It's raining here in Baltimore. I was on my way to bed and I got caught up in the lightning. Watching it crack against the sky over Baltimore, where the air has been full for days of storms waiting to burst.
Some jazz crackling through the stereo, and storms rolling in. And maybe things will:
cool off.
slow down.
mellow out.

Maybe I'll
worry less.
rest more.

My days at school are mostly good. Hectic, yes. But mostly good. It can be a wearing place to be, but that's not the kids fault. I understand why teachers go back every year. There's such great need.

Chess club met for the first time today. Three kids came. That is a start. It went well - two had never played before, and one had just learned how. we introduced the pieces - it is a game of kings and nobility I told them and we will conduct ourselves as such. We talked about the lowly pawn, brave footsoldier he, the bishop sneaky and mean, the knight, gallant and quick, the rook, solid and protective, the queen all powerful and the stately, treasured king.

The school needs security cameras for two blind spots on our grounds - I'm in the process of looking for grants and funding for this- if any of you have any suggestions, I welcome them.

The community rec center attached to our school is finally getting up and running. I hope our chess club will be meeting there soon. There is a non-profit organization running it, and I think good, good things will come of it. I've already shown my face round there, and said I'm available to teach music lessons to kids - apparently there's a lot of interest in that.

And so hope starts to grow. The kids have a place to hang out after school, a place that will only get better, things seem to be going well at school. This is how communities turn around - hope begins to grow.

Go well, stay well.

No matter how hard I try to remind myself that I will not have to teach forever, or how much I try to remember all I have to be thankful for, somedays just feel like Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

Half a league, half a league
Half a league onward
All in the Valley of Death
Rode the six hundred...

'Forward the Light Brigade!
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why
Theirs but to do and die.

Then there are other days when I take a line from Bob Dylan and say to Baltimore:
If I'd known had bad you'd treat me
Honey, I never would have come.

Some days are all King Henry V and once more into the breach, and we few, we happy few, we band of brothers we and these things shall the good man teach his son.

Other days still, are just standing on Boo Radley's front porch and walking around in his shoes for a while and trying to understand.

And so it's another Monday here in the East - the same East that James Gatsby and Quentin Compson did so well in. Monday here in Baltimore where the fog hangs low with heat and heaviness in the second week of October, in the second year of my being here.

Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.

Washington Morning

Saturday morning, October sun falling on the rough pavement twinkling, blinking up at passersby.
Old songs on the stereo, nearly empty coffee cup, the remains of an apple pie on the kitchen table and a comfortable trio of friends reading the paper making lazy plans in lazy ways.
Existing where one's feet are, sheltering in Sabbath rest, laughing and jiving and singing and playing.
Coming round a table, walking on the street, shoes off on the National Mall tossing a white frisbee in the shadow of Smithsonian structures.
Metro rumbling, sidewalk shuffling, Saturday morning in an old pair of shoes, with an old pair of friends in an October sun.

It may surprise you, gentle reader, but I was a precocious child of eccentric tastes. Raffi’s Baby Beluga was fine, but for my money I dug the Broadway Cast Recording of Evita starring Patti LuPone in the title role. I am not making this up. By the time I was 5, I had the entire piece memorized.

When my niece was about 3 she had a real thing for the Beatles and Eleanor Rigby was her favorite song. I always found it disconcerting to hear those lyrics coming out of her 3 year old mouth (all the lonely people, where do they all come from?). I can only imagine that the lyrics of Don’t Cry for me Argentina (So I chose freedom, running around trying everything new, but nothing impressed me at all) emanating from me were equally disturbing to my family.

We owned this recording because my Dad saw the play, with Ms. LuPone, in New York. In a theatre so small he could smell the smoke from Mandy Patinkin’s cigar. He has always said that the show “was great.”

She won a Tony for that show, she originated the role of Fantine in the London production of Les Miserables. Most recently she was in the outstanding 2005 revival of Sweeney Todd, in New York. When she is on a stage she commands it, her voice able to navigate deep gravity of emotion as well as delicate comic turns.

I heard the orchestra director at Mizzou say that as musicians, we must absolutely walk the very edge of disaster, must be willing to walk to the very edge and then that tiny bit more – if we don’t walk that line then we are serving neither our art or our audience. It stirs no great response to give a perfectly safe performance. And this is the kind of performer LuPone is – you can hear it in every recording she has ever made.

In her turn as Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd, LuPone at once inspires revulsion and sympathy for a character who by all rights is disgusting. The audience, despite Mrs. Lovett’s obvious flaws, does want her on some level to get a house by the sea with Mr. T.

Tomorrow night I will hear LuPone in person. She will sing and I will bask in the presence of one of the all time great performers. And it will be a wonderful evening.

Woolgathering:
When the little girl, who often struggles with classwork, saw her paper on the board with a sticker and a one hundred on the board - that was a good moment.

