I sit here looking out over this city. Over the sports’ stadiums. Past the dark that I know is the harbor. At the familiar face of the Bromo Seltzer Clock Tower. I look out on this dark city that now is only lights twinkling.
It was so quiet this morning. It was snow quiet this morning. There is a particular quiet that surrounds a snow, and it was here this morning. I love that quiet, when everything is still and near and you are afraid to breath to loudly for fear of shattering the quiet.
I imagine the water is cold in the harbor, and I believe it’s cold out on the street corners. Believe it is cold now on the steps of St. Paul’s where the homeless sleep. Seeing homeless people sleep on church steps makes me feel ashamed – if I had my way, all churches would open their doors as true sanctuaries.
Wish you could see this city from my apartment windows. Dark, twinkly and insular. I’ve been here almost five months, nearly half a year and it’s been a more foreign place in many ways than anywhere I’ve traveled. In more ways that I care to enumerate in the snow quiet dark night.
I pick up my words to think, and to bridge the gaps between us. That is the best words can do – bridge gaps, give meaning, connect. I pick up my words as an amulet, a sword and a binding rope.
The job I do isn’t easy. It’s hardly fun, and not intensely rewarding. But seeing my students reap the benefit of their effort and work makes it something. I wish you could have seen the smile on his face today when he got a “Star Student” certificate to take home. He earned every bit of it too. His smile in front of his classmates was beautiful.

Morning Muse

They tell you that first year teachers are sick all the time, but this is ridiculous. I woke up with a lot of congestion and sneezing. I would say the only time I have been completely healthy since starting to teach was the week I was home in Texas.

I can fight illness or I can fight the achievement gap, but I'm pretty sure that I can't do both at the same time.

What's a would be teacher to do?

I saw a drug deal the other day.

I saw a drug deal on a corner near my school the other day.

This is what happened:
On a corner in front of a liquor store with a plyboard sign a stooped shoulder man, who looked old but was probably not more than 40, stood with his hand slightly inside his tan jacket. I believe he had a mustache. He wore a baseball cap. He stood facing the street, not exactly at the corner, and not as one who was looking to cross. He stood stiffly in an awkward place on the corner. Across the street came a young man, probably not more than 20, who walked purposefully and did not look nervous. I saw the old man draw a wad of bills from inside his jacket, just barely saw it, before his hand concealed it again.

As the young man got closer, the old man seemed to grow more anxious. It seemed like his muscles tensed up, that he grew more intent in the way he stood. The young man did not go directly to him, but to the side as if he did not see the old man at all, and then he stepped behind him and said something. The old man kept facing forward, and only inclined his head a little to the young man. I saw him draw out his hand, I saw the young man step slightly in front of him, so that whatever was to happen was shielded by their bodies.

Then the traffic light changed to green. I drove forward and did not see the end of the deal. Did not watch the young man return to his post, probably across the street, did not watch the old man walk off with his purchase. All of that happened in the cycle of a traffic light, and it was completely mundane. Business as usual, another day in Baltimore.

There’s a thousand and one (that’s a precise number) things I should be doing. The vast majority are things for school, a smaller portion are assignments for certification courses and the smallest bit is things like laundry and cleaning.

But right now it seems important to write. Simply.

***

The old woman’s short hair white gray stood up from her head. Her face was close to the bone, as old people’s are and her lips thin as old people’s are and she looked as though she was shrinking as old people do. These were not unpleasant things. She simply looked as a woman looks who is old, and so light that she might float out of her chair were it not for the burdensome winter clothes she wore.
She smiled through the concert. Her thin lips pulled up, and her eyes twinkly. She brought her hands together as the small child claps, hands meeting as mirror images of one another. She was joy as the chorus sang, moved, clapped, shouted as the orchestra zinged, bowed, plucked, as the winds blew, growled, barked. She was joy when the man sang that every valley shall be exalted, and joy when unto her the child was born and joy when her redeemer liveth and joy when we all jived through the hallelujahs.
She beamed that joy around her, and she clapped like a child. In the music we were all holy for a moment here in Baltimore.

***

I’m counting the days till I’m GTT. It stands at 12 and a wake up.

Overheard...
Earlier this week, at a class all of us TFA folk have to take, one of our corps members said something that I think sums up what many of us are feeling...

"I'm not going to quit, but everyday I don't want to be here."

It may sound whiny, and it is certainly easy to criticize. But it's an unwitting place to be, made more strange by sharing it with other corps members slogging through their first year of teaching.

Everyday. Everyday. But we go in.

Even if we're praying for snow days.

Come on snow, come on.

And the moon’s hanging low in the sky.

I drove into the city this morning watching a yellow moon float above it all. An early morning, a sleeping city, a bright moon and me heading away from some one I love. Again.

I hope it’s a pattern that changes soon.

I drove home after dark, watching a bright moon again hang over this city. I didn’t think, but I sang. Sometimes it’s the same thing.

B-more with Blythe
She came in. After one letter full of stories, Blythe was here.
-Late night Italian food.
-Streets filled with drunken Santas
-One aquarium, one simple anemone.
-One jaunt to Mr. Poe’s tomb.
-One afternoon of made up songs and stories.
- A big moon this morning.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends."

I just got back from a weekend in Columbia. While it did my heart, soul and body no end of good to be there, it is enormously difficult to be back here in Baltimore. Or rather, back here in Baltimore working in the place I work.

I seem, in my short life, to have a knack for not only taking the road less traveled, but also the road most difficult.

As I sit here with a cup of tea, in the early morning light, preparing to leave in a little less than half an hour – a lesson plan still to be printed, a bag to be packed, hair to be put up and shoes put on – I feel a resistance in my very muscles. While it is typical that I carry all my stress in my shoulders, I’ve never felt such a visceral reaction in my whole body to my present situation. My stomach knots uncomfortably, my entire upper body tenses its muscles.

In the time I’ve been here, I’ve had people encourage me to quit, and people encourage me to stay. And while I won’t say which route I prefer, I know that for better or for worse there are about 45 fourth graders who may not think me the best teacher, but expect to see me at the front of their classroom each day.

Thoughts to be continued…for now I’ve got to get to school, God go with me now as always.

Third Post from the Coast

Things I used to say on a daily basis:
Would you like to grab some coffee?
I'm reporting/working on this story...
When is my deadline?
This is your deadline...
Yes I have read that interesting article/essay/book and would like to discuss it with you over a cup of coffee.
Sure, I can take that story.
Hi, my name is ... and I'm a reporter with ...

Things I say now on a daily basis:
Your do-now is on the board.
I've got my timer running - it's up to you to earn your Charlie time.
Make a good choice*
Your name is now on my board.
Wow,I love how (student name) is doing their work - they need a sticker - who else is going to get a sticker.
Don't poke me - do I poke you?
Stop touching each other - everyone's hands are at their side.
You can tell me how you're supposed to behave, now you need to show me.

* I say "make a good choice" about 20,000 times a day. Talk about being a broken record.

Second Post from the Coast
I don’t feel as thought I have anything to write, or to say. As often as I have tried to come up with words to speak, I find that they lack. Miss the mark. Fail the reality.
I have words, but they do not come together in communication.

Complacency Catch-22 Misplaced Perseverence Lost Seen Seen Watched
Witnessed
Illiteracy Ill will Meanness. Plain meanness. Prayer
Prayer Love Predicate Predicated
Decision Choice Communication Fist
Angry fist Child’s angry fist Child’s anger Confusion Disillusion Sorrow Compassion Shoes.
Sympathetic Shoes
Shoes.
Up down Wrong direction
Cleaning Ignorance If I can keep my head, Mr. Kipling.
Stop. Just Stop. Make a choice. A good choice. Before I make it for you.
I’ll wait.
I’m waiting.

I am waiting for you to close your book, clear off your desk – not even a binder, your pencils are down. I’m waiting for you to close your book, put the drawing away, stop writing that note before it becomes mine. I am waiting for your attention on the count of three.

Use your brains, before your fists. I know you’re not listening because your fists are still balled up, you are still frowning, your actions speak so much louder than your words.
Make a choice, it’s up to you. We can all make good choices.

I like that choice. I like that choice, too.

I’ll wait. I’m waiting.

I am waiting for the culture at large to stop making the choices for my students before my students can make them for themselves.

I am waiting. I will wait.

