tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141933022024-03-07T19:11:24.479-08:00BackstoryAlicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-47187528238187577522013-09-14T15:50:00.003-07:002013-09-14T15:58:57.209-07:00Shame and the Sixth Grade<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Mandy Abrams was my meanest friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her
family lived in a small green house with white shutters, and Mandy shared a
room with her two siblings, Greg Jr. and Elise. Most of what I remember about
Mandy took place when we were in the fifth grade and she lived in that little
house. I always entered through the back door, which went directly through the
kitchen. A dilapidated toaster sat on the counter with a crucifix hanging directly
over it. There was a small alcove just off the kitchen with a wooden table that
served as their dining area. The table was piled high with catechism materials.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mandy’s mother, Beatrice, was a
slight and timid woman who wore her hair in a short, brown bob. Mandy looked a
lot like her in that she was skinny, bony and had the same ashy brown hair, but
she also had blue eyes and buck teeth like her father. All my memories of
Mandy’s father, Greg Sr., are of him standing in front of the fireplace,
clutching his overalls, smoking a pipe and slurping from a tall can of Budweiser.
Greg was extremely imposing with a gruff voice and coarse, dark beard. He was
usually either sneering at everyone or barking orders at his kids in a deep voice
that made me shudder. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We
didn’t like to hang around the house because of Greg Sr. and because it was too
small to play in there, so we usually went three blocks down the hill to Morse
Park where we could circle around the pool or collect sticks and
interesting-looking bits of trash along the irrigation ditch. One time, Mandy
suggested we leave our typical path and explore a path that ran along the ditch
and behind some houses. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m
not sure where that path leads,” I said meekly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why
do you have to be such a chicken? It’s just some houses,” she replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mandy
started marching in the direction of the new path and I followed tentatively
behind her. Dogs started growling and barking from behind the fences of
neighboring houses and I grew increasingly nervous as we walked. I tried
appealing to Mandy’s sense of reason. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t think I should go on too
long of a walk because my mom is picking me up back at your house,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah
in like <i>three hours</i>,” she replied. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We continued
along the path behind the houses and the more we pursued it the more overgrown
it became with grasses and shrubs. A tall, concrete retaining wall ran
alongside the path to separate the ditch from the adjacent houses and it constricted
the path even more. My heartbeat quickened and beads of sweat glistened on my
forehead. We proceeded around a darkened curve – each step further away from
the familiarity of the park. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The only solace I had was a small,
black tape player that I carried. I had just gotten it for my 11<sup>th</sup>
birthday along with a Whitney Houston tape that I had been begging my parents
to buy me for several months. We listened to Whitney croon, “I Wanna Dance With
Somebody” and crunched the leaves while we walked. “Let me see the tape player,”
Mandy said, jutting out her hand. “I want to find a better song.” I handed it
to her and she immediately grabbed it and scaled up to the top of the concrete
wall. She started walking along the top.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What
are you doing up there?” I asked, hesitantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The
path was too narrow,” she responded simply. “It’s easier to walk up here. Come
up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
can’t. You know I’m afraid of heights.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fine.
Stay down there,” she huffed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She started walking more quickly
along the wall and disappeared around another curve before I could catch up to
her. When I finally got to where the path turned, she was nowhere to be found.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mandy?”
I called out her name a few times. “Mandy? Where did you go?” Panic started to expand
in my chest. My friend was gone, my tape player was gone, and I didn’t know
where I was. I tried to swallow down the tears along with the stinging sense of
betrayal. I tried to strategize. I thought about going back home, but I knew
Mandy would be mad if I left her behind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
called out her name a couple more times. Nothing but silence. A soft breeze
rustled through the maple trees. “Um… Mandy? I don’t know where you are, but I
guess you started walking back.” I tried to sound nonchalant but my voice still
quavered. “I’ll head that way, too, and, um, meet you back at the park? I hope
you still have my tape player. ” I gulped. Still nothing. I started to walk back.
I was taking my time and kicking rocks to make noise so I wouldn’t be scared if
she jumped out at me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few
minutes later Mandy emerged from a person’s backyard where she had been hiding
all along. She scaled the wall, jumped down, and brushed a few dried leaves off
her shoulder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I
was right behind you, stupid. Here’s your dumb tape player. It doesn’t even
work anyway.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She
thrust it back at me. I fumbled trying to grab it and it fell. I picked it up, blew
off the dirt, and opened it up. The tape was tangled within. We walked home in
silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
only remember going to Mandy’s house one more time after that. I went through
the back gate and rushed past her bouncing dog. The back door was open so I
went in and found Beatrice alone in the kitchen rinsing dishes and pretending
that everything was normal. It had been prearranged that I would come over, but
Mandy’s father was clearly very angry about something so I didn’t know if I was
staying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I could hear Greg pacing back and
forth in the living room yelling, “If you kids are too stupid to pick up your
shit, then you don’t get to have anything!” As I glanced into the living room,
I saw Mandy and her brother kneeling on the floor with their pants down and
their hands clasped behind their backs. The front windows were open and their
backsides were exposed to me and everyone else in the neighborhood. Tears
streamed down their faces. Mandy turned her head slightly in my direction. She
didn’t speak, but her eyes said, <i>please.
Please. Don’t look at me.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When Greg noticed me he calmed down
somewhat. “Hey Alice,” he said. “We’re almost done here. Go wait outside and
Mandy will be out to speak to you in a few minutes.” I went out back and sat on
their concrete porch. A few minutes later Mandy came out. Her face was red and
swollen from crying, and her voice was monotone with a few, intermittent
hiccups. “My Dad says I have to clean my room so we can’t play today,” she said
flatly. She went back inside and let the screen door shut gently behind her. I
walked home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our
friendship ended the following school year. We were in the sixth grade and
Mandy wanted to start hanging out with the popular kids at recess. She wrote me
a note that read, “We’re not friends anymore. I’m mature and you’re not. You
look like an ass skipping around the playground during recess. I’m sorry,
Alice, but I don’t want to look like an ass. – Mandy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We
went to different middle schools, different high schools, and then completely
drifted away from each other’s lives. I still have the note she used to cut the
cords of our friendship. It’s buried deep in a trunk of keepsakes at my
parents’ house. I don’t know why I kept it. It’s sort of a morbid thing to do -
like saving a bruise or something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About
ten years ago my mom ran into Mandy at a local grocery store in the
neighborhood where we grew up. She was working as a check-out clerk. She had a
six-year-old son and she had been in and out of drug rehab, but said she was
doing better now. Mandy asked after me, and my mom told her I was working in
advertising but had just returned to school to become a teacher. Mandy said,
“That’s really good to hear. I always knew Alice would make something of
herself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She
meant it as a compliment but it didn’t feel like one. Not when I measured it against
the fact that she probably never even dreamed of achieving anything for
herself. Maybe that’s why I kept the note: to remind myself of our
separateness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-8235893168738544022011-03-18T22:34:00.000-07:002011-03-18T22:35:54.753-07:00Off PlanIt took a long time for me to find my place on the playground. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I actually had kind of a difficult time making friends when I was a young tike. I’m not really sure why. Maybe it was because my hair was cut short and I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs. For most of the first through third grades my classmates had trouble deciding if I was a boy or a girl. Maybe it was because I spent my pre-school years playing with my brother and the other neighborhood children. Friends were pre-packaged and convenient. Before school I never had to “make” them, and therefore it took longer for me to learn how to initiate friendships.<br /><br />I have a smattering of playground memories that pretty much sum up my social ineptitude during this period of my life. In one scene I’m huddled close to the school building on a cold day. I’ve curled up in a ball and wrapped my puffy winter coat around my knees. I proceed to toddle back and forth on the sidewalk while exclaiming, “Look! I’m a midget! You should try this!” in an attempt to amuse my teacher (who is also standing close to the building). But my teacher is not amused. She is busy rubbing her temples and telling other children not to “tattle” on each other. She has no interest in becoming my midget friend.<br /><br />In another scene, I’m sitting alone in a giant cement cylinder on the playground. I have become so engrossed in the process of making a Spartan-like sand colony for a community of ants that I completely miss the bell and forget to come inside when recess is over. When I finally emerge from the cylinder, the playground is desolate. I sheepishly return to the classroom, humiliated and ashamed, and discover that my third grade teacher has arranged for the entire class to sarcastically chant, “Good after<em>noon</em>, Alice!” in unison. I make it to the end of the day, and then I walk home crying.<br /><br />Then, there’s a smattering of memories in which I attempt a few athletic playground activities: a couple of precarious swats at the tetherball (a Medieval playground device that practically lynched any child who came within 30 feet of it); an attempt to climb to the top of the jungle gym, which was quickly abandoned when I got four feet off the ground and discovered I was afraid of heights; and a few dismal passes at a game of four square. I know four square is the most simple-minded game ever invented, but I’ll be damned if I ever figured it out. “No, it touched the line, Alice!” the other kids would scream, “You’re out! You have no clue what you’re doing!”<br /><br />Interestingly, these playground experiences didn’t end at Slater Elementary School. I encountered them again in college.<br /><br />When I went to C.U. Boulder, I applied to the journalism school and decided to major in advertising. I wasn’t particularly passionate about advertising, but I thought it was intriguing, it had a creative flair, and it seemed like a reasonable job source. In actuality, I majored in advertising because I was too chicken to get a degree in the subject I really loved: English. There were no jobs for people who had English degrees (other than teaching) and I certainly wasn’t going to become a teacher, for Christ’s sake. I wasn’t completely crazy.<br /><br />The capstone course for my bachelor’s degree was a class called “Advertising Campaigns.” The course was held in Macky Auditorium, which was a very old, ornate building with stone walls and broad, wooden staircases. It smelled of antique carpet and scholarly discourse. Had I been an English major, it would have been a great place to wear glasses, quote Whitman and stock up on self-importance. But when it housed the advertising campaigns class it was nothing more than a den of nightmarish stress.<br /><br />Basically, the purpose of the campaigns course was for the university to sucker each advertising student into paying $1500 in tuition so that they could pimp out our services to local businesses. The professor chose our campaign groups in order to simulate a real world work scenario in which you never get a say in the people you work with, and most of your co-workers are self-righteous jerks who spend all their time at the coffee machine and never pull their weight on projects. <br /><br />Several groups in our class were matched with stimulating clients: a skateboard manufacturer, a travel agency… one group even got Illegal Pete’s and a semester’s worth of free burritos. My group got saddled with a law firm comprised of mind-numbingly boring engineering patent attorneys. To make matters worse, there were all kinds of legal restrictions about how a law firm could advertise its services. If I recall, they weren’t even allowed to have a logo. For nine weeks my group worked on their campaign, and I think all we generated was a line item in the yellow pages that denoted their firm name, address and phone number. We also suggested that they establish a web site. Due to the publicity restrictions, it was a site comprised of plain, black and white html text that also listed the firm name, address and phone number.<br /><br />But it’s not the campaign I remember most. It was my group. They hated me with the red hot passion of a thousand suns. This was a serious problem for me emotionally, because after nursing my elementary school playground wounds I spent many painstaking years convincing everybody in my life that they should like me. And while I sometimes irritated people (like my roommate) with my stealth hug attacks and my impromptu sock puppet shows, by and large most people DID like me. But, for whatever reason, not this group. <br /><br />The class took place from 6:00 to 8:30 PM. Though I was completely worn out from working all day and going to school full time, every Tuesday and Thursday I came to class with a smile – sometimes even bearing muffins. But the second my group mates caught sight of me the women would roll their eyes and the men would turn away and avoid me. One evening, when a few of them went outside to smoke, I was coming back from the computer lab and I happened upon them while they were talking about me behind my back.<br /><br />“Alice is such a pain in the ass,” one woman said. <br /><br />“I know. She has no clue what she’s doing,” another one joined in. <br /><br />I was right back at four square.<br /><br />Completely stunned, I locked eyes with one of the women while she puffed smoke out of her mouth. This was a scenario that would have bothered most decent people. I know that on the rare occasions when I’ve been caught talking about someone behind her back, my face bursts into a volcano of shame and my butt starts sweating. But not this woman. She just stared me down cold like Medusa – completely devoid of guilt.<br /><br />I honestly cannot remember what I did to make myself so abhorrent to my campaigns group. I ended up with a decent grade in the class, and I always pulled my own weight. If anything, I was an over-achiever when it came to group projects. Of course, now that I’m older and more self-actualized, it’s pretty obvious that I was simply out of my element. The advertising career path did not fit my personality or my skill set. The people in my group were the type of people who went on to be very successful in advertising. That industry is completely cutthroat and there is a 5-6 month turnover for most of the creative jobs. The best copywriters and creative directors scratch their way to the top and they don’t care whose eyes they have to claw out along the way.<br /><br />Because of my experiences in the campaigns class, I had an inkling early on that advertising wasn’t going to be a fit. So why didn’t I just change my major? The answer is simple: I had a plan and I was too scared to deviate from it. I had to finish what I started, because at the time I wasn’t brave enough to come up with something new. <br /><br />I worked in the advertising/marketing industry for a little over four years. It was a decent career and it helped me develop as a writer, but it never became part of my soul. Then the most amazing thing happened: I stumbled into teaching. While volunteering for an inner-city youth ministry, I started to notice that even my most difficult times mentoring high school students were more fulfilling than the best times at my job. In 2002 I went back to school to get my secondary teaching license and my master’s in education. I had no idea if it would work, but I didn’t over-think it.<br /><br />When I walked into my first English Methods class in graduate school, I encountered an eclectic array of overwhelmed literature dorks with brassy senses humor and absolutely no sense of fashion. These were my people. I knew it the instant I walked into the room. Several of those colleagues became some of the closest friends of my life. They were simply vital during those formative years of teaching (which was a lot like boot camp only it lasts three years instead of eight weeks, and all of the people you work with are dangerously high on Mountain Dew and hormones). <br /><br />I relished my coursework and my teaching practicum. The first time I stood in front of a group of students, I knew it was exactly where God wanted me to be. It was never part my original plan, and eight years later I’m still climbing a pretty steep learning curve, but for me the classroom is (as Frederick Buechner put it) “the place where my deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”<br /><br />Last week I saw a new movie called “The Adjustment Bureau.” It was an interesting commentary on this concept of life plans. The hero and the heroine (played by Matt Damon and Emily Blunt) discover that their entire lives have been planned out by a mysterious organization led by a “chief” who may or may not have been God. This chief plans out each person’s life, and the Adjustment Bureau is responsible for making sure everyone stays “on plan.” If someone deviates from the plan, they introduce little scenarios (such as spilling a cup of coffee or missing a bus) to get them back on their designated course. Somewhere toward the middle of the movie there was an extended metaphor that involved fedora hats and doorknobs. I got a little confused at that point. But there was one part I did like: when Matt Damon and his love interest went off plan, they had to sacrifice what would have amounted to a great deal of fame and fortune for them both. But then something spectacular happened – they created something new. <br /><br />And that’s exactly what happened to me on the playground all those years ago. When I couldn’t find my place in any of the established games, I invented a new one. It was called “the laughing game,” and it took place around this nebulous piece of playground equipment that was basically just four feet of wooden fence with two cement posts on either side. The premise of the game was this: a group of about four girls would sit on one side of the fence looking completely stoic. Then the comedian would perform some kind of skit and, if she could make the other girls laugh, she won. It took me six years to come up with my own game, but once I did I always won. And people always wanted to play it with me because I made them laugh. <br /><br />Brilliant things can happen when you go off plan. When I was 18 years old I planned to become an advertising executive and work on Madison Avenue in New York. I was going to have Italian shoes and a briefcase and an apartment on the upper east side. Instead, I became a high school teacher. I have five minutes to eat lunch, and everyone I work with is going through puberty at exactly the same time. But every day I get to teach people how to express themselves, and I have a special talent for making them laugh when they feel discouraged or soul sick. That’s worth more to me than Madison Avenue.<br /><br />So, I guess when I look back on my life, I’m most grateful for the things that didn’t go according to plan. It’s only when we go off plan that we allow ourselves to forge new paths and explore uncharted territories. When we stop reading maps and start making discoveries, that’s when we become truly fulfilled. That’s when we become truly brilliant.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-39869582362003064152010-06-24T14:52:00.000-07:002010-06-24T15:05:22.580-07:00Page 80 ThinkingI recently learned that screenplays have a very specific formula. Each page in a screenplay represents one minute of screen time, and specific events must occur within a certain number of pages. For example, in his book <em>A Million Miles in a Thousand Years</em>, Donald Miller explains that in a screenplay the hero needs to “save a cat” before page 30. Meaning, he has to do something noble or morally redeemable early on so that the audience is willing to root for him until the end.<br /><br />Another rule of screen-writing is that the first kiss between the main male and female love interests has to occur within the first 80 pages. Again, this is designed to maintain the audience’s interest. No one wants to see a movie in which two characters pine for each other indefinitely and never actually get any fulfillment. People go to the movies to be filled with popcorn and unreasonable fantasies, not longing.<br /><br />Though few of us end up making a movie based on our lives, our lives do represent a kind of story and more often than not we employ the page 80 principal, especially as it applies to romance. For example, from what I recall, by age nine a girl has to have at least one boy in her life who she thinks is gross; by age 11 a girl is supposed to have her first serious crush, and somewhere between the ages of 13 and 15 she’s supposed to have her first boyfriend. <br /><br />For girls at least, your first exposure to Page 80 thinking typically takes place at something called a “slumber party,” a pre-adolescent ceremonial ritual (disguised as someone’s birthday celebration) that is designed to determine how you measure up against your friends in terms of development.