When my student stood in the line to go to lunch with a book in his hand I asked him what he was doing with the book. "I want to read at lunch," he said. That was a really good moment, and read he did - I saw him.

Other thoughts:
Good weekend - books and card games and songs and lots of food and sweet company. I heard Ken Burns speak at the National Book Festival and it was really eloquent and inspiring.

Further thoughts:
Patti LuPone on Friday - get excited!

Misguided, but funny
This week the children and I read part of Sarah, Plain and Tall. This is what one of my students put in answer to the question:
How do the chilren first recognize Sarah? (the correct answer is that she is wearing a yellow bonnet)
The children first recognize Sarah because the see her on page 51 and that's when she was introduced.

A bit more literal than was needed.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates.
I wasn’t going to go to prayer on the lawn this morning at my school. Every Monday morning there is a small prayer group that comes for Morning Glory and I have the same internal dialogue each Monday.

“You best get yourself to prayer.”
“I’ve prayed already this morning and I could really use this time in my classroom.”
“You best get yourself to prayer and start this week off right, don’t matter if you already prayed, pray again.”
“But I need to prepare.”

And then sometimes, the voice of one my co-workers comes through the ceiling intercom, not unlike one might imagine, the voice of the Lord from the heavens, and says “Ms. Alsup, you coming round to Morning Glory, it’s starting.” Translation: “You best get yourself to prayer.”

“Be right there,” I answer.

This morning was Prayer on the Lawn, inviting the members of the community, parents and children to pray with us.

It was a small gathering, and the Eastern sun rose over our backs and lit the faces of the ministers and the pray-ers and the Amens rose up to the sky. Hallelujah, yes Lord Jesus.

We prayed over the students. We prayed over the parents. We even lifted up a prayer for the facilities and for the cafeteria. Hallelujah, yes Lord Jesus.

A minister in a snappy brown suit and fedora led the service, introducing community members. Another minister, so frail he looked as though he might blow away and with a voice like a wispy breeze, prayed in fervent tones. The Amens rose to the sky. Hallelujah, yes Lord.

The congregation swayed to each prayer, hallelujah yes.
And then the bishop of a local church came to give the benediction. “I have a two minute thought for you from Psalm 24 this morning.” And those familiar with a Baptist church know that it is never just a two minute thought, and the congregation dug in its heels for the haul and began to warm up to the subject.

“Lift up your heads O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in.”
“Yes Lord.”
“Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle.”
“Hallelujah, yes.”
“Lift up your heads, O ye gates,” the minister implored us. “Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The LORD of hosts, he is the King of glory.”
“Amen”

The sun lit his face and his smile, and he leaned forward to give his message to us.

“We’re going to do something different now, brothers and sisters, we been bowing our heads all morning, but this time we are going to lift them up, lift up our eyes to the heavens.”

He went on to say that life can bow your head, that life will bow your head. Troubles come and we bow our heads and we get so low we forget to lift our eyes up to the hills. And his voice started a long crescendo and the congregation began to sway a little.

Lift up your eyes he said. Life will bow our heads, and our students’ heads. And it ain’t always the devil, friends, it’s just life and its trials and troubles. So teachers: we must help our students lift their heads, and parents: we must help our students lift their heads. And teachers you got to keep your heads so up so that you can lead your students.

The crescendo rose, and the congregation swayed one foot to the other; the Amens rose to the heavens. Hallelujah, Lord Jesus. A woman in a gray hat clapped her hands together, and said “Come on, Holy Ghost,” as though exhorting an athlete to get warmed up and really let us have it.

And community, he shouted through the speaker over our small number to the sleeping houses beyond, We gotta Lift. Up. Our. Heads. Amen. Amen and amen. Praise Jesus. If you get up every morning, and you take time to talk to Lord, He will lift up your head If you get up, even while the dew is still on the roses, He will lift up your head. Mmm, yes Lord.

And the swaying slowed, Amens fell to murmurs and in we went to welcome the students, heads up and eyes on the hills. Morning and afternoon, a whole school day; I believe the Lord saw it, and I believe He declared it was good.

And all God’s people said: Amen.

14 Days till Ms. LuPone:
Ever since I was a wee musician, I have known that there are just some performers one should go see. Musicians who are such consumate talents that they define genres - my list is relatively short, though I add to it occasionally.
Wynton Marsalis - saw him at Jesse Hall.
The Count Basie Big Band - done in Dallas.
Sonny Rollins - still trying to get myself to New York.
Patti LuPone - 14 days and counting.

I am way pumped.

