The Art of Eating
(with apologies to M.F.K. Fisher)
We were enjoying our staff holiday lunch at a South End restaurant when we realized that this was the first time since we’ve known each other that we have shared a meal. We’ve never had the time or the opportunity. I usually gulp my sandwich while prepping class, Constance runs from our school to another in Cambridge, Annie teaches an additional, late class and Lalitta is always finishing some task or other.
The idea of a holiday lunch came to me in a blinding blaze of light when I was about to keel over in yet another store while trying to find a gift for everyone. I knew that soon I would begin screaming and not be able to stop. I also knew that my teachers needed yet another tchachkeh like a hole in the head. I decided to treat us all to a leisurely lunch instead.
And so that’s what brought us to this lovely white tablecloth-covered table pretending to be in a Paris Bistro. We’re a congenial group. We like and respect each other and work like crazy for our students. But that afternoon we became something slightly different—we became comrades. That’s what sharing a meal does to people—it brings them together, creates an intimacy that might never have occurred if not for the bread that was broken between them. If you eat with someone you trust them. You let down your guard and let them see you in a different light.
We enjoyed the fact that for one day we could pretend to be in Europe and eat our main meal in the afternoon and not cook that night. But Constance, who for years had lived in France, told us that even Europe was changing. People are becoming Americanized. They are having a rushed sandwich at work and eating their main meal at home at night.
Our lazy conversation started drifting onto our students but I insisted that we concentrate on ourselves for one afternoon. That’s when I found out that Annie was born in San Francisco but grew up in New Orleans. That Constance actually had yet another part time job as an editor and loved crème brulee. But it was from Lalitta, who I thought I knew best, that the funniest bit of personal information surfaced—she’s been a middle-of-the-night snacker all her life.
She couldn’t finish her hamburger so she was taking it home. We told her that she wouldn’t have to cook that night since there was plenty left for dinner but she said, no she would probably have the burger as an afternoon snack and then prepare a meal to leave by her bedside to eat at about 3:00 in the morning. We all stared at her.
“Say that again?!” I demanded amazed.
“Are you sleep-eating, or do you know what you’re doing?” added Constance.
It turns out that she’s always awake and knows exactly what she’s eating. She’s been doing this since she was a little girl. She eats constantly throughout the day and night because she never feels like she’s eaten enough. (How she keeps her gorgeous figure is beyond me!)
Both Constance and I immediately remembered the years when we nursed our daughters. Constance’s daughter had problems breast feeding and so Constance believes that to this day her 27 year old daughter eats continuously because she feels like she’s always hungry.
For over a year I couldn’t figure out why Lisa was getting up at 3:00 in the morning to nurse. How could she be hungry when she was eating all day long? When I complained to my doctor she told me to try an experiment.
“Set your alarm clock for 2:00 in the morning, get up and have a snack. Do that for a week. After a few days you won’t need the alarm, your body will automatically get you up, hungry for that snack. You’ve gotten your daughter used to eating day and night.”
Twenty-seven years later Lisa is still snacking all day long, in fact it’s a family joke. We’ll all be sitting at the dinner table, stuffed. Lisa will tell us that she is so full that she won’t eat another bite for the rest of the day. We all laugh hysterically and begin to bet exactly how long it will be before she snacks. Sure enough, on cue, fifteen minutes later Lisa will be opening the refrigerator door.
I think about Lalitta’s midnight snacking and I know that if I did that my body would rebel. Steve and I both now have geezer eating habits. Any day now I expect us to be eating at 4:00 in the afternoon. If we go out with friends and eat at the fashionable hour of 8:00 pm, we come home afterwards and lie on the bed like two beached whales. “Never again,” we both moan knowing full well we’ll repeat the same process next week.
Because nauseous as we are, beached whales that we have become, we wouldn’t give up dinners with our friends for anything. Movies, bowling, dancing are all fun but it’s the eating together, sharing drinks, good food, and laughs about our week and our lives that binds us. Eating is never merely eating—but loving and caring and shared lives. A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and good friends—it’s all you really need.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Farewell Holly
Farewell Holly
I’ve been reading about Marisol, a dog who’s been lost in the Middlesex Fells Reservation in Medford since the beginning of November. The poor thing had been happily playing with her buddy, Toby when…..
a pit bull charged out of the woods and lunged for Marisol. Toby, a normally timid golden retriever mix, stepped in for his little friend and took a beating, holding the pit bull off until its owner finally appeared. During the melee Marisol fled into the woods. That was November 2. Toby is slowly recovering. Marisol — a 3-year-old, 20-pound copper-colored mutt — is still out there and the search for her has become one of the most elaborate and high-tech ever mounted for a missing dog. (Boston Globe 12/5/10)
Marisol is a “Sato”, a Puerto Rican street dog. Andrew and Anindita Sempere adopted her when they were volunteering at a dog shelter there three years ago. As a Sato Marisol possesses natural dog instincts for survival plus street smarts that she learned when she was a stray for the first seven months of her life.
So though Marisol has lived the soft life as a beloved American pet for the past three years she is no stranger to living rough. And that is part of the reason that the Semperes are having such a difficult time finding her. After the attack Marisol had become a street dog again, avoiding people and living on the run. The Semperes had to call on pet detective, Karin Tarquin to try and bring her home.
Tarquin told them that, after a day, maybe less, Marisol had stopped thinking like a pet. And as hard as it was for the Semperes to believe Marisol was not looking for them to rescue her. They’ve come to understand that they cannot go to her. They need to get her to come to them. And to do that they will have to hunt her like a feral animal. Marisol’s primary instinct had become her own security and that meant avoiding people, even her owners.
It’s hard for anyone who doesn’t have a pet to understand how much you can love a furry creature. How they crawl into your heart and make a home there no matter how you try to fend them off. Once you’re theirs they don’t let go. They become your routine, your day, your evening, your bane and your solace. And when something happens to them, especially something you can’t control, you’re lost.
Even in a sea of dog lovers the Semperes are unusual. Not only have they expended the usual efforts, but once they discovered that they had to use different methods to find their dog they embraced those as well. They are using motion activated cameras in places where they think Marisol visited. They have tried to map her route so they can set up stations with food and water to lure her to a place where they can capture her. They have used all their social networking abilities to spread the word. But despite all the technology, all the GPS tracking devices, cameras, and internet blogs, Marisol remains stubbornly lost.
Andrew is a rational thinker, a scientist. But this is emotional and he’s having a hard time accepting that there is no technology that he can use, no program he can write to bring Marisol home.
We all fall into helpless emotion when our pets are hurting especially when we’ve run out of technology and its options. That is where our neighborhood found itself when Cheryl and Roberta’s dog, Holly died last week.
Snoopy met Holly before we did. He’s fickle when it comes to most dogs but he’s always adored his neighbor, Holly. She was a sweet, gentle, Australian collie who loved everyone, but especially her buddy Snoopy. When I went back to work full time and Cheryl started taking Snoopy for walks, she jokingly referred to them as husband and wife.
Last winter Cheryl bought them matching coats—Holly’s was pink and Snoopy’s, gray. The neighborhood got a kick out of them as they walked together, defended each other against other dogs, acting like an old married couple. Snoopy would spend hours at Cheryl’s, just “chillin” as Cheryl would say. They were a love match.
