Things We Did in Portland

We got back from Portland on Tuesday, and I've got so many things to blog about they're falling through my fingers. Before more time goes by, here's a little laundry list of Things We Did In Portland (in no particular order):

spent time with great friends
baked bread
walked around the SE quite a bit
walked/hiked Mount Tabor
hiked in Forest Park
played kickball in the amphitheater in the Rose Test Garden
walked in Hoyt Arboretum
walked in the rain
stayed inside in the rain
played video games (mainly pinball, a driving game and air-hockey)
played hearts
played rummy
played chess (Justin & J, not me)
played upwords (me & E)
ate lots of good food, at the homes of our friends and at restaurants
shopped at a going-out-of-business junk-shop
visited three different natural foods stores, two of them co-ops
rode buses
rode light-rail (Max)
found the nearest p.o. branch
visited Powell's Books
had lots of great conversations

slept well
got very wet
enjoyed ourselves thoroughly

A Jaunt Down the Valley

Justin and I and another 1st year ling grad, H, drove down to Bakersfield yesterday. You know, just to celebrate the heat in truly California style by spending the day in a car in the central valley. No, really we went to a fundraiser for the Kawaiisu Language and Cultural Center.

The valley is always flatter than I remember, and wider, and longer. We drove past many crops and one large (and very smelly and depressing-looking) cattle operation (if you've driven down I-5 you know the one). We passed cotton gins and food processing plants and occasional and isolated farmhouses. I really wish the farmers of California would sign their crops along the highways. It would be great advertising for California produce, raise people's awareness of varieties and also remind people of where food comes from. I could identify a few things, but only on a really broad level: fruit or nut trees over here, some kind of grapes there, looks like wheat here. Could wheat already be golden and looking ready for harvest? I was also surprised because it seemed kind of short: more knee-high than waist high. The plant looked like wheat as we whizzed past at 70 mph, but I'd have loved to see a sign telling me about it.

The edge of Bakersfield where we got off the freeway was as unlovely as its reputation. We stopped in a corner store for directions and one of the customers was wearing a true sombrero, the kind you see on mariachi musicians, but this guy was just a guy in jeans and a t-shirt buying beer. His friend, in a cowboy hat and apparently already fairly well into a beer-hydration project (hence the red, not-so-white, and blue eyes), gave me really excellent and detailed directions, repeated several times and including hand gestures (while Sombrero Man in the background was saying, "Okay, she gets it!")

A few minutes later we saw on the road in front of us in the camper of a small pickup truck two nubian goats (the ones with the floppy ears). That made me really happy. We wondered if they were on their way to become BBQ or if they were just moving house/pasture. Maybe they were being taken down to the community pool for a swim. Who knows?

Arriving at the ranch, we found it a bigger event than we had expected. There were tents and tables and port-a-pots (bañitos), a bounce-house for the kids, and an amplified band playing classic country music. One of the three musicians was a Kawaiisu elder, and one of the last language speakers.

People had come from pretty far away: L.A., Palm Springs, even Texas. Many people were related to each other, maybe most, but not all. Some of those who had come from far away were from different tribes.

It was hot, even for the locals, and everyone mostly sat around and sweated. It seemed to me a great place to be to appreciate the full valley summer experience. I was really happy to simply sit and watch people interacting, but also enjoying talking to some people. There was a big feed: potato salad, green salad, chili beans, rolls, a big pile of meat with bbq sauce. Sheet cake for dessert. Lots of bottled water (no alcohol).

Some guys got up and did traditional music, drums and songs in language. A couple of elders danced a slow and solemn dance. They were a brother and sister and they held hands and moved in a stately way across the space in front of the musicians, back and forth, many times. It was quite moving.

People were acknowledged to the group, including one elder in her 90s. There were lots of reminders to buy raffle tickets and fill out language surveys and feel free to go back for seconds, there's lots of food back there.

There was a raffle with many, many prizes. I had just told H about my lucky streak in Australia where I won movie tickets several times in raffles, although I'd never won anything at home, when suddenly they were calling one of our numbers! In the end, four of our ten tickets were winners! The nicest prize we got was a medicine bag. When we were leaving, one of the musicians came up and told us that it was made by his friend Sarita, a member of an Iowa tribe.

After the raffle, the three old men played again and enticed a couple of women (one was a sister) to come up and sing with them. It was all very sweet and warm and community-feeling.

A little girl named Raina, about 2 or 3, befriended me. She was talking to me during the raffle (which was amplified), so I couldn't always hear her, but she had a few phrases which were easily discernible: "I'll be right back." "I'm just checking on you. Are you okay?" She would go off and do something and then come back to me with these phrases. Very cute. She knew my name and I think when we were leaving she called me her cousin, which makes sense since probably most people there were her cousins!

Street Shrine #1

This is the memorial at the end of my street where a young woman was killed last summer. She was a passenger in a car and was shot by someone in another car. I don't know much more than that. She didn't live on the street. She was about 21, I think.

On holidays (her birthday, valentine's day, etc.) this lightpost is decorated in her memory. Most recently it was decorated on mother's day, and I took this photo a few days later. The big mylar balloon has deflated, but you can see the handwritten notes, stuffed animals, photos and candles. There are stains on the sidewalk around the pole from the candles that were left there before and eventually melted.

The Secret Language of Academia

Use as many of these words and phrases as possible:

It's not entirely clear that...
There's a sense in which...
...a way in which...
It becomes problematic...
...to essentialize...
...which effectively...
The lens through which...
problematize
dichotomy
contextualize
calque
mediated
notion
qua
meta- (metacognition, meta-analysis, meta-data)
-ness (on words that don't usually have it, eg., thirdness, back-and-forthness)

Question to investigate: Is this language particular to the humanities and social sciences, or are these phrases and words familiar to those of you in other areas?

Please write in with additions and comments.

Visitor and Visiting

We had a brief but lovely visit with Steven last weekend. If anyone's looking for an excuse to go to Sweden, Steven and Ronald will be opening a B&B later this year and it's sure to be great! It's in the southwestern corner of Sweden, in a small village in the countryside, and not far from the beaches. (Yeah, we don't really think of going to Sweden for the beaches, but apparently the Norwegians do.)



