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.