Last year, despite vaccinations, Holly caught Lyme disease. She recovered but then a few week’s ago she suddenly started limping and then refused to eat. She was sick again. Cheryl was at her wit’s end. For a while Holly would eat only when Snoopy was around but then even Snoopy’s presence couldn’t get her to eat.
One evening as I drove into the driveway I saw Cheryl walking Snoopy home alone. “Where’s Holly?” I asked her. She tearfully told me that Holly was in the hospital and wasn’t expected to last the night. The next few days we had a reprieve when Holly rallied and came home, but then a few days later she was gone. I couldn’t believe that I was sobbing hysterically. After all she was only a dog and not even my dog. But it didn’t matter. She was a little bit of life that was part of mine—a presence that made me smile—a puppy who brought love to her family and ours—a part of God’s creation. And for all that she was to all of us here in our neighborhood, she will be truly missed.
I’ve been reading about Marisol, a dog who’s been lost in the Middlesex Fells Reservation in Medford since the beginning of November. The poor thing had been happily playing with her buddy, Toby when…..
a pit bull charged out of the woods and lunged for Marisol. Toby, a normally timid golden retriever mix, stepped in for his little friend and took a beating, holding the pit bull off until its owner finally appeared. During the melee Marisol fled into the woods. That was November 2. Toby is slowly recovering. Marisol — a 3-year-old, 20-pound copper-colored mutt — is still out there and the search for her has become one of the most elaborate and high-tech ever mounted for a missing dog. (Boston Globe 12/5/10)
Marisol is a “Sato”, a Puerto Rican street dog. Andrew and Anindita Sempere adopted her when they were volunteering at a dog shelter there three years ago. As a Sato Marisol possesses natural dog instincts for survival plus street smarts that she learned when she was a stray for the first seven months of her life.
So though Marisol has lived the soft life as a beloved American pet for the past three years she is no stranger to living rough. And that is part of the reason that the Semperes are having such a difficult time finding her. After the attack Marisol had become a street dog again, avoiding people and living on the run. The Semperes had to call on pet detective, Karin Tarquin to try and bring her home.
Tarquin told them that, after a day, maybe less, Marisol had stopped thinking like a pet. And as hard as it was for the Semperes to believe Marisol was not looking for them to rescue her. They’ve come to understand that they cannot go to her. They need to get her to come to them. And to do that they will have to hunt her like a feral animal. Marisol’s primary instinct had become her own security and that meant avoiding people, even her owners.
It’s hard for anyone who doesn’t have a pet to understand how much you can love a furry creature. How they crawl into your heart and make a home there no matter how you try to fend them off. Once you’re theirs they don’t let go. They become your routine, your day, your evening, your bane and your solace. And when something happens to them, especially something you can’t control, you’re lost.
Even in a sea of dog lovers the Semperes are unusual. Not only have they expended the usual efforts, but once they discovered that they had to use different methods to find their dog they embraced those as well. They are using motion activated cameras in places where they think Marisol visited. They have tried to map her route so they can set up stations with food and water to lure her to a place where they can capture her. They have used all their social networking abilities to spread the word. But despite all the technology, all the GPS tracking devices, cameras, and internet blogs, Marisol remains stubbornly lost.
Andrew is a rational thinker, a scientist. But this is emotional and he’s having a hard time accepting that there is no technology that he can use, no program he can write to bring Marisol home.
We all fall into helpless emotion when our pets are hurting especially when we’ve run out of technology and its options. That is where our neighborhood found itself when Cheryl and Roberta’s dog, Holly died last week.
Snoopy met Holly before we did. He’s fickle when it comes to most dogs but he’s always adored his neighbor, Holly. She was a sweet, gentle, Australian collie who loved everyone, but especially her buddy Snoopy. When I went back to work full time and Cheryl started taking Snoopy for walks, she jokingly referred to them as husband and wife.
Last winter Cheryl bought them matching coats—Holly’s was pink and Snoopy’s, gray. The neighborhood got a kick out of them as they walked together, defended each other against other dogs, acting like an old married couple. Snoopy would spend hours at Cheryl’s, just “chillin” as Cheryl would say. They were a love match.
Last year, despite vaccinations, Holly caught Lyme disease. She recovered but then a few week’s ago she suddenly started limping and then refused to eat. She was sick again. Cheryl was at her wit’s end. For a while Holly would eat only when Snoopy was around but then even Snoopy’s presence couldn’t get her to eat.
One evening as I drove into the driveway I saw Cheryl walking Snoopy home alone. “Where’s Holly?” I asked her. She tearfully told me that Holly was in the hospital and wasn’t expected to last the night. The next few days we had a reprieve when Holly rallied and came home, but then a few days later she was gone. I couldn’t believe that I was sobbing hysterically. After all she was only a dog and not even my dog. But it didn’t matter. She was a little bit of life that was part of mine—a presence that made me smile—a puppy who brought love to her family and ours—a part of God’s creation. And for all that she was to all of us here in our neighborhood, she will be truly missed.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Late Again
Late Again
Being late while stuck in Monday morning traffic is aggravation to the hundredth power. And it’s especially rotten when you can’t blame anyone else because it’s your own fault since you’re suffering from an attack of driver-hubris. That’s when you’re so sure you’ll arrive on time because it’s not rush hour and the moon is in the seventh house. That was me that morning, oh so cocky because after all the conference didn’t start until 10:00.
That morning I convinced myself that I had plenty of time and didn’t have to rush. It’s such a familiar scenario. You plan to leave at 9:00, then you get involved in a newspaper article, or your stocking rips, or you look in the mirror and you can’t imagine why you ever thought that sweater would match those pants, and before you know it you’re late before you’re even out the door.
But I was still optimistic since that morning I’d be traveling on back roads, not traffic clogged highways. And that’s how it begins—you’re certain you’ll make it and then about halfway into the trip you realize that you were only fooling yourself. Back roads notwithstanding, there is traffic, in fact there are so many I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world meandering drivers that you’re ready to shoot someone’s tires off. And because you’re on back roads there are no passing lanes, but there are plenty of traffic lights, 20 mile speed limits and even a cats that saunter across the road.
So your situation goes from, “No problem I’m going to be on time” to “Problem, I am going to be late” to “Just how late am I going to be, ten-minutes-not-too- terribly late or twenty-minutes-you’re-so-pathetic-can’t-you-get-your-life-together late?!” That’s where I was that Monday morning wondering how I was going to sneak in quietly. I tried to dredge up a plausible excuse, after all I’d heard some doozies in my life as a school director, but all I could come up with were some not-to-be-used-unless-desperate gems. Such as:
Student: “I can’t get up on time.”
Me: “Have you tried an alarm clock?”
Student: “A what?”
Me: “A clock that rings or sings at whatever time you set it so that you can get up on time in the morning.”
Student: “Oh you mean like the thing on my phone?”
Me: “Yes, yes,” I answer really excited that he has caught on, actually knows what I’m talking about, and has the technology to wake himself up.
Student: “Oh yeah, well I can’t use it because I have to turn off my phone to recharge it at night, man.”
At that point I usually put my head down on my desk and sigh. I’ve heard about
traffic, late buses, sick kids, rain, snow, sun, ice, cold, heat, probation officers, social workers, and doctor visits--reputable excuses all but tiring after a while. I was longing for some originality and yesterday I got it in spades. When Tameka walked in 45 minutes late I looked at her quizzically expecting the usual excuses but she managed to surprise me,
“I’m so sorry I’m late but I was up all night because my dog was in labor and had 12 puppies.”