Today I went on a Mother's Day walk along the Coastal Trail in San Francisco with F, C, and my parents. In the beginning it was a little cold and foggy, but was really beautiful and warm by the time we were walking back. We walked from above Sutro Baths to Eagle's Point (not far from China Beach in the Seacliff neighborhood), about 3.5 miles round trip, according to a site I just looked at. It's a really beautiful and easy walk, and I highly recommend it.

On their way out of town, I took my parents to check out the Albany Bulb, for a different type of walking along the bay. We just visited the main northern gallery, but also came across a small skate park that has been constructed on the Bulb which I hadn't seen before. It was just a simple bowl with a small hillock in the middle (I'm sure skateboarders have different names for these things), all concrete. We watched two skaters take turns. Both were in their twenties, one long-haired and loose-limbed with a graceful but kind of goofy style. The other was short-haired, with a more assertive style. Each would take the space to try a move, and then stop and let the other have the space. I love the politeness of turn taking among skaters, and how it's just unspoken. Obviously you'd want to keep going, but you don't because you understand that you have to share. I am always mesmerized by watching skaters, but soon we moved on to the sculptures.

I know I've posted a picture of this sculpture before, but this one has my cute parents in it, so I have to include it here.

We walked out, they drove me to El Cerrito BART, and we each headed in our opposite directions. Both the places we went today are so easy to get to, and so spectacular, it's really ridiculous that I don't go more often. It was nice to have Mother's Day as an impetus for a couple of nice outings!

Things That Should Be Available On Google Maps

1. Google Bike Maps/directions
When google-mapping a location, we should be able to click a tab and illuminate the bike routes, bike paths, and bike boulevards (each designation would be in a different color).

1.b It would be extra cool if there was a wiki element to the bike maps, so that people could comment on the bikability of a stretch of road: whether it had a lot of potholes, was particularly narrow with a lot of parked cars, etc. It could be set up so that when you roll your cursor over the map, comments pop up (comments contributed by anyone). (This is similar to the feature on Google Earth where people can add their own photos.)

2. Google Walking Distance Maps
You'd be able to google-map a location and then click on the pedometer tab which would change your cursor. You'd click on a corner, then click on the next corner, etc. till you had traced your walking/running route. It might be very short and simple (around the block), or a more convoluted path including sometimes retracing one's footsteps. The distance of your route would then be calculated for you, to the tenth of a mile (just like we get for driving distances). I think lots of people who are trying to drive less and exercise more would love knowing how much extra walking they're doing by, for example, parking down the street from work, or walking to the video store.

Please circulate these ideas until they reach the right ears!

Blood

I'm participating in a medical study, and today I made my second visit. The first visit consisted of a questionnaire, some body measurements, and a whole lot of paperwork wherein I agreed that I understood to whom the information would be released and the purposes for which it would be used. Really, really a lot of paperwork.

Today's visit started last night with a 12-hour fast, so that when they drew my blood, it would not be full of sugar and caffeine, I guess. The fellow who drew my blood was also the fellow who had weighed and measured me before. This time I found out that he was a medic in the army and was in Iraq from 2002-4. He said that taking blood in the army was quite different because everyone was muscular and had veins that pretty much stood out. Although he'd been drawing blood for over 5 years, he said he'd learned a lot since working at the university medical center because here he got to work with so many different kinds of people and because he often gets to see the same people more than once. He was very good and took a lot of my blood pretty much painlessly. He also managed to talk about his 'first casualty' without it seeming gruesome, maudlin, callous, or any number of other ways it might come out.

The next step involved going to another building and waiting in a--yes--waiting room while many other people came and went. While there, I overheard a young man talking about his time in the military, how, just after boot camp, he'd found himself drawing blood from a bunch of new recruits, even though he had no training. He was assigned to clean the clinic, but the clinic was short of medics and knew they had a huge group of new recruits coming in. So they asked this young man if he could draw blood. He said he could and they asked him to demonstrate--on himself! Apparently he did fine, as he then went on to draw blood from the new recruits. In response to a question I couldn't hear, he explained that he had just completed boot camp and was in the mindset of proving himself and besides he'd watched a lot of medical shows on the Discovery Channel.

In our Peace Corps training we had to prick our own fingers and make a microscope slide of our blood, something we might have to do if we suspected we had malaria and were too sick to travel (the idea being that you could send your malaria slide to the nearest clinic where someone could look for malaria parasites in your blood). It is a difficult thing to intentionally prick your own finger deeply enough to squeeze a few drops of blood out, especially if you are imagining having to do it at some future date when you are alone, shivery with fever, and weakened with diarrhea. It was clearly much more challenging for some than others. I wonder how we would have fared if we'd been asked to draw a vial of our own blood?

Best T-shirt I've seen all week:

"Shakespeare hates your emo poems."

Worn by a young man, kind of emo-looking, coming out of Dwinelle Hall, a strange sprawling building that houses all the language departments and linguistics, among others.

The Lost Doll

In an email exchange with a friend about an image in the poem I posted a few days ago (and I still feel weird about calling something a 'poem' that I don't consider complete, but there's no word for poem-to-be), I recalled a beloved poem from my childhood. A quick internet search offered up the title, author, and in fact the whole poem itself. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the illustration I remember so clearly. The poem is "The Lost Doll" by Charles Kingsley (bits of his biography on Wikipedia are amusing/appalling; check it out if you have a spare minute, but read the poem first).

The poem is kind of maudlin and sappy and not really anything special compared to much of the rest of the large quantity of poetry my parents read to me as a child, but for some reason I really liked it. I think the picture was important. It was sort of the reverse of the typical before-and-after shots: initially the doll is perfect, with a flouncy dress and a perky little matching blue bow in her perfect blond curls. In the larger "after" picture, she is dirty and bedraggled; not only is her hair ribbon missing, her arms are missing, her dress is muddied and ripped, etc. The message is that the doll is just as lovely to the little girl who lost and then found her in her ragged state as she was before. Maybe it provided a good counterpoint to all the beautiful princesses in the fairytales. Maybe I just related to the raggedy doll because I was a bit of a dirty outdoorsy girl myself. Maybe, at some level, I understood it as a message about the redemptive power of love.

Anyone else remember this poem from their own childhood? Any other favorite poems from childhood?

Toddler quilt

I just finished this quilt for my nephew's 2nd birthday this morning (the party is this afternoon). I've been working on it for awhile. I had a lot of fun picking out the fabrics (African animal themed) and figuring out how I wanted to put them together.