The First Post from the East Coast

I stood on the top of the stairwell in Temple University’s 1300 Residence Hall, where I could see the fireworks all over the city, and past Philadelphia into New Jersey. The East Coast: a place that seemed nearly fictional to me, that I had never been and only read about it school books. I am on the East Coast now, in places I have only read about in books.
I’ve never watched fireworks without the benefit of family or friends. I’ve never spent the Fourth anywhere but Texas or Missouri. Until a few weeks ago. Out here in the East.
One of the last papers I had to write for a class in London was on the topic of what it means to be an American in a foreign culture. I came across the paper a few weeks ago. I had forgotten what I had written, but I believe it was the seed of the reason that I found myself sans family or friends or familiar faces on the Fourth.
It was shortly after the 2004 presidential election; I watched my country from across an ocean. I wrote about the obstacles in front of our nation. I wrote that to be an American in a foreign culture, for me in that one moment, meant that I was going home to work toward making my country better.
I don’t think of myself as particularly patriotic.
I don’t have an American flag affixed to my car or to any article of clothing.
Ditto for a yellow ribbon.
But I have listened to two of my English colleagues express their gratitude to America for aiding their country in a war fought far too long ago for me to feel any great connection to it.
And I have lain under perfect skies and watched stars fall over the Midwest.
Thrown rocks into the Mississippi River.
Stood in the Gulf of Mexico.
Rafted down the Klamath River in Northern California.
Winded my way through Idaho and Eastern Washington.
Driven through the Five Nations of Oklahoma more times than I can count.
Watched two bear cubs scamper across a field in Alaska where the sun refuses to set in the summer.
Dipped my toe in Wolf Creek at Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado.
Made my way through the deep South of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia, where they make sweet banana pudding and wave confederate flags as though nothing were out of the ordinary.
I have eaten in a pretty good little Mexican restaurant in Southern Michigan.
And longed for the Piney Woods of East Texas, basked in the Hill Country and stretched out in Texas’ northern plains.
I’ve seen a lot of this country.
I know it not.
The America I know is one where I have both the liberty and luxury to see these things.
The students I am will teach this fall will very likely never have been outside the Baltimore City limits, nor even out of their neighborhoods. Their America is one of projects and poverty. The students I am teaching this summer are nearly in the same boat, except that some of my students this summer have traveled to Puerto Rico where they have grandparents and aunts and uncles.
For the past two weeks I’ve stepped into a classroom full of first graders who look at me with expectant eyes. I cringe if they sit on the floor, because I know that I’ve swept mouse droppings off of it before they got there. I watch them sweat and fan themselves because the air conditioning is broken, and then I give thanks because I have colleagues who are teaching in schools where there is no air conditioning to be broken.
On the hottest days, despite the students’ valiant efforts they tell me they are hot and tired and hungry. I tell them that we are about to go to Boston during the read aloud because we are reading Make way for Ducklings. We’re not here in old, hot Philadelphia anymore I say. They lean forward. We’re in Boston, a city north of here, in the fall and it is cool and leaves are falling off the trees. We’re in Boston and it’s not hot and now we’ll see what’s happening to the ducklings. Slowly their hands which had been fanning their faces drop into their laps and we go to Boston.
The next day I repeat the idea that when we read books we can go anywhere. One of my students raises his hand nonchalant and with a sly smile on his face. I call on him and he says, “Yesterday I went to Boston.” I’m sweating in Philadelphia and it takes me a moment to catch what he is saying with a smile on his face. “Yes,” I exclaim, “High five, you’re thinking a step ahead of me. We did go to Boston yesterday and we are going again today.”
So it is as I walk through my classroom past my students who are hot, past my students who are hungry, past my students who are hurting and sleepy and unlikely to be at school two days in row that I think of my America.
I think of my America as the bus that takes me to school turns onto our street and drives past piles of trash four and five feet high in the road. Like pictures you might see of any other place but America. Pictures that belong to poor countries, but surely not America.
Two Americas: One spoken sweet land of liberty of thee we sing. And the other America: the one we neither sing nor love and yet this other remains a mirror covered waiting to show us what we neglect as a nation while we are off saving the world.
These two Americas clash before my eyes each day.
I find myself again an American in a foreign land.

I saw the ocean earlier this week, and stocked up enough looking to last me a good bit of time. In the roar of wind and waves is a perfect silence where one can simply be. I was.

***
I wrote words in the sand. Perhaps the best I have ever written. Then I watched the ocean claim them back. But the words were not gone, for they were also written on my heart. The ocean took my words and tickled my feet. Someday it will take back my heart as well.

***
I’ve been told twice this week that I’m going to be a fiction writer. That made me smile. I have actually been writing fiction down here in the Texas quiet. But a lot more discipline in the writing process needs to happen.

***
Blythe is one of the most amazing people I know. She’s a character as big as Texas, which is a good thing since she lives here now. She’s good folks, one of the best I know. Around her there are books and words and ideas and music. They are all moving, all at once and she’ll pick anyone down out of the air for you as soon as she thinks of it. A honky-tonk heart, she always gets the ticket and takes the ride. If you’re lucky enough to be near her, you get to take it too.

***
The longer I stay in Texas the harder it is to leave. I’ll be lonesome when I go, and I won’t lie. Driving to the coast this week, I was kicking myself for not placing the Rio Grande Valley higher on the Teach for America list. But I’ll go to Baltimore. I know that as good as Texas is for me, my feet will get to itching and off I’ll be to see the world. But when I go, I’ll take every glimpse of Texas with me - every sunset and storm, the piney woods and the gulf coast. I’ll store them up in my heart. When I need them, they’ll be there.

Go well. Stay well.

There is one thing the Missourian does better than any paper in the country and that is their Life stories section. I guess it’s not feasible that papers in larger communities offer free reporter written obituaries, but the Missourian does. And I’ve kept every note I’ve gotten from families who appreciated it. I only mention this because I think my Dad was disappointed today when the St. Louis Post Dispatch wanted to charge him about $3.00 to put a picture in the online guestbook of his baby brother Jesse, who died last week.



The Alsup's, as I know them, are a family of stories and storytellers. This is the most enduring memory I have of my Dad and his brother together. In my mind they are forever on a generous front porch of a tiny house in Barnhart, Missouri, and they are telling always stories of their family. Stories of boxing kangaroos, railroads and ranches and sweet songs through the woods. The thing about an Alsup is that stories never lose anything in the telling, and so in my growing up and the growing up of Jesse's children, I sense that we are surrounded by the half myths created by our fathers.



But isn't that true of everyone. There are family legends that grow with time, stories that become touchstones and actions that become tradition. And though I am a teller of stories, in the company of my family I am silent and captive. They are master storytellers, just as my Grandmother was a storyteller. At her feet, my childhood became rich with narrow escapes from mountain lions and bears in Colorado. Her voice could send chills down my spine the way she told about a voice in the cellar who would get Rosie on the first step. The stories would fill up whole vacations. And in the time between visits, the stories came to her youngest grandchildren from her youngest sons.



And I know that beyond this Saturday, when we Alsups will gather for Jesse's memorial service, we will be telling stories. And by the time the stories reach my children, who knows how tall they might have grown?

(Captions: 1. Jesse and Jim Alsup 2. Pricie, Jesse at Olathe Lake 3. Jesse and his nephew, Jimmy 4. Jesse, Pricie, Jim Alsup 1955 5. Jesse, Pricie, Jim 1986

On Duty
I don't submit this as a treatise on the subject, only some thoughts that have been rolling around in my head in response to my friend Alex's opinion on the matter of duty.
He rejects duty on the basis that it is a form of submission. His belief that the self and the understanding thereof is the ultimate greatest goal of existence leads him to the logical conclusion that duty because it is a form of submission has no place in the life of an individual.
Although I wouldn't classify myself as a "greatest-gooder" I do disagree with the idea that duty has no place in one's life. Individuals submit to a variety of systems on a daily basis. The laws that govern the nation, the traffic signals and rules are simple examles of systems that many submit to on a daily basis.(Copyeditors submit themselves to the dictates of style guides and grammar) These submissions not only contributes to the benefit of everyone, but it also contributes to the well being of the person who submits to it.
I agree that one should not run about willy-nilly following the whims of the masses. However, when the purpose is true and good then what is wrong with submitting to the greater goal? If submitting the self should result in the benefit of others, and also the self, then what is the harm of duty?
When is submission bad? When it strips members of society of their indiviual talents and creativity. Submission is a bad thing when it destroys freedom of thought and existence. There are numerous literary examples of this - Huxely's Brave New World, Orwell's 1984 and Rand's The Fountainhead. Rand is particularly forceful in her arguments about the supremacy of the individual over the general rabble.
I believe that there are causes that are more than "vaporous and transient" to use Alex's words. Helping others when it is in one's power to do so, protecting the environment for future generations by lowering pollution and waste are just a couple of examples.
Admittedly, my decision to teach school next year is largely formed out of my concept of duty.
Do I relinquish my liberties as an individual? No. Do I believe that my government and constitution grant me liberties? Not really. The government and constitution simply acknowledge that I possess them. Were there no government or constitution I would still retain those certain "inalienable rights" endowed to me as a member of the human race.
Finally, I believe that there are causes in which the result of submission surpasses the seeking of the self. Arguably, this submission for the greater good may be seen in the Civil Rights movement, the suffrage movement and the abolitionist movement just to name a few.