The entire class applauded. “But it’s true!” she sputtered! It’s not that we didn’t believe her, especially after the graphic description that she gave us afterwards. We were simply acknowledging her originality. It’s not often that you get such art.
Sometimes the “Why are you late?” conversations turn into teachable moments. One student kept showing up an hour late everyday despite all the warnings we gave her. Finally I spoke with her to try and remedy the situation. I started slowly:
“Kayla, what time is class in the morning?”
She looked at me as if it was a trick question.
“Uh, nine o’clock?”
“Correct! How long does it take you to get to school?” I asked next.
“About forty-five minutes.”
“Okay we’re doing great here. So what time do you leave the house every morning?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Okay, I can see the problem now. Do you travel to school each morning by teleporter? Are you beamed down from a space ship?”
She looked at me as if I had grown another head but I persevered.
“Well if you’re traveling the usual way, like by bus, doesn’t it take you some time to actually travel on the bus to get here? Let’s look at this as if it were a math problem.” And God bless her she set the problem up perfectly, subtracting 45 minutes from 9:00, which brought her to 8:15.
“So what you’re saying is that I should leave my house at 8:15 to get here on time?” she asked.
I concurred and then suggested that she actually leave at 8:00 thereby giving her a cushion in case the bus was late. She’s been fine ever since.
So as I sat there, stuck behind an SUV filled with kids and puppies, I wondered if I could use the, my-dog-was-in-labor excuse. But then that I realized that I might make it on time. And eureka, the traffic gods were indeed smiling on me that day, and there was even a parking spot right at the front door so I was two minutes early. It was a relief professionally, but part of me was sorry that I didn’t get to try out the dog in labor excuse. The applause would have been great.
Being late while stuck in Monday morning traffic is aggravation to the hundredth power. And it’s especially rotten when you can’t blame anyone else because it’s your own fault since you’re suffering from an attack of driver-hubris. That’s when you’re so sure you’ll arrive on time because it’s not rush hour and the moon is in the seventh house. That was me that morning, oh so cocky because after all the conference didn’t start until 10:00.
That morning I convinced myself that I had plenty of time and didn’t have to rush. It’s such a familiar scenario. You plan to leave at 9:00, then you get involved in a newspaper article, or your stocking rips, or you look in the mirror and you can’t imagine why you ever thought that sweater would match those pants, and before you know it you’re late before you’re even out the door.
But I was still optimistic since that morning I’d be traveling on back roads, not traffic clogged highways. And that’s how it begins—you’re certain you’ll make it and then about halfway into the trip you realize that you were only fooling yourself. Back roads notwithstanding, there is traffic, in fact there are so many I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world meandering drivers that you’re ready to shoot someone’s tires off. And because you’re on back roads there are no passing lanes, but there are plenty of traffic lights, 20 mile speed limits and even a cats that saunter across the road.
So your situation goes from, “No problem I’m going to be on time” to “Problem, I am going to be late” to “Just how late am I going to be, ten-minutes-not-too- terribly late or twenty-minutes-you’re-so-pathetic-can’t-you-get-your-life-together late?!” That’s where I was that Monday morning wondering how I was going to sneak in quietly. I tried to dredge up a plausible excuse, after all I’d heard some doozies in my life as a school director, but all I could come up with were some not-to-be-used-unless-desperate gems. Such as:
Student: “I can’t get up on time.”
Me: “Have you tried an alarm clock?”
Student: “A what?”
Me: “A clock that rings or sings at whatever time you set it so that you can get up on time in the morning.”
Student: “Oh you mean like the thing on my phone?”
Me: “Yes, yes,” I answer really excited that he has caught on, actually knows what I’m talking about, and has the technology to wake himself up.
Student: “Oh yeah, well I can’t use it because I have to turn off my phone to recharge it at night, man.”
At that point I usually put my head down on my desk and sigh. I’ve heard about
traffic, late buses, sick kids, rain, snow, sun, ice, cold, heat, probation officers, social workers, and doctor visits--reputable excuses all but tiring after a while. I was longing for some originality and yesterday I got it in spades. When Tameka walked in 45 minutes late I looked at her quizzically expecting the usual excuses but she managed to surprise me,
“I’m so sorry I’m late but I was up all night because my dog was in labor and had 12 puppies.”
The entire class applauded. “But it’s true!” she sputtered! It’s not that we didn’t believe her, especially after the graphic description that she gave us afterwards. We were simply acknowledging her originality. It’s not often that you get such art.
Sometimes the “Why are you late?” conversations turn into teachable moments. One student kept showing up an hour late everyday despite all the warnings we gave her. Finally I spoke with her to try and remedy the situation. I started slowly:
“Kayla, what time is class in the morning?”
She looked at me as if it was a trick question.
“Uh, nine o’clock?”
“Correct! How long does it take you to get to school?” I asked next.
“About forty-five minutes.”
“Okay we’re doing great here. So what time do you leave the house every morning?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Okay, I can see the problem now. Do you travel to school each morning by teleporter? Are you beamed down from a space ship?”
She looked at me as if I had grown another head but I persevered.
“Well if you’re traveling the usual way, like by bus, doesn’t it take you some time to actually travel on the bus to get here? Let’s look at this as if it were a math problem.” And God bless her she set the problem up perfectly, subtracting 45 minutes from 9:00, which brought her to 8:15.
“So what you’re saying is that I should leave my house at 8:15 to get here on time?” she asked.
I concurred and then suggested that she actually leave at 8:00 thereby giving her a cushion in case the bus was late. She’s been fine ever since.
So as I sat there, stuck behind an SUV filled with kids and puppies, I wondered if I could use the, my-dog-was-in-labor excuse. But then that I realized that I might make it on time. And eureka, the traffic gods were indeed smiling on me that day, and there was even a parking spot right at the front door so I was two minutes early. It was a relief professionally, but part of me was sorry that I didn’t get to try out the dog in labor excuse. The applause would have been great.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Lone Star Sate of Mind
Lone Star State of Mind
I was in the airport, getting redressed in my shoes, jacket, belt and whatnot, remarking to the guy beside me that in my wildest dreams I never thought I’d be undressing in public and I never wanted to do it again. I was also thinking,
“Why are you struggling to grab your belongings from plastic bins rolling off a conveyor belt? Trying to get a guilty look off your face in case one of your liquid bottles is 3.1 ounces? Here at 6:00 AM when you could be home asleep with your husband?”
Why to get to the other side of the country, San Antonio, Texas to be specific. I never thought I’d go back there.
And why was a northern girl going to the Lone Star state? For business, the siren call of work or more specifically, STAR. Last year I was trained to teach this new reading method and now I’d been chosen to train other teachers. So I was off to the Student Achievement in Reading Training of Trainers or “STAR TOT” for short. I felt like I was going to a small fried potato convention.
The DOE, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen four of us--Merilee, Carey, Elaine and me, to be trained and so that is how I found myself standing in Logan in semi undress. I was grateful that I was at least given the choice of stepping through a regular scanner or the new full body one because I don’t like the idea of a stranger inspecting my middle-aged body x-ray. And I know I don’t ever want to be patted down by anyone with a TSA badge, but that’s a whole other column.