I had trouble with the binding on the other quilt I made (a few months ago), but thought that it was just a matter of experience and that maybe this one would be easier. In fact it was more difficult and turned out more amateurish than the first. Anyway, you can sure tell it's handmade! I want a quilting mentor! Nevertheless, it was fun and I like the overall effect. I sure get a lot of satisfaction from making things. I should probably do it more often.

You meet some great people on Amtrak

She's 67 and she's got 15 grandkids and five greats. The oldest grand is 35. She had seven kids but 14 pregnancies. It used to be that you could look at her and she'd get pregnant. The last one, though, he's got a different father and that man wasn't supposed to be able to have kids. He had mumps and the doctors said he was infertile. We coulda sued them doctors. All those kids were preemies and every one of 'em is over 6 feet tall now, and look at me--they call me shrimp. The oldest is 51, then 48, then 47... The oldest great grandkid is 15, so you figure if she has a baby in the next ten years, I'll be a great great grandmother. My youngest is 23, but she didn't come out of my belly. She's my sister's kid, but I raised her. She's my youngest. The youngest that came from me is my son. He's 35. He was reading at 2 years old. He was always advanced. When he was eleven, they wanted me to send him back east to a school for gifted kids, but I wouldn't do it. That's too far. Virginia, it was in Virginia. He went to college, but just before he was gonna be finished, he messed up and left there and came home. I told him, you go get your masters, your bachelors and any other degrees they're offering. Finally, he went back. He got his bachelors and his masters. He wants to be a sports commentator. One of my grands is in a group home in Sacramento. She's the only one I'm legally responsible for. I raised several of 'em because I didn't like the way my daughters was raising them. They said, "if you don't like they way we're doing it, why don't you do it," so I did. I believe in prevention, but not abortion.

Another First Draft Poem

Alter Image

The idea of me

that you keep in an alcove

of your mind

bothers me.

I want to take her away

and carry her around,

whacking her carelessly

into tables, leaving her

for a time head down

in the toy chest; later,

buried feet to armpits

in the sandbox

in a rainstorm.

Then I think of that alcove

empty, two votives burning

(or, worse, not burning),

and I want to put me back—

the new me: chipped, ripped,

bruised, wet. Is there a place

for a creature like that

in your mind?

Would the revised me

be relegated to a dark

storage closet with other

damaged icons?

I imagine the idea of me,

no longer able to stand,

propped against an idea

of your mother,

once cherished, now tarnished

and gathering dust.

Who else is on those shelves?

Maybe it's better if I leave

your idea of me

alone,

glowing softly in the candlelight

unaware of her own

impossibility, of her distance

from me.

After all, she isn't mine,

she's yours.

A little old, a little new, something home-made, something blue

Someone asked me recently about my workspace, so here's a picture of it. My laptop is on an old desk that belonged to some family member in the past, while my keyboard sits on a rolling pine table that I made to fit under the desk. I intended to stain it so that it wouldn't stand out so much against the darker desk, but I haven't got around to it yet, as I want a non-toxic and non-smelly stain.

In other news:

I went to Sacramento this weekend and had a good visit with friends and family. Got to meet one new person and got to introduce several people to each other. Lots of laughter, which is always a good thing. Incidentally, my mom recently went to a laughing yoga class (which sounds funny, yes, and that's a good thing). They said something like a minute of deep belly-laughing is like 10 minutes of exercise!

Many opportunities for laughter were available on Sunday when my friend R and I went to Grass Valley to see a matinee performance of The Philadelphia Story at the Center for the Arts. Before you think we were laughing at poor Tom Hanks dying of AIDS, please remember that that film was simply called "Philadelphia." The play we saw (originally seen on Broadway in 1939 and the following year made into a movie with Katherine Hepburn reprising her role from the stage) is a romantic comedy. It was funny and the a fine local performance, all the more fun because my friend, T.E. Wolfe, was one of the male leads (in the role for which Jimmy Stewart won his only Oscar). So, if you're looking for an excuse to go up to the hills, this is a good one. It plays for another couple of weekends.

Playing Dress-Ups!

While helping my mom go through a closet, I came across this antique dress. We believe it belonged to my great-great grandmother, Dulcibel Brown who was born in 1856. My mom remembers being told by her mother (who passed it on to her) that it was an everyday work dress. I hope that Dulcy was quite a bit smaller around the ribs than I am, as I can't imagine doing any work in it! An interesting feature is that the buttons down the front (waist to neck) are like cuff-links. That is, both sides of the placket have buttonholes, and they are held closed by two buttons adjoined by sturdy thread. If anybody knows about the history of clothes and knows why this would be done (rather than the usual way of attaching a button to one side and having a button hole in the other), please tell me.

Cultural Icon

I went and saw Nikki Giovanni last night at the Oakland Museum. Showed up later than I had originally planned, which is not such a common thing for me. In fact, I almost didn't go at all when I realized I was going to be later than the door-opening time, but fortunately I did go. They didn't open the doors at 6:45, but there was already quite a long line when I arrived at 7 as expected. Anyway, just as I got up to the theater doors, they started turning people away toward the auditorium and the live feed video screen. Rather than being a good sheep, I stood around, determined that there would be a space for me in the theater. Sure enough, my patience paid off and I ended up in the 2nd row!

Ms. Giovanni was amazing--truth-telling, joke-cracking, story-telling, gossiping, haranguing, scolding, praising, even a little play-acting, and smiling her dazzling smile. She has a no-nonsense straight-ahead style that matched her menswear look of necktie and suit, but also a really mischievous side. She seemed to be really enjoying herself quite thoroughly.

I think it was a special treat to see her in Oakland, as she seems to have a fond spot in her heart for us. Before she was introduced, the host of the event told the audience that we were going to have to be really efficient to do get autographs signed because we had to be out of the parking garage by 9:30. One of the first things Ms. Giovanni said was that she understood having to be out of the building but she wasn't going to turn anybody away. "We can go out on the street. I don't care. I'm not afraid of Oakland."

She talked about meeting Rosa Parks in an airport, and about her mother and sister dying of cancer, and she took Barack Obama to task for not defending Rev. Wright enough and took the Black community to task for bagging on Tavis for complaining about Obama dissing him, and she talked about gun control (for it), and about people being anti-abortion and then not wanting to provide any services for those born children. She criticized Juno as the dumbest movie of the year and criticized "Hils" for running a racist campaign. She talked about the books she's written, and she even read several poems, but mostly she talked. It wasn't, however, rambling and disconnected as I've made it seem through my stream-of-consciousness listing, but a coherent and cogent performance.