And now for something completely different:
In a departure from its usually meaningful content, Bears and Penguins brings you things that make Sara laugh out loud. (Admittedly it helps to be familiar with Wuthering Heights)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0vgZ2UNS54

Rather Endearing:

I turned on the local news this morning to see the results of the mayoral primary here in Charm City. While I was waiting for that story, the weather came on, and something I've never seen before happened:
As the weather woman was describing yesterday and today's cooler temperature, the word "PLEASANT" showed up on the weather map right over Maryland in large red letters. On the competing channel, the words "PLEASANT" and "QUITE COOL" showed up over the state.
Maybe in winter, they'll put up "Really effing cold." That would make me laugh.

Democracy Disappointment:
I was definitely disappointed by the results of the mayoral primary - my guy got knocked completely out of the race. I'm not sure quite how Baltimore's electoral system works, but the winner of the primary is definitely going to be the mayor. I guess it says a lot about the Union vote.

Third Week of School:
Teaching is an exhausting job. It just is, no matter how wonderful the students. But so far the students are doing well in spelling, though less well in reading comprehension.

One more election thought:
It's no secret that I'm not having a huge love affair with Baltimore, but...There is a certain way that Baltimore people sound that is unlike any place else I've been, and you could definitely hear it in the acceptance speeches of the mayor and the city council president. And somehow it's endearing to me - it just sounds like Baltimore.

Best get on with my day then. But there are things to look forward too, and that is not a bad thing.

I remember very clearly in one of the English Royal Palaces I toured that there were two little girls, probably 7 or 8, who were staring at the queen’s throne. They had long hair and were dressed in t-shirts and shorts, and were the closest of friends.

“Ooo, that’s where She sits.”
“Ooo.”

And it was the epitome of all little girls who know that truly it is good to be the princess, but also a unique view into my American country. An American child learns that the White House is a house of the people.

One of my students wrote in his journal that he knew he could be anything, even the President, if he worked hard at reading. This is our American right: that any of us may seek to lead our nation, that we all in fact bear the responsibility to do so. When I watched those two little girls I realized that no American child was ever meant to think that they could not sit in the seat of government. That an American child may look at the tallest chair in the cabinet room and say, “Someday, it will be me.”

So much of the White House and the presidency seems inaccessible: a person not of us, a house unknown by its meanest citizens. It stands austerely cool cloaked in white, set well back from the masses teeming, its surrounding grounds sylvan in aspect as though to say, “I am well above, as needs must be, to protect the fragile system cherished.”

Still the White House seemed just a bit smaller, a bit more approachable, a bit more warmly American and welcoming when I left it this afternoon. When I left having seen Teddy Roosevelt’s Medal of Honor, having seen lithograph prints of Lincoln and his cabinet, having seen Norman Rockwell’s take on the West Wing tour, having touched the chair in which the Wall Street Journal sits in the press room and breathed deep the smell of richly turned earth in the rose garden. The White House seemed a bit more mine after all that, and certainly a bit more the house of the children which I teach. It is a place embodying both the greatest triumphs and most heartbreaking failures of the American people and it is humbling in both respects.

I couldn’t help but think that if we could just get everyone in America on a bus with a brown bag lunch and let them see these things too, that finally we would start to get it together as a people. We’ve grown too far removed from the people’s house these days.

In Jefferson’s administration, great Western Native American chiefs camped on the White House lawn, having come at the president’s invitation.

In the Lincoln years, when enemy campfires could be seen from the grand old see, the people of the city would come to celebrate and mourn and serenade the President and his lady. Remember he was the man who famously declared our nation a “government of the people, for the people and by the people.”

And at no time is that feeling more clearly crystallized than in stepping from the halls of history and power and decision into crisp sunlight, knowing that any of us may lead, in fact all of us must.

I imagine the British girls, as young Americans, heads bent together in conference at the richness of furnishings before them, and saying not “that is his seat,” but rather “that is our seat.”

A charge and house to keep have we the people, a gift of wise, if fallible, men. May we keep our house, as well as they intended us too.

I think this is maybe the fourth incarnation of Bears and Penguins, the title I chose as a nod to my favorite writer, favorite book and favorite animals - efficiency is key.

Clean slate. Back in Baltimore - a city who's NPR station declared it difficult to love to day on air. This is not untrue, nor is it untrue that some people love it. I feel neither love nor hate. The feeling that comes most strongly is gratitude for what I see. Though it is hard, it has changed me, and I think time will bear this out, for the better.

It is a strange experience here, like the haze that cloaks the harbor bridge keeping hidden all perspective. And it is gratitude I feel when I hear Miss Y. playing gospel music in her room and singing, oh she sings, and how she loves those children she teaches. The children who are often very damaged and needing her careful, gracious patience. Gratitude I feel when Miss C advises me to get my room annointed. Gratitude and admiration for the teachers who have been at the Radiant for 22 and more years. That's something, that's a real thing, a deep committment.