My flight was short so I thought I could stand anything for four hours until I saw the plane. I don’t know how they did it but they took a full sized plane and turned it into a miniature sardine can. They must have added at least 20 extra rows of seats. I could barely fit into the bathroom and couldn’t help but wonder how the taller, healthier riders were going to manage. That was a visual that wouldn’t leave me.
Griping aside, the flight was fine and I made it to my hotel in downtown San Antonio in time to enjoy the hot humid air. I settled in and waited for Carey, Merilee and Elaine to arrive. That evening we went down to the Riverwalk, which is located about 2 stair landings down from the sidewalk and meanders through the city, and had a celebratory Mexican dinner. Afterwards Merilee and I joined one of the barges for a tour. We ended the evening by getting completely lost but thankfully a pair of mariachi players got us back to our hotel. We fell asleep totally unprepared for the deluge that would hit us the next morning.
The next day we learned what the year ahead would be like. From 8:00-5:00 we stayed in the same conference room (with an adjoining room for a quick lunch) wistfully gazing out the windows at the happy people outside, while we were fed information. We learned that there were only 30 STAR trainers in the U.S. and that our cohort only had 10 applicants. We learned that we had so much to read, remember and organize that we might as well give up now. We learned that the certification period was a year and that it would be “rigorous”. We already knew that our first training would be in January so Merilee and I would have only about two months to get it all together but I was never going to do this, never! It was reassuring that our former STAR trainers, Jane and Becky, understood and appreciated the crazy people from Boston. They had confidence in us and that helped but we were still scared silly at what was ahead of us.
We also learned that the Massachusetts contingent was the rowdiest cohort there (we couldn’t shut up if we tried) and Merilee and I were sisters separated at birth. Those three days we also discovered how much coffee we could consume before we got killer heartburn. We also learned that Elaine’s daughter-in-law was expecting a baby at any second and that she was having a rough time. For 2 ½ days we jumped each time her cell phone beeped. We thought she would never have that baby!
But it was the final evening that gave me chills. Merilee had never been to San Antonio and she was determined to see the Alamo. Unfortunately it closed before we got out of each day’s training. But the last night Merilee, Elaine and I decided to walk over to at least see the outside walls. As I stood alone before the gate and gazed into the gardens beyond I felt a soft whisper at my shoulder. It was Mark, my first husband, with whom I had visited this Texas shrine over 30 years ago.
“I came back Mark,” I said. “How about that, after 35 years I came back to Texas, and I have the feeling that you never really left. Isn’t life funny?”
I could feel him smile and hear his twang answering, “I’m glad y’all came back after all. I somehow thought you might.”
Yeah, I keep learning over and over again, never say never.
I was in the airport, getting redressed in my shoes, jacket, belt and whatnot, remarking to the guy beside me that in my wildest dreams I never thought I’d be undressing in public and I never wanted to do it again. I was also thinking,
“Why are you struggling to grab your belongings from plastic bins rolling off a conveyor belt? Trying to get a guilty look off your face in case one of your liquid bottles is 3.1 ounces? Here at 6:00 AM when you could be home asleep with your husband?”
Why to get to the other side of the country, San Antonio, Texas to be specific. I never thought I’d go back there.
And why was a northern girl going to the Lone Star state? For business, the siren call of work or more specifically, STAR. Last year I was trained to teach this new reading method and now I’d been chosen to train other teachers. So I was off to the Student Achievement in Reading Training of Trainers or “STAR TOT” for short. I felt like I was going to a small fried potato convention.
The DOE, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen four of us--Merilee, Carey, Elaine and me, to be trained and so that is how I found myself standing in Logan in semi undress. I was grateful that I was at least given the choice of stepping through a regular scanner or the new full body one because I don’t like the idea of a stranger inspecting my middle-aged body x-ray. And I know I don’t ever want to be patted down by anyone with a TSA badge, but that’s a whole other column.
My flight was short so I thought I could stand anything for four hours until I saw the plane. I don’t know how they did it but they took a full sized plane and turned it into a miniature sardine can. They must have added at least 20 extra rows of seats. I could barely fit into the bathroom and couldn’t help but wonder how the taller, healthier riders were going to manage. That was a visual that wouldn’t leave me.
Griping aside, the flight was fine and I made it to my hotel in downtown San Antonio in time to enjoy the hot humid air. I settled in and waited for Carey, Merilee and Elaine to arrive. That evening we went down to the Riverwalk, which is located about 2 stair landings down from the sidewalk and meanders through the city, and had a celebratory Mexican dinner. Afterwards Merilee and I joined one of the barges for a tour. We ended the evening by getting completely lost but thankfully a pair of mariachi players got us back to our hotel. We fell asleep totally unprepared for the deluge that would hit us the next morning.
The next day we learned what the year ahead would be like. From 8:00-5:00 we stayed in the same conference room (with an adjoining room for a quick lunch) wistfully gazing out the windows at the happy people outside, while we were fed information. We learned that there were only 30 STAR trainers in the U.S. and that our cohort only had 10 applicants. We learned that we had so much to read, remember and organize that we might as well give up now. We learned that the certification period was a year and that it would be “rigorous”. We already knew that our first training would be in January so Merilee and I would have only about two months to get it all together but I was never going to do this, never! It was reassuring that our former STAR trainers, Jane and Becky, understood and appreciated the crazy people from Boston. They had confidence in us and that helped but we were still scared silly at what was ahead of us.
We also learned that the Massachusetts contingent was the rowdiest cohort there (we couldn’t shut up if we tried) and Merilee and I were sisters separated at birth. Those three days we also discovered how much coffee we could consume before we got killer heartburn. We also learned that Elaine’s daughter-in-law was expecting a baby at any second and that she was having a rough time. For 2 ½ days we jumped each time her cell phone beeped. We thought she would never have that baby!
But it was the final evening that gave me chills. Merilee had never been to San Antonio and she was determined to see the Alamo. Unfortunately it closed before we got out of each day’s training. But the last night Merilee, Elaine and I decided to walk over to at least see the outside walls. As I stood alone before the gate and gazed into the gardens beyond I felt a soft whisper at my shoulder. It was Mark, my first husband, with whom I had visited this Texas shrine over 30 years ago.
“I came back Mark,” I said. “How about that, after 35 years I came back to Texas, and I have the feeling that you never really left. Isn’t life funny?”
I could feel him smile and hear his twang answering, “I’m glad y’all came back after all. I somehow thought you might.”
Yeah, I keep learning over and over again, never say never.
Cotnrol Issues
Control Issues
Last week we spent the better part of a day going through the boxes that my mom had shipped here from Israel. There were only 13 boxes left of the household that she had dissolved last summer. I wonder if there’s some sort of mathematical life equation for this as in, forty years divided by thirteen boxes equals the ratio of mom’s old life to her current one?
There we sat a mirror image of what we had been doing a few months ago. But this time mom was deciding what she wanted to take to her apartment and what she wanted to store in our attic. The movers had written just one word on every carton and it seemed that when they didn’t know an English equivalent they just wrote books or clothes. That meant we had to open them all.
As I took out a beautiful blue vase, or a picture or a book, mom would gaze at it, lost in thought. I was wondering what was going through her mind as she saw all her things come to light and was about to ask when she said,
“Why did I bring all of this? Why did I think it was all so important that I had to pack it up and ship it thousands of miles? Now it all looks like a bunch of junk!”