If you ever get the chance... go see her!

Happy Earth Day

I'd like you to parse that [Happy Earth] Day. It's easy to make fun of National [whatever] Day or Week or Month because it can imply that the rest of the time [whatever] can be ignored. (Think of Black History Month, Women's History Month, etc.)

While I understand those objections, I'd like to be less cynical than that and think of today as a day to bring our attention into sharper focus on issues that we are concerned with every day. Today is also a day to celebrate what we are doing right for the earth and to renew our commitments to do more (or at least not to slacken our resolve or give up in despair).

We don't have to do anything different today, just be aware, pay attention and be conscious of how we live. On the other hand, today might be a good day to start a new habit.

If you haven't discovered Grist yet, go check it out. It's an environmental news and commentary magazine, but so much funnier and hipper than that sounds!

For a local organization working on a lot of good causes, check out the Ella Baker Center, whose tagline is "Working for justice in the system, opportunity in our cities, and peace on our streets." Keep your eye on the founder, Van Jones, who is likely (I think) to be a key national figure soon. Look for him in President Obama's cabinet! Jones works on environmental issues and urban poverty issues, besides being a great and motivational speaker, with charisma to spare.

Have a beautiful day!

Next Year's Sitch

Several people have asked for more info about the school I'll be at next year. You can find the school website here, and a school blog written by students and staff here.

I will be teaching English Language Learners and struggling readers, as well as having an advisory group.

I will get to the school from here by (first) walking to Ashby BART, (then) riding BART to Richmond, and (finally) walking to the school. If I get impatient with the walking parts, I might replace them with bike riding, as I can put my bike on the train.

I have signed the contract and am excited to start in the fall. I may do a little planning work with the principal in June before I go to Australia.

Is this a satisfactory amount of info? What else d'you want to know?

House of Plastic Flowers

Here is the House of Plastic Flowers of which I wrote in the nearly-eponymously titled post. Isn't it great? Don't you want to walk up those steps? Doesn't it feel like a party or a celebration is about to begin?

A Long Bike Ride

I signed up to do some trash pick up at a park in Richmond this morning, a little gesture for Earth Day. So, I had a long bike ride this morning from my house to the Bay Trail in Berkeley to Richmond. I wish I could post a map with the bike route I took on it , but I can't figure out a way.

Anyhow, I rode over into Emeryville, then up to Berkeley Aquatic Park, over the freeway on the bike bridge to the Berkeley Marina, then north along the Bay Trail to Golden Gate Racetrack in Albany. The trail ends there, but one can ride back behind the racetrack (it's a little hill) and down to the Albany Bulb. From there I picked up the Bay Trail again and rode up past Point Isabel (which features a huge dog park next to the trail).

My intended destination was Vincent Park, Richmond. I was expecting a filthy shoreline where we'd be picking up broken bottles and dirty needles and old tires.

After the Meeker Slough, I found myself riding along a very well-kept trail with landscaping on both sides and quite populated byjoggers and bike riders and walkers who presumably lived in the gated community to my right. I kept going and came to a bay full of sailboats and kept going until the trail ended at a chainlink fence and an oak tree. Heading into the parking lot there, I found a map which told me that I was at Lucretia Edwards Park and had gone right past Vincent Park.

I rode back to Vincent Park (my jaunt to Lucretia having added an extra 4.4 miles to my trip--there's a detailed map of Richmond Marina with mileage here), where the group was getting off to a late start and in fact was heading further back down the trail to another park I had passed, Shimada Peace Park. I locked up there, and then we walked down the trail back to the slough area, and just beyond that we picked up trash. It wasn't that trashy looking until we got down in it.

A great proportion of the trash was from convenience foods: plastic straws, plastic drink caps, styrofoam bits from containers, plastic to-go coffee lids, foil chip bags, etc. I was thinking how good it would be to do a lesson with kids that included nutrition and environmental issues and included a little shore cleanup.

[Let me note that I did not come across any plastic flowers!]

It took me about an hour to get home, riding easy and slow. The best I could figure out, it's probably between 8-10 miles from my house up to Vincent Park, so my total today was at least 20 miles, maybe as much as 25--anyway, a lot more than usual!

I'm sorry I didn't bring my camera and have no photos to post.

Plastic Flowers

How do I feel about plastic flowers? Scorn. Disdain. Like any imitation, they are obviously inferior to the Real Thing, right? They belong with polyester, flavors instead of extracts, shake-on parmesan cheese, fake wood paneling. No, don't try to talk to me about silk flowers, either.

But how do I explain this without acknowledging classism and snobbery, things I don't want to admit to? I'm a lot more careful about flinging around the word 'tacky' than I used to be as a young person. Declaring something 'tacky' is just another way of saying, "I have better taste than that; whoever would like/choose/do that is inferior to me." I'm not comfortable making that judgment, or maybe I am, but I'm not happy about it, it's not something I want to encourage in myself.

Back to plastic flowers. When I lived in the Solomon Islands, I witnessed a couple of weddings in our village. They both involved some of the more prominent, better-off families in the community. By this I mean they had a little more access to money than other families in this subsistence-agriculture based village, and also a certain amount of prestige (whether that stemmed from the outside-money access or whether the prestige had allowed for the opportunities to gain material advantages was not clear). Anyway, both weddings featured plastic flowers--plastic bouquets held by the brides. This is the tropics. There were gorgeous flowers growing all over the place, and many of these were in fact used to decorate the church. The flowers of honor, however, were the plastic ones.

Of course I cannot scorn this use of plastic flowers. My desire to see things through others' eyes allows me several reasonable explanations of why someone would choose plastic over natural. They might be a way of displaying wealth, as plastic flowers are obviously bought, while real flowers are free. (Displays of wealth seem an important part of weddings around the world and across very diverse cultures, but that's another topic.) The flowers' permanence might also be attractive, not wilting in the tropical heat, and they could be kept on display in the home forever as a reminder of the day. The plastic flowers also came in colors and shapes not available in the local naturally-occurring flora.