<br /><br />At slumber parties, all nearly-pubescent girls are required to play a series of torturous mind games, the most infamous being “truth or dare.” It was never wise to pick “dare” because you would inevitably be required to take off your clothes and streak through the living room where the hostess’s older brother was playing video games with his friends. So, the only real option was truth. Considerate people (like me) asked questions that were just personal enough to be revealing without causing significant emotional trauma. Questions like “Do you shave your armpits?” or “What’s your bra size?” were perfectly safe because no was supposed to be shaving yet and anyone wearing a cup size larger than an “A” was to be envied – not pitied. <br /><br />But halfway through the game a pretty girl (who was also a borderline bully) would take things to another level. The tension would build and she would inevitably ask something like, “Do you get your period?” or “Have you ever kissed a boy?” Everyone, and I mean everyone, was required to get their period before they turned 14. If you failed at this task, you would be labeled a circus freak and sold to a company of gypsies instead of entering high school. Also, it was generally understood that the first kiss should take place some time between the 6th and the 9th grades. So, if you hadn’t kissed anybody by the time of your first slumber party, you had to at least be willing to reveal the name of the boy you wanted to kiss. Thinking about it wasn’t the same as doing it, but it was good enough for age 12.<br /><br />A girl most definitely needed to have kissed someone before she finished high school, but she didn’t have to go farther than that. At least in my day, only sluts had sex while they were in high school. Sex was for college. You were supposed to have a lot of sex in collage, and you were supposed to tell everyone within a four mile radius of your dorm. Without the public venue of slumber parties, most girls talked about their sexual escapades in the bathroom where it would echo. Or, if the professor was liberal enough and the course was one of those nebulous “study of literature” classes, some people even managed to work their sex life into the occasional essay.<br /><br />My deficiencies in Page 80 thinking occurred some time after my first slumber party. Sure, I wore a bra before about half of the girls in my class and I got my period before the deadline, but I consistently fell short from that point on. Despite the fact that I didn’t even kiss anyone until college, I still planned to get married by the time I was 23, have my first kid when I was 26, and have my second and final kid when I was 28. This gave me a buffer zone of about two years, thereby guaranteeing that I would have all of the big stuff accomplished by the time I turned 30 and rigor mortis set in. <br /><br />But that’s the thing about life’s screenplay. People think the writer is working off of an outline and each page is already carefully planned out, but then the characters take over. New characters are introduced and the story takes on a life of its own. Now I’m 34, single, childless, and have made a serious departure from my original script. <br /><br />Yet, when I think about my story, I try to cling to authors who defy formula. There are plenty of storytellers who never adhere to the Page 80 romantic principle. For example, Jane Austen’s heroines never kissed until after they were married or at least engaged, which never took place until the end of the story. Also, the characters who defy formula often spend more time saving cats than they do kissing. Consider Sally Field in <em>Norma Rae </em>or <em>Places in the Heart</em>. I don’t remember her kissing anybody in either film, but I do remember her holding up that “union” sign. And I remember her picking cotton to survive, caring for her children and rescuing some random blind man all on her own - without a husband. <br /><br />Maybe I can look at my story the same way. I saved many cats ahead of schedule. I donated blood. I helped feed the poor and disenfranchised. I cared for and taught more than 800 adolescents. And my story is no where near over. Maybe what I really need is a sequel to my movie – or better yet, a miniseries. My story will become an epic. I’ll make comeback after comeback, and my audience will stick with me because this is one character they’ll want to root for until the end.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-33005921547358972032009-06-03T15:58:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:25:51.068-07:00Gone to the DogsI started wanting a dog when I was about seven years old. I used to sing “Only You” to my grandmother’s schnauzer, and he would get so excited that it just sent these tiny injections of joy directly into my heart. But, up until recently I had such a busy lifestyle that getting a dog wasn’t really feasible. Things changed in the winter of 2007, which was a particularly difficult season. I was lonely, stressed out and overburdened. I was sick of my hectic lifestyle and in desperate need of some dog love, so I offered to watch a friend’s chocolate lab over Thanksgiving break.<br /><br />Shortly after he arrived at my apartment I came down with the stomach flu and a fever. I felt really guilty that I couldn’t walk the dog, but he didn’t care. He climbed onto the couch, wedged himself between the cushion and my body, and draped his paw across my stomach. Apart from eating and going outside to pee, that dog did not leave my side until the fever broke. Later in the week I felt better and we were out walking. As I watched him prance to and fro with little droplets of snow on his nose, I knew I needed a dog of my own.<br /><br />I immediately began to draft a strategy for what I called, “Puppy Plan 2008.” I researched breeders and put a deposit down on a yellow lab months before she was even born. I read umpteen books on dog training and marked them up with a highlighter and sticky notes. I watched hundreds of hours of dog shows on Animal Planet. By the time I brought Nellie home as a puppy, I had a full Excel spreadsheet detailing, down to the minute, when she would eat, sleep, poop, practice leash training and commands, and participate in “bonding” exercises.<br /><br />I was surprised to note that Nellie was a sentient being who had her own ideas about when to eat, sleep and poop. Those early days of her puppyhood were adventuresome and trying. I still lived in an apartment at the time, so potty training was especially athletic. Whenever I saw Nellie crouching on her hind legs, I’d dive across the room, scoop her up, tuck her under my arm like a football and run down three flights of stairs to put her on the grass. We did this approximately 437 times a day.<br /><br />While she was a perfectly pleasant during the daylight hours, Nellie experienced a complete personality transformation at about 8:00 PM every evening and became what a friend of mine termed, “Demon Dog.” Just as we approached the staircase after her evening pee, Nellie would start protesting, bucking like a staillion and resisting the leash. By the time I got her up the stairs and into the apartment I was scratched and bleeding out of puncture wounds from her tiny needle teeth. Then she would go completely schitzo, run around the apartment in a frantic rage, and repeatedly launch herself onto the couch until I took her down like a sumo wrestler.<br /><br />Nellie needed constant supervision. Once, I left the room for 30 seconds to start a load of laundry and came back to discover that the puppy was no where to be found. “How far could she have gone in a one bedroom apartment?” I asked myself, opening and closing kitchen cabinets. After an extensive search I found that she had fallen into a crevice between the couch and the end table. She was just sitting there, listening to me call her, while peacefully chewing on a copy of “How to Raise a Puppy You Can Live With.”<br /><br />I had a lot of rules for my dog in the early days, most of them centered in Cesar Milan’s (Dog Whisperer) philosophy that canines need humans to be leaders, not overly-sentimental basket cases. So, I was determined that I would be a calm, assertive pack leader. I would not baby talk to my dog, and I would certainly NOT refer to myself as her “Mommy.” I would not give her any affection until she had received a structured, disciplined walk, and absolutely, positively, under no circumstances was the dog allowed to sleep in my bed.<br /><br />It’s difficult to determine when these rules started to disintegrate, but the more I grew to love Nellie, the less structured things became. I couldn’t wait until she had been walked and put through a 20 minute training regime. One look at her fuzzy widdle ears and her tiny wet nose and I simply had to suffocate her with hugs and kisses. Also, I didn’t use baby talk with my dog – it was something much worse. I spoke normally when other people were around, but as soon as they left me alone with Nellie I began to sound like some kind of escaped mental patient with a speech impediment. I said nonsensical things like, “You need go ow-sigh and go potties?” and “No bites. That hurt Mommy.” I felt ashamed that the State of Colorado was trusting me to educate America’s youth.<br /><br />After two months only one rule remained steadfast: Nellie still did not sleep in my room or in my bed. Then, one night, I watched the movie “Into the Wild,” which was not (empirically) considered a horror film, but I have an overactive imagination and the sight of Christopher McCandless’s corpse in that abandoned bus was enough to haunt me for several nights in a row.<br /><br />“This is just silly,” I thought to myself on the fourth night of insomnia. “I’m laying here in the dark, afraid, when I have a little puppy who is perfectly capable of distracting me.” So, I moved Nellie’s crate into my bedroom, thinking her mere presence would provide enough comfort. But I couldn’t see inside her crate in the dark, so it was almost like she wasn’t even there. Shortly thereafter, she was out of her crate and sleeping on a doggie pillow on the floor next to my bed.<br /><br />About a month later, I was feeling particularly lonesome and found myself, again, unable to sleep. So, I piled some blankets on the floor next to Nellie’s pillow and tucked my arm into her soft fur. I slept with her again the next night, and the next. My back hurt so much after two weeks of sleeping on the floor that I finally gave up and put the dog in my bed, which is where she sleeps to this day.<br /><br />If you asked my friends to describe my personality, they would probably say something like “structured to the point of insanity” or “considerably anal.” And that’s if they were being nice. I’m not just type-A. I’m a capital “A” in bold, 24-point font. But having a dog has helped me let go of some of the structure in my life, and that’s not frightening – it’s totally freeing. More importantly, though I made up all these rules for how I was going to raise Nellie, they all went out the window as soon as I loved her. She taught me one of the most important lessons about love: there simply are no rules. True love is unstructured, undisciplined, and completely disarming.<br /><br />Yesterday, Nellie went to the vet for her one year check-up and booster shots. The night before her appointment, I made a list of things I wanted to ask the vet about, such as Nellie’s occasional dry cough, excessive panting after exercise, and the fact that I had missed her heartworm preventative two months in a row. Stupidly, I decided to Google all of these symptoms in order to prepare myself for the possible prognosis. After about an hour of surfing the web, I determined that Nellie was suffering from heartworm, hip dysplasia, cancer, heart disease, and lung conjunctivitis.<br /><br />I felt the worst about the heartworm, because it was I who had forgotten to give her the preventative medication during the months of January and February. Heartworm is a parasite carried by mosquitoes, and it can only be treated with a very dangerous drug that contains arsenic. I read blog after blog in which dog owners wept over the dangers and painful side effects of this medication. I clicked on photo after photo of parasites eating the hearts of dogs from the inside out. Not good bedtime reading.<br /><br />By the time I stumbled into bed at midnight, I had worked myself into a state of absolute, irrational hysteria. I was convinced that the next day I would take Nellie to the vet and she would say, “Well, Alice, your dog is going to die. You should have remembered the heartworm preventative. C'est la vie.” I ran into the bathroom, thinking I might vomit. Then I came out to find Nellie sleeping peacefully on my pillow with her paw tucked under her chin. “Look at her!” I exclaimed to absolutely no one. “How could I not have noticed she was in such a weakened state?” I wept into her furry tummy and begged God to let my dog live. Nellie rolled over and yawned.<br /><br />Mysteriously, the anxiety disappeared as quickly as it came. “It’s unlikely she was bitten by a mosquito in the dead of winter,” I told myself, and eventually I, too, fell asleep. The next day I told the vet the whole story about my paranoia the night before, thinking we would both have a good laugh about it. She chuckled, but she also looked a little afraid. “My mother always told me I was overly imaginative,” I attempted to explain.<br /><br />“Yeah, well. Nellie’s perfectly healthy,” the vet replied with her hand on the doorknob.<br /><br />“I won’t forget her heartworm preventative again. I put a reminder on the calendar in my cell phone!”<br /><br />Before I knew it the vet was out the door, “Sounds good, Alice! See you next year!” she said, briskly heading down the hall. Hopefully, I wasn’t the only freak she had to deal with that day.<br /><br />It’s true. I do have an overactive imagination. It’s both a blessing and a curse. But, more than anything, this experience frightened and amazed me because I never realized how deeply attached I am to Nellie.<br /><br />Dog love is difficult to explain.<br /><br />This is all I can say: my dog is devastated when I leave the house and she’s elated when I come home. She’s equally elated when she gets to chase a crunchy-looking leaf blowing in the breeze. I can buy her treats and toys, but she’s perfectly content with a stick and a sunbeam. She has no yesterdays, and no tomorrows. It’s as though that dog is in tune with something about God – the universe – eternity – that I will never fully comprehend. I envy that.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-84401261212863100112008-11-19T17:16:00.000-08:002008-11-19T21:05:58.628-08:00The Feminine Mystique (Reprise)Yesterday I was watching a commercial for a cleaning product that shall remain nameless. It started off in a sunny living room – white walls, white sofa, white carpet. Yellow tulips in a vase on the dining room table. A woman was standing at the door as her husband and children left for the day. “See you later, family!” she sang.<br /><br />After she closed the door the blonde, perfectly put together mother (dressed in khakis, a yellow cashmere sweater set, and a pearl necklace) proceeded to clean the house. Moments later she put away her dust mop and settled onto the sofa for a day of pleasurable reading. Her hair and make-up were still in place. Not a drop of sweat graced her brow.<br /><br />When her family returned home, the woman’s husband exclaimed, “Wow, honey! You must have been cleaning all day!” She winked into the camera with a knowing smile.<br /><br />This commercial immediately came to mind when I was re-reading Betty Friedan’s "The Feminine Mystique." I’m a high school English teacher and every year I teach a unit on feminism. Betty Friedan won critical acclaim for her writing about housewives, many of whom (despite the standard assumptions about women in the 1950s) did not find ultimate bliss washing dishes and ironing. These women had achieved their supposed American dream: a husband in a suit, children in ball caps, and a roast in the oven but, surprisingly, they were actually quite miserable.<br /><br />In the 1950s it was common to see advertisements like the one described above, because society was determined to convince women that the secret to happiness could be found in a bottle of Windex. Supposedly this is no longer the case. Which begs the question, why is this blissful, cleaning housewife still appearing on my TV screen in 2008 with the only real difference being that she’s wearing slacks instead of a poofy Donna Reed skirt?<br /><br />Now, I’m no dummy. I know how cleaning products are marketed and I know this was an advertisement and not a realistic depiction of the average American woman. I’m not asking why the ad agency chose to sell the product this way. I’m asking why it still works.<br /><br />Here’s a dose of reality: today’s women never clean the house in cashmere, khakis and pearls. On the days I actually have time to clean the house I wake up, put my hair in a pony tail and I don’t shower. I throw on an old t-shirt, paint-stained shorts and a jogging bra (that is, if I wear a bra at all), and no matter how wonderful the cleaning product is, I always end up hunched over the tub scrubbing and sweating. I attempt to de-clutter the living room, dig through piles of mail, lug the vacuum cleaner up and down the stairs, separate the recycling, haul old banana peels and chicken bones out to the trash, and pick up a sack of dog turds along the way.<br /><br />By the time I’m finished cleaning I’m covered in stains, sweat and dust. My joints ache and my throat burns from inhaling bleach fumes. And here’s the real kicker – <em>I live by myself</em>. I can only imagine how this task is compounded for women who are actually cleaning up after kids, pets, and spouses – for many, all of this in addition to the pressure of their careers outside the home.<br /><br />The most disturbing thing about commercial Blondie and her fantasy cleaning product is not the fact that these products are still marketed mostly to women, it’s the fact that Blondie’s lifestyle is still considered the ideal. And, just like in Friedan’s time, women who feel unfulfilled or stressed out by their “traditional” gender role become confused and self-deprecating, thinking they must have done something wrong if they fall short of the status quo.<br /><br />In a sense women are still experiencing Friedan’s “problem that has no name.” Though we are encouraged in a variety of pursuits, we are also expected to find fulfillment as wives and mothers. Only now, a woman is supposed to be some kind of hybrid 1950s housewife and modernist: partner in her firm, soccer mom, grad. student, and scrap-booker all in one.<br /><br />Yet, when it comes to perpetuating an impossible ideal, ladies, we have no one to blame but ourselves. We’re so committed to maintaining the status quo that we refuse to let people see the truth. Case in point: Last year I visited a friend of mine three weeks after she had her first baby, and I quickly learned that having a newborn is nothing like the prim and proper spectacles of joy that our Aunts describe at baby showers.<br /><br />When I arrived at her house my friend answered the door looking beaten and cadaverous – hair hanging in her face, dark circles under her eyes. One leg of her sweat pants was hiked up to the knee. She wore a gray t-shirt stained with breast milk and vomit. “I haven’t slept in 42 hours,” she sighed as she flopped on the couch, which was piled with a mountain of laundry, diapers and bits of graham cracker. Then the baby let out a blood-curdling scream that made me want to dive under the couch to shield myself from what I could only assume was an incoming siege. My friend stumbled over a toy train to pick up the baby and was greeted with a smear of molten green poo erupting out of the child’s onesie. I gazed at the scene in utter shock. I was sure that within the next five minutes the President would somehow get wind of the situation and declare a state of emergency.<br /><br />I left my friend’s house and sped home with a mixture of terror and gratefulness. None of my other married friends had ever dared reveal the secrets that lay behind the iron curtain of motherhood. This friend was trying to save me. She was giving me a chance to escape. Then, a counter-argument struck me cold. Immediately commercials for baby shampoo began to rush through my mind –images of adorable little cherubs with soap on their tummies were getting tickled by their exceedingly happy mothers. I shook-off the bubbles and re-focused on the images from my friend’s house. “Those commercials are a rouse!” I exclaimed to absolutely no one. “Propaganda designed by evil capitalists to snare us into mating so that we’ll buy their shampoo!”<br /><br />By the time I got home I had fully convinced myself that I was never having children. Then, the counter-argument struck again. I immediately felt guilty. “Of course I want children,” I sniffled. “What the heck is the matter with me?” All women want children, right? That’s what we do.<br /><br />You know, Betty Friedan became famous because she unearthed the seemingly impossible truth that many women want something other than the status quo. I’ll go ahead and concede that things are somewhat different now. The average woman is perfectly free to admit that she’s miserable, and many of them do, repeatedly, while screaming at their husbands and drinking lots of vodka. On a more positive note, it’s now perfectly acceptable for the average woman to take her destiny into her own hands and follow her bliss. I can still want children. But I don’t have to imitate the ads. I can be my own kind of wife and mother and I can want lots of other things, too. Most importantly, I’m free to be content with what I have.<br /><br />Still, I’m troubled by the few flickering embers of Friedan’s theory that permeate the lives of today’s American women. Single women still feel pressured to find their fulfillment in family life, and as their biological alarm clocks tick on they begin to ask themselves, “What if I never accomplish this goal? Will I still matter just the way I am?” Married women may feel deeply fulfilled as wives and mothers. But they may also feel a little bit betrayed, because no one ever told them they would have to say good-bye to their white sofas and sweater sets. They have discovered the difficult but noble truth of married life: that every day is about rolling up their shirt sleeves and tackling the dirty work that comes along with selfless commitment and love.<br /><br />If Betty Friedan were still alive and writing in defense of women, I wonder if she would title her latest article, “Would you give us a break, already?” Because there’s no real mystique about what the modern woman needs in order to be fulfilled. We just need a break from conflicting ideals and impossible expectations.<br /><br />Maybe I’ll write that article one day. I can’t right now, though. I’ve got to slap on my pearl necklace and go mow the lawn.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-38296464816837135962008-03-29T21:13:00.000-07:002008-03-29T21:30:11.120-07:00Teaching PoliceWith my travel fund exhausted and my friends out of town, I found myself with very little to do during spring break. So when our School Resource Officer asked if anyone wanted to volunteer as an actor for the police department’s training program I responded with a very professional, “Me! Me! Pick Me! Me!” Not only was I the president of the drama club in high school, I explained, but I also received a varsity letter for my thespian activities. Undoubtedly filled with pity at the sight of my nerdiness, the officer agreed to refer my name to his sergeant.<br /><br />When the sergeant called to schedule me into a training class he told me that we would be working in an abandoned warehouse, which was quite dusty. He said I should wear a long sleeved shirt and durable pants because I would be crawling around on the ground a lot. (I instantly wondered what sort of crime involved crawling.) Before he hung up the sergeant made sure I was prepared to get “roughed up” by some cops and to get shot with paint balls and fake tazers. He also told me that our school librarian, who recently became a grandma, was the only other adult from my school who had volunteered.