Citius, alius, fortius
On the whole I am not a committed sports fan.
College football, mild interest.
Professional football, not so much.
Baseball, I enjoy a game, I have no idea what all those numbers and letters mean.
I don't follow teams, I never read the sports page.
But for a couple of weeks every couple of years I am a rabid sports enthusiast.
I love the Olympics.
I suppose it starts in 1988, the summer games in Seoul. I don't really remember specific moments, I just have a sense of the brown carpet in our living room and my Mom's committment to the games. Through the years of my growing up are sprinkled the names of olympic greats - Louganis, Lewis, Boitano, Witt, Strugg.
I've never been particularly athletic either, but growing up I learned from Jansen and Blair that when hardwork is added to a dream good things can happen.
I've read the editorials that say the Winter Olympics are boring, but no where else is there such potential for speed, triumph and disaster.
It's not about the athletes who medal, most who go to the games don't "realistically" have a shot. They come to compete against other athletes in their prime, setting aside the politics and struggles of daily life for a brief period.
Because so much is ventured at these games, so much athletically, so much personally, so much in integrity and human spirit, because so much is given great and terrible moments occur. The games present a microcosm of the best and worst in human nature. There has been cheating. Poor sportsmanship. Rigged judging. But as terrible as the bad moments, the great moments are transcendent.
Jesse Owens triumphing in Berlin. An African-American winning not only the race, but a smaller victory against an evil dictator who wanted the games to showcase his master race. And not only Owen's, but Luz Long the German competitor who helped Owen's qualify for the long jump finals by making sure Owen's jumped before the fault line.
2002 when a young American teenager became the first woman to land 7 triple jumps in olympic competition and landed the gold as well.
Abebe Bikila of Ethiopa who won the marathon running barefoot.
Most who go to the games don't medal, but they compete under their flag for the pride of their nation and the joy of being healthy and strong and able to try great physical feats. And this is the olympics. Because no matter what the numbers say there is always the possibility and the hope that for a few minutes an athlete may overtake his or her fellows to see his or her flag raised and anthem sung.
The Olympics in such a compressed time and way show us what is to try great things, to dream, to strive, to push ourselves further than we have ever been. Is that such a bad thing to have in the world?
So I cheer for the Olympics. I follow them. I read the sports pages.
I hope they are not silly, nor outdated because the impetus behind them is good and strong.
We may not need the Olympics, but like art and music, I think they make us better individuals. The hope, the work, the ambition and passion that drive the athletes, those qualities placed in our own lives make us individuals better equipped to live well in a world and build something better for those that follow.

10 Musings...
1. I think our culture might be in a state of decline, possibly on the way to another dark ages. Discuss.
2. Esquire has certainly been paying a lot of attention to Rhett Miller of Old 97s fame. Fine with me.
3. I told someone today that the problem I had with James Frey's Million Little Pieces was not the fact that he lied, but rather that the writing was not compelling.
4. I've been thinking a great deal about Gatsby and how he reinvented himself. Is Gatsby a good life model?
5. I wonder what the great library at Alexandria was like.
6. Why don't I have ice cream right now?
7. If I took up curling, could I make it to the olympics?
8. Is anyone still reading this drivel?
9. What is the place of duty in one's life? Is duty an outdated idea?
10. These 10 thoughts are so not compelling.

Come a little closer…
There’s a weird time warp thing on I-35 between Dallas and Austin. Although the drive allegedly takes 3 hours, there is something that makes it feel like five and a half. I believe that the urban sprawl of Dallas and Austin contribute to this, and the flatness in between.
Time warp aside, the way that the plains of north Texas give way to the beginning of the hill country never ceases to be beautiful to me.
I stopped at the Czech Stop and got my usual order of 1 apple and 1 cherry kolache. Spend a quiet moment in memory with my fruit pastries, and got back on the road.

Do you fear this man’s invention that they call atomic power?
So Blythe and I are sharing a pitcher of beer at a dark little dive in Austin when the subject of the Apocalypse comes up, like it does. After solving all the problems the world we headed towards San Marcos for a small concert. Our friend Addie, whose boyfriend’s band was playing in San Marcos, told us about a honky tonk called Giddy Up’s just south of Austin.
There was a woman behind the Giddy Up’s bar who had impossibly long legs and hair that fell past the middle of her back. The regulars called her Blue and she wore cowboy boots with a red and white checked skirt and a black blouse. There was a pool table and folks two-stepping while a band played country tunes up at the front. And so it was here with a warm breeze blowing through the door, and a tall young man two-stepping a short grandma around the room that I wondered how I could possibly be leaving Texas again in the summer.

Like a band of gypsies, we go down the highway...
After introducing Blythe to the wonders of stuffed jalepenos, we set off for San Antone and the Rodeo. We found O’s new digs, met the cat and left on the adventure.
I’ve been to a couple of rodeos and one Spanish bullfight. Now, maybe I’m thinking about this too much, but isn’t it interesting that two cultures developed two different sports that involved angry bulls. Furthermore, if the bull is supposed to symbolize the struggle of life and death, then what does that say about American culture?
The bullfight wears the bull down before the matador comes out vulnerable and alone to face danger. Before the end of the bullfight, the bull has already been wounded multiple times, tired and bleeding it faces the matador.
In bull riding, the bull is healthy and the cowboy just hops on for the ride. The bull doesn’t die at the end. Does that mean that the American attitude is to just take all of life by the proverbial horns and hold on with all you got, while the European attitude is to wait life out and see if you can beat death at the end? I don’t think so, but it’s interesting, no?

And about that war…
While in San Antonio we got into a very forceful discussion about Iraq…tempers and passions and voices were raised. But I believe that we’ve got to keep talking about it, we’ve got to keep thinking about it and we’ve got to keep finding a way to make things better.

Home again
So I returned to Dallas, the laughter of my friends, the satisfaction of good discussion and the Texas wind in my hair.

Just to set the record straight…
Some folks are real picky about who qualifies as a Texan or not. I am a Texan by birth, the rest of my family are Texans by immigration and choice. But for some people, birth is the only valid claim anyone can make to being a Texan. Well, those people are snobby twits and not fit to be called Texans.
All Texans must make a choice at some point of where their home lies; no one chooses to be born here, but one may choose to leave their affections in this place. The original settlers who came from Missouri and other states made a choice to come to this hard and strange land. Texas has always been a place for wanderers, outlaws, idealists and other ragamuffin, vagabond souls. I don’t believe that Texas is an elite club entered only by birth. People get here all sorts of ways and at the end of the day they look back over their shoulders at the pink Texas sunset and call it home.
I believe that those “elite club” Texans are wrong, and shouldn’t call themselves Texans at all if they believe in ideas like “elite” and “clubs,” but they are a picky, bothersome noisy bunch. Thus, I would like to offer my own Texas citizenship in sponsorship for the recent immigrants.
Let it be hereby known that should Blythe, Bree, Aurora, Jason, or Matt ever wish to refer to themselves as Texans they may do so with full approval and endorsement of a native Texan.

I finished reading Out of Africa this evening while the light dimmed and the sun bowed its head to the inevitability of night.

Let’s come to the table and talk – Seriously folks, I want a discussion here.
In this age of instant information we have been able to watch the families of the West Virginia miners sit vigil, experience the jubilation of a hope fulfilled and descend into grief and anger after the initial report of the miner’s survival was found to be incorrect.
I watched the story unfold on the 24-hour news networks. For around two hours the networks relayed the unconfirmed reports that the miners were alive. One source from the Red Cross said that she first heard the initial report when she was contacted by a media outlet. After hearing this report, she made her way to the mine site.
It is now being reported that no official source relayed the report of survival to the families, but that they received the information from a mine employee via a cell phone.
My questions to journalists and non-journalists are the following:
1)Do journalists bear any responsibility for the information failure that occurred during the mine tragedy?
2)If so, did the pressure to bring the most recent, if not accurate, information to the public, thus keeping pace with their competitors in the news market contribute to the continued relaying of false information?
3)What safeguards could journalists have put in place to guard against the spread of inaccurate information?
4)Many of the on-site reporters spoke of the “euphoria” that swept through the crowd. Do journalists have a responsibility to not be swept up in the enthusiasm? That is, should journalists distance themselves emotionally in order to report cautiously and clearly?
5)Does a reporter’s emotional involvement in a story contribute or lead to shoddy reporting?
6)Journalists were not allowed close to the church or close to the mine site. Should they have had greater access to the site of the story? Would this have made a difference in how the story was reported?
Enough questions? I won’t ask anyone to answer them without answering myself.

1)Yes, I believe the press bears some culpability for the spread of misinformation. In one instance last night, I watched the news networks go from reporting the likely identity of the first miner that was found, to reporting as though it had been confirmed the identity of the miner. It was my impression that as one network reported the likely, but unconfirmed identity of the first miner that the other networks simply “borrowed” the reporting from other media outlets. Eventually, it was reported as coming from the AP even though the niece of the miner was still saying that the identity had not yet been confirmed. It is my impression that this spread of information from network to network happened multiple times last night, despite the lack of official confirmation from the mine company or the governor of the reports of survivors. As one network reported information, other networks seemed to pick it up as well.

2)There is a tremendous race by the news outlets to be the first with information. This is seen quite clearly in the broadcast side of things. Unfortunately, the race to be first in the market with a story sometimes leads to the reporting of inaccurate information. (Such as when Fox News and other outlets called the state of Florida before all the polls were closed in the 2000 election). I believe the race to be first also leads to the great amount of speculation and interpretation that occurs on the news networks in order to maintain continuous coverage on the major stories, often from reporters who are unqualified to comment intelligently on the subject because of a lack of expertise in the matter. The problem with journalists speculating on air or in print is that we tell the public that we report accurate information. Because of our position as information hunter-gatherers the public trusts us to have confirmed our reports with more knowledgeable sources. When we make off- the-cuff comments, stemming from our own opinions we violate that public trust.

3)One of the first things I heard as a reporter was this adage, “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.” There is tremendous value in confirming information from multiple sources possessing expert information. I have heard it proposed this morning that the best way to report this would have been to attribute the report to the families in order to remove the news outlet from the “hook” of inaccurate reporting. To attribute reports to sources is not primarily a way to hedge the news outlet’s bets. Reports should be attributed in order to provide the public with the most accurate information and to demonstrate the sourcing of the story in order to show that the journalists was not making it up out of whole cloth. Had journalists displayed caution and restraint in reporting the story, saying that reports were being heard from family members, though not from official sources as they tried to confirm the story from official sources it would have been better than reporting primarily heavily on the emotion or jubilation of the community. Secondly: Do your own reporting, do your own reporting, do your own reporting. Period. Don’t take your reporting from other journalists or outlets, try and confirm the story yourself. Thirdly, place a higher value on accuracy and truth than on being first with the story. It is good to report quickly, but it is most important that the information be correct.

