no idea WHAT the hell I'll be doing next year...Ah--I never thought I'd be plagued with the indecision bug, but I'm going to blame it on George W. How does THAT work? Well, I sit around criticizing America's love affair with his "decisive" nature, so it's only right that I surrender mine so as to avoid charges of hypocrisy. Besides, my old decisive nature led me on a stubbon, unwavering path to BYU, so I'd say history has taught me the error of that attitude via BOTH sources: current events and past personal experience...

The Indigo Girls Create a Space for iPods in the Classroom

Husband
These poems are your rival.
They undress me.
They keep me up nights.
Turn my eyes to soft fruits
ripe and realized.

Husband
These poems are my best friend.
They listen to my monotony,
my unceasing repeating.
Against their patience I can never sin.

Husband
These poems are my passionate suitor.
They go down on one knee.
They beg me, “Marry me. Marry me.”
I find
I give them my hand.

Husband
This could be exciting: poems&me, you&me,
Menage a trois. Permanently,
Happily.

Husband
Is a woman poet permitted bigamy?
Husband
Answer me!
--Angela Jackson

“I don’t care if they’re not turned on; if I even see headphones, I’m confiscating those iPods.” I have a confession: one of the hardest things that I have had to learn to do as a teacher is refuse students when they ask if they can listen to their iPods when we’re writing essays. In fact, I wasn’t fully committed to the confiscation of iPods until my own iPod was stolen out of my classroom, motivating my desire to protect students from the heartache (and financial strain when I soon after just had to replace it with the video iPod) that my over-attachment to that wonder gadget caused. As my iTunes crank through this computer, I know that music and rhythm can inspire the movement of my fingers across the keys on my keyboard more than silence can. Nothing underscores the beneficial effects of music to literary studies more than my experiences with “Language or the Kiss” by the Indigo Girls. When I discovered the lyrical artistry of the Indigo Girls’ lyrics while majoring in English, my commitment to language was solidified, particularly when I heard “Language or the Kiss.” I was attending Brigham Young University at the time and my dating experiences with men who were intimidated or turned off whenever I talked about anything too intellectual had made me start worrying that I was going to have to make a choice like that described in this song—between my desire to attain love and my love of English literature.

I bought the Indigo Girls’ live album after spending the semester studying Tennyson’s exploration of the conflict between commitments to love and community and commitments to art and self in my Victorian Lit. class. As I listened to the Indigo Girls develop this universal theme of the unresolved internal conflict that many artists face when they have to choose between love and fame in “Language or the Kiss,” I couldn’t help thinking of Tennyson’s girl who wove a tapestry and lived happily confined in a tower atop a town called Shallott until one day, one look in her mirror at a boy named Lancelot pimping his ride through the fields below compelled her to abandon the beauty of all of those years of work…and her life. It seems that the speaker of this song feels that pursuing love is tantamount to the Lady of Shallott’s suicide boat ride, which culminated in nothing more than a glance from Lance, who took a passing glance at her corpse and merely pronounced, “She has a lovely face.” Toward the beginning of the song, the speaker of the song explains, “Oh, the fear I've known—/ that I might reap the praise of strangers and end up on my own./ All I've sown was a song…” (9-12). She seems to think that if she pursues her career as a songwriter, she will always be lonely, only winning the affection of music fans, but never having time to develop close personal relationships outside of her fame. She may feel this way for many reasons: the life of a musician who must constantly travel as he/she tours may be too hard on a relationship (see references to being “alone in a hotel room tonight” in line 25), or it may just be that she wants to dedicate all of her time and attention to writing songs and she sees the time required to nurture love as distracting her from the focus she feels that it requires. The speaker concludes the song with this final verdict: “Unforgiving, the choice still is—the language or the kiss” (30-1). By ending with the words that give the song its title, the speaker makes it clear that the conflict remains unresolved for her, which could be interpreted positively or negatively: either she will always have to sacrifice one for the other (which is why it is “a calling that [says], ‘if joy, then pain’” (21-22)), or one day she will find someone who can love her and still allow her to dedicate herself to her art, because the song ends not with death, but with the persistence of the question and her hope that “the things that mean the most” (writing and art) won’t have to “mean the things I miss” (her desire for love).