I am a short timer here. But when I leave, those teachers will still be working, striving to be everything for children who have nothing. I do think there is too great a tendency to canonize teachers as though they were holy, sanctified and infallible beings. And yet, I know some very fine teachers at the Radiant and they are greater because of their love.

Love bears up, and is not always softly gentle. Love bears all things. The gangs, and the drugs, the dangers and disappointments. Love bears up, and the teachers come back to the Radiant, to hang paper over gray walls, to set up aquariums for hermit crabs and snakes, to calculate how many books may be purchased - secondhand - for the children. Love bears up.

So I feel gratitude to have been taken in, to have observed and taken part. Gratitude for the year ahead, however fraught it may be with all the inner-city trauma that is par for the course. Gratitude because in Baltimore, these things remain: faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.

Sara and Lynn are G.T.T.

Letting you know so you can cross your fingers...

We might get a half day today because of heat (all the Texans roll your eyes now). If the mercury tips 90 by 11, it's a holiday in the city.

Out of context at the Radiant:
*Yes, these things have all been said this week, and only one of them was said by a student. I laugh occassionally at work.

"Guerilla warfare is a bitch."

"I wasn't a drug man, I was an alcohol man."

"Are the eighth graders wearing clothes at their graduation?"

"Will we go swimming in the gym today?"

"Who is that over there - oh it's Godzilla."

"When she said, 'Call the po-po, I called the po-po."

"If he be stinking like that, than she must be stinking too."

While Blythe was here in Baltimore she told me that she had read something about, and I paraphrase, putting your credo into 6 words. 6 words to describe the way you wish to live, how you define it. 6 words is not a lot.
This was (is) mine:
"Hand to the plow, forward ho."
I don't think I could have come up with anything better than that.

There are four weeks left in the school year; between field trips and school assemblies it promises to be a busy time. Texas is so close that I can taste it. Some of my friends are traveling the world this summer, but I'm more than content to turn my feet toward Texas.

I grow weary in the work, and it's hard not to give up sometimes. But hand to the plow, you know.

I read through the book of Jonah yesterday. Of course all Bible characters are human, but some seem much more human than others, and I always seem to identify with the worst of them - Thomas "I'll believe it when I see it."
Peter "I talk a good game, but lose it when it counts."
Moses "I'm a stubborn fool."
and Jonah "I'll go my own way, thank you very much."

Anyway, I don't like Jonah much, but I know him. After he goes to Nineveh, he gets angry because (long story short) the Lord shows compassion on the people. God asks Jonah what right he has to be angry, and of course, the answer is none.

This hit me hard this week, because it's ever so easy to throw myself a pity party here. And the question that comes to me when I want to call a friend and whine and ask sympathy, the answer that comes (as I know it should) is "So what?"

I'm fed, clothed and sheltered. I've friends and family who pray for me. I've hobbies and enjoyments and experiences to fall back on. Whereas the kids I teach have not. So what does it matter when I have a tough day, a lot of the students I teach have tough lives.

What right have I to a pity party? None.

So humbled, I reach my hand once more the plow, placing the traces about my shoulder. Forward ho.

News Flash:
For the first time ever, Bears and Penguins comes to you from an airport. Normally I never use airport internet, but then I realized my atm card had fallen out of my pocket somewhere between downtown Baltimore and the airport. Thus I had to find the number of my bank for to cancel the card, order a new one, and determine how I was going to access my hard earned money for this weeks travels. No ATMs for me this week, I must organize myself as I have to walk into the bank and interact with actual people to get the green.

April Fools:
Parked my car. Got my stuff out. Snow started falling from the sky. True story.

Northeast:
While checking in for my flight, I ran into a fellow TFAer who teaches middle school at Northesast, which has been getting a lot of press lately because teachers are being attacked. One teacher, my colleague told me, was beaten with her own cane. My friend said other teachers had been asking when that teacher was going to come back. My friend said, "Never. No one would go back. If you got beat with your own cane you would not go back." I agreed. The violence is part of gang initiations. Laine said that students are always flashing gang signs in the halls. She said she flashes her Language Arts sign (form L with both hands, turn left hand upside down so thumbs form arm of L and crossbar of the A) I just laughed.

If you're not in the middle of it everyday, it might seem scary of dangerous or horrible or any other number of things, and it is all those things, but I guess we learn to be in it and not get torn apart by it. If I thought n depth about all the terrible things, the violence and poverety and everything else, I'd never set foot in my classroom again.