I was stunned. I never expected her to say that. I remembered the arguments we had over what to ship and what to leave. She saw memories but I saw things that could be easily replaced. Not the photographs, letters or one of a kind remembrances—those were going of course, but household items and clothing. Mom would show me something with a wistful look and I would say, “Absolutely not! We can buy a better, newer, cheaper one in the States instead of paying a fortune to ship it!” I guess I was being practical, but in retrospect I was also heartless. My only excuse is that there seemed to be so much to organize in too short a time and every little thing became too much.
Most of the time mom gave in, but every now and then she would hand me something and say, “This is going!” and I wouldn’t argue because I hated being the gatekeeper of her memories.
So hearing her say that everything we had shipped so carefully meant so little to her now, I was shocked. And so was mom. She was confused. “Why do I feel this way, I don’t understand? I wanted to bring all of it and now I see it and I don’t want it at all. How could I have changed in a few months?”
When I thought about it though, it made sense.
“Mom when we were leaving Israel you were sad and angry and definitely feeling out of control of your life. Even though Shatz and I told you that there was a lovely home waiting for you in the States, you hadn’t seen it so you couldn’t imagine it. All you knew was that you had been so happy here and if you had a choice, if you were in control of your life, you wouldn’t be leaving. And so you wanted to bring everything you could of your old life with you. But now, you’ve settled in, you love your apartment, you’ve made friends, you’re enjoying yourself and so all these things, that seemed so precious before, have become just things.”
After thinking a bit she agreed that it was true. So we compromised: I asked her not to get rid of anything. We had plenty of room in the attic. She could go through it little by little—keeping some things, giving things to her granddaughters, getting rid of others, but she would take her time. And that’s how we left it.
We all long to be in control of our lives. There are even heady times when we think we are. I spend most of my time uselessly thinking that I can control what happens even though I am endlessly proven wrong. This fall has been a perfect example. I have spent the last few months filling student slots in my GED program. I have tested and assessed and interviewed scores of applicants, placed them in classes and written lesson plans.
And then reality appears: A student’s brother is shot in Mattapan. Another student looses a friend to a machine gun while shopping in her neighborhood convenience store. I have listened to my students describe a life where gun shots are as common as rain, where the simple act of shopping at the corner store means taking your life in your hands, where they cannot allow their children to play in the street for fear that they will be slaughtered.
We have lost students to murder, addiction, cancer, homelessness and even lack of money for bus fare. One of our top students cannot find a place for his family to live and is facing eviction. Others live in shelters facing all the difficulties involved in living what we simply take for granted--a “normal” life.
Despite all this, or rather because of all this, we do our best one student at a time. And I will have to learn the hard lesson that I can’t control a damn thing—except perhaps, my attitude.
Last week we spent the better part of a day going through the boxes that my mom had shipped here from Israel. There were only 13 boxes left of the household that she had dissolved last summer. I wonder if there’s some sort of mathematical life equation for this as in, forty years divided by thirteen boxes equals the ratio of mom’s old life to her current one?
There we sat a mirror image of what we had been doing a few months ago. But this time mom was deciding what she wanted to take to her apartment and what she wanted to store in our attic. The movers had written just one word on every carton and it seemed that when they didn’t know an English equivalent they just wrote books or clothes. That meant we had to open them all.
As I took out a beautiful blue vase, or a picture or a book, mom would gaze at it, lost in thought. I was wondering what was going through her mind as she saw all her things come to light and was about to ask when she said,
“Why did I bring all of this? Why did I think it was all so important that I had to pack it up and ship it thousands of miles? Now it all looks like a bunch of junk!”
I was stunned. I never expected her to say that. I remembered the arguments we had over what to ship and what to leave. She saw memories but I saw things that could be easily replaced. Not the photographs, letters or one of a kind remembrances—those were going of course, but household items and clothing. Mom would show me something with a wistful look and I would say, “Absolutely not! We can buy a better, newer, cheaper one in the States instead of paying a fortune to ship it!” I guess I was being practical, but in retrospect I was also heartless. My only excuse is that there seemed to be so much to organize in too short a time and every little thing became too much.
Most of the time mom gave in, but every now and then she would hand me something and say, “This is going!” and I wouldn’t argue because I hated being the gatekeeper of her memories.
So hearing her say that everything we had shipped so carefully meant so little to her now, I was shocked. And so was mom. She was confused. “Why do I feel this way, I don’t understand? I wanted to bring all of it and now I see it and I don’t want it at all. How could I have changed in a few months?”
When I thought about it though, it made sense.
“Mom when we were leaving Israel you were sad and angry and definitely feeling out of control of your life. Even though Shatz and I told you that there was a lovely home waiting for you in the States, you hadn’t seen it so you couldn’t imagine it. All you knew was that you had been so happy here and if you had a choice, if you were in control of your life, you wouldn’t be leaving. And so you wanted to bring everything you could of your old life with you. But now, you’ve settled in, you love your apartment, you’ve made friends, you’re enjoying yourself and so all these things, that seemed so precious before, have become just things.”
After thinking a bit she agreed that it was true. So we compromised: I asked her not to get rid of anything. We had plenty of room in the attic. She could go through it little by little—keeping some things, giving things to her granddaughters, getting rid of others, but she would take her time. And that’s how we left it.
We all long to be in control of our lives. There are even heady times when we think we are. I spend most of my time uselessly thinking that I can control what happens even though I am endlessly proven wrong. This fall has been a perfect example. I have spent the last few months filling student slots in my GED program. I have tested and assessed and interviewed scores of applicants, placed them in classes and written lesson plans.
And then reality appears: A student’s brother is shot in Mattapan. Another student looses a friend to a machine gun while shopping in her neighborhood convenience store. I have listened to my students describe a life where gun shots are as common as rain, where the simple act of shopping at the corner store means taking your life in your hands, where they cannot allow their children to play in the street for fear that they will be slaughtered.
We have lost students to murder, addiction, cancer, homelessness and even lack of money for bus fare. One of our top students cannot find a place for his family to live and is facing eviction. Others live in shelters facing all the difficulties involved in living what we simply take for granted--a “normal” life.
Despite all this, or rather because of all this, we do our best one student at a time. And I will have to learn the hard lesson that I can’t control a damn thing—except perhaps, my attitude.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Where Have All The Voices Gone?
Where Have All The Voices Gone?
I can’t imagine my life without conversations. From the minute I wake up to the moment that I go to sleep I’m talking or listening to someone. On the phone, at work, on the train, even walking to work, there are always people to delightfully schmooze with.
My sweetest High School memories center around the talks that I had with my mom. She worked all week, came home late to make dinner, yet still sat up every night to discuss my very important life in extensive detail. I can’t understand how she stayed awake. I’m ashamed to say that when my own daughters would come to me after 10:00 at night to talk, if I wasn’t already asleep, I was on my way there and not at all ready to listen to their problems. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” was my late night mantra.
My dad was a great listener but he just wasn’t comfortable with a lot of talk. And boy could I talk. I’d see my friends all day at school but there was never enough time to get into the really good stuff. That’s what phones were for. That was back in the days before call waiting, when you couldn’t interrupt one call to take another, so you blissfully chatted on while whoever was desperately trying to reach you would listen to an exasperating busy signal.
Conversations with my friends would take hours and my parent’s friends complained that they could never get through to us. So when I became a senior my parents finally agreed to get me my own phone line. It was a red letter day when I could chat forever without worry. But still, the best part of the call was the moment when you picked up the phone having no idea who was on the other end, hoping that it was that cute boy from algebra, then hearing his voice say your name.