<br /><br />Still excited by the prospect of pretending I was a drug dealer or terrorist, I readily agreed. But I must admit it was hard to prepare myself mentally. In my mind’s eye, I pictured myself and the school librarian crawling toward a cocaine stash through some dark, rat-infested warehouse with water dripping from the ceiling. Inevitably, she would drop her glasses. I would turn to help her and accidentally cut myself on a piece of shattered window pane. Then the police officers, smelling my blood, would leap out of no where and shoot me repeatedly with paint balls, causing enormous welts to sprout up all over my body. Of course the welts wouldn’t hurt immediately because I would have already passed out from fright.<br /><br />When I arrived at the training facility I was relieved to discover that it was just an empty office building that was somewhat dusty but still retained its structural integrity. I also learned that crawling is not part of your crime; it’s what you do <em>after</em> the cops have cased the building and found you standing in the kitchen with a shotgun. Even though it was pretend, I was so scared when the officers screamed at me to show my hands and drop to the floor that I readily crawled to them like a trained basset hound. Not very authentic.<br /><br />The teaching officers took all the volunteers aside and fitted us with suits of armor that included several layers of padding, mesh material, and a gigantic mask with very few air holes. By the time I was outfitted and given my acting assignment, I looked and sounded like Darth Vader. (That is, if Darth Vader had the body of a linebacker and the attitude of a disgruntled trailer park housewife.)<br /><br />As the day went on the sergeant set up five rooms with different scenarios through which the trainees must progress and respond accordingly. I was assigned the role of an angry woman who was visiting her boyfriend at a rehab. facility. My character was understandably upset because in the nine weeks her boyfriend had been in rehab. he A) failed to get sober, B) had an affair, and C) spent all their rent money on beer. We didn’t have any prepared dialogue but the police officer playing my boyfriend had already encountered this scenario on several occasions, and I couldn’t even <em>count</em> the number of times I had a fight with my drunk, cheating boyfriend while he was in rehab., so we were both confident we could improvise.<br /><br />When our scenario was about to begin the sergeant prepared the officer trainees in the hallway and then yelled, “Room two, we’re hot!” which was the signal for me to put on my Darth Vader mask and start lumbering toward my cheating boyfriend while I cried, shouted profanities, and pretended to hit him. The officers were supposed to separate us, make us sit on the floor, and determine what the problem was.<br /><br />They all got us to sit quite successfully. It was difficult for me to hear them through my mask and over my own shouting, but I could tell by their hand gestures that they were concerned about my plight and wanted to help, so I continued. “He cheated!” I wailed through the tiny air holes, “And he spent all of our rent money on beer!” I repeatedly broke into hysterics while my drunk boyfriend told the officer, “But ah luuuuv her. She my woman.” Finally the sergeant called, “End scenario” and I was allowed to take off my mask and breathe again while they debriefed the role play.<br /><br />However, my conflicts with my fake boyfriend didn’t end there. We were asked to replay the scenario through several rounds, each one with me becoming increasingly violent. This is important because (as they explained to me) many officers will immediately assume that the male is the assailant and address him first, when oftentimes the woman is the dangerous one. Approximately 30% of all domestic violence calls end with the woman being taken into custody – not the man. So, they were trying to train the officers to analyze our behavior and assess the situation without making assumptions based on gender.<br /><br />In one version of our scenario I was supposed to go completely berserk, grab a baseball bat, knock the top off of a trashcan and then attempt to bludgeon my boyfriend to death. Since this situation was considered lethal, the officers were required to shoot me if they couldn’t get me to put down my weapon. I didn’t mind getting shot, but hitting the trashcan was kind of challenging because I’ve never been particularly good at team sports. It’s difficult for me to hit anything with a baseball bat even when I’m not wearing seven layers of padding. Plus, every time I put on my Darth Vader mask I pulled hair into my eyes and my breath naturally fogged up the lenses, so I was batting blind. But I think whirling the bat around haphazardly made me look even crazier and further encouraged the officers to shoot me, which is what they were supposed to do.<br /><br />Two of the three officers passed the test. One shot me with her paint gun and the other decided to use his tazer. After each instance I was supposed to fall down on the ground and pretend to be wounded, which I think I did rather convincingly, but because my authentic cries were filling the confines of my mask I couldn’t hear the sergeant say, “Cease fire – end scenario” and I continued to “die” long after the other actors had taken off their masks. Then I felt a little poke on my shoulder. “Umm, Alice?” the sergeant said. “Alice? That’s a good job but it’s over now. You can stop.” I took off my mask to find him standing there with a smirk on his face. Then someone in the corner whispered, “Drama Queen.” (I'm not positive who it was but think it was my fake boyfriend, who also happened to be smirking.)<br /><br />In the final round of our scenario I had to hold a fake baby in my left hand and beat up my boyfriend with my right. After a couple of practices all of the trainees were able to determine that I was the aggressor, probably because my boyfriend was cowering in the corner while I snarled and tore at his flesh (all the while holding a baby inches away from the madness). One of the trainees managed to pull me off my boyfriend, take me to the ground and handcuff me, but during the process the baby went flying against the wall and cracked her plastic skull open, so the officer got reprimanded for that. But I think he still got an “A” for effort.<br /><br />Though I was hot, sweaty and tired at the end of the day, I can definitely say this was one of the most exciting, unique learning (and teaching) experiences of my life. I have a new appreciation for police officers that goes well beyond respect. I know it sounds kind of cliché, but police work is nothing like what they portray on TV. Police officers are noble people but they are also real people with real fears, and overcoming those fears in order to protect others is no easy business.<br /><br />During one of the debriefing sessions a seasoned officer gave the trainees a compelling speech about overcoming the instinct to flee. “Your partner is like your brother,” he said. “If you left your brother behind to die in a gunfight, you would never be able to live with yourself.” He went on to explain that they had to trust each other no matter what, and I heard this reminder to trust echoed throughout the day. It made me wonder whom I would trust with my own life and where I would find the strength to express that level of vulnerability.<br /><br />We had some down time between scenarios so I got to talk a lot with the officer playing my boyfriend. He told me about how he majored in political science in college, how he liked creative writing, and how he and his wife read five books to their son every night. It was refreshing to see the person behind the uniform. Also, though the officers talked tough when they were instructing the trainees, they were always tender-hearted when it came to dealing with victims (even fake ones). At the end of each scenario I took off my mask and one of them was readily cradling me, picking the tazer parts out of my armor, and helping me to my feet. They also gave me a chocolate donut.<br /><br />At the end of the day the sergeant closed the training session with the words, “Remember: we need to carry olive branches as well as arrows.” He wanted all the officers to understand that it was as much their responsibility to promote peace as it was to use force. That is definitely a lesson I will carry on into my personal life, and I admired this sergeant – not just as an officer of the law, but as a teacher as well.<br /><br />Most importantly, though, I learned that despite my meager training as a high school English Teacher, I can still hold my baby in one hand and beat the tar out of my no-good, cheatin’ boyfriend with the other. And, if I deem it necessary, I can give him a few good swats with a baseball bat before the fuzz has a chance to take me down.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-88078902281163806612008-03-29T20:25:00.000-07:002008-03-29T20:35:21.435-07:00Nellie - 6.5 weeks old<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghI4j0LS7MlNK_Ubs5hF15cblKDkMqKFfTTbdpsnKb1gqxCM2R7I9QUpPRZpKtiMMaPDzkX4QnKZ0Ti2gM8hS10cNFq9pWwFGL709fz3Ijnu0twOK2DGS0SMIPrJXcyUwhvmMW/s1600-h/general+snuggliness.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183371112248553522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghI4j0LS7MlNK_Ubs5hF15cblKDkMqKFfTTbdpsnKb1gqxCM2R7I9QUpPRZpKtiMMaPDzkX4QnKZ0Ti2gM8hS10cNFq9pWwFGL709fz3Ijnu0twOK2DGS0SMIPrJXcyUwhvmMW/s320/general+snuggliness.jpg" border="0" /></a> Nellie is a ball of furry snuggles.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183371331291885634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijJ0AxxNrzeWQ8CgCJqA0qgo1AeYKkyc1HzrV5T-RmNoDUd79jbeo00VKN8cEZHrTH6c4nDrqM1ViS-lb4KIucZ4PJxpeozV4mzNMES07OBG1TVxSIoK9vNZ5UROpyf_NrfH0/s320/kisses.jpg" border="0" />She's a lover, not a biter (usually).<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183372937609654386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6QzX2gRtGenK_uVyB-Gx0UMriaBmmAbzTk3nMa-gRuua33KLEhkHINQ19b3Q_GAigyw98faWdTEXcuVP2HmH6P58W-Zl9gahwZL3qq9GkMbT-GizQSkiOSK6is-L5K69tEcM/s320/pretty.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center">She also has several pretty, contemplative poses.</p><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183372052846391394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDR1-ZSY7e8IVHUh-DK1XxA-Ka6sae1oEoG94As0wzVG9ufoTt7PNoMzKONzg0wzuqqf9kQj3Xtqs3nfUxPeArbRU5amZz180J5dmTfcXb4956jFo_sjjVXxZ0ffRFaeyxvl5/s320/shoelace.jpg" border="0" />And she will defend you against</div><br /><div align="center">any vicious shoelace that</div><br /><div align="center">comes your way. </div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-2313459721424777772008-03-21T20:27:00.000-07:002008-03-21T20:36:02.341-07:00Widows and Orphans<em>Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world. (James 1:27)</em><br /><br />I have had such a joyful time volunteering at the Lafayette Senior Center. I only help serve dinner there once a month, but I love talking to and sitting with all the elderly community members. They have such amazing stories and we keep each other company. This coupled with my time teaching high school makes for a pretty amazing life. The above Bible verse came to mind this evening for some reason, and I didn't have anywhere to write my thoughts so I put them here. So many of my students have faulty parents, divorced parents, or no parents at all. They are, essentially, orphans. So many of the people at the Senior Center have lost their loved ones - namely their husbands and wives. Without even realizing it I have been given these opportunities to look after widows and orphans, and that is my "religion." It's not the type of religion that the media and politicians talk about or the type of thing you see on one of those evangelical TV stations. It's the real thing. Real Christianity: caring for one another. And it is such a gift.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-71170568697335185982007-12-16T13:16:00.000-08:002007-12-16T14:37:12.200-08:00La Dolce VitaLast week I went to a Christmas party. I was standing in the living room when I felt a little tug on my pant leg. I looked down to find Jared, a fellow teacher’s four-year-old, staring up at me with sparkling doe eyes.<br /><br />“Miss Alice, I want to sit with you in THIS chaiw,” he said emphatically, pointing to our host’s BARCO lounger.<br /><br />Jared has a little trouble pronouncing his r’s, but he is the perfect example of a child’s warm, unabashed, totally disarming love. Recently, I ran into his family at a school wrestling match and within a matter of seconds Jared climbed into my lap, wrapped my scarf around his chest, and announced that we were “stuck together.” Then, with bursting excitement, he told me they had just come from dinner at Mandarin Garden where his parents bought him (brace yourselves) <em>ice cream for dessert</em>! “Really?” I exclaimed. “I eat ice cream in the dead of winter, too!” Jared could hardly contain himself. He threw his arms around my neck in a dramatic hug.<br /><br />So, at this particular Christmas party Jared and I were rocking back and forth in the easy-chair talking about decorations, wildlife, pancakes and other random subjects that four-year-olds find important, when he asked me to tell him my favorite thing about Christmas. “I guess just being with my family,” I said. “What is your favorite thing about Christmas?”<br /><br />“Well, I have two,” he replied. “Jesus’ birthday, and pwesents.”<br /><br />We often forget how much children adore Christmas presents. It’s not because they’re greedy or materialistic - most of them can’t even tie their own shoes let alone make a killing off of the Vanguard 500. But there is something magic about coming down the stairs on Christmas morning and seeing all those shiny, wrapped boxes under the tree. For children, it doesn't really matter what's behind the wrapping or what it's worth. It's all about the moment.<br /><br />The most memorable gift I received as a young child was actually a hunk of cardboard. At that time there was some kind of toy company that manufactured cardboard and painted it to look like various pieces of furniture. I already had a cardboard stove and the stove by itself was completely satisfying. I never knew anything else in this toy line existed, until one blessed Christmas morning I descended the stairs to find (brace yourselves) <em>an entire cardboard house</em> sitting in our living room. Granted, the “house” was only about five square feet in size, but next to my four-year-old frame it looked like a mansion in Beverly Hills.<br /><br />I stood on the stairway for a moment, completely breathless, my pajama leg hiked up under my knee. I took in the scene: The house was white and had red shutters, windows, a door, and tiny tulips painted on the side intermixed with sprigs of grass. After a few seconds I finally regained enough feeling in my legs to move. I ran towards the house. When I peeked inside I found that my cardboard stove was already installed in the west wing. Somehow, my parents had snuck into my room during the night and moved it downstairs to be part of the house. I must have slept like I was in a coma. Or maybe they drugged me. (I wouldn’t have blamed them. I was a little high energy back then.)<br /><br />To this day I remember that cardboard house because it was totally unexpected. I knew that a lot of wonderful toys existed. I had visited Santa. I had made a list. But never, in all my wildest dreams, could I have imagined <em>my own house</em> inside <em>our</em> house!<br /><br />My only question, when I look back on it, is what happened between then and now? When we’re children, we never doubt that something totally spectacular is waiting just around the corner – something surprisingly wonderful and beyond what we could ever conceive of or imagine. Amidst the sparkling snow – the clear, star-filled night – children are positively certain that something magical is about to happen. This is especially true on Christmas, but little ones seem to carry a bit of that anticipation with them throughout the year.<br /><br />Then somehow, in a matter of minutes, we go from this totally amazing childhood to an adult life in which “contentment” is just about as good as it gets. That’s what we adults tell each other, isn’t it? “Learn to be content with whatever you have.” That's the only way to avoid frustration. Be content with your tiny career, your tiny apartment, and your tiny cans of soup. At least you’re not getting beaten senseless by the Taliban. (At least, that's what I tell myself when things get rough.)<br /><br />I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately, and a certain Bible verse keeps coming to mind. It’s in the gospel of Matthew just after Jesus’ famous “seek and ye shall find” speech. He says, "Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”<br /><br />The point is that God wants to give us good gifts and (unlike Santa) those gifts don't correlate to whether or not we've been “good” throughout the year. God wants to give us even more wonderful gifts than our earthly fathers do. (And for me, that’s a pretty tall order because my Dad would pull the stars down for me if he could.) God wants more for us than we could ever wish for or imagine. But for some reason we walk around uncertain and unaware.<br /><br />Whenever things don’t work out and you’re having coffee with a friend and bending her ear, she usually responds with some cliché like, “Everything happens for a reason” or “You can’t have it all.” But what people fail to mention is that you don’t really need “it all.” You certainly don’t need “it all” to survive, and you don’t need “it all” to lead a meaningful life. Most people don’t even want it all. What most people are searching for, I think, is that magical Christmas feeling that anything is possible. People want to feel like wonderful surprises are bound to come their way. It’s the <em>believing</em> that we miss after we grow up. The sweet sense of believing.<br /><br />The Italians have a phrase – “La dolce vita” or “the sweet life.” I think it's the perfect phrase to describe that childish, Christmas feeling that warms the heart and delights the soul. I heard the phrase in a movie recently called <em>Under the Tuscan Sun</em>. Basically, a woman named Francis gets divorced and (just when she’s getting ready to die of despair) she takes a vacation to Tuscany and ends up buying a house there. Several new friends appear in her life and help her heal. One woman in particular (whose name I can’t remember, so I’ll just call her Crazy Hat Lady) is eating an ice cream cone when she befriends Francis.<br /><br />“How do you do all this?” Francis asks. “How do you stay so happy?”<br /><br />“Whatever do you mean?” Crazy Hat Lady replies. “I love hats and I love ice cream.”<br /><br />Later in the movie she gives Francis some invaluable advice. “Never lose your childish enthusiasm,” she says. “It’s the most important thing.”<br /><br />So, I want to end this blog by listing, with thankfulness, some of the things that contributed to my "dolce vita" this year. They are somewhat childish, but here they are anyway:<br />- the dogs that played fetch with me.<br />- the children who climbed into my lap.<br />- the music that happened to be playing when I walked by.<br />- the work colleagues who took care of me.<br />- the homemade spaghetti sauce.<br />- the friends who traveled in and out of my life.<br />- my family –especially my mother (who still lets me put my head in her lap).<br />- my life by itself, which is unpredictable, doesn’t really belong to me, and isn’t within my control. But a gift, nonetheless.<br /><br />Happy Holidays – to you and yours.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">HAPPENINGS – 2007 (in lieu of a Christmas Letter)<br /></span></strong><br /><strong>January</strong> – I start the year off fine.<br /><strong>February</strong> – Still don’t have a Valentine.<br /><strong>March</strong> – I march off to the CLAS conference and deliver my “Student Whisperer” presentation (which is loosely based on using Cesar Milan’s dog psychology as a classroom management technique – yes, that’s what I’ve been reduced to.) Then I march off to Chicago to visit Allison, Kirk and Libby.<br /><strong>April</strong> – the Easter Bunny still comes (even though I’m 30).<br /><strong>May</strong> – I turn 31. It is rather uneventful.<br /><strong>June</strong> – start my fellowship with the Denver Writing Project, which requires me to be agonizingly creative all day, every day, for four weeks.<br /><strong>July</strong> – Cousin Sarah stops through on her way to Berkeley.<br /><strong>August</strong> – Cousin Jenny comes to visit from Arizona. Teacher retreat in Breckenridge gets us all jazzed for the coming school year.<br /><strong>September</strong> – I start teaching two new preps. (Multicultural Literature and World Literature) and one old prep. (American Literature).<br /><strong>October</strong> – Mom and I walk the “Race for the Cure” with some of my work friends.<br /><strong>November</strong> – a positively wonderful Thanksgiving (but it came with an ulcer).<br /><strong>December</strong> – looking forward to Winter Break, and hoping to make it through the next week of school without the need for combat training!Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-29011354152429841642007-10-08T23:14:00.000-07:002007-12-22T07:54:54.042-08:00Not Barbie’s Dream LifeMost women cherish the memories of their Barbie doll: brushing her hair, dressing her in pretty gowns, cruising around the park in a pink Cadillac and then pulling into the driveway of an exquisite dream house. Those were the days when beauty was effortless and girls were free to dream.<br /><br />However, while I’m pretty sure I enjoyed playing with her, my Barbie did not experience the “traditional” Barbie life. My Barbie grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. She was never within a stone’s throw of the dream house. She lived in the projects – straight up, G. Her crib was nothing but a shack made entirely of Little Golden Books and it was all about survival in those days. The slightest breeze could send the walls of her complex crumbling to the ground. But Barbie was a resilient little soul. She always managed to pick up the pieces and move on.<br /><br />Barbie’s life was probably less than extravagant because my parents tried to direct my attention towards purely educational toys. Alan and I had games like “Animal Yahtzee” and “Circulation.” We rarely sat down with a board game just for the pure enjoyment of it. To this day neither one of us is particularly competitive – probably because much of our play time was spent reciting animal trivia and learning about the central nervous system.<br /><br />Now that I’m a teacher, I fully understand my parents’ reasoning. They wanted us to learn about electronics and architecture. They wanted us to use our hands to actually <em>create</em> something because those were the skills that would truly help us grow. Also, they never prioritized Barbie stuff because they wanted me to have a foundation for my education, not some superficial fantasy life played out by a perpetually smiling blonde in a double-D cup.<br /><br />Actually, I’m kind of surprised Mom and Dad got me a Barbie at all, but they knew all the other girls in the neighborhood had them and I guess they didn’t want me to be totally friendless, so they sprung for a couple of dolls and a few outfits. They drew the line at Barbie accessories, though. Those were a “complete waste of money.” While my friends’ dolls were living in multi-level mansions and driving luxury automobiles, my Barbie had nothing but one lonely arm chair and an end table. (And it took many well-behaved Christmases to earn <em>that</em> measly amount of furniture, let me tell you.)<br /><br />I did not allow my Barbie to feel short changed, though. I made sure she was fully integrated into the Barbie culture, even if it required a little ingenuity on my part. For example, though the pink convertible was completely out of reach, Barbie did manage to lease a used car that my brother constructed out of parts from his erector set. The car was made entirely out of aluminum plates and had four giant, red wheels screwed into the sides. Alan also used pieces of our electronics kit to fix a single, 40-watt light bulb to the front bumper. If you gingerly tapped two red wires together the bulb flashed intermittently while Barbie cruised down the streets of the ghetto. Unfortunately, her car didn’t have any seats in it so she had to lie down flat on the floor while she drove. Also, on one occasion the light bulb melted part of her left foot. But the car got her to work and back and she was thankful to have it.