Always Teaching:
Yesterday, the third and foruth grades went bowling (except there were little balls and pins) and because only one of the third grade teachers and no third grade parents went, I got to watch over some of the babies. Anyway, this one little girl LaShawna, had clearly never been bowling, this was true of a lot of the kids, but she would just kind of walk up to the line and heft the ball by flicking her wrist like you would a frisbee, she would turn so that she threw from the hip sideways. So the next time her turn came up, I said, "What's your name?" "LaShawna"
"Okay, LaShawna, let me show you."
So we got her ball, and I put her hand underneath it, not on the side, and we practiced taking two big steps, and then a little one while bending our knees and laying the ball right between the arrows. We practicecd a couple of times before letting it go. When her turn came up, her concentration was visible "Big step, big step, bend and go."
We watched how Mr. Samuels took his steps and released the ball. By the end of the day she got a couple of strikes. And I was right behind her when she came back with her hands up for a high five.

***
Spring break, y'all.
I got my boots on.
I'll be under a Texas sky.
I'll be west.
I'll be home.
As of now, I am G.T.T.

Go well, stay well.

Putting it in Perspective:

The toughest kid in the whole fourth grade is frequently described as "street" meaning basically that he has to fend for himself cause ain't no one else looking out for him.

He is angry. Disruptive. Manipulative. And many times, mean. He is often completely anti-social.

I kept him in the class today from his music class because of his behavior, and after the requisite "Man, I didn't do nothing," we settled into a tense, but peaceful silence, punctuated by his occasional soliloquies. Once he startled himself and jerked. "You okay?" I asked.

"I was daydreaming" he said.

"Good dream or bad?" I asked.

"Bad." he said. "About the devil."

The following has to do with something he hears frequently from another teacher.

"Talk. Talk. Talk. I'm going to jail for talking. Going to jail for talking. Well there are worse things than going to jail."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Going to hell."

"Well, I guess that's true," I said.

And though he is street, he posesses a child's earnestness.

Bad daydreams. A devil on his way to snatch, and a stop in jail on the way. Pants that don't fit, clothes that aren't clean. Bouts of ringworm and an aching hunger. Is it any wonder that he's mad at the world?

I would be too.

Stream of Consciousness Continues:
Completed the A section of my iTunes and am now in the middle of B. Sometimes it is painful to not skip a song, either cause I'm not in the mood to hear or because it's something weird, but soldier on I do. (Caleb, Simon and Garfunkel's America came before Bernstein's, becase the artists were listed as Various, and obviously S comes before V.)

And now friends, the answer is blowing in the wind. After that I embark on the 14 songs in my library whose titles start with the word "blue" or "blues".

Thoughts thus far: Pat Metheny seems to have gotten a lot of play in the A section. Also some things are difficult to listen to out of context of their larger work, so that by itself, one little Allegro from Handle is a little bizarrish when it comes between two pop songs. Copland's Applachin Spring got listened to out of movement order because of the alphbetation, but this presented a fresh listen to the music I'm very familiar with. Because I also have many instances of the same song by different, and sometimes the same, artists it's been interesting to compare interpretations. For example the difference between the An American in Paris conducted by Gershwin, versus a version conducted by Bernstein.

Biggest surprise: Since the first time I heard An American in Paris in roughly middle school, I've thought I hated that piece. But it turns out I don't. Go out and listen to it.

Glory Hallelujah
Totally forgot it was Palm Sunday weekend, until I ventured to the grocery store Saturday evening and saw people lined up with Palm Fronds outside the Cathedral, it still took me a minute to put it all together. "What are all these people doing, and why do they have palm fronds?...."

Church! Faith! Thoughts!
Thought this was going to be a long section, huh? Nope. A friend of mine did ask me this weekend what I believe and why. This is always a challenging question. Not the what so much as the why. I'm still not thoroughly satisified with the answer I gave - I believe I probably could have expressed things more clearly. But it's always an interesting question to ask yourself - Can you give a good answer?

Also, I went to St. Paul's Episcopal on Sunday. I really appreciate the Easter season, for me it's where the heart of Christianity is wrapped up. And so there's no better time to ask the what and why then right now.

You know you teach in the inner city when:
A good portion of your faculty meeting is spent discussing the rise of gangs in the community and what colors to monitor and ask students to remove - this is a bigger issue in the middle school, but more prevalent in the elementary than you would think. We were also reminded that gangs recruit via MySpace - clearly technology makes everything better.

Recommended Reading:
If you're looking to be completely freaked out by the reality of drug culture in the inner city, the effects of poverty and lack of structure, then rush right out and get The Corner by David Simon and Edward Burns. It follows some Baltimore residents through a year of life. I won't say it completely changed my perspective, but it did give me a few missing puzzle pieces to understanding this city and culture.

If you're looking for lighter fare: Well, I probably can't help you, it's not my thing. I'm currently reading Watership Down on Melissa's recommendation - initial thoughts: This book is weird, why are rabbits talking (Hlao-roo, and flay-rah). But it has since hooked me.

I finished Lonesome Dove last month, but I can't talk about it yet, I'm still a little emotional over it.. You should read it though. Thanks to Blythe for bringing it my way.