In a song about an artist whose primary materials are words, this song provides an excellent specimen for literary study through its masterful use of language. Although she has been “made mute by the virtue of [the] decision” (7) described above, references to language as a motif are frequent in this song: laughter is like a language she can no longer speak after not using it for so long (6) and as she discusses her pressing desire to understand her future fate in the second verse, she chooses to describe her interest in astrology as a form of fortunetelling by writing, “I used to like that alone out on the driveway, trying to read the Greek upon the stars, the alphabet of feeling” (19-20). She references the Greek language primarily because so many constellations, including the Zodiac calendar, have Greek names (i.e. the Pleiades, Aries, Sagittarius, etc.). However, there is a clever pun in her use of “Greek”; for one who has chosen to repress her emotions of love in favor of a more logical commitment to her profession, the “alphabet of feeling” is, like laughter, a foreign language; it truly is Greek to her! As an old maid school teacher has retreated only further into her books for solace as the years have passed in her own lonely virginhood, I can definitely relate. In the third and final verse, she gives us a snapshot of her writing this song, which she calls “my studies with this paper and this pencil” that she is using to work “through the grammar of [her] fears” (26-27). Having chosen language over love, she is forced to use language as her coping mechanism. In other words, language is the source she elects in her quest for healing.

Having elected language over love, the song also makes use of strong and effective imagery to convey the depth of the speaker’s loneliness after having chosen language over love within the narrative of this song. The song opens with a clear image: a person is standing outside a house, looking in on a gathering of five people around a table with six settings, “and there was steam on the windows from the kitchen, laughter like the language [she] once spoke with ease” (3-6). Her description of the steam on the windows highlights the cold that she must feel outside of the warmth creating it inside, and she speaks about laughter as if it is a language that she has forgotten how to speak from not using it for so long, which also conveys her sadness. Since she is looking in from outside, almost like one who feels left out, we have to infer that she is the sixth guest that is missing, but since they had set a place for her, she must have been the one who chose not to attend. In the final verse of the song, she returns to the stars, which were earlier associated with feeling and the antithesis of language, but this time she is sitting “alone in a hotel room,” and when she “[squeezes] the sky out…not a star appears” (25-6). By pointing out the detail that she is alone in a hotel room, she makes it clear that she is touring with her band, which makes sense, since the alternative to love is dedication to her songwriting and touring requires constant road travel. She is looking to the sky for inspiration again, but since it was associated earlier with emotion, feeling, and relationships, she feels that she is not able to capture the stars, literally or figuratively. Perhaps she is starting to learn that to be a true star herself, she actually needs love to inspire her art?

I can only hope that the answer to that last question is “yes,” but as I sit here, still lonely and overwhelmed by the demands of my job as an English teacher and the unread books on my teeming bookshelves, I can’t help wondering…For now, I seem to have made the same choice as the writer of the song, but I still cling to the hope that someday I will find someone who can help me fuse both desires in one.

A Letter to my Mother

Dear Mom,

Today I packed your dreams for me up in boxes and put them away. Almost literally. Not that this didn't start happening this past summer, when I had to move home because I didn't have a job, at the age of 26. So much for all of that money spent on all of that education...

But today, as I de-dolled and de-dished my room, I realized that in a certain sense, it was unintentionally symbolic. Trying to distract myself from the embarrassment of not acting myself with a stranger a few nights ago, I decided it was time to figure out how to get my books out of the garage, where I've been worrying about them for the past few years, and into my room. Since they have always been my outlet for lack of love and dealing with the angst of living in this town, I decided I better get back in touch with them to prevent future idiocy from occurring.

To make room for them, I first had to pack away the dolls that you had filling up a box under my bed and taking up the top shelf in my bedroom, placed there in hopes of one day needing them to give to my nonexistent future daughters. Then I turned to moving out the dishes that were still unopened--dishes you bought me for Christmas the year you and Dad thought Charles was going to propose to me. They were an early wedding gift that you wouldn't send to me when I did have a place of my own on the east coast.

I'm sorry I'm not everything you had hoped. It was disappointing to me at first, too. But you know what? I think I'm a better person than who you and I once hoped I'd be. Maybe less happy, but more whole. I hope you understand that on some level, though I know you ache for healthy grandbabies. I watch your eyes light up and hear your voice reach new tones that I had forgotten you even had everytime you get to hold a baby and I know that if any woman was designed to be a grandmother, you were.