4)I believe that objectivity is a myth. I believe that when a journalist cuts him or herself off emotionally from a story an important element is lost. A personal connection, an empathy is lost when journalists place themselves completely apart and separate from the rabble of the emotions of the story. News does not happen in a vacuum, journalists become a piece, a sliver of the story despite their best intentions at objectivity. Journalists must acknowledge their own biases, experiences and limitations in approaching a story. Although I think that complete objectivity is unattainable, accuracy and truthfulness is completely within the journalist’s grasp. We must report the facts, not our opinions and speculations. As journalists, we stand in for the public, we are the self-appointed eyes and ears of the nation. We have an obligation and a duty to report what we witness, not what we believe or hope or desire. We are human beings and fallible, prone to emotion and hope. But in the public trust of journalism, emotion must be tempered with wisdom and discretion.

5)Sometimes, yes. Emotion can lead to bad reporting. I feel comfortable saying that every journalist on that scene wanted a happy ending. Wanted to be able to report a success. I’m not sure that I would have reported the story any differently than they did last night. It is a sad example of reporting the story that was wanted, rather than finding the story that existed.

6)My understanding of the access allowed to the journalists is incomplete, but it seems as though they were some distance from where the events were occurring. There are many reasons to keep journalists out of a specific area – to control the spread of information, to protect the safety of both journalists and rescue workers (the thought being that valuable resources could be used to keep bumbling reporters from hurting themselves or getting in the way.) But, journalists are professionals, with a specific and important job to do. If it were possible that a small press corps could have been placed closer to the scene, I believe it might have helped the real story – that reports had not been confirmed, that reports were false – get to the public faster.

The question of whether the news media “blew the story” has just been posed by Fox News, nearly 12 hours after their correspondent broke the incorrect information. It has taken 12 hours for the news media to even acknowledge that it may have some responsibility for the misinformation.
Journalism proclaims itself the watchdog of democracy, journalists find themselves in a position of authority. But that authority is lost, the public trust is breached when we report false and inaccurate information. I heard an interview from a scholar of journalism who said that journalists may see themselves as a type of priest in a sacred order. I am no priest. I don’t believe that journalism is an inherently precious or sacred thing. If anything gives a noble air to journalism, if anything hallows the newsroom it is the communities we serve. It is the trust placed in daily newspapers. The promise that journalists will provide accurate information that will help our communities.
I would like to close with a few words of the journalist’s creed penned by Walter Williams.
…I believe that the public journal is a public trust; that all connected with it are, to the full measure of their responsibility, trustees for the public; that acceptance of a lesser service than the public service is a betrayal of this trust.
I believe that clear thinking and clear statement, accuracy and fairness are fundamental to good journalism.
Journalism has no internal board of standards, no governing body to hand down ethics and instructions. All we have is the trust that may be placed in our word. Any journalist, any news outlet, is only as good as their name. And the title of journalist is one that presupposes a commitment to truth and accuracy.

P.S. Just now, in a story on Fox News that was discussing media culpability, a judge acting as a commentator said that we may see the first instances of an emotional distress suit against media outlets as a result of this story. The journalists reply was “We didn’t start the rumor.”
To report inaccurately is offensive, but to not take full responsibility for it is inexcusable. By not owning up to factual errors, journalists further violate the public trust.

I heard an interview with a writer. When asked to talk about pivotal moments in his life, he said he didn’t really look back at his past because he was too busy looking forward. But ignored or not, the past trails my heels like a shadow. I can’t shake it, and really I don’t want to put it down. The stories and dust ridden memories remind me of who I am.
Tomorrow, the only thing that will be different in my life is the number on the calendar. But a year from now I will be different, a thousand different moments and memories will have shaped me up a little more into the person I am becoming.
In the past year I’ve stood next to a new grave, I’ve danced with a friend at her wedding. I’ve graduated from college and eschewed, at least for two years, my chosen profession of journalism in favor of teaching in a school where kids are struggling to learn. What should I say - That I laughed and cried this past year, that sometimes I did both? That’s life. Everyone on the face of the planet did those things in 2005.
So now we turn our faces to a new year that will come in the night. Maybe we stay up to watch the year turn because we are afraid the New Year will sweep away our memories and give us a clean slate if we aren’t awake to hold on to our remembers. Without our scribbles from all the years prior, how will we know where we are and where we have been?
I turn my face to the coming year and I can promise one thing in complete confidence. I will laugh and cry, sometimes I might do both. I can promise another thing too: at the end of 2006 I’ll turn another page in this story and what is to be written on that page won’t make sense without the ones that came before.
Happy New Year. It’s a prayer, really. A wish, a hope offered up, laid on someone’s shoulders in love and protection. It is a hope that one will find comrades to stand with in laughter and in not-laughter.
It’s the end of another year and I’m off to see the world, but not alone. For at my shoulder stand the people who carry my past, my stories, and so carry my future as well. Happy New Year to you all.

I savor the action of opening or closing a book, I don't know why. They are actions in which I take deliberate measure.

Tonight I finished what is essentially the last paper of my college career. In the past four and a half years, I've written on philosophy, music history, all sorts of literature, journalism ethics and British culture. And tonight was just an assignment like any other.

When I hit save and closed the document I reached down towards the text I was writing about. I removed the bookmark I had been using, set my pen off to the side and gently closed it's front cover and lay a paperweight on it so that the cover would lay flat and not half open. It's an action I've repeated so many times that I do it without thinking. As I sat back I smiled, realizing that I was done.

I closed the book. I finished my last paper. I made it through.

G.T.T. Y'all.

Poor Absalom and other musings from Bag End:
My roommate has the patience of a saint – particularly evidenced by the fact that she is still talking to me after I subjected her to a plot summary of Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom. Forcing someone through Faulkner is just plain mean.
Incidentally, my southern literature professor said I was an exception. I would like to think he meant that my genius was obvious, but I think he meant that the fact that this is my second time through Absalom makes me seem like a freakish literary loser to the rest of the class, who feels that once is one too many times to read this book.
“Where did you read the first time?” he asked.
“My mom gave it to me for Christmas.” I said.
“She gave you an oppressive text for Christmas?” he said and laughed.
Then he asked why I came back to it.
“Once there was a summer of wisteria.” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

***
I went to the contributing writer’s meeting yesterday, and found the doubt I’ve been feeling about the profession of journalism increasing. The editor of Vox pitched a profile on a yet-to-be-determined person who is in a severe state of “arrested development.” As he put it, someone who still buys comic books, is working on their fourth college degree at age 36, someone who still drinks with the undergrads at Harpos. Someone who refuses to grow up. Now the way he said these things made it sound an awful lot like they were just looking for someone to make a fool of, someone that the entire readership could laugh at together.
It’s not the first time I’ve gotten the sense that some of the people in this journalism school would rather tear people down just to laugh at them than to help them out.
It just about made me cry, just broke my heart to hear a story pitched that sounds so mean.

***
I’m idealistic in a lot of ways, and I dig that some people think that’s not a great way to be, but at the end of the day I want to know that I helped, that I tried to make things a little better. Somebody’s got to work towards that goal, right? So why shouldn’t it be me?

***
My desk has been broken since the day I inherited it – the keyboard drawer thing has never been right. That in mind I’ve taken to jotting notes on the actual desk with my fine-tipped Sharpie pen.
Here are some of them:
Cast your fate to the wind; see what the wind brings back.
When I say I am sorry I mean that I am not yet the person I wish to be.
Chase the greater dream. The one that seems just out of reach. The one that will neither let itself be caught nor abandoned.

***
We are such dreamers. And so often disappointed.

Ain't no body die, y'all. We got her done. Yeah we did. Ain't no body die.

There were questions that I wanted to ask, but I did not ask them. Sometmes the words a person does not say are as much of a gift as the ones they do.

Did I make the right decision? (Audience response encouraged)
Today was a first for me, about 20 minutes ago I turned down a story after an editor offered it to me. My name had been suggested by the contributing writing coach. I have never turned down a story that was offered to me before, so I'm kind of questioning my choice.

The story was a Scene and Heard - a short slice of life piece in the front of the book. It's one of my favorite sections. The assignment was to go to the Cat Fanciers
Association show next weekend and find a kitty-cat tale for the magazine. I would love to do this story, but as I've mentioned before on this blog - I'm allergic to cats. So the idea of going into an show room full of cat dander and fur just didn't seem like a good idea. Particularly when I can't even spend more than 10 minutes in Patrick's apartment (his roommates have cats) without sneezing. Right. Putting myself in the middle of the flying fur would have been a bad idea. I would have been sneezing all over cats and their owners and that's no story.

Some of my most miserable childhood memories involve cats - my eyes swollen shut, incessant sneezing. As a child, I blamed the cats - I didn't do anything to them, I just wanted to pet them. Originally I liked cats. But I couldn't be around them.

To this day, I am uncomfortable around cats. I don't even like them to touch me. My favorite thing to say to a cat is "Go'on. Git."

Still there's a part of me that would really love to do the story. I mean a cat show - what even happens at a cat show? And the Maine Coon cat breed will be there - those things get to be 20 pounds.