And the whole comments thing:
Four comments on the last post is good, more is better. Come on folks, give me a shout out here. I recognize the writing is not up to Bears and Penguins usual standard, but gimme a break, gimme something. Consider the comments like instant validation for me - yes, I know it's selfish to ask, but there it is. It is to be hoped that Bears and Penguins returns to a higher standard in the near future...

Ahoy:
My brother has said that since I got to Baltimore my blog has become depressing, and I would have to agree with him. Really, who wants to read about the fact that two middle school teachers got punched by students this week - one in the face, and that a couple of fifth graders drew blood in a fight in the cafeteria. Right, no one wants to read that. So I won't write about it.

Musicality:
There are 2192 songs on my iTunes. I'm currently listening to them in alphabetical order, skipping over the audiobook genre. My songs are currently being brought to me by the letter A. Right now I'm on Bernstein's America from West Side Story. Just switched over to American Idiot by Green Day. The alphabetical order provides organized randomness that I appreciate.

Shakira, Shakira:
According to my small girl group who fancy themselves the up and coming Dreamgirls - I look like Shakira. Who knew? This girl group also tried to guess my age - with guesses ranging as high as 40 and low as 14.

Puppies!
I saw an Irish Wolfhound in person the other day. Now I'm a loyal schnauzer fan, but those wolfhounds are beautfiul and I want one, because they are bigger than a Shetland pony. But since I don't have room, or money, don't expect an animal acquisition anytime soon. However, I would like to write a children's book featuring an Irish Wolfhound and a schnauzer - their names are Seamus and Schnitzel.

Speaking of Germany:
The Lives of Others, the little German film that took home an Oscar is amazing and you should stop reading this mindless blog entry and go see it now! Seriously, now! Why are you still here?

Lunch Bunch:
On Thursdays and Fridays, students that have been well behaved the entire week get to come eat lunch with me in the classroom. It seems a small thing, but it's a big deal for them as more often then not the lunch room is a riot waiting to happen, and many days they must have silent lunch - as in no talking, at all. And it's become my favorite time of the week. In the small conversations I get to know the kids a little better. We also read aloud during these times. I'm reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to one, and Sideways Stories from Wayside School to another. The kids get really into it, and I think they're starting to see why reading can be fun.

I think I'm going to bake some cookies today. And I'm also going to be checking my blog for comments, because gentle reader, they have been sorely lacking of late. I attribute this to the depressing nature of the blog lately, though I don't think this stream of consciousness business is much better. Still, post a comment or else! I mean that, or I'll bank yo' face. I ain't playing, either.

You tell me:

There are a lot of fights in my school. The spark can be something as little as bumping into someone accidentally, or staring at someone to the bigger ones of calling someone's mother a bitch.

I've said it all year, but my kids came to me with zero coping skills. There was no stopping point between, "I'm mildly annoyed,"and "I'm going to rip your face off." And I can't claim to have made great progress in this area.

Because here's the deal: when you have parents - who present or not, competent or not - remain their kids' greatest influencers telling their children to hit back when someone hits them, and to hit harder, then it's an uphill battle for a teacher.

Everytime I hear a parent tell a child this, or tell me that they have told their child this, it makes me viscerally angry. As I explained to one parent today, after I asked her to recondsider her position (this conference was after her son's suspension for fighting - what else), saying that not only did that place her son in danger, but it placed other children in danger as well and made the school an unsafe place. Furthermore it doesn't give the child skills to fix things with words or compromise. Which is why two of my brightest girls and sweetest girls felt it neccesary after tiffing today to say "Well I'm going have on the ground, you better watch it."

I believe these parents set this kids up for failure, and though I have heard the argument that sometimes in Baltimore the children need to know how to protect themselves, I still think it undermines the student for the parent to instruct the child this way.

The parents of course want it both ways - for the child to "protect" (more often prove) his or herself, but also for the child not to face the consequence. The above mentioned parent told her son to "hit back and [she] would take the consequences". I also encouraged her to reconsider this, reminding her that it was her son who would serve the suspension, and upon whose record the suspension would go, not hers. How much more assine could you possibly be than to say you were going to take the consequences for someone else's actions.

It just depresses me. If you want to know whether we're still going to be fighting wars 20 years from now, all you need to do is ask these parents if they're going to tell the children to hit 'em back and hit 'em harder.

If it's not one thing, it's another - and in the end it's the kids with the swollen eyes, and the missed school, and the daily fear of being hurt, who suffer the disruption of violence and who have to spend more time worrying about who put their hands on whom who suffer. Not the parents, not even the weariest, most discouraged teachers. The kids who are grabbing with hands, unclenched for the briefest of moments the world we are handing them.