But conversations weren’t limited to the phone. I spent hours in Steve’s car, or on the subway, or a restaurant talking to him about everything. Listening to his voice, holding his hand, watching his reaction to my ideas—it was all part of the courtship ritual. When he went off to college his phone bills were astronomical. He paid dearly for the sound of my voice.
During the years when we were separated by an ocean and phone calls were prohibitively expensive, the monthly call that we would allow ourselves was an event that was longingly anticipated and then savored for weeks. Letters were fun but nothing could replace our voices.
I realized just how true that was when I lost Mark’s voice. His Texan drawl was as distinctive as his cowboy boots. When he died I couldn’t believe that I would never again hear him tell his corny jokes or sing, The Yellow Rose of Texas. His voice was a loss that I couldn’t bear.
I tell you all this because old-past-it person that I have become, I was alarmed when I read Linda Matchan’s Boston Globe article:
Almost everyone has a cellphone these days, yet increasingly, we use them to do everything but make calls……Recent data from Nielsen suggests Americans are heading in this direction. The average amount of time that people aged 18 to 24 spent talking on their mobile phones dropped by 17 percent between the second quarter of 2009 and the second quarter of 2010. Meanwhile, they sent 45 percent more text messages. The trend holds up for other age groups too. The amount of time that people aged 25 to 34 talked on their phones dropped by 6 percent, while they texted 35 percent more. Texting shot up at all ages, even for those over 65.
I thought I hated cell phones because listening to one-sided conversations was so infuriating, but now I’ve found a whole new reason to fear them as well. Thanks to these little bits of plastic a whole generation now views conversing with a person to be inefficient and annoying.
For young people, phone calls risk chance encounters. Texting eliminates that possibility. “You call people and you have to talk to their parents and go through that whole process, “said Kelsey Corrigan, 21, a writing student.
Oh my God (or I should say OMG!) You might actually risk talking to someone like a, gasp, parent! You might have to string together a few words and be polite and state your name and ask for the person you want to speak to. And if you know the parent you might have to engage in a bit of conversation. Another student, Sasha Prell, 20, said that his typical, though rare, phone conversation usually lasts under a minute, unless he’s talking to his family. “We usually just text. It’s very efficient.’’
Since when is conversation supposed to be efficient? It’s meant to be sloppy, messy, filled with emotion, excitement, discovery just like our lives. How can you fit life into abbreviations and emoticons?
Anna Jane Grossman, author of “Obsolete: An Encyclopedia of Once-Common Things Passing Us” claims that, “We are losing this form of conversation nobody particularly valued while it existed.’’
I would love to hear what that woman, along with anyone else who replaces human conversation with buttons, would say if they ever lost a human voice that they loved beyond written words. Suddenly those buttons would be very cold comfort indeed.
I can’t imagine my life without conversations. From the minute I wake up to the moment that I go to sleep I’m talking or listening to someone. On the phone, at work, on the train, even walking to work, there are always people to delightfully schmooze with.
My sweetest High School memories center around the talks that I had with my mom. She worked all week, came home late to make dinner, yet still sat up every night to discuss my very important life in extensive detail. I can’t understand how she stayed awake. I’m ashamed to say that when my own daughters would come to me after 10:00 at night to talk, if I wasn’t already asleep, I was on my way there and not at all ready to listen to their problems. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” was my late night mantra.
My dad was a great listener but he just wasn’t comfortable with a lot of talk. And boy could I talk. I’d see my friends all day at school but there was never enough time to get into the really good stuff. That’s what phones were for. That was back in the days before call waiting, when you couldn’t interrupt one call to take another, so you blissfully chatted on while whoever was desperately trying to reach you would listen to an exasperating busy signal.
Conversations with my friends would take hours and my parent’s friends complained that they could never get through to us. So when I became a senior my parents finally agreed to get me my own phone line. It was a red letter day when I could chat forever without worry. But still, the best part of the call was the moment when you picked up the phone having no idea who was on the other end, hoping that it was that cute boy from algebra, then hearing his voice say your name.
But conversations weren’t limited to the phone. I spent hours in Steve’s car, or on the subway, or a restaurant talking to him about everything. Listening to his voice, holding his hand, watching his reaction to my ideas—it was all part of the courtship ritual. When he went off to college his phone bills were astronomical. He paid dearly for the sound of my voice.
During the years when we were separated by an ocean and phone calls were prohibitively expensive, the monthly call that we would allow ourselves was an event that was longingly anticipated and then savored for weeks. Letters were fun but nothing could replace our voices.
I realized just how true that was when I lost Mark’s voice. His Texan drawl was as distinctive as his cowboy boots. When he died I couldn’t believe that I would never again hear him tell his corny jokes or sing, The Yellow Rose of Texas. His voice was a loss that I couldn’t bear.
I tell you all this because old-past-it person that I have become, I was alarmed when I read Linda Matchan’s Boston Globe article:
Almost everyone has a cellphone these days, yet increasingly, we use them to do everything but make calls……Recent data from Nielsen suggests Americans are heading in this direction. The average amount of time that people aged 18 to 24 spent talking on their mobile phones dropped by 17 percent between the second quarter of 2009 and the second quarter of 2010. Meanwhile, they sent 45 percent more text messages. The trend holds up for other age groups too. The amount of time that people aged 25 to 34 talked on their phones dropped by 6 percent, while they texted 35 percent more. Texting shot up at all ages, even for those over 65.
I thought I hated cell phones because listening to one-sided conversations was so infuriating, but now I’ve found a whole new reason to fear them as well. Thanks to these little bits of plastic a whole generation now views conversing with a person to be inefficient and annoying.
For young people, phone calls risk chance encounters. Texting eliminates that possibility. “You call people and you have to talk to their parents and go through that whole process, “said Kelsey Corrigan, 21, a writing student.
Oh my God (or I should say OMG!) You might actually risk talking to someone like a, gasp, parent! You might have to string together a few words and be polite and state your name and ask for the person you want to speak to. And if you know the parent you might have to engage in a bit of conversation. Another student, Sasha Prell, 20, said that his typical, though rare, phone conversation usually lasts under a minute, unless he’s talking to his family. “We usually just text. It’s very efficient.’’
Since when is conversation supposed to be efficient? It’s meant to be sloppy, messy, filled with emotion, excitement, discovery just like our lives. How can you fit life into abbreviations and emoticons?
Anna Jane Grossman, author of “Obsolete: An Encyclopedia of Once-Common Things Passing Us” claims that, “We are losing this form of conversation nobody particularly valued while it existed.’’
I would love to hear what that woman, along with anyone else who replaces human conversation with buttons, would say if they ever lost a human voice that they loved beyond written words. Suddenly those buttons would be very cold comfort indeed.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
New York, New York
New York, New York
I pride myself on being a born and bred New Yorker. I may have been living outside the city longer than inside, in fact I’ve lived elsewhere for over 30 years now, but things like attitude and accent creep up on me at unexpected times. We were in a restaurant perusing our menus with Lisa and Matt a few weeks ago when suddenly I heard myself ask, “What is everyone going to awedeh?” Three heads popped up, stared, then laughed. I blamed my semantic slip on being exhausted but I knew that wasn’t the real reason. You can take the New Yawker out of New Yawk but you can’t……..