<br /><br />Barbie’s apartment was about as spectacular as her vehicle. She did not have a bed. She slept in an old shoe box and had tissues for blankets. It didn’t matter anyway because her shoe box bed, the arm chair, and the end table were the only pieces of furniture that would fit in her 14-square-inch studio. The whole building was kind of a mess, actually. The landlord wanted out, but there was little or no chance for resale.<br /><br />The entire neighborhood was just going down the toilet. At one point I tried to increase the property value by adding a hot tub that I made out of my mom’s stew pot. It was about five inches taller than Barbie and the water was always cold as ice so she rarely soaked in it. After the hot tub plan failed I thought I could attract more people to the neighborhood by opening a disco. I spared no expense. The disco ball was made from 100% aluminum foil. But, with no cover charge, it just turned into a dive bar. After one too many drunken brawls at last call, the police shut the place down and I boarded up the windows for good.<br /><br />The worst part of my Barbie’s life was that, for a long time, she did not have a boyfriend. My parents refused to buy me a Ken doll because (ever the educators) they were afraid I would get confused by the little plastic “mound” that existed in place of his genitals. However, I never cared whether or not Ken had a penis. All I knew was my friends’ Barbies’ had boyfriends and my Barbie had no one. She was the proverbial third wheel on every other Barbie’s fantastic date. I felt so sorry for her, sitting in the back seat at the drive-in, gorging on a Jumbo popcorn while the “popular” Barbie and Ken made out in the front seat. It was positively heartbreaking.<br /><br />I didn’t want my Barbie to die alone, so I decided to tap into the same sense of ingenuity that I used to refurbish her neighborhood. I had two Barbie dolls, so I took the older one (who was easy to sacrifice because she had only one bending knee), shaved her head, and drew hair on her chest with a black Sharpie. Finally, my Barbie had a boyfriend, ample-bosomed though he was. I dressed “transsexual Ken” in the only remotely masculine outfit my Barbie owned: a pair of navy bell bottoms and a psychadellic, multi-colored disco shirt.<br /><br />Needless to say, when you add it all up, this was not Barbie’s dream life. The poor thing punched out at her dead-end job every day and drove home in some beat-up, erector set jalopy. With an armload of groceries, she passed by the abandoned, stewpot hot tub and somehow managed to drag her melted club foot up three flights of stairs to her government-subsidized apartment. She opened the door to find her “life mate,” Transsexual Ken, sacked out on the couch wearing nothing but his is bell bottoms. Watching Jeapordy. Belching. Potato chip crumbs sprinkled all over his make-shift chest hair. Barbie just sighed, turned her head up towards the ceiling and asked flatly, "Why me, God . . . Why me."<br /><br />Looking back, Barbie’s lifestyle doesn’t seem particularly ideal, but for some reason it was more than acceptable to me. At six years old, I simply had no doubts about my ability to control the universe. If Barbie needed a home or a car, I simply assembled one. If she didn’t have a boyfriend, I created one. “Let there be life,” I told myself. <em>Quality</em> of life was never really part of equation. It was all about instant solutions.<br /><br />Things just don’t work that way when you’re an adult. (If they did, all my girlfriends would probably back away slowly every time they saw me with a Sharpie and a hair trimmer.) The really distressing part is, even after we grow into adulthood, we still live by the same childish archetypes. Despite the numerous experiences that prove the contrary, we still think that the good guys will win and the beautiful girl will find her true love in the end. We’re still addicted to the stories, but now we’re too old and powerless to write them.<br /><br />I was reflecting on this the other day when a random scene from “The Holiday” popped into my head. (In case you don’t remember, “The Holiday” is a totally stupid movie that came out last Christmas, which I only saw because Jude Law starred in it and because someone gave me a coupon for free popcorn.) Kate Winslet plays one of the heroines. She’s beautiful, smart, British, and alone. Broken-hearted, she decides to take a “holiday” in Los Angeles where she rents an enormous mansion and befriends a reputable but elderly movie producer.<br /><br />At one point in the story, Kate Winslet is out to dinner with the movie producer and she’s trying to figure out why she’s still single because she’s just so smart and beautiful and blah blah blah and it’s all just so darn tragic. The movie producer turns to her and says something like, “Do you know what your problem is? You’re the heroine in your own life, but you keep playing ‘the friend.’”<br /><br />That's exactly how I feel sometimes: like I was born to be a heroine, but without the ability to make casting decisions, I end up playing the ‘friend’ over and over again. My character occasionally appears on screen to make a quirky comment or to ferry a letter between two lovers, but she fades into the background during all the really important scenes. Not only that, but even if I <em>do</em> manage to maintain my heroine status for an extended period of time, I inevitably step onto the set of someone else’s story and (simply put) we can’t <em>both</em> have starring roles.<br /><br />Barbie doesn’t have to face these kinds of conflicts. She was packed up and shipped off long ago. But I’m trying to stay optimistic without her. There’s still a little bit of that six-year-old ingenuity lurking in the recesses of my brain. Maybe I can create a new kind of heroine – one who gets to be the heroine <em>and</em> the friend at the same time.<br /><br />And she doesn’t have to define herself by what kind of car she drives.<br /><br />And maybe, instead of waiting around for the love of her life, she spends her time helping other people find theirs.<br /><br />And because of that, she truly has it all. And then some.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-89121846338168238082007-08-18T15:34:00.000-07:002007-08-18T15:46:09.352-07:00Blind FaithAll children are blind to some degree. When I was little I certainly had more than my share of delusions and misperceptions. I blame my parents for this, mainly, because they lied to me on a regular basis. Why did they lie, you ask? Probably because it was funny.<br /><br />For example, on the occasional winter evening we took a family walk in Morse Park. About 20 minutes in, Dad inevitably stopped us in our tracks and pointed to something up in a tree drooping with snow. “What <em>is</em> that thing?” he asked. Alan and I slowly plodded over, beleaguered by our coats and snow pants. We could never see what he was pointing at. “Up <em>there</em>!” He kept pointing emphatically until we got close enough for him to shake the tree branch and pelt our little faces with snow. Mom sighed and dried us off while Dad clutched his sides with glee.<br /><br />Apparently, I was also especially fun to scare because Dad singled me out as fodder for the fake gorilla at Casa Bonita. (That restaurant created more shock and awe during my childhood years than possibly any other single location. It also happens to be the place where I strangled a puppet because it was teasing me, but that’s a story for another time.)<br /><br />Somewhere near the diving pool, the Casa Bonita staff performed little dramatizations that involved some kind of “varmint” who had just robbed a bank. Occasionally, a bumpkin zookeeper would stumble onto the scene and start freaking out because the local gorilla had also gotten loose. (What kind of town was this?) While the village idiots debated about how to address these pressing issues, a teenager in a gorilla suit stealthily peeked out from behind a fake palm tree.<br /><br />Then, without warning, the gorilla snarled and began swinging between the restaurant tables. Certain that I was about to be eaten alive, I clawed at my dad’s legs, begging him to pick me up. Instead, he turned me around, held my shoulders so that I couldn’t run away, and laughed maniacally while I stood frozen – a mere three feet from the clutches of that child-eating gorilla (who surprisingly never captured me, but I was all skin and bones back then).<br /><br />Dad’s lies weren’t all bad, though. At Christmastime, he always stayed up with us in order to keep the Santa myth alive. It was basically impossible to get us to sleep on Christmas Eve, so we all piled into my little twin bed and determined that, come hell or high water, we would stay awake until Santa arrived. We had to stay absolutely silent, and no one was allowed to fall asleep.<br /><br />We waited patiently amidst the shadows in my bedroom. “Keep listening for tinkling reindeer bells,” Dad whispered. “It will be very distant at first.” Slowly, our eyelids began to droop. Our heads grew weary and started to sink into the pillow. Then, just as we were drifting into dreamland, Dad jolted us awake. “I think I heard a bell!” he shouted. Instantly, we all shot up and clamored for the window.<br /><br />“Where? <em>Where?</em>” I whispered. My eyes strained into the night with such intensity that I could practically cut the glass with my pupils. I was searching harder than I had ever searched for anything in my life. My heart pounded with excitement and my whole body stiffened, hands clutching the window sill, balancing on my toes in desperate anticipation of that sleigh in the sky. After a few seconds Dad let out a sigh. “Nope. I guess I was wrong,” he said as we settled back into the mattress. “Let’s just keep listening.”<br /><br />It’s weird, but when I recall those early Christmases, I can almost re-create that strained feeling in my eyeballs and that anticipation in my chest. For some reason I like to recall that memory because, even after I became a Christian, I never again experienced that level of childlike faith. I was just thinking about it the other day when my friend Laura called and asked me to take her to the eye doctor. Because of some kind of infection she couldn’t put in her contacts in and she’s basically blind without them.<br /><br />I was kind of surprised by how much I enjoyed driving around “blind” Laura. Maybe it was some kind of power trip. Not that I would have driven her off a cliff or anything, but I could have pretty much taken her anywhere I wanted to go and she wouldn’t have known the difference. It was amazing how much she trusted me. Later that day, I was mildly disappointed when Laura’s boyfriend offered to be her chauffer instead of me. But maybe it was for the best. I am my father’s daughter after all, and the impulse to play a joke might have overtaken me.<br /><br />Though I like being an independent adult, occasionally I get nostalgic for the days when someone had to drive me around, when my Dad could still pick me up, and I still believed whatever he said no matter how stupid it was.<br /><br />You know, in the gospels, Jesus says we’re supposed to come to him like little children. I often puzzled over this verse, since most of the little children I know come to me with sticky fingers and/or a load of crap in their pants. But what I think it really means is, in order to have faith in God, we need to go back in our minds to a time long before our experiences with rejection and disappointment. Back to the days when we were able to trust our Father without hesitation and we believed without seeing.<br /><br />More than anything, we need to go back to a winter’s eve when our eyes were scanning the darkness with deep yearning. A time when we knew, with absolute certainty, that something wonderful was coming our way.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-70402157177339443162007-07-01T15:39:00.000-07:002007-07-01T18:57:12.059-07:00Love in the Time of Terror“You don’t need to come to the gate. I can just get out here.”<br /><br />Dad circled the parking garage. Level after level was full so he turned up the ramp to our fifth and final chance.<br /><br />“No,” he said. “I’ll come in with you.”<br /><br />Finally, we found a spot and he waited in line with me until I got my boarding pass.<br /><br />“Well, I guess this is goodbye,” I said, reaching out for a hug.<br /><br />“We have a few minutes. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”<br /><br />“Are you sure? I know you have to get to work.”<br /><br />“I’ve got time. Come on, I’ll buy you a croissant.”<br /><br />So we sat down at a fake Parisian café in the main concourse and Dad sipped from his Styrofoam cup while we talked about nothing in particular. After I finished eating I dusted the crumbs off my lap and started collecting my carry-on.<br /><br />“Well, I guess it’s about that time,” I told him.<br /><br />“I’ll walk you to the gate.”<br /><br />“Seriously, Dad. You don’t have to. I can make it on my own.”<br /><br />“I’ll walk you to the gate.”<br /><br />I was heading to Ireland on my first adventure overseas. Dad was proud of me, but I was traveling alone so, naturally, he was a little worried. When we got to the gate I said, “Thanks for walking me.” I didn’t want to admit it, but I was a little scared. I swallowed back a few tears. “This will be cool, Dad, just wait until you see my pictures.” He didn’t say anything, but his eyes got misty. He gave me a brisk hug and walked away just in time.<br /><br />That was the year 2000 and (though I didn’t know it at the time) it was our last send-off before the terrorists ruined my father’s ability to roam the airport freely. When I was a kid, strolling past the different gates used to be one of Dad’s favorite activities. Whenever we traveled as a family, we always arrived three hours early because he was afraid we’d miss our flight. So, we soaked up the time walking around the terminal, watching people come off the plane.<br /><br />Always the scientist, Dad may have enjoyed analyzing the different sociological schema that cropped up at the airport. But I like to think he was simply moved by the reunions. One cannot help but get choked up when a toddler runs into the arms of a man in a business suit, or when two lovers, long separated, clutch each other in a teary embrace.<br /><br />It was there, at the airport gates, where I began to form my initial perceptions of romance (or maybe they were misperceptions). My impressions were further skewed by watching many Hollywood blockbusters in which the hero races to the gate just in time to reunite with the woman of his dreams. I wanted nothing more than a man who would meet me there, flowers in hand, and confess his love for me while the music swelled and work-weary travelers looked on.<br /><br />Eventually it happened. My junior year of college my then-boyfriend, JJ, picked me up when I returned from spring break. I stepped off the plane to find him standing there with a goofy smile on his face and a mixed bouquet it his hands. Our relationship was in those blissful, early stages when the mere sight of each other ignites an explosion of hormones that make you totally incapable of being reasonable. As I approached he was moved to tears. “I missed you so much,” he said, sniffling. Then he put his arms around me and kissed me.<br /><br />For a while I kept that experience filed in my mental archives under “Most Romantic Moment of My Life.” But over the course of several months I learned that JJ actually cried rather frequently: watching a sunset, opening a gift from his grandma, any time he had bad news, or whenever we watched <em>Mr. Holland’s Opus</em>. Once the novelty of his tears wore off, the romance surrounding our airport moment disappeared as well. It turned out that the real novelty was JJ’s seeming devotion. That was the first time he picked me up at the airport, and it was the last. But I guess that’s the difference between love and romance: the constancy.<br /><br />I can’t blame JJ, though. We were young and commitment is terrifying, especially in your early twenties. I have since learned that we can’t judge those who are afraid of commitment, no matter what their age, because they are the ones who realize how important it is. I think that’s why women with devoted fathers tend to stay single for so long: our dads set such a high standard for commitment, brave men are hard to find, and we can’t seem to settle for less than the airport gate.<br /><br />Now I’m in my thirties and, strangely, still taking trips over spring break. This year I went to Chicago. Though I enjoyed spending time with my friends, I was tired and struggling with low self-esteem. Airport security further exacerbated my feelings when they confiscated my toothpaste. (In this day and age, anyone carrying more than three ounces of liquid can be considered a terrorist.) The security guard halted my bag as it went through the x-ray. “Is this yours?” she asked, holding up my tube of Crest. “Yes,” I replied.<br /><br />“It cannot go forward.”<br /><br />“Um . . . OK.” She kept holding it out so I reached up to take it.<br /><br />At that point she whisked her hand away and snapped at me. “It is too big! It cannot go forward from this point!” Clearly, I was a security risk. How dare I attempt to travel the United States armed with such minty freshness? I grabbed my bag and hurried through the line before she could discover the Q-tips I use to bludgeon people.<br /><br />Throughout the trip her words kept echoing in my head, <em>your toothpaste is too big . . . your toothpaste is too big</em>. Maybe I was just overly sensitive, but I really took it personally. My toothpaste simply wasn’t good enough to “move forward,” and therefore neither was I. Totally unlovable. I was not good enough for anyone. Ever.<br /><br />Fortunately, I mostly recovered by the time I got home. After the plane landed I took the train to the main concourse. When I came up the escalator, I had to sigh. There was Dad, just where I expected him to be, standing by the fountain wearing his content, closed-lip smile.<br /><br />“Did you have a good trip?” he asked.<br /><br />“Pretty good,” I said. “They confiscated my toothpaste.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Because of the terrorists.”<br /><br />“Oh.”<br /><br />“I didn’t even think toothpaste was a liquid.”<br /><br />“It’s not,” he said. “It’s an emulsion.”<br /><br />He took my bag off my shoulder, and we walked to the car.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-48230729238223947812007-05-13T18:24:00.000-07:002007-05-14T14:37:17.959-07:00Purple HeartsWhen I was seven years old a boy named Darrell pushed me from behind and I fell directly onto my chin. My dad took me to the emergency room where they gave me four stitches and (being the brave girl that I am) I didn’t shed a tear until after they gave me the shot. When we got home, Mom had warm macaroni and cheese on the table and my brother presented me with a special gift he had made in my absence: it was a purple heart, cut out of construction paper, hanging on a strand of pink yarn. My parents explained that this is what soldiers received for bravery in combat. (Apparently Alan had been reading a lot about the military.) I wore it with honor all through dinner.<br /><br />It’s the end of the school year and we are about to have the awards ceremony at the school where I teach. In these trying last few weeks, I really wish I had my purple heart to keep me brave. But, if I still had it, I would probably pass it on to Beth, a former student who's graduating this year.<br /><br />When I first met her, Beth was an eclectic combination of mental illness, patience, depression, wit, and acne. At least two or three times a week she would come into my classroom disheveled and crying. I regularly walked her down to the counseling office where she talked about cutting herself and sometimes even killing herself.<br /><br />But, on her better days, Beth loved to read and joined the book club I was sponsoring. She also loved to write poetry, which she never dared show to anybody. Some time around spring break she came in with a binder clutched in her sweaty palms. “Miss Smith,” she gasped, “I decided I want you to read my poems.” Then she tossed me the binder and frantically ran out of the room.<br /><br />It took three days of complete agony to get through that binder. The poems were awful, gut-churning rampages about boys who had broken her heart and taken her to Wendy’s (not always in that order). But she trusted me to read them, which was a serious compliment, so I was determined to give her Pulitzer Prize-winning feedback. I composed a thank-you card filled with very specific comments to prove that I had read each and every verse. “The one about the Cadillac reminded me of my college days,” I wrote, “It’s amazing how much we associate objects with memories.” I also told her that her “stream-of-consciousness style” reminded me of Faulkner and other great writers. I bought her a copy of Anne Lamott’s <em>Bird By Bird</em> and stuck the card inside.<br /><br />One week later Beth gave me a card of her own design. It was constructed from poorly-folded cardstock and had a faded ink-jet picture of a kitten on the front. The letter from Beth was almost identical to the one I had given her. “Thank you for saying that my poem about the Cadillac reminded you of college,” she wrote, “and thank you for telling me that my style reminds you of Faulkner.”<br /><br />But showing me her poems was not Beth’s bravest move by far. During the last weeks of school she began frantically writing apology letters to everyone she knew, including me. “I just wanted to tell you that I really loved your class,” she wrote. “And, I’ve really messed up, but I promise I will get better and make it up to everyone.”<br /><br />For several days she hinted at this mysterious, seemingly unforgivable mistake. One day she offhandedly mentioned a fight she'd had with her father. He had not spoken to her for three days. “Beth,” I said, “Whatever you’ve done it’s not irredeemable, and I’ll love you no matter what, so why don’t you just tell me what you’re dealing with here?”<br /><br />“I can’t say it out loud,” she responded. Then she scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it to me. I knew what it said before I even opened it: I’m pregnant.<br /><br />“Well,” I told her. “This is definitely going to change your life, but it’s not a disaster by any means.” I tried to stay calm but truthfully I was deeply concerned. Beth was emotionally unstable and was still taking an array of prescription drugs even after she found out about the pregnancy. I was worried about the health of the fetus. I was worried that she might abort the baby, and I was even more worried that she might think she could raise it herself.<br /><br />Beth came in several days during lunch and we had a few difficult but important talks. Typically, I would not involve myself so much in a student’s personal issues, but this was different. I felt compelled, spiritually, to be a true mentor and step outside of my comfort zone. So, crazy as it sounds, I told her she should probably stop taking the medication. Also, we discussed her options regarding the baby. It wasn’t my place to tell her what to do. Instead, I told her, “Whatever choice you make, you will have to live with it, every day, for the rest of your life. Choose wisely. Be selfless, and be brave.”<br /><br />For months I watched Beth trod through her senior year, her belly getting bigger every day. Early in the pregnancy, she decided to place the baby with adoptive parents and, amazingly, this experience healed her. The tears and instability ceased to exist. For some reason, the process of giving her child away – participating in the ultimate sacrifice and the ultimate gift – made her whole again.