Alas. Did I make the right decision?

I have a first draft to turn in. It is all a first draft should be according to the author Anne Lamott.

Maybe someday I will learn how not to be a reclusive and grumpy hermit when I write, but considering the amount of writers I have read about who share this affliction, I'm not holding out much hope.

I tried to tell a story. Or at least tried to drive something to an ending. And it only took two cups of tea, my left over thai food and a diet coke to do it.

In a little under 48 hours I have to turn in a first draft of a personal essay for my advanced writing class.

I'm stuck. Completely and totally stuck. Like there is a wall in my brain and the words are trying to get over and nothing. I picture it a stone wall, just too high to jump. The words, the ideas, the letters keep throwing themselves at the wall. They are not trying hard enough.

I've made a pot of coffee. The bulk of this needs to be done by early afternoon tomorrow, cause I've still got reading for Brit lit. I've been nice enough trying to cajole these little words over the wall, now it's time for business. I'm pulling them over whether they like it or not.

Maybe I need to simplify. Quit thinking of thematic elements. Quit thinking of characters and time and just tell a story. This is what happened. This is what I took away from it. Tell a story. Over a cup of coffee. Tell it to an audience. Tell a story. Just a story. An everyday story.

About a night in a diner and seven people who danced. That's all the story is. Just a spring night, a diner and seven people.

Sometimes when I'm stuck in writing, it's because I don't know how to start. This time I don't know where to start, go or end.

I sit down. I start. The writing is heavy, like an elephant. I don't mind heavy, I just need the elephant to pirouette.

The elephant refuses to dance. Just sits there on gray haunches. Looks at me, reaches out for a peanut.
"No peanuts," I say. "No. I've need you to dance," I say.
On gray haunches. Looks at me.
"Elephants aren't really made for toe shoes," the elephant says.
"But you're talking," I say. "Elephants aren't made to talk, either."
"Yes, well. Just cause your imagination gave you a talking elephant, it doesn't mean I have to dance," she says.
"Stop reaching for the damn peanuts," I say. "Why don't you have to dance? If your a figment of my imagination you should have to dance. Why, when I say dance you say -"
"Now hang on a minute. No one asked me if I wanted to be your figurative muse -"
"No muse ever came in a body like yours."
"Oo - there's no need to be catty."
"I'm just saying, if you came from my mind, then you ought to do as I please."
"I'm not even working for peanuts," she snorts. "Even figments have free wills."
"I don't really have time for this," I say. "Oh have a damn peanut."
She catches the peanuts and turns around, her gray shoulders start to shake.
"C'mon," I say. Roll my eyes. "You're crying now? Crying?"
"I-I-I am n-not crying," she cries. "It's just that you didn't have to be so harsh, if you had just asked maybe I would have danced. If you had given me a lavender tutu, some lovely ribbons. Glitter eye shadow. But now. Only demands."
I step back. I take a deep breath. I am not paid enough to work with uncooperative figments.
"Fine. Would you please try to dance."
"No. I don't dance. I'm an elephant."
"Gimme back the peanuts. Go'on, git."

I walk her to the edge of the page. "Go'on."

My natural writing voice is the voice of an elephant who wants a lavender tutu.

Just tell a story. Tell a simple story. A cup of coffee story. An all-night diner story. Tell the story. Of a group of seven who danced.

When I go for a run, I run up Garth Avenue past an elementary school, past a wooded trail and over a creek. The bridge that goes over the creek has a concrete barrier on the road side and a tall chainlink fence on the other.

Everytime I run by this chainlink fence on the bridge I have a bizarre urge to loft my keys into the air and over the fence and into the creek below. I don't know why I want to do this. Everytime I go through a dialogue in my head.

"I should throw my keys into the creek - it would be a gesture of triumph. Symbolic of some type of freedom. I would swing them once around my finger and let go, watch the sun as it would glint off the metal."
"If you toss your keys you will have no way to get into the house."
"I wouldn't even watch them hit the water. I'd just catch a glimpse of their arc over my shoulder and keep running. Maybe I would hear them hit the water."
"Do you know how sheepish you are going to feel when you have to tell your roommate/landlady/friends/family/professors/random strangers how you lost your keys."
"I could do it, I could toss 'em. But after I tossed them, they'd be gone and I'd still need them."

At this point in the dialogue I'm usually across the bridge. I have the same dialogue as I come back the other direction.

I overslept for class this morning, and needed a little warm up before I started my day, thus I give these lists that have been running around other people's blogs:

Seven things I want to do before I die:

1) Go surfing
2) Have a vegetable garden
3) Get a tattoo
4) Have a great love
5) Have some kids, take them to the circus
6) See the Northern lights
7) Be a teacher

Seven things I can do:

1) Write illustrated letters – as in little narratives with pictures
2) Whistle through my hands
3) Sleep with my eyes half open
4) Follow a recipe
5) Organize my books according to a personally devised system in which authors that were or that I think could have been friends go together on the shelf, thus Hemingway and Fitzgerald go together.
6) Wake up early
7) Turn off my alarm clock in my sleep

Seven things I can’t do:

1) Skateboard
2) Put away my clean laundry
3) Keep books from forming piles throughout the house
4) Listen to Holst’s Mars from his Planets suite – it scares me too much
5) Stomach lima beans
6) Do a pretty dive into water
7) Tell a lie

Seven things that attract me the opposite sex:

1) Generosity
2) A great laugh
3) General dorkiness
4) Confidence – but never arrogance
5) Ambition, but not in a cold aggressive sense
6) A nice beard or goatee
7) Gentleness

Seven things I say most recently:

1) Well, I figure there’s a lot of places with newspapers – one of them’s got to be hiring
2) Can I get you anything?
3) Hi, my name is Sara and I’m a reporter with …
4) Oh, I don’t really know yet but I’m casting a wide net
5) I’m writing a paper on the development of the plantation romance
6) Do you want lunch?
7) Huh.

Seven Celebrity Related Thoughts I’ve had recently:
1) My professor just called a place someone’s Xandu, that means he’s probably seen Citizen Kane
2) America’s Next Top Model starts in two weeks and I am totally watching it
3) I’d like to meet Emma Thompson
4) So not excited about the remake of Pride and Prejudice with Keira whats-her-face
5) Would Oscar Wilde be fun at parties or just obnoxious?
6) Has Sally Field done anything lately?
7) John Travolta and Tom Cruise are both weird, but I think Travolta would be more fun at parties.

My immediate response to recent occupants of Speaker's Circle:

I went to Speaker’s Circle today to listen and to watch the team of approximately 10 people, six or so of whom were holding large signs proclaiming that angry women and rock’n’rollers were bound for hell, and the rest rotating in and out of speaking and sign holding.

There I was asked if I was a Bible student. “Yes,” I said warily, not knowing if I was about to be converted by one of the performer’s number. “Well what about 1 Peter 3:15,” the man said as he shook his head at the performers. “…Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give a reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.”

We looked towards the signs, looking for the gentleness. For the metered tones and for the eagerness in sharing that hope; instead in red letters, 10 inch letters were the words, “judgment,” “sin,” and “hell.”

I went to my class; my skin full of sun and turning pink, sweat running down my neck and back. Afterwards, I returned to Speaker’s Circle, for no other reason than that I did not understand why these performers were so compelled to be there, to yell so strongly.

I did not understand why these people were compelled to say that Jesus was a capitalist. That God was not a God of poverty. That women are supposed to be babymakers, and if they have to work it means that their husband is not a good enough provider. That the hurricane was a judgment on New Orleans.

I went to a religious school for 10 years. In that time I sat through weekly chapels and daily Bible lessons. Still I must have missed the lesson where God endorsed an economic platform and political party. That was probably when I had the chicken pox in 5th grade. Also the lesson on women not having jobs or going to college, since women only exist to procreate and serve at man’s pleasure – that was probably the week that I went to the All-state academic competition. Don’t get me wrong either, I was definitely there for the science class where we studied weather patterns and natural laws of physics – and nowhere in that did we discuss God’s judgment-through-weather clause of interaction with His creation. And as for God being all for material prosperity, well I guess that my check has been lost in the mail.

I am a Christian. Not because I believe God endorses a political platform. In his own day, Christ refused to lead an overthrow of the government, “My kingdom is not of this world,” He said.

I am a Christian. I do not see this as inconsistent to my belief in the equality of the sexes. For in Christ there is neither Jew nor Gentile, nor male nor female.

I am a Christian. Not because I am looking for earthly blessings, Christ never said that His followers would get monetary end-of-the-year bonuses. Rather He encouraged the building of lasting Heavenly treasure which could not be corrupted by rust nor stolen by thieves.

I am a Christian. I am a Christian because I have seen in my life that I am a sinner, and as such have no fellowship with God, but Christ’s sacrifice and moreover His resurrection offer forgiveness and grace in order that I may enter into communion with God. It is not a state I have earned or worked for or deserve, it is a state that I have entered into and continue in by faith.

I do not say these things to the performers in Speaker’s Circle because at some level I feel burdened to try and understand these people, to come to some level ground. It is just as well, I think, that I do not speak from the crowd of hecklers because my voice is not good for yelling and I do not think that the performers know how to listen.

I know I do not speak often here of my faith. But at some point, those of us who earnestly hold a Christian faith must respond to people like these who make, purposefully or not, a mockery of the Church. We must no longer ignore these loud voices so enthralled with passing off weary and worn clichés as doctrine. We must not respond to them in anger or hate or animosity, though at least for me, groups like these are completely baffling and definitely raise my ire. We must instead continue to bear forth Truth in our lives and actions by and through and for the grace that is granted us in Christ Jesus.