Live Wire:

It's been another week in Baltimore. The first week of our standardized testing and yet another week that was hardly quiet. The most notably dramatic thing was a parent assaulting a child (not hers, but someone else's) by repeatedly slamming the girl's face into the side of a car.
After this incident my principal asked if the show "The Wire," would send her money for story ideas, or would want to come film at our school.

The latest season of "The Wire" focuses on Baltimore's school system, and most people that work agree that it's an accurate representation. Even though my school is not the worst in Baltimore, there's still a lot of violence, anger and strife. But in the fourth grade there are moments of grace.

On Thursdays and Fridays, the children who have been well behaved all week come and eat lunch with me in the classroom. We eat and typically read aloud, or sometimes play a game. I'm reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to one class, and Sideways Stories from Wayside School. These kids, some of whom were not at all sold on the idea of reading, are slowing hearing the stories come alive and are beginning to comprehend them on their own without a lot of prodding from me. This is very much true from the Sideways group, who pointed out that when the book said a dozen apples it meant 12 and that in order to reverse a magic spell the teacher said it backwards. Well done kiddos.

This week we continue on with the testing, finishing the math portion this week. The fourth graders are making progress, and as the year draws to a close I am beginning to really see that the work is making a difference.

And as though keeping my promise weren't enough to keep me in Baltimore...

The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra will be performing, not just one, but all nine of Beethoven's symphonies during the next season. This is important for two reasons:

1. Beethoven is hardcore, like Led Zepplin, and other rock bands.

2. Every day for months until just recently I listened to the last movement of the Beethoven's ninth. The Freedom Concert recording, Bernstein directing the Berlin Orchestra when the wall came down. It reminds me of what I am doing here, working so that we can all be free here in America. I like to play it really loud. Incidentally, loud German singing induces weird stares from children and co-workers alike. That music has pulled me through much of my time here, so I intend to be there to hear the BSO play it.

It snowed most of the day today, then it switched to drizzle. It might turn to freezing rain.
My brain feels snowy tonight too. I'm waiting for fish to thaw to cook a dinner I'm not particularly hungry for, but which I feel compelled to consume.
I'm going home to Texas this summer. I thought about sticking around Baltimore, but like I told a friend of mine today: if I am to make it through a second year teaching in this city, I feel going back to Texas is a must.
I've been casually perusing the summer job market back in Dallas. I found a rather perfect internship organizing an international mission trip as well as collecting, writing and editing the devotional guide to be given to participants. Alas, the job requires that I be in college. There's so much opportunity just in general, particularly in non-profit communications.
Occasionally here in Baltimore, I've glanced at other jobs, and I guess that's where my brain feels fuzzy tonight.
At the end of the day, I'm a short timer here in this city. I won't always be in a classroom with a broken window, no books and a sink labled "for handwashing only." Yet, I work everyday next to people who are anything but shortimers. People with 15, 25, 30 years in the system. It's a hard line to walk, as it's bad form to mention that teaching is not what I consider my career.
I can't imagine looking down 30 years in this system, or in this city.
It's hard to know how to reconcile that - about a year and a half left. And then on to what I'm sure many of my colleagues would consider "bigger and better" things.
I don't know if they'll be bigger and better. Different. And not here. For now I'll take both.
Teaching's a tougher gig than people realize, it ain't rocket science, but it ain't a cakewalk either.

Dinner time.

In which serendipity takes a hand

I got an e-mail Thursday night from a friend of mine:
"Sara, do you want to go the Vagina Monolouges"

Egdy, political and empowering - yeah, I'm there. Went all through college, haven't been since Columbia. Also enjoy having a social life that doesn't involve immediately closing the achievement gap.

"I'm so there."

An Ethiopian dinner and running a few minutes late later, we realize that while we know it's on Johns Hopkins' campus, we actually have no idea where. So we start asking strangers, who don't know, tell us it's on the medical campus and direct us to the nearest theater.

For some reason we stop into a building where there are two white haired ladies. They look like they are waiting. I go to examine a bulletin board while Kyle determines if they are also looking for the theater. They are. Neither Kyle or I mention the Vagina Monolouges, figuring that we're all on the same page or that there's another production going on. After a discussion of whether it - either the monologues or the unknown production - is taking place, Kyle volunteers to brave the cold. He looks back as if expecting me to follow him into the icy wilderness, and I say to the old ladies that while he can venture out in the cold I'm more than happy to wait indoors.

We chat amiably. I complement the lady who I come to know as Rose's hat. She says that she got in Scotland and does not intend to give it up to me. It comes out that Rose and Elizabeth worked in Baltimore County schools as a nurse and secretary respectively. They are small and whitehaired, they are anxious to find the theater. "It's that, or just sit at home and rot," says Rose.