Here in Oakland, I have a neighbor who, during the winter, fills her flowerbeds with plastic flowers. You might expect that a person who did that was not a gardener, the plastic flowers being the best she could do. In fact, she is a terrific gardener and the flower beds have real flowers in the summer. She also has a large vegetable garden which looks very productive. She is one of few neighbors who regularly hangs her laundry on an outdoor line. I like her without knowing her. She helps undermine my prejudice against plastic flowers, or at least against the people who have them.

This morning I came across another plastic-flower displaying house. I'm going to go back and take a picture because I was utterly charmed and delighted by the house. Not in a condescending "Oh, aren't those (foreign/different) people interesting?" kind of way. At least I hope not. I think my feeling was genuine pleasure at what someone had done with plastic flowers. It would have been possible with real flowers, but it would have lasted only a few hours, and I wouldn't have had the pleasure of seeing it on an early morning walk. Who knew I would ever come so far from my scorn and disdain?

continuing with the posting of new poems in the rough

The Pedestal

It got where she was used

to the pedestal.

She couldn't even remember

when or how she was put there.

But then she decided

she didn't like it. She wanted

off.

So she took a deep breath

and leapt, kicking the plinth

as she went.

She heard it fall, and

shatter. That was when

she realized that she herself

had not fallen,

that she couldn't breathe,

that she was hanging

from the silk cord

she had always thought was

a scarf.

Feeling Twainish

I finished (re)reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn last night, so I thought I'd share a few choice quotes before putting it back on the shelf. [The emboldening is mine, the italics are Twain's.]


" 'You've put on considerable many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a peg before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say; can read and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? I'll take it out of you. Who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey? --who told you you could?

'...looky here -- you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what he is. You lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? Your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. None of the family couldn't, before they died. I can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain't the man to stand it--you hear? Say--lemme hear you read.' "

***
"'Is a cat a man, Huck?'
'No.'
'Well, den dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is a cow a man? --er is a cow a cat?'
'No, she ain't either of them.'
'Well, den, she ain' got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?'
'Yes.'
'Well, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he talk like a man? You answer me dat!' "
***

"I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses, when there ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in wasting it on them."

New Change

I got a job offer this morning at a school I'd like to work at doing something I'd like to do! Lucky me. I'm waiting on the contract, but it seems highly likely that I've got my plans in place for fall.

It feels great not to have to think about it any more and to be able to look forward to a new setting, new duties, new colleagues, a new organization and a new mission. There's nothing quite so heady as change, especially when you're feeling fed-up and dissatisfied with what you're currently doing.

More details at a later date!

Another bit of writing I've just started working on

Children's stories are full of late bloomers:

the ugly duckling, cinderella, sleeping beauty,

snow white, and various enchanted beasts & frogs

& bears who turn out to be handsome princes.

The message is clear:

don't despair, you may feel

out of place, ugly, unappreciated, thwarted by enemies

and jealous old people, but at just the right time

something magical will happen

and you will get what you deserve:

your rightful beauty, a place in the palace,

perfect love.

You go on about your life,

holding in the back of your mind the idea

that you will be a late bloomer,

And then you realize that the time for blooming

is past.

You show no hints of latent buds

curled tight and waiting for just enough

light and heat to unfurl and dazzle the world

with opulent petals and heavenly scent; no,

no signs of that.

But you're not dead or even dying,

no symptoms of underwatering or overwatering,

not weak or struggling for survival.

Rather, you are sturdy and strong, robust,

with the light green foliage of new growth

apparent at the tip of every limb.

You wonder, "Is my blossoming still

so far off? How many more branches and leaves

do I need before I burst

into bloom?"

It occurs to you that perhaps you are not

a flowering species at all,

but maybe an evergreen oak or pine.

What you offer the world is not

beauty or sweetness, but respite from the heat,

shelter from the storm, a haven for small creatures.

And then you're inspired by the image,

turning it into a thing of beauty: the lone pine,

silhouetted on the hill, a beacon, a signpost, a symbol

of continuity and endurance and wisdom.

Or maybe you are the one oak left downtown amidst the sky-

scrapers, near the corner of Broadway and Grand,

in front of Louisiana Chicken, which itself is looking a little

like an ugly duckling these days, dwarfed and outclassed

by the mighty glass and steel structures

that are going to (finally) revitalize downtown.

Yes, maybe that's you—

small and unnoticed, but holding your roots firm, reminding passersby

that this land once belonged to you, a reminder to others, too, of their own

true wild nature, a breath of green in the urban gray.

But, no, you're not that tree either. You know it.

You're too idiosyncratic to be symbolic.

An awful little thought skitters like a mouse across the floor

of your mind: "What if I was, in fact, an early bloomer?

What if my heyday is behind me? What if I've already

made all the impact I'm going to make?" You think of the poinsettia

put outside after Christmas.

You chase this notion out of sight behind the futon in your mind.

You're drawn back to the flowering plants.

What are you really waiting for?

The desire to bloom, the hope of being a late bloomer, is the wish

to confirm that you are not alone, that your life impinges upon others,

that it intersects, connects, affects, interrupts. You want to know

that you are not merely a drop of water sliding off other people's slickers.

You want to touch skin. You want to bloom

profusely & abundantly, or rarely and with great fanfare, like the titan arum lily

or the kurinji plant. You want to make an impression, to touch hearts.

You want to know that you'll be remembered, not so much

after you die, as after you leave the room, because there is that nagging

question of whether you really exist

in other people's minds.

Comment on new format

One of the reasons I changed my layout was to be able to try out a new feature, the blogroll you see on the right. I like how it shows a bit of each blog's latest entry and tells you when it was last updated. However, since the feature is still in testing mode, it is not working as it's supposed to yet. Specifically, it's not updating when new entries are posted. I checked the blogger help site and many others are experiencing the same issue. Hopefully, it will be resolved soon.

Public Poem Drafting

In an effort to shame myself into writing more, I'm going to post--gasp--incomplete work. Here is a poem I began last year but still can't quite figure out what I want it to be, or what it needs to be. There's a cracked green hose that needs in, I think. Perhaps in the posting of it, or in your comments, I will find the poem's true shape.

My Neighbor

Behind the chainlink fence

brown camellia blossoms lie scattered

on the ancient Sparkl-Wite gravel.

One flower, still pink, has fallen

in a stainless steel water dish

abandoned by a long-gone dog.

I imagine another version:

crisp bleached linen, silver antique bowl, floating flowers

A few camellias, both pink and brown, cling to their positions

among the green leaves of the bush.