My assistant, Lalitta, loves to impress people with the fact that I’m originally from the Big Apple. She’ll warn students who are giving her a hard time, “You better behave or Joan will get all Brooklyn up in your face!” I’m not even sure what that means but it seems to scare them. They think that I was one of the original Goodfellas.
This past week-end Steve and I met our friends Mike and Mary in Manhattan. Mary had only been there once before but since her mother had warned her that she would probably be raped and robbed the minute she set foot in the city, she didn’t enjoy her stay much. Mike had visited many times and had great memories that he wanted us all to enjoy. The last time we had visited was about ten years ago when Lisa and Mariel were kids. We were excited about returning but even more excited about seeing our friends again.
After driving down from Boston feeling like kids let out for summer vacation, we sat out on the hotel’s bar terrace trying to catch up. Our conversation pinged like a pinball ricocheting off each of us. Later, while walked to a restaurant for dinner, Mary yelled, “We’re in New York City, can you believe it?!” I didn’t. I kept looking up expecting to see the Hancock building on the skyline.
On Saturday we visited the Empire State Building as quintessential tourists. At 10:00 in the morning it was already packed with people from all over the world standing in a hundred lines including a security line (where our dangerous belts were removed and x-rayed) a line for tickets, a line for the first elevator, a line for the second elevator, a line for….I lose track. That was just for the 86th floor. If you wanted to go to the top you had to pay extra. If you wanted to skip a line, you had to pay extra, if you wanted to actually breathe, you had to pay extra. And if you wanted to buy a souvenir, including the ever popular gorilla poop, (don’t ask) you had to pay through the nose. New York, New York. But it was a clear day and the view was unbelievable and Mary was smiling. Mission accomplished.
Afterwards we walked along 5th Avenue, stopped at Rockefeller Center where despite the 70 degree temperature people were ice-skating, and visited Grand Central Station to gaze at the ceiling. We walked to Central Park where Steve and I used to spend our Sundays rowing on the lake and where we now felt lost. I yearned for the Boston Common. Everywhere there were pushing, shoving, loud crowds fighting for a piece of New York real-estate. The city was giving me a headache. Later on when I asked Steve how he had slept the night before, he told me that he hadn’t since he wasn’t used to the continuous night noise. That’s when I realized where my headache had come from. I wasn’t used to city night-noises either. Somewhere along my life I had turned into a suburbanite sleeper.
That night we headed off to see Jersey Boys which had us dancing in our seats till 10:00. Afterwards, out-of-town idiots that we were, we attempted to flag down a taxi back to our hotel. Catching a cab in Manhattan on a Saturday night is not for amateurs. We ended up walking back for another night of car horns, sirens, and jack hammers. My New York headache was getting worse.
The next day we took the subway to Battery Park. Steve and I had grown up riding dirty, gritty, graffiti-ed trains filled with nutty people. That day we sat in a pristine white-walled train adorned with bright, plastic covered posters, helpful subway maps and announcers clearly calling out the stops. We felt like we were strangers in a strange land no longer our home. But we loved riding the Staten Island ferry and the fact that Mike and Mary were having fun.
It was not the week-end I expected. I had my usual great time with our friends and loved getting away, but I never expected to feel like a fish out of water—Charles River water to be exact. I never thought I’d feel homesick for the Pru, the Green line, and the Boston Globe. Born and bred in Brooklyn, I was now an expatriate and it rankled. I was too old for New York, too set in my ways, too afraid of the rush and the crowds and the frenetic pace. So even though I may drift into a Brooklyn accent and reminisce about ice-skating in Prospect Park or having “two-franks-french” at Nathan’s in Coney Island, it’s all become smoke and mirrors. I’m a Boston girl now.
I pride myself on being a born and bred New Yorker. I may have been living outside the city longer than inside, in fact I’ve lived elsewhere for over 30 years now, but things like attitude and accent creep up on me at unexpected times. We were in a restaurant perusing our menus with Lisa and Matt a few weeks ago when suddenly I heard myself ask, “What is everyone going to awedeh?” Three heads popped up, stared, then laughed. I blamed my semantic slip on being exhausted but I knew that wasn’t the real reason. You can take the New Yawker out of New Yawk but you can’t……..
My assistant, Lalitta, loves to impress people with the fact that I’m originally from the Big Apple. She’ll warn students who are giving her a hard time, “You better behave or Joan will get all Brooklyn up in your face!” I’m not even sure what that means but it seems to scare them. They think that I was one of the original Goodfellas.
This past week-end Steve and I met our friends Mike and Mary in Manhattan. Mary had only been there once before but since her mother had warned her that she would probably be raped and robbed the minute she set foot in the city, she didn’t enjoy her stay much. Mike had visited many times and had great memories that he wanted us all to enjoy. The last time we had visited was about ten years ago when Lisa and Mariel were kids. We were excited about returning but even more excited about seeing our friends again.
After driving down from Boston feeling like kids let out for summer vacation, we sat out on the hotel’s bar terrace trying to catch up. Our conversation pinged like a pinball ricocheting off each of us. Later, while walked to a restaurant for dinner, Mary yelled, “We’re in New York City, can you believe it?!” I didn’t. I kept looking up expecting to see the Hancock building on the skyline.
On Saturday we visited the Empire State Building as quintessential tourists. At 10:00 in the morning it was already packed with people from all over the world standing in a hundred lines including a security line (where our dangerous belts were removed and x-rayed) a line for tickets, a line for the first elevator, a line for the second elevator, a line for….I lose track. That was just for the 86th floor. If you wanted to go to the top you had to pay extra. If you wanted to skip a line, you had to pay extra, if you wanted to actually breathe, you had to pay extra. And if you wanted to buy a souvenir, including the ever popular gorilla poop, (don’t ask) you had to pay through the nose. New York, New York. But it was a clear day and the view was unbelievable and Mary was smiling. Mission accomplished.
Afterwards we walked along 5th Avenue, stopped at Rockefeller Center where despite the 70 degree temperature people were ice-skating, and visited Grand Central Station to gaze at the ceiling. We walked to Central Park where Steve and I used to spend our Sundays rowing on the lake and where we now felt lost. I yearned for the Boston Common. Everywhere there were pushing, shoving, loud crowds fighting for a piece of New York real-estate. The city was giving me a headache. Later on when I asked Steve how he had slept the night before, he told me that he hadn’t since he wasn’t used to the continuous night noise. That’s when I realized where my headache had come from. I wasn’t used to city night-noises either. Somewhere along my life I had turned into a suburbanite sleeper.
That night we headed off to see Jersey Boys which had us dancing in our seats till 10:00. Afterwards, out-of-town idiots that we were, we attempted to flag down a taxi back to our hotel. Catching a cab in Manhattan on a Saturday night is not for amateurs. We ended up walking back for another night of car horns, sirens, and jack hammers. My New York headache was getting worse.
The next day we took the subway to Battery Park. Steve and I had grown up riding dirty, gritty, graffiti-ed trains filled with nutty people. That day we sat in a pristine white-walled train adorned with bright, plastic covered posters, helpful subway maps and announcers clearly calling out the stops. We felt like we were strangers in a strange land no longer our home. But we loved riding the Staten Island ferry and the fact that Mike and Mary were having fun.