A year ago today I was getting on a plane to London. I wanted to remember everything. As I waited in the airport I wrote in my journal.

My family and I cried as we said goodbye and I headed off through airport security. We always cry at airports.

I sat in the chairs at DFW waiting to board my flight to Chicago, and I was a little nervous. But I remembered that my Mom had been about my age when she moved to Germany to be with Dad. I remembered that Grandma Alsup had been over 50 when she left the country for the first time – by herself, that Grandma Hefflinger had moved the family to Saudi Arabia. I thought about these strong women that I come from and I felt better. That's what I wrote about in my journal.

A year ago I was on my way to London.

Now I’m back in Columbia, missing Texas and home, and looking forward to wherever comes next.

An explanation of sorts:

I’ve got this belief that if I throw enough words at a problem maybe I can fix it. Words are a salve. Words are the way I put my finger in the dike to keep the flood from overflowing.

Virginia Woolf said that she wrote to make things whole.

I am no Virginia Woolf, but I think I understand where she was coming from. If I can throw enough words at a problem, something will stick, a solution will be found, understanding gained.

This makes me sound altruistic as a writer. Which, I can assure you is not the case.

A good friend of mine wrote a piece once for our dorm literary magazine about creating art. He said it was like a drug, he was both the dealer and the junkie and he couldn’t produce it fast enough to feed his addiction.

That was how I felt about the saxophone. It is how I feel about writing. The challenge of producing one good sentence, one that will be remembered after the newspaper’s been thrown in the trash is what I enjoy. Still, I don’t write for immortality or fame; I write because everyday I need the high and because I think some good can come of it.

I have the drug on one hand and on the other hand I see that there are a lot of problems in the community, in the world, that are threatening to overflow the embankment. I am compelled to try and make these things better where I can.

A drug and a compulsive behavior ... words are how I try to fix things, for myself and for others.

Rollerskate Skinny

I can't find the moon. Ten till 11 and I can't find the moon. I just want to look at Mars friends. Is the moon not up yet? I don't know. I will be checking again in a half hour or so, providing that I am not asleep.

First week of classes down. Something like 16 weeks till I'm done with college. I told my Mom that it was like the biggest "choose your own adventure" book ever.

Quoting:

"And the world's got me dizzy again. You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin. And it only feels worse when I stay in one place, so I'm always pacing around or walking away." Landlocked Blues, Bright Eyes

"Every writer obsessed with depressing realities knows we are totally draining type to have around. Most of us are rational people - we know ten dollars, or even 3,500 words, is not going to change anybody's life. But until we can supply some meaning to what we are witnessing, we are doomed to reel from the resonances." Red, White and Oh So Blue, Mary Kay Blakely

Strange happenings:

Had my ipod on shuffle today. As it selected melodies from 1,002 options it made a very interesting decision: after playing Bright Eyes', Landlocked Blues it chose to play Emmylou Harris' Boulder to Birmingham. This is only interesting because Harris makes a guest apperance with Connor Oberst on Landlocked Blues - how did the ipod know?

And now a actual discussion that is occurring in the office of whether the magazine will run a controversial cover featuring the confederate flag. Oh yes, I'm serious.

Backstory: The cover feature next week is one that is supposed to be examining the existence of confederate Missouri, looking at the lives and reasons for modern day citizens who support the confederacy, or consider themselves confederates. This could have been a really beautiful narrative piece examing the reasons people need to hang on to causes and purposes, or looking at how people twist history and flags to suit their own ends. As it is, it looks as though it will simply be a piece offering the information that some people in Missouri identify as confederate soldiers.

The debate: This feature will be going on the cover, the most obvious visual image is the confederate flag, and yes people are seriously considering running it big on the cover.

Point: Those in the pro-camp feel we shouldn't shy away from controversy before we've given it a try.
Counterpoint: Those in the opposing camp feel that the story - the narrative, point and writing should be strong enough to justify selling controversy on the cover. At this point the story looks as though it will be an embarrassingly weak effort, barely addressing the amount of conflict surrounding new and old supporters of the confederacy.

My feelings: I hope that I don't have to waste words here reassuring people that I have no problem confronting controversial subjects. However, I see absolutely know point in running the stars and bars on the cover. Though I haven't read the story yet, my understanding is that it is not strong or compelling narrative. Secondly, I don't see a point to riling people up by putting such a controversial image on the cover without a strong justification. Thirdly, I really have a serious problem placing a symbol that is so associated with racism on the cover of a community magazine, particularly one that sells itself as more pithy than serious, more fun and offbeat than concerned with social issues. Whether the flag originally represented racism is moot, as the symbol is now associated with racists groups and sentiments. Fourth, controversy for controversy's sake is always a distasteful and uncouth choice in journalism.

Stay tuned for Monday when we find out what the ones in charge have decided.

What I want (is it really so much to ask?)
1) The student editor who is doing the second read on my feature to finish reading the galleys instead of leaving them for long intervals to handle issues in her department. She could tell her other editor, "If you'll just let me finish this galley, I'll be glad to give you my opinion."
2) A pony
3) For editors to understand the difference between proofreading and trying to over edit the text.
4) For TA's to do it right the first time rather than finding two more things they don't like and wish to change on each new clean draft.
5) Mexican food.
6) For writers to make the changes I have asked them to make before turning in a second draft.
7) To be home at Bag End.
8) For the schedule that says editors are done at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesdays to be taken as a literal deman and not a figuarative suggestion.
9) Clean laundry
10) For people to put two ounces of effort and thought into what they're doing.

Surely I'm not the only one who hates staying here late. This staff needs a union and some brains.

True Story:

Dreading your work place will not make it go away, nor will it diminish the amount of stuff you have to do.

I'll bet you that I'm here until midnight tonight.

I know I haven't written in a bit ... and that's all right.

What I really wanted to say is that though I lose sight of it sometimes, I know that there is truly an astounding amount of goodness in my life.

Not due to any fault of mine. I'm just blessed to be surrounded by good people.

I look at the people in my life, the artists and dancers, the lovers and writers, those who know exactly what they want and those who are still looking.

I thought of my people today as I walked up the steps to a job that I don't fancy where I work with several people for whom I have little admiration or warmth.

I thought of us - the whole ragtag bunch - I do not know where we are headed, but I'm sure we are going with smiles on our faces.

So though I get caught up in work, frustrated by things I can't change and people who can't see past their opportunistic noses, I know that at the end of the day there is still an anchoring point for my life. That the things I hold true and dear, remain, even if I am not always the best keeper of them.

At the end of the day, I will try and remember to say thank you.

The post what I wrote:

These are the words that came to me as I waited in Lee Hills Hall for my friends to call to meet up at the twilight festival.

Picture perfect view in a quiet room with no lights and just my fingers tapping. Peace park, and folks walking and knowing that 9th street is buzzing.

Warm outside, hot and I like it. Windows rolled down, sun roof open and music sounds better in summer. Who was the bassist for Led Zeppelin?

How many thoughts can come and go before the phone rings? Before life calls me from my reverie, here - if a reverie could be had in Lee Hills Hall. And there goes someone with a sizable bare midriff - side to side that is.

Leaving was the hardest thing I had to do, even while driving over the Missouri River in Boonville, I wanted to turn around and go back. As though going back over the miles were going back over time as well.

These are the thoughts what I wrote. Because I haven't written in a month, only edited, tried to direct other writers.

And 22 feels like a lot suddenly, but only cause I'll never go back to the place where I learned to tie my shoes.

And Stevie Wonder just called, so I am off. But this is the post what I wrote on Thursday afternoon.

Time's not getting any shorter, so I guess I better get on down the road.

Remember that time...
This morning I was pulling images off the web for Vox, I needed to get a movie poster from Lord of the Rings from an upcoming article. Scrolling through the various images, I saw Ian McKellan.

And of course, I remembered seeing him in the Christmas Pantomime, “Aladdin,” at the Old Vic in London. Playing on the story of Aladdin, in which the boy finds an enchanted ring, McKellan stepped to the front of the stage to deliver the aside, “One ring to rule them all,” to which the audience burst into applause.

Rainy here and there...
Before I left for London, I told people that I was sure there would be some point at which the novelty wore off and it would simply be a rainy, cold day in a big city. And there was, there were only so many days that you could walk in the drizzle with your collar turned up and think, “Gee, I'm walking in the rain in London.”

So looking out the window at the rain falling in Columbia, I compare it to London. I didn't hear it thunder the entire time I was in Europe. The summer rainstorms are one of my favorite things here. I'm glad to have a porch to watch the storms from before I head off into the world.

Also...
Remind me never to watch an adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks novel, they are all horribly sad.

And so...
I sit in the Vox office and look forward to the day ahead.

"Nothing’s gonna change my world, nothing’s gonna change my world."

We sang along to Rufus Wainwright covering the Beatles’ song. Neither of us looking at each other, both bad at goodbyes. It was nighttime; the Columbia streets were quiet. Across I-70 and into downtown and nothing’s gonna change my world.

A statement and a prayer. Our lives shifting and changing even as we clung to them.

But still, nothing’s gonna change my world.

Speaking of Magnolia Trees:

The one in front of Neff Hall, that valiant Southerner far from home, is still waiting for its blossoms.