In the driveway, behind the locked chainlink gate,

a Jaguar, gleaming.

The curtains at the window never move.

What do you think

of this new look? Do you prefer the old template? Is anyone reading this any more?

Close to Fine

Today was one of those days when everyone's beautiful. As I rode my bike up to campus, all the people I passed seemed translucent: their fragility and strength, their hopes and fears all visibly shimmering and quivering inside them, announcing their individual humanity.

[This is where the chorus breaks into a round of "We are stardust, we are golden, and we have got to get ourselves back to the garden."]

Sometimes when I ride through Berkeley, I look at the lovely houses with their perfect xeriscaped yards on tree-lined streets and I feel sad and a little confused: why didn't my life lead me here? why don't I live in a house like this, on a street like this? why am I not spending my weekends futzing in the garden and refinishing antiques? Other times I just shake my head and wonder how such comfort and excess can exist in such close proximity to the squalor and hopelessness that are the hallmarks of neighborhoods less than 5 miles away. I think about Octavia Butler's vision of the decline of the middle class enclave depicted in her book Parable of the Sower, and wonder how much longer until the poor rise up?

But today I had no such thoughts. I was able to admire the houses without coveting them or disdaining them. I saw ceanothus in bloom. I saw wisteria in bloom. I saw orange poppies in green grass. I saw the people with their imperfections and their longing. I smiled at them and some of them smiled back. Even people in cars smiled at me, and today none of them tried to kill me through their usual inattentiveness and thoughtlessness.

A lively discussion in my seminar reminded me of how much I like a lively discussion and that school really is a place I feel comfortable and free to be myself. The next question is whether I can get that same feeling any place else or in any way besides being a student. Imagine how the world would be different if everyone got to do whatever it is that makes them feel alive and valuable and stimulated every day. A world full of happy, curious, engaged people.

[Now for a chorus of "Shiny happy people holding hands/Shiny happy people laughing" with the understanding that it is not to be heard ironically, no matter the intentions of r.e.m., or maybe what we want here is "It's the end of the world (as we know it) and I feel fine"? Hmmm. I think the soundtrack needs tweaking.]

I am feeling hopeful and grateful, so all my chemicals and hormones must be flowing in the optimal amounts, or maybe the stars are aligned correctly. I'm looking forward to going to Australia this summer and to starting a new job in the fall (though I don't know what it will be), but right now I'm going to concentrate on right now.

[chorus: "The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine"]

Pseudo-ethnography

I was just having a chuckle at Stuff White People Like. If you haven't seen that blog yet, you can start here with a list of topics. The comments are worth a perusal, too. Enjoy!

Review in Pictures

My friend J took my mom and me to the snow for some snowshoeing in February. It was beautiful!

It's too bad there's no picture of my feet since I was wearing "old school" snowshoes--the kind that look a little like tennis rackets.

We recently had a visitor from Chicago staying with us. She was amused when I told her that until I moved to NY State, I had thought of snow as a place one visited (as in, "We went up to the snow last weekend"), not so much as something that happens (since we never "went to the snow" if the weather wasn't expected to be great). I expected snow to be sparkling white, the skies to be perfectly blue and there to be no wind. I didn't know about the dirty gray snow that's a couple weeks old, biting wind blowing freezing rain, and low gray clouds that seem to last for months. The first year we lived in Ithaca the first snow fell in early November and the last fell during the second weekend in May! While I was enchanted the first time I saw it actually falling, I soon decided that I prefer snow as a destination rather than as an obstacle to getting to the grocery store.

In early March, for my brother's birthday, he & C and I went for a hike in the park where they'll be getting married in August.

Unabashed Political Cheerleading

Please go to this website (NPR) where you can listen to Barack Obama's speech on race and read the transcript at the same time if you want to. Give yourself time to really listen/read; it isn't sound bites--it is thoughtful and far-ranging and addresses race in the most honest, open and un-spun way I've ever heard, from a politician or not.

I have never before felt even a little inspired to campaign for a candidate. Well, I was pretty impressed by Ralph Nader the first time I heard him, mainly because he was clearly so smart. Barack Obama is smart and thoughtful. Wise. I really hope people take the time to listen to this speech, and talk about it, and reflect, and act. I think that with this speech, Obama is already helping this nation to face ourselves, begin to heal, and move forward together.

If he isn't elected president, maybe he can make a movie, and go on the lecture circuit like Al Gore!

Of Language and Learning

I'm currently reading for the first time Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. Much to my embarrassment, I found myself surprised at how great it is, how much I'm enjoying it. Why am I constantly surprised to find that the classics are engaging, speak to universals of the human condition, and have modern relevance?! Duh! That's why they're considered classics, but I keep forgetting that. I pick up a book thinking, "This is probably pretty good--it's certainly famous; I should read it," and then am completely delighted. Most recently that happened with Don Quijote, which did take me a long time to read, but I absolutely loved it.

So, one of the sub-themes in OHB is that of learning--both formal education and informal. Since I'm currently taking a class on language (what does it mean to know a language? What does it mean to know or learn or acquire another language as an adult? What are the implications for language teaching?), I've particularly noticed comments about language learning/teaching. So below are a smattering of quotes. The book was published in 1915 and the bits here take place around the beginning of the twentieth century in England.

The orphan Philip begins his education with his guardians:

"He was taught Latin and mathematics by his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years."

Later, he is sent to a school:

"The masters had no patience with modern ideas of education.... Neither German nor chemistry was taught, and French only by the [regular teachers]; they could keep order better than a foreigner, and, since they knew the grammar as well as any Frenchman, it seemed unimportant that none of them could have got a cup of coffee in the restaurant at Boulogne unless the waiter had known a little English."

As a very young man, Philip takes himself to Germany to learn German, among other things. He boards with the family of a teacher:

"The Frau Professor insisted that nothing but German should be spoken [at the table], so that Philip, even if his bashfulness had permitted him to be talkative, was forced to hold his tongue."

What have your language learning experiences been?

Moving right along

Thanks, everyone, for all the nice words of support! I went up to campus today and met with the professor of the class I'm auditing this semester. He was very encouraging and agreed that I seem like a great candidate for graduate school. He also offered to write me a letter when I reapply next year, and suggested someone in the ed department that I might want to talk to. His confidence in me made me feel especially good because he's a professor and not a flaky one, he's someone who has high standards and is really engaged in both teaching and research.