Kyle returns, bearing brochures. He has found the theater, Rose and Elizabeth are excited. A glance at the program bids me know he has not found the monolouges, but rather the two person play, Talley's Folly that Rose and Elizabeth were headed to. We walk out in the cold together. I offer my arm to steady Elizabeth across the dark, somewhat icy pavement, and Kyle promptly presents his to Rose. And arm in arm we go, steadying one another in the dark.

We come to the theater, Kyle and I have exchanged a few glances as if to say, "This is not quite what we planned." But we go in nonetheless, delivering our charges, and then buying tickets to the show, because what else would we do? We are easily among the youngest people there. Rose and Elizabeth are senior ushers, and tear our tickets before we are even in line.

So we watch the play, two people set down in 1944 Lebanon, Missouri. It is a little cheesy, slightly dated and completely delightful, particulary for the unexpectedness of it all.

After the show, Kyle and I go to bid goodnight to Rose and Elizabeth, names are finally exchanged. Elizabeth pulls me forward after I grasp her hand and kisses me on the cheek. Kyle and I have made her night she says. What a blessing to hear, I say, she has certainly made mine, I say. Rose gives me her last name if I ever wish to look it up. She lives in the county.

We walk out. Having met two more parts of this puzzling city. Having come upon something unexpected, yet very pleasant, having shared warmth with other folks on such a terribly cold night.

It could not have been better if we planned it.

So here's to serendipty and school secretaries. Here's to ticket takers, and social planners and listening to stories and offering a steady arm as you ask a question. And here's to letting your feet go where they will. I'll remember it all much longer than I would have the monologues.

So sits the moon over us all. Over Kyle and I in our different city blocks, over Rose and Elizabeth in from the county, over all these people and their stories, so sits the moon over us all.

YES!!!!
Snow Day! Snow Day! Snow Day!

For those of you keeping track at home:
There is a snow advisory in effect till 7 am. Now faithful readers will know that for the past two months most blog posts have dealt with the possibility of a snow day. But if ever there were a day for a snow day, tomorrow would be it. I'm recovering from strep throat, and would like nothing better than an extra day of recovery on the city's payroll.
So put your pajamas on inside out. Dream sweet dreams of snow and hope that there will be a delicious snow day tomorrow.

And my insanity reaches new levels:
Faithful readers will also now that I am the embodiment of the maxim "First year teachers are sick all the time." Since August I've been completely well for approximately 3 weeks. And now I have strep throat. However, prior to this ailment, I enjoyed several days of health. I attribute this to showering twice a day. I've never felt more gross than I do after spending a day with about 40 ten year olds. And as there is no ventilation in my room, because my window is broken, I just end up simmering in germy kid soup.
I also have come to believe that eating at restaurants, sitting in cold rooms, and/ or touching anything makes me sick.

85 Days

I went out with some folks last night, friends from Teach for America. It came out that there are 85 days left in the school year.
The looks on our faces, and spirit of our hearts seemed to say "Thank God there comes an end."

We laughed and sparred and spoke. And with 85 days left in the first year of a most difficult work, inevitably someone asked if there were any regret of the choice. To a person we answered No.

I used to the think that the absence of regret rendered the presence of joy or contentment or mirth. Not so. The absence of regret is simply that lack of sorrow over an event. That I could have been much happier elsewhere I have no doubt, still that does not beget regret of choice.

For that I have no good explanation.

In the mornings, I drive by the St. Alphonus Catholic Church and I hear the bells ringing the people to seven o’clock mass. It is the best sound in the city, the bells. Underneath the steeple in the pale blue gray light, the people cross the street, mount the steps and rush through the doors to morning prayer. Old nuns, and young laborers mounting the steps to prayer beneath the bells.

The bells call my heart to prayer as well, as I drive by the steps on my way to my school.

A couple of weeks ago I was making my daily journey, and I heard the ringing of the bells, bells, bells. Goosebumps came up on my arms and neck as I realized that Edgar Allan Poe walked these Baltimore streets. Never mind the fact that Baltimore is merely the bookends to his life and much of his work was done in Virginia. It is in Baltimore that his roots lie and where he lays now in his grave under the bells of the city.

My heart continues to smile at the tintinnabulations of St. Alphonsus bells, my heart still moves to prayer, but not before my mouth murmurs a few words of Poe’s, “ah the bells, bells, bells.”

And...
No snow day. Not even a delayed opening. Damn.
Oh well, to work as usual. Hopefully, it'll be an alright day.
Chance of snow this Thursday or Friday - keep fingers crossed. And yes. I actually prayed for there to be a snow day today.

Update:
It's still snowing. I'm still lesson planning. But there is a winter weather advisory, and the snow is expected to continue through the night, possibly turning into freezing rain.
Keep fingers crossed.

Snow date:
It is currently snowing in Baltimore - wee, tiny delicate flakes. It will require a lot more for a snow day. But still, it's totally snowing!

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.