<br /><br />Just recently, Beth stopped by my room for a visit. She was healthy and smiling with cornsilk hair and plans for college. We were reminiscing about the past couple of years and she told me what it was like right after the baby was born. “She was in the NICU for several days due to a heart murmur,” Beth said. “So I went down there to visit her and held her little hand. Then, before I knew it, she was well and it was time for her to go home.” Beth insisted on handing the baby to the adoptive parents herself. “I’m handing you my child,” she told them, “because you can give her the life she deserves and because you deserve her more than I do.” After that, she walked away. She didn’t want to cry in front of them.<br /><br />I thought about Beth today when I was reading about Samuel, one of the Old Testament’s most famous prophets. His mother, Hannah, was barren and severely ridiculed by the other females in her circle. So she went to the temple, weeping and praying so much that the priest thought she was drunk. In her prayers, Hannah promised that if she received a son she would dedicate him to the Lord. As soon as the baby was weaned, she took him back to the temple and left him there for the rest of his life. I admire Hannah’s bravery. It is difficult for me to understand the amount of selflessness it takes to pray for something, receive it, then turn around and give it back to God. Essentially, this is Beth’s story. Like Hannah, her ultimate display of love was placing her baby in hands of the one who could perfectly protect and care for her.<br /><br />Women like Beth and Hannah have taught me that purple hearts belong <em>in</em> our chests, not on them. They also helped me realize something important about my faith: if the ultimate display of God’s love is Jesus on the cross, then we must embrace sacrifice in order to even remotely comprehend how He feels about us. And, in turn, we will be healed.<br /><br />It sounds strange, but every day that I walk with God I’m learning more and more to expect loss and to do so willingly. After dozens of painful goodbyes I have finally realized that when God gives us something to love, the best thing we can do is give it right back to Him. That is the only way we can be truly brave. That is the only way we can truly love.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-66596756853323170602007-03-18T19:03:00.000-07:002007-03-18T20:25:28.708-07:00A Walk in the ParkLisa, my college roommate, had a childlike affection for Halloween. She always wore a costume and insisted on carving a pumpkin, which left the pungent smell of rotting squash seeping into the walls of our dorm room for days on end.<br /><br />By Junior year we had finally graduated to a one-bedroom apartment on Folsom, right across the street from the football stadium. One crisp fall day I slouched home from class and entered our apartment to find fake spider webs stretched across the kitchen cabinets and a jack-o-lantern flickering on the dining room table. Fish sticks were sizzling in the oven and Wheel of Fortune was on TV, but Lisa was no where to be found.<br /><br />I figured she probably went to the neighbors’ to borrow some ketchup, so I dumped my coat and books on my desk and flopped on the couch. About 20 minutes later I heard a peculiar knock coming from inside the coat closet. “Oh my goodness,” I said (trying to sound frightened). “I hope that’s not a psychotic killer waiting for me to put my coat away so that he or she can slit my throat. I had better go check it out.”<br /><br />I opened the closet to find Lisa shining a flashlight on her face. She was dressed completely in black and her hair was sticking up all over her head. A stream of fake blood started at the base of her plastic vampire teeth and trailed down the left side of her chin.<br />“Rarrrr,” she growled.<br />“Eeek,” I said plainly.<br />“Aw, screw you. You never hang up your coat.” She flicked off the flashlight and stepped out into the kitchen to finish cooking dinner.<br /><br />Lisa was clearly disappointed because she had been attempting to exact her revenge ever since the previous Halloween, when I stayed awake until 3:00 A.M. so that I could rig up a rubber chicken in her dorm closet. The next morning she went to retrieve her bath robe and the chicken came swinging down from the ceiling with glorious alarm. She practically soiled herself.<br /><br />But apart from Halloween Lisa and I were rarely malicious. We were a team, and we were always searching for new (totally risk-free) ways to entertain ourselves. In the dorm days we pulled chairs up to our window in Baker Hall and watched the marching band practice on the quad. Lisa even fashioned little paper trumpets for us (using push pins for valves) so that we could play along.<br /><br />I adored Lisa. She was a gifted storyteller and would often have me rolling on the carpet, gripping my sides with laughter. Also, when I stupidly took Biopsychology and Russian History in the same semester, I made up little songs to help myself memorize insignificant facts like, “the Lithuanians were a Balkan people” and “chronic insanity is caused by a neurotoxin.” Lisa sang along repeatedly without protest.<br /><br />We were never invited to Frat parties, nor did we frequent the many bars on Pearl Street. Instead we made midnight malts and paper snowflakes and generally had a great deal of innocent fun with our close-knit group of friends. No one would have guessed that we were attending C.U. Boulder, then known as the “greatest party school in the nation.” (A few years after we graduated, Lisa told me that some of the younger nurses at her work were pressuring her to go bar hopping. She politely refused, telling them she had already gone to college and had “already done the party thing.” I had to laugh. “When you said ‘party thing,’ were you referring to the night we made newspaper hats in our dorm room?” I asked.)<br /><br />After we got the apartment, we went grocery shopping in Lisa’s gigantic, gold Oldsmobile. The car was as old as we were and it had a broken fan that screamed loudly and at random – usually whenever we were stopped at a curb scattered with hot guys. Once we got the groceries home, Lisa and I took turns cooking dinner. One evening I decided to challenge myself by making rice pudding for dessert. Some of the milk singed to the bottom of the pot, and when I stirred it a piece of brown, scaly skin bubbled to the surface, which totally startled me. “Lisa!” I screamed, “A snake!” I quickly dropped the spoon and ran to her for protection. “What are you talking about?” she asked. I soon came to my senses and realized that it was just burnt pudding, so I let go of her arm and explained myself. Lisa simply shrugged and went back to her homework.<br /><br />And that was the beautiful thing about Lisa: Instead of belittling me for thinking that a snake had somehow gotten past the security door, up two flights of stairs, through our apartment door, up the side of the stove, and into my pot of rice pudding, she simply accepted my neurosis without judgment.<br /><br />Shortly after the rice pudding incident, my parents called one evening and told me that my Grandmom Giovannitti had died unexpectedly. After they hung up I sat at the dining room table staring at the wall. I was clutching the phone, trying to fight off the tears in a Spartan manner (much like Grandmom would have done).<br />“Do you want a hug?” Lisa asked.<br />“No. Not right now,” I told her.<br />I stepped quickly into the bedroom and sobbed into my pillow for half an hour. Then I blew my nose, splashed some water on my face, and came out into the living room. “I’m ready for my hug now,” I said. I sat on the couch next to Lisa and she put her arm around me. We stared out the window at the gray sky and it started to snow. That was the <em>really</em> beautiful thing about Lisa. She had the perfect balance of compassion and strength.<br /><br />During our last two weeks of college I was so preoccupied with finding a car, a job, and an apartment in Denver that I hardly noticed Lisa and I were separating. All the things I was haphazardly throwing into boxes were part of the wonderful times we had spent together, and everything from that point forward was going to be different.<br /><br />Over the next eight years we saw each other less and less – sporadically meeting for lunch on our birthdays or when old friends were home for the holidays. Lisa graduated nursing school and worked her way up to the head of her division. I got my master’s degree and started teaching. Last summer I found myself standing next to her at her wedding, so honored to be included but at the same time feeling awkward because I barely knew the bride.<br /><br />Sometimes I get in a gloomy, pensive state when old friends come to mind and I realize that I hardly know them anymore, or I simply don’t know them at all. But it’s pointless to nostalgically paint our memories with sighs or waste our time counting the friends who have come and gone. As the greatest philosopher of our time, Kermit the Frog, once said, “life is full of meetings and partings.”<br /><br />But sometimes, if we’re very lucky, we get a re-meeting. Such was the case last week when, instead of entering into my gloomy state, I decided to call Lisa. We met for dinner and a walk around Washington Park. While I barely recognized the woman who hid in the closet to scare me all those years ago, I truly enjoyed this new Lisa. She was like someone I just met in a coffee shop or at a cocktail party, and I was completely fascinated by everything she had to say about married life and train travel and what she had heard on the Today Show.<br /><br />Before long it was dark outside. A work night. Time to go home. I reluctantly said good-bye and when I got into my car a cold, lonely chill ran up my forearms. Yet, as I drove home, I was comforted by our walk around the park. In my mind’s eye I saw the way our feet padded along the trail in unison, and I realized that whenever we talked about the past a remnant of the old Lisa rose to the surface like the dust against our shoes. And I knew that – should I ever be stricken with an impulse to make newspaper hats – I could call up this new Lisa, invite her over, and she would totally be game.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-82375602120451677312007-01-27T14:28:00.000-08:002007-01-27T14:32:31.305-08:00Paddy the IncredibleHe was a small, brown bear cub who stood on all fours (before he suffered from acute joint degeneration) much like the type of bear you would see in a museum, only softer and significantly less threatening. So, in more ways than one, Paddy was not what you would call a “traditional” teddy bear.<br /><br />Paddy was my constant companion between the ages of three and six. We spent our summer days playing outside under the willow tree and my brother, Alan, managed to incorporate him into all of our imaginary games. At night I simply refused to go to bed without Paddy. In fact, there was a period when my parents spent close to an hour every evening helping Alan and I round up our stuffed animals.<br /><br />After a while my dad got really sick of the nightly search and rescue delaying bedtime, so he decreed that each of us could pick ONE stuffed animal to sleep with and that was IT. Of course I chose Paddy – there was no contest – but I felt cut to the heart about all the other animals I had rejected. Also, if I recall, the rationale behind this new “one animal rule” was never clearly explained. I just assumed that (for some sick reason) our dad was testing our loyalty to the stuffed animals by forcing us to rank them.<br /><br />One night after Dad tucked me in, I stealthily snuck out of bed, tip-toed across the room, and picked up one of my new dolls. With my eye trained on the door I quickly hugged her, dropped her on the floor, and scurried back underneath the covers. I was plagued with the fear that my father would somehow sense what I was doing and “discover” me. I pictured him bursting through the door, pointing his tyrannical finger in my face and screaming, “You chose Paddy! How DARE you shower your affections on someone other than your CHOSEN animal!”<br /><br />The point is that selecting Paddy as my most devoted companion was not an easy choice, but it was an obvious one. Without him, life was simply unbearable. That’s why there was no question about his coming to kindergarten with me, even though I wasn’t quite sure how to incorporate him into my school routine.<br /><br />Alan and I walked to school every morning wearing matching red jackets; we were both required to hold on to opposing ends of a stick so that he wouldn’t lose me. I had a green drawstring backpack with “Slater Gators” painted on the front, and that was Paddy’s preferred method of travel. Every morning I put him in the backpack (leaving his head out so that he could breathe, of course) and the three of us marched off into the unknown with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Once we arrived at school, my brother stopped where the sidewalk divided our grade levels and he hugged me goodbye. I reached behind me and touched Paddy’s reassuring paw through the backpack, while I watched Alan walk further and further out of sight.<br /><br />Everything about kindergarten was stressful and confusing. I rarely had anyone to play with and nothing they did there made any sense. Worse yet, I was required to leave Paddy in my backpack, hanging on one of the coat hooks, because the grownups said he was somehow capable of interfering with my learning.<br /><br />The only time I got to be near him was when we did an activity with the water table, which was situated near the coat hooks. I don’t remember what it was actually called, but the table had a removable lid and was like a bathtub inside. Our teachers filled it with water so that we could sail little boats we had made out of paper. “Why are we doing this?” I thought to myself. “Isn’t my boat made out of paper? Isn’t it going to sink?” I glanced desperately at Paddy. He just stared back at me, stiff-necked. His arms and legs were trapped in the backpack, leaving him completely incapacitated and unable to offer any help or reassurance.<br /><br />Further out, in the center of the room, there was a pretend kitchen. A red-headed boy was standing in the middle of it screaming that the oven was about to blow up. My internal monologue began to panic. “Why don’t the adults get us out of here?” it said. “Don’t they know this place is about to explode!” I shot a quick glance across the room to where Paddy was incarcerated, and I hastily assembled a plan for how I would rescue him from the perilous flames.<br /><br />Strategic plans to rescue my teddy bear from fire became the preoccupation of my kindergarten year. One particular instance stands out in my memory. We were required to do numerous fire drills, one of which took place on a school bus. The grownups weren’t taking us anywhere. They rented a bus for the sole purpose of the drill. (This, of course, was never explained to me.)<br /><br />As soon as we lined up at the door my heart started pounding with anxiety and the internal monologue started raving again. “There’s a school bus outside. Where are we going? Are we ever coming back? Am I supposed to just <em>leave</em> Paddy here? What if that poorly-wired cardboard kitchen explodes and he dies in the perilous flames?” Somehow I managed to covertly run over to the coat hooks and take Paddy out of my backpack.<br /><br />The entire kindergarten class marched outside and boarded the school bus. I had never been on a bus before. The big green seats smelled like old leather and were marked with a generation’s worth of oily thighs. There were no seat belts and my feet didn’t touch the floor, but once I managed to get settled I started to feel rather content. “This is pretty neat,” I thought, kicking my legs back and forth. “I wonder where we’re going.”<br /><br />I happily stared out the window with Paddy tucked under my arm while our kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Barnhill, stood at the front of the bus babbling at us – something about how if there were ever a fire on the bus we would have to leave all of our possessions behind and jump out the back door. Unexpectedly, all the kids started getting up, walking down the aisle, and dropping off the back of the bus. I felt compelled to follow them, but as I got closer to the edge my heart began to race. I stared down at the pavement. It was at least a thousand-foot drop. Mrs. Barnhill was down there waiting for me, tiny as an ant.<br /><br />“Come on, Alice! Jump!” she bellowed. “We don’t have all day!”<br /><br />I choked back a few tears, clutched Paddy in my arms, and jumped. Amazingly, I survived. With a deep sigh of relief, my muscles began to relax and my legs turned to jelly. Suddenly I received a swift smack on the behind. Mrs. Barnhill was immediately in my face, red and yelling.<br /><br />She jerked my arm. “What are you doing with this bear? I told you, in case of a fire, you’re supposed to leave all your possessions on the bus!”<br /><br />“But there wasn’t a fire,” I stumbled, starting to cry. Even if there had been a real fire, did she honestly expect me to leave Paddy in there to die? I’m not sure how the conversation proceeded after that. I think she told me something about how my life was more important than my bear’s. I just stared at her – horrified. Clearly, Mrs. Barnhill would not cease in her plot to destroy Paddy. She probably concocted this whole “drill” just so the bus driver could take off with him and abandon him in some nondescript wheat field. I guess she won in the end, though. I didn’t bring my bear to school after that.<br /><br />At Bible study last week we were talking about possessions, and we all had to name something we would hate to lose. For some reason Paddy immediately came to mind. I remembered how, when I was little, I often got scared at bedtime. Abandoned by my parents, left alone in a dark room, I fantasized that a blood-thirsty, psychotic monster was waiting outside to attack me while I slept. But I always told myself that, if I was ever threatened, Paddy would turn into a real bear and protect me.<br /><br />Inevitably, Paddy and I drifted apart as the years went by. He stayed at my parents’ house when I went off to college, and that is where he remains to this day. Yet, if the oven somehow exploded and their house burned down, Paddy would be the one thing I would sorely miss (that is, assuming my parents made it out OK). Maybe it’s not even him, really, but I would miss the absolute, childlike assurance that someone out there is willing to stand by me at all costs. I can’t think of a single person I know who has been sat on, puked on, or cried on more than Paddy. That kind of devotion is rare, timeless and simply inexplicable.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1163966879601687852006-11-19T12:07:00.000-08:002006-11-19T12:07:59.616-08:00Molly’s DogsMolly Greenblatt met Harry Smith, Sr. in the army some time during WWII. Enlisting at war time was a really brave move, which always confused me because I never considered Grandmom Smith to be a particularly brave person. According to my father, she was trying to escape her tyrannical older sisters and the strict confines of their Orthodox Jewish home.<br /><br />I’m also confused about why she fell in love with Harry in the first place, because a Jewish girl from New York doesn’t typically fall for a Christian hillbilly straight off a farm in southern Ohio. Actually, I don’t think Molly would have given him the time of day if her best friend, Ruth, had not developed a crush on him. Molly and Ruth were very competitive. As the story goes, they were working as secretaries on an army base in South Carolina where Harry was serving as a policeman. One day, he strutted into the office in his fatigues and drawled, “If either of you girls has a dime you can take me to a movie.”<br /><br />“I’ve got a dime,” said Molly, smirking at Ruth.<br /><br />After Harry left, Ruth turned to my grandmother and said, “If you try to steal that man from me, I’ll throw you down the stairs!” which turned out to be an empty threat, I think, because ultimately Ruth married a college graduate and lived quite comfortably. Her only child, Lilly, became a veterinarian. Molly and Harry struggled to feed their three children and barely made a dime all of their working lives.<br /><br />By the time I came into the world, my grandparents were semi-retired and had been long-settled in a house somewhere in the piney woods of South Jersey. I have tiny, flickering memories of my grandfather sitting in a Lazy Boy wearing a blue leisure suit and smoking a cigarette. There are a few more vivid memories of my grandmother.<br /><br />Her front porch was screened in and that’s where she kept her plants, one of which had a red flower that rarely bloomed. The back porch was just a landing from which her schnauzer, Max, would launch himself after you hitched him to the dog run and let him outside. I loved that dog. Whenever I sang “Only You” he would start barking, hop on the couch, and lick my face. But, the Max that I sang to was actually the second Max. When her first dog died, my grandmother simply replaced it with an identical dog and gave it the same name. This was also her method of grieving the loss of her pet parrots, all three of which were named Butch.<br /><br />Anyway, whenever Max (versions I or II) was ready to come inside, I unhitched the leash and he scurried across the linoleum into her dark kitchen, desperate for food. I still remember the sound of his claws on the floor, and that depressing, yellow kitchen – such a stark contrast to Grandmom Giovanitti’s, which was always warm and scented with meatballs. Grandmom Smith’s kitchen was completely devoid of cooking smells. It was saturated with tobacco and the pungent scent of Butch (versions I, II and III). The room was just a passageway, really. A rest stop, where grandmom would top off her jelly glass with Pepsi or take a bite off the half-eaten Butterfinger that she kept hidden away in the utensil drawer.<br /><br />However, what I remember most about the kitchen was her blue, glass butter dish. It was shaped like a chicken and it sat on the window sill for many years, devotedly hatching the dust. When I was very little I mistook it for a dog. Grandmom thought my ignorance was simply adorable, and she told that story over and over again. “Your mother would carry you through the kitchen, and you would point your chubby little finger at that butter dish and say, ‘dog?’ It was just so sweet.’”<br /><br />Thinking about Grandmom Smith makes me kind of sullen, mostly because I never really knew her. I only interacted with her when I was a preoccupied child and a self-obsessed teenager. I never asked her about growing up Jewish, or our ancestors in Romania, or the war, or the Holocaust and the family that we lost. I never asked her about living with a husband who drank away their money, or about why she loved books. These are all things that interest me now but are forever lost. For me, all that remains of my grandmother are these little, memorial idiosyncrasies – her pink towels, the seashell next to her bathtub, and the way she smiled whenever I sang to Max (the sequel).<br /><br />After my grandfather died, Grandmom moved into a tiny apartment where she put flowery slip covers over all the furniture. The last time we visited her she got out a pad and pen and said excitedly, “Let’s make a list of what you guys want after I die!”<br /><br />I looked at my mother’s face. I could sort of tell what she was thinking – it was some combination of “how morbid” and “this woman is crazy.” My father and brother sat there silently, shifting in their seats. After a couple minutes I spoke up.<br /><br /> “I want the blue butter dish,” I told her. “You know – the one in the shape of a dog.”Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1159646815419711572006-09-30T13:06:00.000-07:002006-09-30T13:12:53.050-07:00Garden StateMy mother is from the Garden State. Though my parents moved west more than 30 years ago, she still has traces of her South Jersey accent (which I find completely adorable). I’m always trying to trick her into saying certain words that will make the accent rise to the occasion. For instance, if I need something from an Italian market I might ask, “Mom, where is Vinnolas?”<br /><br />“It’s on fouwdy-fouwth,” she’ll say and I’ll chuckle a little bit because I already know where Vinnolas is. (Fortunately for me, 44th Avenue runs right through the Italian part of Denver, so there are a lot of opportunities for her to say “fouwdy-fouwth.”)<br /><br />Or, when she’s out in the yard I might say, “Where are you going with that hose?”<br /><br />“I need to wudder the mooorning glooories,” she’ll shout over her shoulder.<br /><br />Because of her east coast, Italian-American roots, my mother is particularly fond of gardening. When they bought their current house my father told the realtor that they needed a place with a garden because his wife was “genetically predisposed to grow tomatoes.” Now that she’s retired, mom spends a huge portion of her time tilling her land, and her garden is certainly a sight to behold.<br /><br />I’m not really sure why she likes to dig in dirt, but I do know that the garden serves as one of mom’s main avenues for expressing her love. I remember one time I came home from college broken hearted and she made me spaghetti with sauce made from fresh garden tomatoes. In addition to the hugs, I remember this sauce warming me from the inside out and healing every place where it hurt. Later I sent her a “thank-you” email and she wrote me back saying, “I love nurturing the plants and allowing them to nurture us in return. It seems to complete the full cycle in my mind.”<br /><br />In addition to her wide variety of vegetables (she’s particularly fond of her pumpkins right now, which she plans to give to the neighbor children) mom also has an extensive array of flowers. She spends hours tending the roses, tulips, and other delightful bursts of color that pop up from season to season. If I had a yard full of flowers like hers, all I would do is sit in my yard and admire them. But mom is always trying to pick them and give them to me.<br /><br />When I was fresh out of college and living in a tiny, 400-square-foot apartment, I happened to be visiting and admiring her peonies, these poofy, pink flowers that seem fit for a queen. “Those are beautiful,” I told her. “I’m impressed!” And she smiled. “Do you want some?” she said excitedly, “I’ll pick them for you!”<br /><br />“No, no, Mom. I couldn’t let you do that.” She only had a few peonies, which could live for several weeks in her yard but would die in a matter of days if they sat in a vase on my dining room table.<br /><br />About a week later mom showed up at my apartment. We were going to the art museum and then out to lunch. I saw her walking up the stairs and past my front window with an enormous smile plastered across her face. She was clutching three of these gigantic peonies in her cute little hand.<br /><br />Even if I had a yard, I don’t think I could keep a garden – certainly not one that would rival my mother’s. I simply don’t have that garden state of mind. I don’t have the amount of patience and persistence it takes to plant things and watch them grow, and I don’t have the amount of selflessness it takes to share the fruits of my labors so liberally.<br /><br />Gardening seems to be a special, different type of labor. It’s not just about working hard. I know how to work hard. For example, on Thursday I was still in my classroom at 4:30 (my 10th hour at school), working away with no end in sight. At that point the Chinese man who cleans my hall scooted in with his broom. He was wearing a t-shirt that read "I survived Northglenn High," which looked positively ridiculous on his 52-year-old frame.<br /><br />"Boy, you working hard," he said.<br /><br />"Yes," I replied flatly. "But my students are very important to me." I kept banging away at the keyboard, not looking up.<br /><br />Though I had planned to work late only one night, things were starting to fall apart. The janitor found me in my classroom every night this week, pounding the soil, trying to force my students to sprout and grow. In broken English he started telling me about how, in addition to his janitorial duties, he and his wife own a dry cleaners. Having two jobs was causing him a great deal of stress. "We are very busy with dry cleaners," he told me. "But last year my wife say, 'why don't you plant a garden?'" He told her something about how he didn't have time for "farming" but he ended up planting the garden anyway. This hobby quickly became his greatest joy.<br /><br />Then he paused and asked tenderly, "Do you want to see pictures of my garden?" I had to stop typing because my heart was starting to melt a little. I got up from my desk. He put down his broom and showed me the pictures on his camera phone. There was his lettuce patch from six different angles, which (he explained) was utterly spectacular. There was his one red pepper hanging like a jewel amongst a hill of greens.<br /><br />"Those are beautiful,” I said. “I’m impressed!”<br /><br />And he smiled.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1155248300756861632006-08-10T15:14:00.000-07:002006-08-11T12:42:12.896-07:00Three Scenes from Breckenridge<strong>Scene 1</strong><br /><br />The summer after I turned 26 was one of those (pitiful but infrequent) times when I thought everyone was a better Christian than I was. For months, it seemed, I had been asking God to answer my prayers but I kept getting a busy signal. One day I overheard our church accountant say that whenever she needed direction from God, she took a long drive in the mountains. “I should do that,” I thought. “But I’m not as good a Christian as she is, so maybe I should <em>stay</em> in the mountains for a few days.”<br /><br />So I rented a condo in Breckenridge. It took three hours to get there: one hour on the highway and two hours driving around in circles looking for the condo. Finally, I decided to swallow my pride and call the owners. The man who answered asked me what street I was on, so I got out of the car, walked three feet to the nearest street sign, and read him the name.<br /><br />“Is there a big building in front of it that looks like a condo?” he asked.<br /><br />“Yeeeess . . .” I replied.<br /><br />“You’re standing in our driveway.”<br /><br />The next three days were no improvement. I brought my Bible, my journal, and my guitar – all the key ingredients of Christian devotion – but enlightenment never came showering down from the heavens. I spent the nights curled up in the silence, lonesome and shivering. During the day I went hiking, ushering up one-sided prayers all the way to the top of the mountain and back. I took the same trail for three days in a row and got lost every time. During my descent I kept taking a wrong turn at a fork in the trail, which sent me straight back up the mountain the same exact way I had come down. Of course, my surroundings always looked the same (trees, trees, and more trees) so it took a while to figure out that I was actually lost. “Dangit!” I shouted internally, “It’s just uphill both ways with you, isn’t it God?”<br /><br />On my third hike I decided to avoid getting lost by following two women and their dogs. After a while they began taking a narrow and ambiguous turn off the trail. One of them noticed me. “Oh. You’re following us?”<br /><br />“Yes, yes,” I replied cheerfully. “I hope you don’t mind.”<br /><br />“Um . . . I don’t really understand,” she said. “We’re going over here to pee.”<br /><br />They stared at me. I stared back. Why couldn’t I explain myself? Why couldn’t I tell them I was just an impatient person with no talent for reading maps? Why couldn’t I say that I had not received the God-given internal compass that is generously bestowed upon all “good” Christians? But for some reason my mind was blank. Surely these women thought I was some ambling pervert who follows hikers into the woods to watch them pee. Instead of explaining myself, I simply mustered a nervous chuckle. “Sorry!” I blurted, and ran off.<br /><br /><strong>Scene 2<br /></strong><br />At age 28 I found myself in Breckenridge once again, not because of any spiritual mission of my own, but because my friend, Jessica, had a crush on a guy named Dan who went to grad. school with us. After class one day we all went out for beers and Dan happened to tell us that he was part of a competitive barbeque team. “A competitive <em>what</em>?” we asked. “A competitive barbeque team,” he explained, completely straight-faced. “Last year we took third in pork.”<br /><br />For some reason Jessica and I found this completely hilarious and we continued to ridicule him for the rest of the term. Dan told us he could prove his skill if we attended the annual barbeque festival in Breckenridge that summer. In part, we drove up there with the simple intention of spending a weekend away. But, at the same time, this event (which we started calling the “meat festival”) appeared to be the perfect chance for Jessica to win Dan’s affections. Even though both of us were dangerously inept in the field of romance, we determined that Jessica would somehow make herself irresistible and I would be her wingman. Wingwoman. Sidekick. Whatever.<br /><br />Anyway, the meat festival was a series of about 100 tents selling different forms of barbeque. We bought a booklet of tickets and proceeded to search for Dan’s booth, eating tiny cups of meat along the way. By the time we found him, we had probably eaten about ten pounds of brisket. Dan was happily surprised to see us. “Jennifer! Allison!” he shouted gleefully from behind the grill. “I’m so glad you could make it!” Then he came out of the tent and asked us to meet his fiancé, Jedediah, who was busily stacking sausages behind him.<br /><br />Needless to say, the surprise appearance of a fiancé was a bit discouraging. We politely made our greetings and walked away from the booth, defeated. “What just happened?” we kept asking each other over tiny cups of shredded beef. “How could he not know our names?” and “Why didn’t we know he had a fiancé?” and “What was her name again? Jedediah? As in Springfield?” and “No, I think that’s <em>Jeb</em>ediah.” Befuddled, we continued stabbing pieces of meat with toothpicks and shoving them into our mouths.<br /><br />Needing something sweet to balance out the barbeque, we bought funnel cakes for the drive home. Just then it started to rain and we were miles away from where we had parked so we had to run through the icy droplets. I was a few feet behind Jessica, who was hunched up with a cold, drenched funnel cake in her hands, dodging in between pedestrians with an irregular, meat-laden jog. She had just been rejected by a guy. She was making erratic, high-pitched shivering noises through her teeth. The poetic disappointment of it all sent me into such a hysterical fit of laughter that I had to stand there with my legs crossed for five minutes.<br /><br />Once I recovered we made it to the car and sat there in silence. I thought about what the trip really meant. Jessica had missed a shot at her heart’s desire and I never had a chance at succeeding as her wingwoman. In the end, the only things we came away with were soaking wet funnel cakes and two stomachs full of meat.<br /><br />On the way home the rainstorm turned into a downpour, the highway flooded, and we thought we would surely die. The <em>Pirates of the Caribbean</em> soundtrack was piping through the CD player, which was strangely appropriate for the climate. Slowly but surely, we made it home. Jessica dropped me off at my apartment . On the way back to her place she pulled over at 7-11 and threw up in a trash can.<br /><br /><strong>Scene 3<br /></strong><br />This week I found myself once again swerving through Colorado’s picturesque peaks and valleys on the way to a teachers' planning retreat in Breckenridge. For three days I talked and laughed with my colleagues. It was the perfect balance of fun and productivity. The impending school year was like a golden beacon renewing my calling as an educator. Most importantly, for the first time in my life I left Breckenridge feeling content and self-assured.<br /><br />It was a long drive back and, with no one to talk to, my mind began to wander. It’s amazing how some familiar scenery can send the memories flooding back. I remembered the frustration of getting lost on the hiking trail. However, I also remembered that I came home from that trip and, before unpacking, made three lasagnas for my friends and family. After I stopped comparing myself to others and started worshipping God using my own talents and abilities, we started having two-sided conversations again.<br /><br />I also remembered Jessica’s fruitless efforts to find love amidst the barbeque smoke. About a year after that trip we were listening to the <em>Pirates of the Caribbean</em> soundtrack and I turned to her and said, “Do you know what this music reminds me of?”<br /><br />“Sailing home from Breckenridge after the meat festival?” she replied. We both smiled.<br /><br /><em>Sailing home from Breckenridge after the meat festival</em>. I thought about how that phrase had probably never been uttered before in the history of the English language. And I thought about what good friends we were. And I thought about how I had finally found direction in my life without even noticing.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1152579361206227342006-07-10T17:43:00.000-07:002006-07-10T17:56:01.223-07:00Why yes, I do have room for Gelato . . .Recently I embarked on a European adventure to visit my friends Andrea (Drea) and Robert Mueller. The Muellers recently moved to Switzerland (Robert’s homeland) with their 17-month old baby, Severine. Since I had always planned to see Italy I thought Switzerland would be a delightful addition to the journey. Drea agreed to travel through Italy with me and we took her adorable toddler with us.<br /><br /><strong>Switzerland<br /></strong>We went to downtown Zurich the day after I arrived so that I could walk off the jet lag. The second we got off the bus I was struck with an extreme headache and nausea and decided I must indeed puke before we could press on, and finding a venue was quite the undertaking. (Unbeknownst to some, Europeans have exceedingly large bladders and enormous rectums – hence the minimal need for public restrooms. You can only find them at the train station or, if you're lucky, McDonalds.)<br /><br />Apart from the vomiting, Zurich was delightful. We strolled down the cobblestone streets in old town, visited the Grossmunster (big church) and gardens along the lake of Zurich. My impression of the Swiss was that they were accommodating and welcoming, but very much into status. Every public venue is kept at the height of cleanliness and each person’s car is pristine, inside and out. Also, there is a very low crime rate simply due to the fact that legal infringements would make a person seem “common.”<br /><br />I also took a day trip to Lucerne, which is kind of an old fashioned “Cinderella” town. The Jesuit church there was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen, overflowing with sparkling glass and exquisite murals. The inside was gleaming white with lovely pink edging. I eavesdropped on one of the tours (too cheap to pay for my own) and overheard the tour guide say, “the architects believed the church represented the image of God and therefore could not possibly be beautiful enough” so they spared no expense in building it.<br /><br />I was guided by Rick Steves’ Switzerland book for my walking tour through the city. It was fascinating to see and read about bridges (or anything) built before the 12th century. One of the bridges was full of old paintings, each of which contained a skeleton to remind the (then plague-infested) residents that death is ever-looming in a person’s future. It’s inescapable. (Enjoy Lucerne, everybody!) Also, the city is a technical marvel with water actually flowing OUT of the lake and powering one of the oldest hydroelectric facilities in the world. (The fact I was actually interested in this was proof positive that I spent way too much time working for that engineering firm.)<br /><br />In addition to Lucerne, I also visited a town called Schaffhausen, where Robert’s ancestors were from. As we were pushing Severine in her stroller, Drea explained that her full name was actually “Severine Elisabeth Mueller Von Shaffhausen” because the Swiss often tacked their place of origin onto their names. I looked down at the adorable baby, who was cuddling her stuffed animal and napping away peacefully, and I secretly prayed that she would never be forced to use her vampire name.<br /><br />A large portion of our time was spent in Ticino, the Italian part of Switzerland. Robert’s parents have a house in Cademario, near Lugano, which we used as our home base before entering fully into our tour of Italy. It was so beautiful, with a rolling countryside full of vineyards and small farms, little churches and houses tucked away in the hills, and tiny one-table restaurants bursting with wine and pasta.<br /><br />On our drive in we got somewhat lost trying to find the house and stopped at a hair salon to ask for directions. The completely gorgeous hairdresser only spoke Italian but he immediately elicited help from a stranger passing by. The pudgy woman, who had just finished her shopping, stared intently at our map while an incomprehensible dialogue ensued. At that point a little old man walked up, then another lady, then a local shopkeeper, and eventually all of them were arguing in Italian and grabbing our map out of each other’s hands. Finally, one of the little old ladies tossed up her hands and somehow explained to Drea that we should follow her in her car. She parked just in front of the street we needed to turn on, waved, and blew a kiss at me as we drove by. <br /><br /><strong>Italy</strong><br />Though Ticino was kind of a pre-cursor, the people there were still Swiss and it wasn’t until Como that I was able to form my first impressions of Italian culture. We traveled mostly by train and therefore were able to have muddled (mostly sign language) conversations with many of the locals. Severine made an impression right away. While the Swiss are what Drea calls “kinder-friendly,” the Italians go completely berserk over babies. Practically every Italian woman who saw her would scream out, “Bellisima! La Bambina!” and throw their hands up in the air. Then they would pour out a rapid succession of Italian adorations, squish her cheeks, hug her, let her empty their purses, put her on their laps and (especially if we were in restaurants) feed her. Also, if ever she was screaming or upset, some Italian man would stop in front of her stroller and flirt with her until she smiled.<br /><br />I loved it when people talked to Severine because they spoke slow and repeated themselves often so I was able to pick up a little Italian. (Granted, baby talk will only get you so far in a foreign country.) Actually, I’m sure I sounded much like a toddler anyway by the way I spoke only in nouns and pointed emphatically at everything I wanted. Anyway, Como was beautiful but the lake was a bit stinky. We dealt with the stink by eating Gelato, which we proceeded to eat at least once a day every single day of the trip. Spooning our ice cream, we observed the local culture and found it to be much like a high school: full of people hugging, kissing, holding hands, fighting at random, and just generally calling attention to themselves. The Italians were <em>definitely</em> my kind of people.<br /><br />After our day trip in Como we left the Cademario house and moved on to La Spezia, off the western coast of Italy. We wanted to visit the Cinque Terra and chose to spend the night in La Spezia because it was too expensive to stay in any of the little beachside towns. It was a bit traumatic trying to find our hostel (which was located somewhere in the hills of the village of the lost) and there was a brief incident during which the bus driver yelled at me. We were often yelled at by bus drivers in La Spezia and we never knew exactly what they were saying. Sometimes they wanted us to fold up the stroller. Sometimes they wanted us to get off because it was the last stop. They just kept yelling and we kept trying things – standing up, sitting down, changing seats – until we finally stumbled upon what they wanted.<br /><br />Our hostel was run by a family of eight children. The mother only had three teeth and the father donned a smeared white t-shirt and had patchy hair and bags under his eyes. There was also a somewhat questionable, limping wiener dog named “Tobia” on the premises who had dusty, tick-infested fur. Understandably, the baby insisted on petting him. But they were kind people who (again) went berserk over Severine and gave her all kinds of presents and never charged us for her breakfast. We enjoyed our visit to the Cinque Terra – had an awesome meal (as was every meal in Italy) and bummed around the beach. We were forced to go back to La Spezia on the ferry because there was a minor train strike, so finding our way back to the hostel was, again, a big adventure.<br /><br />Florence was our next stop and I was somewhat disappointed because it was completely overrun with tourists. This made it difficult to find lodgings and we couldn’t get into any of the famous exhibits. That evening I went for a walk by myself and saw the Ponte Vecchio (famous bridge), Duomo, and some other sites. Many tourists asked for my help. They were impressed by my firm grasp of the English language but a bit perturbed by my inability to help them with directions. The next morning was much better. The city was all abustle with stores opening and fresh fruits being delivered. We also saw a wonderful outdoor statue gallery.<br /><br />Our next stop was Venice, which was one of my favorite places. I’m sorry if you haven’t been there yourself, because it’s impossible for me to capture the complete romance of a city floating on the water. I took an evening walk and listened to jazz music gently flow from an out-of-the way bistro, while smells of wine and pasta sauces wafted in front of my nose. Somewhere there was an accordion, a guitar, a man singing opera. Water slapped against the sidewalk as people drank wine on outdoor patios. Shops glowing. Tinkling glass. A man with a bouquet of red roses slung over his shoulder. The whole city is full of romance, but it’s not the kind of romance that makes you feel lonely when you’re by yourself. It’s like the whole city is in love with you.<br /><br />We left Venice for Verona, where I took an excessive amount of pictures that I can use to geek-out my students during our <em>Romeo and Juliet</em> unit. Then I took a day trip to Milan where I visited the Duomo (the third largest church in the world), La Scala (the world famous opera house), and the fashion district. Undoubtedly, Milan was where I saw some of the most handsome men in my life. In fact, everyone in Milan seemed very fashionable and full of charisma.<br /><br />And that was the extent of my journey. I'm still sorting through over 200 photos but eventually I will have a DVD full of pictures, and all those within a 30 mile radius will be forced to view them. I cannot fully put this experience into words. Just know that this blog entry, overflowing with text, is just a scratch on the surface of what I saw and how it impacted me. I am forever grateful to the Muellers and their amazing traveling baby for being my hospitable guides this summer. Also, just as I was after my trip to Ireland, I am increasingly infected with the travel bug. Watch out, world: you’re about to be branded with my footprints.