I wish I had a job lined up for next year, but I am feeling more hopeful about reapplying. My professor also suggested I apply at Stanford because they have a really good program. I like how their program looks, but I just don't know about the commute. Maybe I will apply, though, just so I'm not putting all my eggs in one basket again.

The wisteria on the back porch is just about blooming again. I picked some peas from the plants I put in my containers oh so long ago. They've struggled against their shady conditions, produced some pretty purple flowers and now some peas. Not the sweetest peas I've ever tasted, but not bad.

I'm starting a new term with my English learners tomorrow and they're pretty much always fun, even if the class is unfortunately scheduled (1 class/week for 4 hours--not ideal for language instruction). We're going to look at multiple intelligences, learning styles, memory, and other mind/brain topics, culminating in a visit to the Exploratorium mind exhibit in April.

If anybody has actually taught students about multiple intelligences before (as opposed to just using your knowledge of the diff types to plan lessons), I'd be curious to hear about it.

I've got to say that I'm appreciating daylights savings and the light evenings. Makes a much bigger difference to me than having light in the morning!

Expected Rejection, Unexpected Dejection

I didn't get into graduate school. I already suspected that I wasn't accepted and thought that I was fine with it, so I was surprised to find myself feeling quite bad about it. Before receiving the letter, I had already decided that I need to figure out what I'm doing next year in case I don't get into grad school so I was prepared to have a different plan, but I think what I wasn't prepared for was the realization that "not getting into grad school" means being rejected.

It's funny what a powerful effect rejection has on some of us. In a long-ago conversation about risk-taking, I realized that we do not all evaluate risks the same. Certain types of risks I am not willing to take—while other choices I make do not seem at all risky to me but would to others. The risk of being rejected is one I avoid as much as possible, and as a result I am slow to truly make friends and always anguish over job applications. I knew from the beginning that applying to grad school involved the risk of rejection, but I think I had forgotten what it feels like.

Applying to grad school was a horrendous process for me. I wrote and re-wrote my application essays many times, and I'm not talking about merely revising them—I scrapped essays on their third or fourth draft to begin completely again from scratch more than once. I hated writing those essays because I hated knowing that I was going to be judged by them. It is different even from writing something which you hope to have published because in that case it is the writing rather than the writer that is really being rejected. Of course, it is difficult not to take that kind of rejection to heart as well, since the writing does have an intimate connection to the writer (one of the reasons I rarely submit anything for consideration for publication), but in this case it truly is me that has been rejected!

It's a terrible little letter that begins with the dreaded "I regret to inform you..." and ends with "I am sorry that we do not have a place for you and hope that you will be able to make other arrangements to achieve your academic goals." There is something really awful about that last bit: to make other arrangements to achieve your academic goals. I'm not even sure why I hate it so much, but there's something about "making arrangements" that seems really inappropriate. One makes arrangements to meet someone or to have one's carpets cleaned. One also makes funeral arrangements, flower arrangements, and seating arrangements. Making arrangements makes it sound like something I merely need to make some decisions about, but apparently I don't get to arrange to study education at Berkeley! (Yes, I know I sound bitter. I am feeling bitter, why shouldn't I sound how I feel?)

So now, rather than feeling a weight off my shoulders (well, no more wondering, at least I know for sure), I feel more hesitant about the alternative-to-grad-school plans I was beginning to make, feel once again the burden of the question "What am I doing with my life?" and am thrown right back into existential despair.

And, as if in direct defiance of my mood, completely ignoring the lump in my throat and the tear in my eye, it is lovely lovely lovely lovely springtime outside. The oxalis, the bane of bay area gardeners, is cheekily busting out all over, its bunches of yellow flowers pushing through chainlink fences, covering vacant lots and making great in-roads in many lawns. The fruit trees are scattering their flower petals all over the ground like confetti, and the tiny little birds with the black hoods have returned to the trees outside our windows.

More or less as planned?

The new year is a natural time to think about aging and who we are as compared to who we imagined we would be. A friend of mine had a droll observation about this process, writing in a recent email, "as I get older, I realize I'm much more shallow than I originally planned to be."

I think that makes a nice sentence frame:
As I get older, I realize I'm much more (or less) ___ than I planned to be (when I was ____ years old).

I invite you to fill in the blanks anonymously in the comments.

Love and Change

A friend just wrote to me of a "happy yet challenging" relationship she's in. I asked about the challenges and her response was really evocative, so I would like to include a bit of it here:

But right from the start when we first met and talked,
he turned my world upside down, and I am still busy
trying to figure out what "my world" actually is!
- after he turned it upside down... It's like I had my
little world, my views and experiences and everything,
in a little box, nice and orderly, I knew where I could
find my stuff. And he took it, literally turned it
upside down, and now I am figuring out what of the
old stuff I want to keep, what I'd better get rid of,
and what needs modifying.

Isn't this lovely? I think I am taken by it because it is such a vivid image of the confusion and excitement of being alive and being in love, the realization that we are not static or solid, but beings of light and motion--a realization that brings both pain and relief. Hurray for love! Hurray for change!

Maybe the secret to staying in love is in the box too. You can't continually turn someone's box upside down, because that's just annoying, but you can give it a little jostle sometimes or trade items from your boxes--I'll give you this view for that one of yours--and after a while you have so many shared experiences, you can each randomly reach into each other's boxes and pull out familiar but forgotten goodies.

To put it another way, we stay in love because love and change encourage each other.

Happy 2008!

Today, I made a schedule for my weekdays. Since so much of what I am trying to have time for doesn't have a specific time associated with it, I very often get much less done than I want or could. Setting up schedules has helped me in the past, so I decided to do it again (schedules also have the potential of pissing me off and making me rebel, or of shaming me and making me give up, so it's a fine line I gotta walk here).

My new schedule allocates time for my 3 paid jobs, plus taking a class at Cal next semester, and five other activities that I want time for. It also leaves me with most of my weekends unscheduled, which I am hoping will prevent any insurrection perpetrated by (and upon) myself.

Of course, it doesn't really start until next week, when school reopens, but I'll start implementing parts of it tomorrow to give it the oomph of new year's day!

Unrelated side comment: Our downstairs neighbors returned from their holidays this morning with a real piano, a piano which is perfectly audible through the floor. Luckily, I do like piano music. Here's to hoping they learn a variety of pieces!