Missouri is just at the edge of where magnolia trees can grow. In the South, these trees tower and shade and the white flowers dangle among the dark green leaves. In front of Neff Hall the magnolia tree is shorter, it looks stooped, like it is trying to make the best out of its lot in life.

Speaking of transplanted Southerners:

It’s 74° in Dallas, Texas. I picture that a warm breathy breeze is blowing across the North Texas plains. The stars are out and lights are glowing in the open windows.

There is warmth and the very beginning of the idea of a Texas summer, which is hot, filled with bright sunlight and evening thunder and lightening, but perhaps no rain.

And I want to be in Texas so bad I can taste it. There is something there that centers and grounds me. More than the familiarity of home, more than the place where I grew up. There is space there, room to think and breathe.

Maybe it’s the fact that a day’s drive can lead to the Piney Woods, tall and green, to the rolling hill country with its scrubby trees, could lead to the coast painted in sea greens and blues, could lead to the Davis Mountains. The fact that in all those different places you would still be in Texas, still be home.

Speaking of Summer:

Right now it’s 59° in Columbia and maybe all my longing for Texas is just coming from the fact that I am cold. It really galls me to be able to wear long sleeves in the middle of May. I’m hoping that the heat will get here soon. But until then, I’m going to snuggle in under my blankets and read.

Sitting today we asked each other the same question:

What happens if the sky falls?

And in our own ways we answered.

If the sky falls, we will rebuild it. If the sky falls, we will build a new sky of the jagged pieces. But whether the sky falls, we will continue to dance. Continue to dream. Continue to move always forward.

Here is the edge of earth and sky. It is all changing. Here we stand to meet it.

New centuries tremble with questions, always the same questions. What changes and how shall we help and how shall we be better than those who came before?

In that century, we stood through the War to end all Wars and through the wars that followed. Here we stand in another. And still there are people hungry, people thirsty, people dying because they have no medicine. Against the screaming harpies Hunger, Thirst, Sickness and Poverty, we must stand together. Against those who will not lend able hands to help a brother-sister, we must stand and dance.

This century, five years old, feels tenuous, feels tender and those who follow us ask already in not yet spoken voices what changes and how did you help and how were you better than those who came before?

We who write, those who sew, those who sing, all who build must stand. The scientists, the doctors, the mechanics and the farmers, the actors, the cooks, the legislators and the taxi drivers, nurses and painters, all must stand on the edge of earth and sky and dance.

Move feet, snap fingers, bop heads, shake limbs dance on the edge to spin forward and change. When the changes are terrible and great, those who hope must step forward to dance; when the changes are difficult and good those who entertain, who cook, who comfort must step forward while others rest. Where there is need let us step to meet it.

There are still tyrants, kings and empires willing to steal the ocean’s freely given salt from the people; rulers who would put laws around a birthright.

We will dance to the ocean and take the salt; we will dance through fields and sow a harvest. We will not sell our birthright and we will seek our blessing. Most of all, we will teach those not yet spoken voices to stand on the edge of earth and sky unafraid.

Here on the edge we are dancers.
We who are about to die, dance. We who dance change the world.

1. Pop Quiz:
   
   While loading your two chosen washing machines in the basement laundry room, one of your neighbors comes down and starts loading the third. You and your neighbor’s laundry starts at the same time and thus will be finished at the same time. Ordinarily, this would not be a problem as there are three washers and three dryers to accommodate them; however, on this day, one of the dryers is out of order. Because there are three loads of clean, though wet clothes and two dryers you and your neighbor now have a problem. You decide to:
   
   a) Just take the two dryers and leave the poor sucker to fend for herself when she arrives in the laundry room minutes after you have left.
   b) Consolidate your two loads into one by removing items that you can hang to dry, thus considerately leaving a dryer for your neighbor.
   c) I don’t do laundry and this quiz is irrelevant to me.
   
   If you chose a, then you are my neighbor, who apparently is a thoughtless boob.
   If you chose b, then you are me and are currently sitting in room surrounded by wet T-shirts on hangers and jeans hung over doors because your neighbor, the thoughtless boob, took the only available dryers for her clothes.
   If you chose c, then you are gross and I can do little to help you.

So much cooler than you:

So I’m at Shakespeare’s today with a couple friends and who should be in front of us but the one and only, Jacqui Bana-what, otherwise known as the Pulitzer Prize winner and general writing guru at the J-school.
These are the pearls of wisdom she imparted to us:

1) She danced while ordering her pizza. She danced while paying for her pizza. We should all dance more often.
2) She said that veggie pizza was “all-girl pizza.”
3) She also said that we should just get beers and dance.

Clearly a woman after my own heart.

The fates are smiling:

Kids, I got an e-mail today that made me squeal. No really, squeal. Grupo Fantasma is playing a concert in Columbia. April 15. Music Café.

I covered this band last year for Adelante. They will rock your face off, even if you don’t speak Spanish. 12 piece band, wicked percussion and horns. This band grooves constantly. It is not to be missed. I expect to see all of you there.

Second, Klezmerica at Mojos this Friday and the Decembrists on Monday at the Blue Note. And Of Montreal will be at Mojos on April 22.

Could life get better? Clearly not.

I’m out. I’ve got some tunes on the stereo and I’ve got to dance.

G.T.T. Y'all.

Looking for a few laughs?

To good not to share, if you have a few moments follow the link and click on "Loose Lion":

http://nbc17.feedroom.com/iframeset.jsp?ord=581053

Apparently, this zoo in Japan wants to be ready should an animal ever escape. After watching the drill it's clear that their zoo staff is top notch.

It made me laugh. A lot.

What you probably didn’t know...

1) When trying to decide on my name my Mother really loved the name Ellen, but my Dad said that Ellen Alsup had too many l’s. They also really liked the name Jennifer and were pretty set on it until the doctor told them that everyone in Houston was naming their daughters Jennifer. So they went with Sara and liked how Elizabeth sounded with it.

2) I actually do answer to the name Elizabeth because that’s what my Dad has always called me.

3) I have a little scar under my chin from when I slipped on the blacktop while playing ring-around-the-rosy. I had to have stitches. When we got to the doctor’s office the nurse/receptionist person said that I sure must have hurt the pavement when I fell. I still think this is a rather stupid statement and not really what any child wants to hear.

4) I’ve wanted to be a writer since Mrs. Brumet’s second-grade class. I decided that if reading were so much fun then writing would have to be even better. My poem, “Tea with the Dragons,” was published in the second-grade anthology. I illustrated it myself. Copies available upon request.

5) About the time I was in middle-school, I decided that writing was too personal a medium and so I focused on music.

6) The first chapter book I read was, “The Boxcar Children.” I can remember laying on our tan and brown couch in our house in Houston and being almost too excited to open the book. I felt incredibly accomplished when I was done.

7) In second-grade, Gaston called me monkey-face. I am still a little ticked off about this. And I hate the name Gaston.

8) In about fourth grade I got really mad at my parents for something (probably for asking me to do my chores) and told them, “Fine. I’ll be my own woman when I’m 18 and then I can do what I want.” (This was because I had learned that the government considers you an adult with rights at 18) The morning of my 18th birthday, when my Mom heard me coming down the stairs, she put the song “I am Woman hear me Roar, in numbers to big to be ignored,” on the stereo and then cooked me breakfast. It’s one of my best mornings.

9) For most of my childhood I was extremely allergic to cats. If I got anywhere near a cat my nose would start to run, I would start to itch and my eyes would swell up. I still get nervous around cats.

This is the most excited I've ever been about an article in the Missourian:

http://www.digmo.com/news/story.php?ID=11981

Honestly Ridiculous

This morning I woke up and hated everything in my closet. Not a single thing to wear. None of it.

I spent around 30 minutes trying on clothes, different tops with different pants, occasionally perusing my shoe options only to end up in the same sweater I started off in, albeit, with a different pair of jeans.

When I wore a uniform to school, this never happened. I had two choices of shirts, one skirt, two pants. Aside from the fact that I can never learned to coordinate anything that wasn't white, blue, khaki or gray plaid, I've gotta say that the uniforms were much easier.

Ridiculous.

Okay, well. I lied. There was one thing in my closet that I wanted to wear. My lovely summer dress with a lovely summer sandal. (The green dress with a robin-egg blue floral print and lining. It's sleeveless, with a high waist. And looks like it came straight from the 1950s...oh it just makes my heart flutter. Ooo, and if I could just find a delicate blue shoe, I would simply be the cat's meow.) But I just didn't think that would be pratical. I did, at least, resist the urge to try it on. Perhaps this afternoon...

I think I will wear my Methodist coat to make up for this morning's wardrobe woes.

House Cleaning, an introspective, journal type entry:

It seems like I’m always leaving Texas…I hope that someday I’ll be back here for more than a few weeks or months at a time. But before I come back to Columbia there are some thoughts I need to clean out, just so I can have a fresh start there.

London was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I’ll be honest, in a lot of ways I went to London because I needed to be out of Columbia for awhile. And it’s only been with in the past 3 months that I’ve really been ready to come back. That being said, I’m excited to see the people I’ve been missing and to be starting with a nearly clean slate.