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1147055834006565482006-05-07T19:35:00.000-07:002006-05-08T14:14:54.136-07:00Pillar of Salt<div align="left"><em>“And Lot’s wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back and I love her for that, because it was so human.”<br /><br />-Kurt Vonnegut<br /></em><br />My feet step onto a small carpet of dust as I shuffle through the closet in my old room. Finally, at about 9:30 PM, I find them. I go directly into the living room and announce, “I know exactly how I want to celebrate my birthday. I’m going to read all of my old journals.” My mother looks at me skeptically. “Are you sure you want to do that?” she asks.<br /><br />The first journal began when I was nine years old and my love of language, especially the written word, is immediately prevalent. At the time I planned to write a book about a girl named Stacey who moves and has adventures. During middle school my friend, Rachel, recommended several novels that I simply devoured. She gave me a small booklet of her poems, which inspired me to write my own.<br /><br />Regrettably, the first 20 pages of my middle-school journal are filled with nauseating, sing-song verses that I painstakingly typed on a typewriter. Later, in the seventh grade, I went back and scrawled angry, sarcastic comments in the margins of each poem. In both my poetry and my prose I started experimenting with bad similes such as, “your eyes are as soft as a kitten,” and “calling him a teacher is like calling my guinea pig 'Willie Mays.'”<br /><br />My high school journal is saturated with excerpts from what I was reading. I diligently copied bits of wisdom from Greek tragedies, Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Wordsworth, Milton and Dickens. I clipped out several poems by E.E. Cummings and tried to imitate his style. This was only a launching pad for my freshman year of college, which was an intellectual skyrocket. While at C.U. – Boulder I feverishly recorded everything I was learning about astronomy, philosophy, linguistics, religion and art. I simply could not soak it up fast enough. I started reading the Bible and some angry feminist literature. Once again I fell in love with the classics – Bronte, Austen – and I started writing a weekly memoir that I sent to my friends using “this new thing called electronic mail.”<br /><br />Unfortunately, the learning process was somewhat stagnant during my first job out of college, but my writing definitely improved because I was practicing at work every day. My first year of teaching was spent grading essays and plodding through my master’s degree, but at the same time I was forced to re-learn American history in order to put the literature into context for my students. Ultimately, I realized that as long as I continued teaching I would also keep learning – as much as my heart desired.<br /><br />As with any young woman’s journals, I also spent a great deal of time musing about my perspectives on romance. My first crush was on a boy named Toby when I was in the fifth grade. I spent countless pages explaining how much I hated him, then finally confessed in red ink that I loved him completely. In the back of this journal I’ve tucked away a Valentine that I never sent, probably due to the explicit content and emotional risk that are evident in the inscription: <em>Toby. You’re a good friend. Your friend, Alice.<br /></em><br />In the seventh grade I became completely enamored with Tony, one of the richest, most popular boys in our school. He was an eighth-grader and, though I never actually spoke to him, I was convinced that I knew him inside and out. I was completely devastated when he got a girlfriend and I wept bitterly for about 27 pages. Finally, I forgave him and immortalized my love in a poem full of bad similes including the phrase, “you are like a rainbow.”<br /><br />In high school my tastes improved only slightly. My freshman year I fell for Pat Kennedy, a senior, who was on the wrestling team with my brother. There were several small, 30-second interludes when he actually talked to me. Also, it appears that he came to school drunk on more than one occasion, but that really didn’t enter into my consciousness at the time because I thought he was merely “artistic.” I pined after him on into my sophomore year but finally re-assigned my affections to Jaime Henry, a boy in my band class that I actually interacted with on a regular basis. After weeks of toilsome, sleepless nights I finally worked up the courage to ask him to the Snowball Dance. He politely refused and relegated me to unalterable friend status.<br /><br />The summer before my junior year of college I started dating J.J., my first and only boyfriend. Our first date was on my 20th birthday and I recorded every nuance of this event as though I were writing an epic screenplay. At the end of the evening we took a drive up to Flagstaff Mountain, sat under the stars, and looked out over the city lights. Neither of us wanted to go home but it was getting late and we were both cold. At one point I turned to him and said, “I wish there was a way we could stay and go at the same time.”<br /><br />“You can,” he replied. “You have the memory.”<br /><br />We stayed together for several years. Then one evening he bought me Chinese food and told me he didn’t love me enough to marry me. We remained friends for a while after that, but the friendship often made me blue and kept me tethered to the past. The last time J.J. and I spoke was a little over four years ago when he called to tell me he was engaged. He asked me to throw away his old love letters and move on. I did move on, but I’m glad I kept the letters. When I slowly unfolded them from the pages of my journal, I noticed how truly young we were. I saw it in the little hearts that he drew and the way he misspelled the word “grateful.” And for the first time ever I realized that, whatever he did to hurt me, he did it innocently and without malice.<br /><br />It took a long time to heal completely but I started feeling hopeful again right away. At 26 there was a brief period when I became convinced that I would remain single forever and there was nothing I could do about it. I started buying flowers for myself. I also took a trip to Ireland and changed careers. Throughout my late twenties I maintained a distant hope for a husband but began to value realism over romance.<br /><br />The most important insight that I gained from my old journals was the fact that God had been pursuing me much longer than I realized. At nine years old my world was filled with comfort and security. “Our whole family loves each other,” I wrote, “even the pets. I love earth and I love hugs.” My family spent a great deal of time together sledding, jumping in the newly raked leaves, and going to restaurants, plays and movies. When guests stayed at our house my brother slept on my bottom bunk and we laughed ourselves to sleep. Our parents consistently demonstrated their love with words and actions. Albeit unintentional, they taught me about the true nature of God.<br /><br />The middle school years were what I have now termed “The Dark Ages” when relatives started dying, I was riddled with anxiety, and I kept wishing there was someone out there to listen to me. In high school there was a nagging emptiness I could not fill, but at the same time I kept writing about how everything in the universe seemed connected. Officially, I remained cautiously agnostic. On occasion I would write little prayers to God, but I never really expected them to go anywhere.<br /><br />College gave me the opportunity to feel and think on my own for the first time. Immediately during my freshman year I began linking nature, music, and my understanding of death to some knowledge of and need for God. I kept referencing the “winds of promise” that seemed to be permeating my life. Once I saw three shooting stars in one night. With what I thought was a purely intellectual approach, I started reading the Bible and attending lectures on religion - namely the “creation/evolution controversy.” I never understood why these two things were at odds. “Why can’t science and faith co-exist?” I wrote.<br /><br />Though J.J.’s Christianity partly influenced my own decisions at the time, he was also somewhat of a distraction. After college and especially after we broke up I hit a major growth spurt with God. This was partly due to my involvement with youth ministry and my friendship with Sheri, a co-worker who later became my close friend and Christian mentor. Sheri had a faith like granite and an encyclopedic knowledge of the Bible. My journals are filled with emails we exchanged – maps of our journeys through scripture and life.<br /><br />After I turned 26 two very significant things happened: I became a teacher and my Dad was diagnosed with cancer. Both of these experiences changed me forever. I was forced into a new realm of trust and surrender to God. Despite the hardship, I consistently wrote about the peace and freedom I experienced during this time.</div><br />With that same peace resting on my shoulders, I find myself once again at my parents’ house, standing in front of the closet in my old room. I carefully stack each journal inside my chest of memorabilia. I pack away all the big ideas and the small details, knowing all the while that in four days I will turn 30 and it is inevitable. It is also a gift. Slowly, I close the chest and fasten the metal clasps. I start to leave but stop at the door and look back at my old room . . . the tiny twin bed . . . the worn out teddy bear tossed on top of a yellow pillow. I turn out the light. I walk out, and close the door.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1144369232872544322006-04-06T17:13:00.000-07:002006-04-07T06:38:00.956-07:00Just Can’t Help MyselfUntil recently, I thought one of the marks a professional single person was the ability to go through life without asking for help from anybody. When my married friends talked about their husbands’ sweet little gestures, such as scraping the snow off the car or carrying groceries up the stairs, I would smile and say “that’s nice.” But inwardly I would think, “That poor little soul. She cannot even carry her own groceries. She is totally helpless. Not me. I’m strong and capable.”<br /><br />Doing everything for oneself is no small task, especially when you juggle as many activities as I do. The first week of February was especially busy. I was teaching at UCD and at Sylvan Learning Center in addition to my regular job, and I was on the planning committee for a large reading conference where I was also a presenter.<br /><br />The Friday before the conference I was forced into a corner and had to ask my Dad to pick up some signs at the printer. I simply couldn’t make it there before they closed. It took several deep breaths but I was able to endure this tiny bit of humiliation because he’s my Dad. I trusted him, and I knew he would never divulge that I asked for help.<br /><br />So, I went to work that Saturday where I planned to simultaneously design a web site for the conference, piece together my PowerPoint presentation, watch a video on F. Scott Fitzgerald, and prepare an associated study guide for my American Literature class. Also, my friend Beth was meeting me at school so that we could assemble chocolate roses for a book club fundraiser.<br /><br />Unfortunately, when I got to my classroom I discovered that there were no batteries in the remote control. I couldn’t play the video! I couldn’t multi-task! With precious time wasting away, I decided to call Beth and ask her to bring batteries, which was positively horrifying. I had just asked for help <em>twice</em> in <em>two</em> days. Was God <em>punishing</em> me? If He thought I was going to make this a habit, He had another thing coming.<br /><br />That Tuesday I was hit with an obnoxious stomach flu, which required me to call an emergency substitute and ask for help from virtually everyone on the planet. I had to email six different people at work to cover my meetings, make copies, find supplies for my students, submit my grades, and tackle a number of other tasks while I sat at home, powerless, with my head in the toilet.<br /><br />But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I went to the conference anyway and tried to perform all of my duties despite the intermittent vomiting. My hotel roommate (a woman I had just met that weekend) totally forced herself on me and insisted that I let her bring me water and the trash can whenever I needed it. It was completely demoralizing, but I was too weak to protest.<br /><br />The stomach flu held on for a week and was followed by a chest cold. Several friends brought me food and movies to cheer me up. I didn’t ask them to come. They just showed up at the door, and after they left I curled up on the couch in shame. Surely they thought I was weak and pathetic, unable to feed myself, unable to sleep or breathe through my own nose. I was an infant. An invalid. Next thing I knew, I would be sitting around in diapers getting spoon fed.<br /><br />The following week was cold and snowy, but I was finally starting to recover so I felt pretty positive. I loaded my arms with bags and books and headed off to work. The second I stepped onto the sidewalk both of my feet slipped out from under me and I landed directly on my tailbone. Lying on the ground, I screamed for about five minutes but somehow managed to pick myself up. Parts of the bone probably dislodged and went directly to my brain, because I decided it would be a good idea to drive to work. It took 20 minutes to lower myself into the car and all the way there I wept profusely. I was in so much pain that I knew my only option was to cancel all my meetings, find another teacher to cover my classes, and ask someone to take me to the hospital.<br /><br />Yet, while hobbling to my classroom, I thought about how ridiculous it was to be "driven" to the hospital. All of the doctors would surely point at me and laugh. “You can’t even <em>drive</em>!” they’d wail. “How old are you, <em>twelve</em>?” I quickly swallowed a handful of painkillers. “This isn’t that bad,” I told myself between sobs, “I can teach, run, dance – even fly!”<br /><br />As it turned out I couldn’t even sit. For the next two weeks I had to ask everybody to help me with everything. My students had to hand me my purse, open the filing cabinet, and pick up my pen off the floor. My teaching partner moved my desks, stacked my books, made my copies, and did practically everything else apart from carrying me in and out of the building. My parents visited me. They cooked my food, cleaned my apartment, and put away my laundry. My friends drove me everywhere I needed to go. They brought me food and movies to cheer me up.<br /><br />After two weeks my tailbone healed and I was the picture of health for three entire days, which I spent at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. I had been given an award and was able to attend a conference there for free. However, when I returned home I received a disappointing phone call from the English Speaking Union, an organization that I had hoped would give me a fellowship to study in England. I was driving home from Fort Collins, saddened, trying to weather the rejection, and getting sicker every minute. By the time I got home I was hit with a bad sinus infection and a cough. Shortly thereafter my Aunt Janine died, and disappointment turned into heartache. My friends were praying for me. They brought me food and movies to cheer me up.<br /><br />The sinus infection brought on a case of laryngitis and I completely lost my voice for three days. I had to take more time off work, and yes, ask for help yet again. Actually, I had to text message for help because I couldn’t speak. The next week was spring break and I figured it would be ruined. That was probably the low point. I felt isolated and depressed. I had asked for so much help by that point, there was no way I would qualify as a professional single person in any venue and definitely not in the Olympic games. With tears streaming down my face, I buried my head into the couch and prayed.<br /><br />“All right, God,” I said. “I give up. Maybe I <em>can</em> take care of myself. But I don’t want to, OK? I admit it. I need other people and I need You.”<br /><br />Slowly, my head started filling with images of the past two months . . . my mom hanging up my shirts and sweaters . . . Jessica at the door with a sandwich . . . my teaching partner stacking books . . . the girls in my dinner club, sitting in the car, praying for me. Something started to blossom in my heart and after a while I realized what it was: Pure blessing.<br /><br />I never thought of myself as a selfish person. I help others on a regular basis and I know how good it feels. As it turns out, when I refuse to let people help me, I deprive them of that wonderful feeling, which is pretty selfish when you think about it. So, I want to close this story with one request. I say it without hesitation. I say it full of joy and full of praise. I say it to you, my friends, and I say it to God especially:<br /><br />Help me!<br /><br />Help me with whatever you like! Help me carry my groceries and help me wash my car. Help me fix the cabinet in the bathroom. Help me make my dreams come true. Help me figure out where to go on vacation and where to go in life. Help me run faster. Help me understand politics and help me cook. (Actually, that’s going a little far. Well . . . you can chop up the onions, maybe.)<br /><br />Anyway, keep me company in the kitchen and make me laugh. I want you there, always.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1140414787745572532006-02-19T21:44:00.000-08:002006-02-19T21:53:07.763-08:00The Little Teacher That CouldWhen I started teaching high school I spent most of the first year putting out fires, and I mean that literally. I still have no idea how the emerging flames escaped my attention. I would simply stand there at the front of the room and eventually I’d smell smoke. Usually the boys (and it was always boys) would innocently ignite a piece of paper or perhaps burn part of a shoe, but sometimes things took a turn for the worst.<br /><br />While I wasn’t terribly shocked when one of my sophomores set fire to his classmate’s leg hair, I was definitely shocked when I found out that the two had discussed it beforehand and the victim had actually consented to getting torched. After punishing the arsonist and making him cry I took the other kid out into the hall and explained that, in the future, if someone should ask for permission to light <em>any</em> part of his body on fire, he should say “No.”<br /><br />This event was one of my first glimpses into the erratic world of teaching, and over the years the crazed teenage behaviors have become progressively easier to endure. However, I still find it difficult to balance these everyday incidents with the regular stresses of my personal life.<br /><br />A prime example of this imbalance occurred three years ago when I made arrangements to fly to Texas for my cousin’s wedding and stupidly booked the flight a mere hour after school let out. My car was already somewhat on the fritz but I still considered it reliable because it was a Toyota and I knew the entire body would fall apart before the actual engine died.<br /><br />So, parts of the car were falling off onto the ground and I was simply picking them up and putting them in the trunk. It also started making strange noises, but that problem was quickly remedied by increasing the volume on the radio. However, on the day in question my “check oil” light started flashing and I figured it would be best to take care of it because I had to get to the airport later that day.<br /><br />On my way to school I quickly stopped at Albertson’s and bought some motor oil, but it was too dark in the parking lot to find the oil-keeping receptacle so I decided to wait until that afternoon. So, I rushed into school and hurriedly beat 97 other teachers away from the copy machine. Sweating and out of breath, I made my copies and rushed to my classroom just as the bell started ringing.<br /><br />Needless to say it was a difficult day in the school yard. We were on assembly schedule so all the kids were rowdy and more psychotic than usual. I made it through first hour and had exactly 30 seconds to go to the bathroom between class periods. After high-tailing it down the hall with my pantyhose still around my knees, I stumbled in to find two of my students kicking around a gigantic stuffed sheep. (The stuffed sheep is mine. I named her Dolly and she lives in my “reading corner,” which is intended to be a safe, comforting place for kids to quietly read and grow in their love of literature.)<br /><br />“Stop kicking Dolly!” I yelled, grabbing the sheep and tucking her under my arm. “Don’t you have any respect for other people’s things?” Then I heard a ruckus in the hallway and ran out to find two boys bludgeoning each other in the face. Blood squirted onto the wall and a crowd of spectators immediately swarmed to the scene. After soliciting the help of a male teacher we were able to break apart the combatants and I started screaming like a drill sergeant to try and disperse the crowd. Of course, they didn’t take me very seriously, probably because I was holding a stuffed sheep under my arm.<br /><br />Finally we made it to the assembly. I believe the focus had something to do with homecoming, but our sound system was so poor that the announcer sounded like he was using the microphone to stir a bowl of gravel. Meanwhile, people would walk out onto the gym floor, spin around with various t-shirts and force each other to drink disgusting combinations of milk and shrimp juice in order to increase school spirit. No one in the audience paid any attention whatsoever.<br /><br />Before the assembly began our principal got on the P.A. system and asked that all teachers sit in the bleachers with the students to serve as crowd control. Normally the teachers stood at the doorway to the gymnasium and that is exactly where I found them when I finally made it to the assembly. Being a first year teacher and very idealistic (i.e., dangerously stupid) I decided not to follow my colleagues’ poor example. “I don’t care what they’re doing,” I said to myself, “I’m going to sit with the students like our principal requested. I’m committed to the success of this school and the safety of these precious cherubs.”<br /><br />I made my way to the middle row of the middle aisle of the freshman section. As soon as I sat down two stink bombs wafted up from the bottom rows and several spit-wads zoomed past my face. In response I stood up and stared, as though this would frighten the crowd into submission. The kids simply laughed. “How dare you try to assert your authority over the peasantry when we clearly outnumber you!” they wailed. “You cannot defeat the serfs while we are tilling our land and strengthening our resolve!”<br /><br />Finally, the bell rang, the assembly was over, and all of the other teachers immediately fled. At that point I was caught up in a sea of adolescents who were pushing, climbing, and shoving each other to the ground. Squirming helplessly, I tried to get them to stop. “Stop pushing!” I screamed. “I can’t! Someone help me!” one girl yelled as she was tossed head first into an emerging mosh pit. I saw two cheerleaders and a trumpet player shoved to the ground and immediately trampled. The entire thing was beginning to resemble a Civil War battle scene.<br /><br />My body was completely swept up in the tide and slammed into the middle of a doorway. Half my face was wedged against a metal beam but with my good eye I was able to spot another adult standing several miles in the distance and I screamed for help. He was large and intimidating and was able to stop the pushing by simply holding up his hand.<br /><br />I made it back to the classroom sweating, scraped and bleeding. One of my freshmen (a huge, defensive lineman) came into the room weeping in a girlish frenzy. He was deeply concerned because a friend of his had allegedly been “strangled” by a science teacher and had run out of class. “I’ve got to leave, Miss Smith! I’ve got to find my friend! He ran away and will surely die a horrible death if I do not rescue him!” he cried.