Although many of my friends are jaded about the marking of the new year, I like it. I like the idea of recognizing and welcoming change. I like the idea of fresh starts and new beginnings, and also the reflection on the past year. Making resolutions is a way of embracing hope and intentionality. It's a stand against fatalism, which has its place and usefulness the rest of the year, but which should be made to sit quietly in the corner sometimes while optimism and can-doism take the floor for an ecstatic dance.

May your new year be full of happy surprises, opportunities to learn and grow, and many moments of pure joy.

group hug

Game + Vocab + Helping People

If you pride yourself on your large vocabulary, have a little free time, and like a challenge, go check out Free Rice. It's a multiple choice vocab test with words at every level of English knowledge. You find out immediately what the correct answer is and then get a new question. If you get three questions in a row correct, then you move up to the next level. You can also move down by getting too many wrong (I'm not sure if just one wrong moves you down; I was too busy answering questions to figure it out).

If you're not already sold, how's this? For every word you get correct, a donation of rice is made to feed the hungry through the UN. How can this be, you ask? Well, there are ads on the site. The ad revenue goes to the UN food program. The site is actually operated without profit. It is a sister site to poverty.com, for eradication of world poverty. I think it is a clever idea well instantiated. Go there.

(Thanks, Langguj Gel, for the referral!)

Why ask if you know the answer?

"Perhaps real wisdom lies in not seeking answers at all. Any answer we find will not be true for long. An answer is a place where we can fall asleep as life moves past us to its next question. After all these years I have begun to wonder if the secret of living well is not in having all the answers but in pursuing unanswerable questions in good company." --Rachel Remen [my bolding]

Does she really mean that we shouldn't pursue answers at all, or simply that we should pursue answers without any expectation of finding them? That we should not be afraid of the unanswerable questions?

I can't give up looking for answers entirely, but I think trying to find The Answer to any question is misguided. Without some answers, even lowercase, we wallow in inaction and indecision, places that are all too familiar, but rarely satisfying. I believe in intentional change, both of ourselves and our environment (which we change unintentionally merely by existing). Intentional change must be directed by something like answers, however temporary they may be.

I agree wholeheartedly with Remen that life's journey should be taken in good company!

Olden Goldies

“Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold.” I remember questioning this song when I was a child, not liking the generalization that old friends would be more valuable than new ones (the whole thing further confused by the fact that I liked silver, as a metal, better than gold, but knew their symbolic place in relation to each other). I’ve been re-exploring this issue lately, though, with a new appreciation of the old song.

Last summer we visited the northwest and had the opportunity to hang out with various old friends. Some we have never been out of touch with, so they are not just old friends but current friends. Others we hadn’t seen in years. We spent a weekend with a couple and their lovely children of 7 and 5 who were not yet born when we’d last seen the parents. It was completely relaxed and comfortable, which really amazed us all. Another friend was one from elementary school, whom I’d seen once or twice in high school but not since. Although I was under the cloud of a head cold at the time, it was remarkable how well we felt we knew each other, despite having lived more than half our lives since we’d last really hung out. Does this mean that who we are is already completely established by our teens? In some ways it seems it is; however, I would hate to think that the intervening years of experience haven’t affected me (and I know they have).

What is it about an old friend that is so exciting and yet comfortable? Less than a week ago I had a lovely visit from a friend from high school and our early twenties. We were joined by my best high school girlfriend, whom I have been seeing more and more of since I’ve been back in California. Hanging out with these old friends left me feeling light-hearted and joyful, almost giddy. And I’m not just talking about the wine or the fact that are both really smart clever funny people who make me laugh. There was something that lingered.

The next day, I sought, as I had done several times unsuccessfully in the past, to find some of the other people who were in our writing group “back in the day” (as kids now refer to anything more than a minute ago). Whether through my superior search skills or just better net saturation, I found two fellow students and our creative writing teacher. What a bonanza! A small flurry of emails ensued and promises of a reunion in the new year.

The pleasure of reconnecting with these old friends is perhaps enhanced by the fact that they are all writers or creators of some type, all with a deep love of reading and appreciation for language. While teaching students all of last year who, in the majority, did not like to read, and then spending my writing energy on the very unsatisfying task of graduate school essays, I have become more distant from fellow language-lovers. With these new-old connections, I feel revitalized and renewed, like I will be able to walk again after a long convalescence.

All of that writery hooey aside, I think there is something generally comforting about old friends. I don’t know who I really was eighteen years ago; I know that I feel in some ways like a completely different person—wiser, more patient, more flexible, less bossy, more certain about some things, less certain about others—but I’m also the same person. I've come to realize since my childhood dislike of gold, that it's not considered more valuable than silver or bronze just because it's shiny but because of its other important qualities. Maybe what we seek in an old friend is the flexibility to accommodate our changes and the strength to maintain the bond: like gold, old friendships are pliable yet strong. [Okay, metaphor, please retire now, I've used you beyond respectability.]

Back in the saddle

That last post wasn't intended as a farewell to the blog, but somehow it became one. Perhaps with this new post at the top, I'll get back in the habit. Since I wrote last...

I spent the month of September studying for the GRE, which I took toward the end of the month. Fortunately I scored well enough that I didn't feel I needed to take it again.

I was asked to teach one class (two days/wk) at the school I was at last year and I accepted, even though the class had already begun by the time I took it over and it turned out to be much more of a regular school thing than the optional after-school thing I initially thought it was.

I got another part-time job working at a nonprofit that sets up a summer internship and study program for disadvantaged youth. It's a great organization, and I do my work for them from home. A new kind of thing for me, but using skills I've developed from other jobs.

I met with Justin's colleagues and have begun (in principle) a collaboration wherein I help them develop teaching materials for the endangered language they are documenting.

The term ended at school and I agreed to teach another Tues/Thur class. This one I designed and I'm excited about seeing how it goes. We've had two meetings so far.

I've also agreed to start another class, once/week, for English learners. That hasn't begun yet.

I've turned down a chance to work on the school's charter renewal and re-accreditation submission, although I will probably end up being involved in some way.

I've almost finished reading Don Quijote (both parts), which is a great and funny book and should be much more widely read, but maybe published as a serial so its 1000+ pages are not so intimidating.

What else? Who knows! There are always changes afoot here.