FARC is really the only home I’ve ever known in Columbia. I didn’t live in FARC my freshman year – but there was one night in winter. I came out of Loeb Hall after a band rehearsal. It was cold, crisp and getting late. As I walked past the front doors and windows of FARC, I could see that the lobby was darkened and Jim Widner and his combo were playing to a packed house. I could hear the music and I stood in the cold and listened. To see one of the biggest musical influences in my life, playing to a group of people my age…the smile on the band’s faces, looking at everyone gathered... I stood there for a long time, wishing that I could be walking into McDavid and calling it home. I was so jealous, and I just stood there, feeling like that’s where I should have been. Eventually I walked on back to 528 Hudson Hall, but I didn’t leave easily.

I got so lucky…I didn’t want to teach a FIG, I wanted to be a CA over in Johnston. But I landed in FARC…exactly where I belonged. For two years, one of the best feelings I had was coming down the hill from the quad, seeing McDavid and knowing I was coming home.

FARC is different now, of course, and in a good way, I’m sure. Because it belongs now to different people, who are creating and living and sharing themselves and investing in a community. Because more than the community goals or the building, it is the people who make it an amazing place to live.

Some of the most important relationships in my life are ones that started in the hallways of McDavid.

Tennyson wrote, “I am a part of all that I have met.” So, I like to believe that my experience in FARC is as much a part of the building as it is a part of me.

Timely Thoughts, or two seemingly unrelated themes united by brief refrences to the Underground.

Thought 1)
It is the end of another year and I am astounded by how much distance I have covered.

How do we ever manage to find the people we make our lives with – we get a leg up with our family, because if we’re lucky we don’t have to find them. But all the other people – the people who go bowling with us, the ones who cook us mac’n’cheese after a few drinks, the one’s who know any number of inane facts about us and who love us all the same – how do we ever, ever find them. How is that you can wake up suddenly and someone who is on the periphery of your life is suddenly one of the most important people in your world, while someone you pinned some dreams to is gone without a word, leaving only some questions? And how is it that some people are supposed to be in our lives forever and others only for as long as a trip on the subway? Why is it that sometimes the people we thought were forever end up getting off at the next stop?

We fold people into our lives, we take them with us and vice versa. And somehow it all works out. All of the folding and traveling and distance and storms and we change with each other, and sometimes we part ways, but if we are lucky we move forward. It is such a gift.

Thought 2)
It is the end of another year and time is a funny, funny thing. See – we tend to think of time as a constant natural law – like gravity, but its not. When you look at the stars you’re seeing light that started traveling towards the earth years ago. That same star you’re looking at could have died ages ago – the news just hasn’t reached us yet.

Maybe time is just a way of trying to make sense of the way life changes. I’m not the same person I was a year ago – but it wasn’t time that changed me. Life happens without a calendar. Go out and shake the world without getting hung up on time.

(I think it was Jim Elliot that wrote, “Wherever you are, be all there.” I get so wrapped up in thinking about what comes next that I miss the moment I’m in. And I really believe that every moment is valuable – the subway is an excellent place to learn this.)

And even though time isn’t a constant – we can’t go back and we can’t change it. There are no do-overs.

What do you want? Because whatever it is, it is not going to knock on your door and ask if you are ready. Does life happen to you, or do you happen to life? What have you got to lose? Go out and shake the world.

So tonight marks another year. “Good luck, exploring the infinite abyss.”

Just when it feels like my feet are finally starting to know their way around this city, I find that it's nearly time for me to head back home. I'm excited about that, but I know I want more time in this city - in this country. Who knows, maybe I'll read law at Oxford and join the inns of court?

So here's my A to Zed of London - or at least how I perceive it tonight.

A: Allsop or Alsop - which is how my name is always misspelled over here. The second "L" I've seen before, but the "O" is a new variation. Allsop is also the name of a very successful real estate company over here.

B: Barbican - the crazy, industrial chic part of London that I work in. It landed itself on a list of "Ugliest Areas in London" earlier this year. But it's not bad.

C: Colin Firth. Who Jo and I happened to run into at Leicester Square at the same time we saw Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgewick. We're not a crazy celebrity stalkers, we just wanted to buy tickets to a musical and the London Film Festival just happened to be going on right across from the ticket booth.

D: Dancing at the Mean Fiddler up near Tottenham Court Road. Dance Contest. Strobe lights. London hipsters. The Clash's "London Calling" on the stereo.

E: E-mails with Blythe, Tim and Jo in the downtimes at our internships. These people are some of the smartest, funniest, insightful and passionate people I know. From discussing the presidential election and press coverage to learning fun facts from world fact books - these kids make me smile everyday.

F: Foyles book store - one of the best finds.

G: Great Ormond Street Hospital - did you know that the royalties from the sales of J.M. Barrie's "Peter Pan" go to this children's hospital. Go buy a copy - now!

H: Hogarth Road - with it's hotels, flats, Asian grocery stores and some good take-away places. Home.

I: Internship at the Methodist Recorder. Which has had it's ups and downs, but have made me more sure than ever about what I aspire to be as a journalist.

J: Jam - Blythe and Jo know what I'm talking about. Jam the bane of my existence.

K: King's Cross Station and the night we tried to see the Decemberists, but it was sold out so we walked down to the Thames and found a crazy bowling alley.

L: Lectures - lots of class lectures. The worst one was the one about Prehistoric England. Also the Laundrette - with it's slightly mean attendants.

M: Millenium Bridge - which I must say, is one of my favorite spots in London. St Paul's Cathedral on one side, the Tate Modern and Globe on the other and a really pretty bridge.

N: Notting Hill - well really the pub in Notting Hill that also has live jazz every Sunday afternoon. Also - George Orwell use to live there.

O: Oxford - the college town where I ate at the Eagle and Childe (where C.S. Lewis and Tolkien hung out) and Oxford Street - as in I'm going to go look at stuff I can't buy on Oxford Street.

P: Seeing "The Producers" in its first London run. Also seeing Nathan Lane reprise his starring role on Broadway as Max Bialystock after Richard Dreyfuss pansied out.

Q: Professor Quirell from the first Harry Potter book. The president of the Methodist Conference looks like Quirrell in the movie - it's freaky.

R: The Russian restaurant near Harrod's - Borscht and Tears, baby. Complete with live Russian music - even songs about freezing to death.

S: St. Bride's Church on Fleet Street. The church that is historically associated with journalists. I will say that one of my best memories from London will come from this church.

T: Trafalgar Square by night - I think this could be my favorite sight in London.

U: The Underground is a warm and happy place, like a womb.

V: Victoria and Albert. Victorian architecture. Statues of Queen Victoria everywhere.

W: Wesley. John Wesley. Founder of Methodism - whom I feel a lot closer too after my sojourn at the Methodist Recorder. We ran a full length column the other day dealing entirely with the subject of whether he was a vegetarian - whether or not an old, dead guy was a vegitarian. Hard hitting news, folks, hard hitting.

X: "Xenophobia" as in I have seen the word "xenophobia" in newspapers over here way more than I ever have in the states.

Y: Young directors giving lectures on the Globe theatre. Young directors with dark hair and eyes. Dreamy young directors. Nuff said.

Z: Zed - as in no one says "Z" here, it's always zed.

Edinburgh

Can I say I love art? Cause I do.

Saw "Three Tahitians" by Paul Gaugain today - part of one of my favorite group of paintings ever. I just about had a fit - okay - I did have a fit when I saw it. The colours. The warmth. The fact that one of the figures has their back turned. Goodness - it's good.

Low key weekends are also fantastic. As are happybooks.

Train rides. Rugged hikes. Clean hostels. Good food. Pints. Beautiful cities. The ocean. Bagpipes. All things that are rocking my socks off.

What a blessing this entire time has been!!

Next weekend - Paris. Quite Shortly... The World!!!!

Estoy aqui.

I am in Madrid. I am leaving on Friday and I am already thinking about how to get back here.

My Spanish isn´t great, but being able to communicate with people is thrilling.

Yesterday, an old Spainard and I talked about bullfights. Mostly he talked and I listened. But I understood and that is a gift beyond words.

I'm off to Spain tomorrow for the mid-term break.

Those of you reading this should know that I am excited out of my mind. But in case you didn't - I'm excited out of my mind.

Sun. Spanish. Good Food. Good Company. Really - do you need anything else in life. No. I'm so glad you agree.

Rather than be the girl who never updates, here you go...

Post-o-Wonders 0r random meanderings through my mind:

1) I saw an American company perform "Death of a Salesman" - it was. It was. I've made my peace with it since the last time I threw myself into it.

2) I bought some colored pencils. And a little green journal with blank pages. Sometimes in the evening I write and then doodle in the margins with colored pencils.

3) I've decided I should be the boss - eventually.

4) I've also come to other conclusions. You know that moment when you realize that you've been going in a completely opposite direction than you ought. That's a good moment. I had it the other day and I danced.

5) My mom sent me some pictures - three of which were all taken on the same day - and that day is one of my best days of my entire life. Looking at the pictures is almost like being there again. So thanks to Mel, John Doe, Sam and Jon for now appearing in pictures on my wall (P.S. Jenny - you would be there too, but you left before we got the camera out)

6) My parents make me really happy.

7) I saw the ocean yesterday. I smelled the ocean yesterday. That was the best part of yesterday.

8) Old church ladies are the same everywhere - from Dallas to Dublin, they all encourage you to "join them after service for coffee and biscuits." Coffee in the crypt of ChristChurch Cathedral, no less.

9) It's a bad moment when you think "Alright tasty veggies - who wants to come home with me," in the grocery store. It's worse if you say it out loud.

10) I should find some coffee. And a cake. And that should happen...now.