<br /><br />I took him out into the hallway to calm him down. About five seconds later, I heard a crash inside the room. I opened the door to find Michael (one of the smaller kids in the class) lying on the floor underneath an upturned desk. The rest of the students stared at me quizzically as though I had just walked in on them in the bathroom. I temporarily disciplined the culprits, sent the lineman to counseling, and somehow managed to begin our lesson on <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>. Halfway through Act III a boy in the back row raised his hand and asked, “Excuse me, Miss Smith, but was I here yesterday?”<br /><br />“Um, yes, you were, Andrew,” I said.<br /><br />One of his classmates chimed in, “I saw him! He was asleep the whole time and you didn’t even notice!”<br /><br />Clearly, I was making an impact.<br /><br />I had to stay after school and lecture the kid who dropped a desk on Michael, so I was already running late and had to make my flight. As soon as I got to the car I noticed the bottle of unopened motor oil waiting on the passenger seat and remembered that my car might not even make it to DIA. I quickly popped the hood and began opening the oil, but where the heck was I supposed to put it? I mean, would it be too much to ask for the car makers to LABEL all those parts? There were a million tubes, a million places where it could go.<br /><br />Well, I knew where the dipstick came out and also knew it was oftentimes associated with the oil. I decided to pour it in there but the spout was so dang tiny! I ran back inside and grabbed a funnel from one of the science labs, which allowed me to pour a good half an ounce of oil into the spout while spilling the rest all over the engine. That would have to do.<br /><br />I began screeching to the airport at lightning speed until I hit a bottleneck at the railroad tracks. There was only one lane on this particular road and some kind of power surge had brought down the railway barriers. After about 20 minutes people began honking angrily and the pieces of wood and each car was taking dangerous turns scooting in and out of the barriers. I felt nervous driving into oncoming traffic but I had to make my flight and at this point I also had to pee pretty badly.<br /><br />Finally, I arrived at the airport and began running into the building, all the while being poked repeatedly by a sharp object in my pocket (which turned out the be a plastic death star that I had taken away from a Freshman who constructed it out of an empty pop bottle). After making my way into the main concourse, I immediately got in the shortest security line only to be rejected by an angry little airport man who said this line was for “first class customers only.”<br /><br />“But I’m going to miss my flight!” I begged.<br /><br />“That’s not my problem,” he explained. “You should have read the totally enormous sign we posted at the front of the line, you sweating, bleeding, oily pig of a woman.”<br /><br />With no time or energy to argue, I switched lines and started debating whether or not to take off my shoes when I went through security. I really didn’t have time to untie and tie them, but I also didn’t have time to get shoved into that little plastic box and strip searched. So, I removed my shoes, grabbed them out of the x-ray machine, and started running barefoot to my gate. As I whisked by I heard a little old lady begging for directions and she just happened to be going to the same concourse.<br /><br />“I don’t have time for her,” I explained to God, internally.<br /><br />“You will go straight to hell if you don’t help her,” He answered.<br /><br />So I went back, grabbed the old lady and her stuff, and made it to my plane just as they started boarding. I plopped down in my seat almost in tears. Then, as the plane started to taxi toward the runway, Andrew’s voice echoed in my head. “Was I here yesterday?” he said faintly. I chuckled a little, and promptly remembered that I still had to pee.<br /><br /> And that, my friends, is a day in the life of a teacher.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1135809169927936462005-12-28T14:25:00.000-08:002006-01-08T16:51:48.126-08:00The Bible in a NutshellI’ll be the first person to admit it: I have never read the Bible cover to cover. In fact, I never read it at all, really, until my sophomore year of college when I took a Bible as Literature class. Even now, after ten years “practicing” my Christianity I still find myself asking the big questions like, “What is the Bible <em>really</em> about?”<br /><br />I also encounter a crossroads in my faith whenever I’m forced to distinguish between the church culture gone awry and God’s actual message to humanity. For example, when Jerry Falwell claims that AIDS is God’s punishment for homosexuals and any society that tolerates them, and that obliterating our public school system would finally restore heaven on earth, I get a little bit queasy. Jerry and I are both standing on top of a gigantic Bible under this huge umbrella called “Christianity” and he’s trying to hold my hand. It makes me want to vomit all over my shoes.<br /><br />This Christmas I was once again asking the big questions about God and the Bible, and I discovered I had a desperate need to distinguish myself from the Jerry Falwells of the world. I wanted re-instate ownership of my faith. I wanted to know the truth behind this ancient text and, more importantly, I wanted to be able to sum it up in three words or less. So, I decided to dust off my Oxford Study Bible and skim through each book in search of a central theme. This is what I came up with:<br /><br />In the beginning, God creates everything lickety split. Adam and Eve skip merrily through their little nudist colony until it becomes clear that man is imperfect and true love cannot exist between God and man without free will. Inevitably, there is a horrible fruit-eating incident and paradise is destroyed until the end of time (at least, as far as we can tell). There’s Noah, the ark, and the introduction of rainbows. Later on the Israelites experience many hardships but Moses finally helps deliver them from slavery (until they are enslaved again and tortured over and over throughout history).<br /><br />Next there are a few books about rituals, worship, and atonement. There are several verses about what to do with your bodily fluids, which should never be read immediately after a meal. The book of Joshua proves that God rocks in battle, even when the only weapons available are trumpets and glass jars. Then all the tribes of Israel are settled and organized, namely by 12 very influential judges, one of whom is a woman. (Incidentally, Deborah did not become a judge because all the men were at war and she was the only one available, nor did she get her appointment through some friendship with the president or an affirmative action plea. She was simply the most qualified person for the job.) Ruth also appears in this section with an awesome story about giving up a little security and showing a little devotion to the ones you love.<br /><br />1 Samuel through 2 Kings is all about David’s dynasty. The highlights are David worshipping God by dancing through the streets in his underwear (which is something I think we should bring back to contemporary church services) and his adulterous affair with Bathsheba, which leaves him penitent and crying. It’s one of those genuinely vulnerable cries that makes him completely empty inside. Then David says something like, “I miss you, God.” And God replies, “I miss you, too. I still love you, and I especially love your honesty and authenticity.”<br /><br />1 and 2 Chronicles address David’s genealogy and explain how to decorate the temple. Then Ezra and Nehemiah do their best to supervise the re-construction of the temple (which, apparently, was destroyed at some point). Esther gets her man and Job sits on a pile of poop scratching the boils on his butt. It is unclear if the poop is his or someone else’s. When Job asks God why his life completely sucks God answers him with a simple, “I’m God. You’re not.” Then He blesses Job abundantly.<br /><br />Psalms covers David’s rock star years and Proverbs is full of pieces of witticism appropriate for both fortune cookies and life. Ecclesiastes points out that none of us is intelligent enough to understand God, while Song of Songs is a “romantic” book that describes how a woman’s teeth are like sheep and her breasts are like cattle. (Did Solomon actually <em>use</em> this line? Did it actually <em>work</em>?) Next, Isaiah reveals many thoughts and visions, including several important prophecies about the Messiah.<br /><br />Jeremiah is a prophet who helps God scatter the Hebrews (I’m not sure why) and explains that God has the right to change His mind. In Lamentations Jerusalem is destroyed and people lament it, obviously. After that Ezekial goes to the valley of dry bones and the bones turn into a man, which symbolizes hope in a really creepy way.<br /><br />Daniel tames lions and interprets dreams, and Hosea loves his wife even though she’s a prostitute. After that, ten minor prophets talk about Judgment Day and many of the things that can get screwed up between now and then. However, they emphasize the fact that if people trust God everything will be cool and anything that gets destroyed can be rebuilt even better than it was before. Also, somewhere in there Jonah acts like a baby and thinks he can hide from God to avoid saving the Ninevites. God uses this opportunity to turn Jonah into seafood and explain that <em>all</em> people are important to Him.<br /><br />Next we have the New Testament, where Jesus makes his debut and performs many miracles, the most notable being his ability to love people and tell them the truth at the same time. Jesus does this regardless of what other people think about him. He finds twelve stupid but kind-hearted fishermen and makes them his best buddies. He teaches them about God and after he’s gone they finally understand what he was saying. Jesus is constantly getting chased by people who want to stone him, namely the church leaders of the day. He also enjoys having dinner with thieves, prostitutes, and people with festering sores all over their bodies. Then he gets crucified and comes back to life, which is no small thing.<br /><br />In Acts the disciples carry on where Jesus left off, despite the fact that they are repeatedly beaten, imprisoned, and ultimately killed. Paul does a complete U-turn on the road to Damascus and ends up telling everyone that they, too, can know Jesus, even if they think they’re not good enough. He also writes letters to several churches and tells them to stop fighting. These letters also indicate that the last days will be crummy, but heaven will be really nice.<br /><br />Hebrews and James encourage Christians to keep on keepin’ on, despite the bloody massacres that may result from sharing their faith. In 1 and 2 Peter we learn that suffering can make us strong like bull, and there is no reason to be a slave to any of our behaviors. 1, 2 and 3 John are the hippie books telling us to love each other and peace out. Jude talks about being patient especially when we have doubts. And finally, the book of Revelation brings the whole thing to its climactic conclusion with flashes of lightning, freaky-looking <em>Lord of the Rings</em> type creatures, falling stars, and a blood-red moon. In the end, the world and God are reunited forever.<br /><br />So that’s the Bible in a nutshell. I know this article was long, but I think I did pretty well considering that the actual book is over 1000 pages. However, you may be disappointed to learn that in the end I am still unable to sum up the central theme in three words or less. The most I can say is that the Bible seems to be a lot about people, how they relate to each other and how they relate to God. Sometimes they hide, sometimes they fight, and sometimes they embrace. None of them ever seem to stop asking the big questions, though. And that’s a relief, at least to me.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1133243730861012722005-11-28T21:46:00.000-08:002005-11-29T05:32:36.130-08:00Every Woman Loves Mr. DarcyLast Sunday the women in my dinner club gathered together for a <em>Pride and Prejudice</em> tea party. After an hour of sipping from garage sale china and pretending to be British, we caravanned down to the Esquire theater where we watched the new film adaptation of Jane Austen’s novel, a story beloved by women and misunderstood by men everywhere. As we left the theater, I wiped the tears and snot from my face, turned to my friends and blubbered, “How on earth are we going to survive until this comes out on DVD?” Then I insisted on being called “Mrs. Darcy” all the way home.<br /><br /><em>Pride and Prejudice</em> was an awesome movie-going experience, comprised of the perfect balance of sighs, giggles, and tears that disillusioned, overly-sentimental viewers expect for nine dollars. At least, that was the case for all the women in the audience. Several boyfriends and husbands were forced (at gunpoint) to attend the show as well. As the credits rolled and the women dabbed their eyes, the men were glancing about frantically, looking for the nearest escape route. Those who were awake at the end of the movie acted like they had just sat through the Nuremberg trials. I overheard several of these men claim that it was "boring" and "torturous" possibly because none of the Bennett girls set fire to an oil tanker or held up a spear while screaming "Freeedooommm!"<br /><br />Despite their claims, I think most men dislike <em>Pride and Prejudice</em> not because they think it’s boring, but because they are secretly threatened and/or confused by our love for Mr. Darcy. In fact, there are probably millions of men out there who are seeking a deeper understanding of Jane Austen, whether it be to trick women into having sex with them or, possibly, to get an audition for a gay men’s choir. Whatever the case may be, I feel it is my duty to explain our infatuation with Mr. Darcy as best I can.<br /><br />Basically, Mr. Darcy is the type of man we would create if we could make a man into a woman – but not. Mr. Darcy transcends the boundaries of reality, consistency, space, time, and all other scientific principles. You can both control him and not control him. He is emotional, and emotionless. He is intelligent, yet stupid; protective, yet vulnerable; passionate and aloof; handsome and available all at the same time.<br /><br />Let me explain. One of the most gushed-over scenes in <em>Pride and Prejudice</em> is the part where Mr. Darcy finally confesses his love for Elizabeth. Throughout the story he is fighting against his better judgment, knowing he cannot marry below his station. Yet, he is unable to resist this woman's beguiling wit and intelligence, and his emotions take over. Finally, overwhelmed with passion, he bursts into Elizabeth’s sitting room (where she is busily reading, completely unaware of his agony). He refuses to sit down then blurts out something like, “In vain I have struggled, it will not do . . . I love you . . . please . . . if you have any sense of decency . . . put me out of my misery, and consent to be my wife.” After he flatters and insults her at the same time, Elizabeth refuses his proposal. She emphatically explains that he is the last man she could ever love, which clearly means that she loves him very deeply.<br /><br />In this scenario, Mr. Darcy is giving women what we have been longing for ever since Eve bit into that apple: control. It is every woman’s secret dream to cause a man this kind of torment. Here we have one of the most refined, distinguished gentlemen in all of England, but after he meets Elizabeth he turns into a puddle of goo that is completely incapable of being reasonable. Mr. Darcy could turn his nose up at even the highest society, but as soon as Elizabeth walks into the room he drops his keys, craps his pants, and forgets his name. (Of course, Austen’s description is exceedingly more romantic – and less crude. Plus, Mr. Darcy never had keys.)<br /><br />In addition to allowing a woman to control him completely, Mr. Darcy does not allow himself to be controlled in any way. He takes the lead in the relationship. He pursues Elizabeth with a type of manliness and chivalry that is unheard of today. His behavior ranges from small expressions of respect (such as bowing when he enters a room), to enormous displays of gallantry (such as hunting down the man who seduced her sister, shelling out millions of dollars, forcing the villain into marriage, restoring the Bennett family name, completely redeeming himself in Elizabeth’s eyes by refusing to take credit, claiming he “thought only of her,” and then – after finally making himself worthy of her love – he RE-PROPOSES in the RIGHT way, and makes her the mistress of his enormous estate at Pemberly. Oh, and he kisses her.)<br /><br />Finally, and most importantly, Mr. Darcy allows Elizabeth to be known and unknown at the same time. In his eyes, she manages to maintain both the mystery that attracts him and the intimacy that captivates him. He does not love her <em>in spite of</em> all her female-schitzo-45-emotions-per-second-judgemental-socio-emotional-freakish-turmoil. No. He loves her <em>because of</em> everything that makes her a woman. He is in awe of her and, as he says in the movie, she has “bewitched him, body and soul.”<br /><br />At the beginning of the film Elizabeth tells her sister that “only the deepest passion” could convince her to marry, and because of that she will most likely "die a maid.” So, not only are her standards excruciatingly high from the get-go, but Elizabeth adds insult to injury with her firey, witty, authentic personality. Instead of behaving in a superficial and subservient manner, she “acts out” in front of everybody and shows up unannounced with (dare I say) <em>mud</em> on the hem of her dress! Despite all conventional wisdom and stereotypes about what makes an “accomplished” woman, and despite the fact that refusing a marriage proposal was (at that time) like signing one’s own death warrant, Elizabeth holds out for her ideal love and, in the end, wins it – with her identity still intact.<br /><br />So there you have it. That is our Mr. Darcy and an honest, albeit insufficient, explanation of why we love him. He is undoubtedly the most paradoxical, beloved man in all literature. And for the men out there who were hoping to gain some sort of insight into womankind, perhaps this blog has confirmed what you already suspected: you can never hope to understand us, not at all, not even a little bit. My sincere apologies.<br /><br />And for all you ladies out there I regret to say, as far as Mr. Darcy is concerned, we must content ourselves with fiction. Much like Elizabeth, Jane Austen was committed to holding out for true love and refused several proposals that failed to meet her standards. And then she died. Unmarried. Still, though Jane’s maiden bones have long since disintegrated, her heroines live on and grow stronger with time. And it is my firm belief that, every time we read them, so do we.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14193302.post-1131206518051955212005-11-05T07:42:00.000-08:002005-11-05T08:46:27.983-08:00Never Been WornThe other day I was sitting in the teacher’s lounge with my friend, Cindy, who was thumbing through the classified ads, asking if anyone wanted to go in on a wiener dog. After flipping through a few more pages she got to the used clothing section. “You know, every time I see an ad for a wedding dress with the phrase ‘Never Been Worn’ above it I can’t help but wonder about that woman’s story,” she said. I glanced over the ads. It was truly depressing. Every day there were thousands, maybe millions of women across the country who were selling their unworn wedding dresses. Every day there was another woman whose dream got crushed and left hanging in her closet.<br /><br />It seems like the concept of “dreams” has been coming up a lot lately. Yesterday I was reading <em>Romeo and Juliet</em> with my freshmen and we got to the section where Mercutio makes a speech about Queen Mab, the fairy who runs across people’s noses while they sleep and tells them what to dream. After a long monologue about how women always dream about kisses and lawyers only dream about fees, Romeo finally tells Meructio to shut up because he “talk’est of nothing.” Mercutio replies, “True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air and more inconstant than the wind.”<br /><br />In our early years we’re never concerned about the vanity or the constancy of our dreams. For example, when I was 12 years old I dreamed about going to mime school, which makes absolutely no sense because I’ve never been able to keep my mouth shut for more than 30 seconds at a time. Then, when I was 18, I dreamed about going to New York and becoming and advertising executive. I pictured myself in a gray suit and black stilettos clicking along Madison Avenue while I shouted into a cell phone and hailed a cab at the same time. My father told me that I could go to New York as long as I got a gun and a dog. Suddenly my vision changed to an image of me being pulled along 42nd street by a snarling Doberman Pinscher. I’d be wearing baggy sweatpants and a puffy orange ski jacket with reflectors, pointing mace and a hand gun at anyone who came within 20 feet of me. At that point I decided it would be better to go to college in Colorado. I didn’t want my dad to worry himself to death, it was too expensive, and it didn’t matter anyway in the long run because I ended up teaching high school, and I sure as hell wouldn’t do that in New York even if I had a machine gun and a pack of wolves.<br /><br />After I graduated college all I could dream about was getting married, and I invested a great deal of time in fantasy planning. I pictured a really romantic proposal, sharing the happy news, picking out the dress, who would be in my wedding party, the first dance at the reception, and of course the wedding night when we would play Scrabble into the wee hours of the morning. (Hey, my parents are reading this, people.) Of course I never allowed myself to think beyond the wedding and the fact that I would have this husband sitting around farting, leaving his socks all over the place and folding the towels the wrong way (that is IF he folded them at all). But it didn’t matter. I still enjoyed dreaming about my wedding. One time when I was getting fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress I almost bought a wedding dress for myself. It was exactly what I had pictured, with the perfect balance of white satin and sparkley things, and it was on sale for $400.00. “Should I buy this?” I asked my friend. “I mean, I know I’m not dating anybody right now, but what are the chances that I will cross paths with a dress like this again? And on SALE!” She looked at me with a mixture of pity and amusement and asked, “What’s a guy going to think when he comes to your house for a first date and you have this wedding dress hanging there?” Perhaps it was going a little too far. I guess pre-printed wedding invitations with the words “INSERT GROOM’S NAME HERE” were definitely out of the question.<br /><br />Now that I’m almost 30 I have pretty much stopped dreaming for myself. I didn’t notice it until the other day. I woke up, stretched, stared at the wall for a second, and realized that there was definitely something missing from the closet of my soul. As it turns out, Mercutio was wrong. A dream is still worth something, even if it’s never been worn. You can just try it on now and then. You can run your hands over the fabric and appreciate its beauty. Then you can put it back in the closet, confident that it’s safe and available whenever you need it.Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01929056773208702339noreply@blogger.com0