It was not the week-end I expected. I had my usual great time with our friends and loved getting away, but I never expected to feel like a fish out of water—Charles River water to be exact. I never thought I’d feel homesick for the Pru, the Green line, and the Boston Globe. Born and bred in Brooklyn, I was now an expatriate and it rankled. I was too old for New York, too set in my ways, too afraid of the rush and the crowds and the frenetic pace. So even though I may drift into a Brooklyn accent and reminisce about ice-skating in Prospect Park or having “two-franks-french” at Nathan’s in Coney Island, it’s all become smoke and mirrors. I’m a Boston girl now.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Don't You Remember?
Don’t You Remember?
If one more person asks me that question I will be forced to do them an injury. It especially irks me when my children ask me that. We’ll be having a perfectly lovely conversation along the lines of, “Remember when we all went on safari?” and I’ll sit there with a silly smile plastered on my face and answer, “Uh, no I don’t.” Then they counter with, “But don’t you remember when the lion nibbled your toes?” It is at that point that my temper will get lost along with any sanity that I had left and I will scream, “That can’t possibly have happened, surely I would remember a lion eating my toes!” But apparently I don’t.
This is not the simple where-did-I-leave-my-glasses thing. I’ve misplaced entire chunks of my kids’ childhoods. The only memories that I have left are a result of photographs or videos. It used to be that I might not have remembered every detail but at least I would have a hazy recollection. But lately even that has gone, poof. I can’t dredge up anything, not a hint, not a clue, of what my family is talking about.
On the other hand there are times when I’m a winner in the memory game. On my way to work everyday I run into my friend Buddy. I’m really proud of myself for remembering Buddy’s name. The problem is that Buddy is a dog and I can’t recall his owner’s name (the guy I actually talk to) for the life of me. Yesterday I finally confessed that I had forgotten his name.
“It’s Seth,” he smiled at me. “But don’t worry, Buddy is the important one.” I really appreciate his understanding. After all Buddy is rather distinctive because he’s missing a leg whereas Seth, sweet as he is, is well, just a normal guy.
I keep hearing about this memory problem mostly from women. Is it because we juggle so much every day that we shed superfluous bits of information, like our addresses and phone numbers, along the way? Is it the stress level that we all carry along with our drivers’ licenses? Is it our hormones playing funny tricks on us? And just what was the point I was making again?
But it seems that there is hope for me. I keep reading about all kinds of exercises that will boost my memory even though I can never even remember where I put my IQ. And it’s not just the usual crossword puzzles and SODOKU suggestions, but other more innovative methods. According to Manning Rubin, a coauthor of, Keep Your Brain Alive, “You can improve your memory and the way your brain functions by regularly exercising each of your five senses.” So for all of you who are having the same problem, I’ll let you in on a few of these memory boosting tricks.
Get dressed with your eyes closed: Lay your clothes out the night before then put them on blindly in the A.M. If you blunt one of your senses the others work harder, which strengthens the brain,
And heightens the possibility that you will leave for work looking like an idiot. I see no mention of a mirror in this suggestion so I’m guessing that your brain grows exponentially with each guffaw that you hear from someone staring at you because you put on your bedspread instead of your dress.
Play lunch roulette: Swap brown bags with one of your co-workers. Breaking a routine by surprising your taste buds helps force the brain to trigger new nerve pathways, which keeps it healthy.
Since my co-workers tend to order lunch from places that specialize in fries, nachos and sour cream I would be trading memory enhancement for massive weight gain. I have to tell you, if I have the choice of having an amazing memory and being obese or losing my mind but looking gorgeous, vanity wins out. I’m willing to forget a lot for beauty.
Shop by heart: Fire up your brain cell activity by trying to remember your grocery list in your head instead of relying on a written list.
And I’ll basically come home with nothing but chocolate and ice-cream because the reason I’ve written things down is because I can’t remember anything to begin with you idiots! What about that can’t you understand?
Have a silent family dinner: Enforce a no talking while eating rule for one night. You’ll have to communicate your request for an extra roll in a visual way which will spark creativity.
Oh how the sparks will fly. I will point to a roll, my husband will roll his eyes, a gentle hint to let me know that I could do without the extra carbohydrates, and then I will creatively use my finger to let him know what I think of his editorializing about my weight. And then we will have a silent family dinner for the rest of the month.
Maybe I should just reconcile myself to the fact that I’m going to be saying, “No I don’t remember” to people for the rest of my life. After all it made my friend Mike happy when I forgot that I had lent him money. Who says that you have to remember everything? Who says that a phenomenal memory is so great? And just what was the question again? I can’t seem to remember.
If one more person asks me that question I will be forced to do them an injury. It especially irks me when my children ask me that. We’ll be having a perfectly lovely conversation along the lines of, “Remember when we all went on safari?” and I’ll sit there with a silly smile plastered on my face and answer, “Uh, no I don’t.” Then they counter with, “But don’t you remember when the lion nibbled your toes?” It is at that point that my temper will get lost along with any sanity that I had left and I will scream, “That can’t possibly have happened, surely I would remember a lion eating my toes!” But apparently I don’t.
This is not the simple where-did-I-leave-my-glasses thing. I’ve misplaced entire chunks of my kids’ childhoods. The only memories that I have left are a result of photographs or videos. It used to be that I might not have remembered every detail but at least I would have a hazy recollection. But lately even that has gone, poof. I can’t dredge up anything, not a hint, not a clue, of what my family is talking about.
On the other hand there are times when I’m a winner in the memory game. On my way to work everyday I run into my friend Buddy. I’m really proud of myself for remembering Buddy’s name. The problem is that Buddy is a dog and I can’t recall his owner’s name (the guy I actually talk to) for the life of me. Yesterday I finally confessed that I had forgotten his name.
“It’s Seth,” he smiled at me. “But don’t worry, Buddy is the important one.” I really appreciate his understanding. After all Buddy is rather distinctive because he’s missing a leg whereas Seth, sweet as he is, is well, just a normal guy.
I keep hearing about this memory problem mostly from women. Is it because we juggle so much every day that we shed superfluous bits of information, like our addresses and phone numbers, along the way? Is it the stress level that we all carry along with our drivers’ licenses? Is it our hormones playing funny tricks on us? And just what was the point I was making again?
But it seems that there is hope for me. I keep reading about all kinds of exercises that will boost my memory even though I can never even remember where I put my IQ. And it’s not just the usual crossword puzzles and SODOKU suggestions, but other more innovative methods. According to Manning Rubin, a coauthor of, Keep Your Brain Alive, “You can improve your memory and the way your brain functions by regularly exercising each of your five senses.” So for all of you who are having the same problem, I’ll let you in on a few of these memory boosting tricks.
Get dressed with your eyes closed: Lay your clothes out the night before then put them on blindly in the A.M. If you blunt one of your senses the others work harder, which strengthens the brain,
And heightens the possibility that you will leave for work looking like an idiot. I see no mention of a mirror in this suggestion so I’m guessing that your brain grows exponentially with each guffaw that you hear from someone staring at you because you put on your bedspread instead of your dress.
Play lunch roulette: Swap brown bags with one of your co-workers. Breaking a routine by surprising your taste buds helps force the brain to trigger new nerve pathways, which keeps it healthy.
Since my co-workers tend to order lunch from places that specialize in fries, nachos and sour cream I would be trading memory enhancement for massive weight gain. I have to tell you, if I have the choice of having an amazing memory and being obese or losing my mind but looking gorgeous, vanity wins out. I’m willing to forget a lot for beauty.
Shop by heart: Fire up your brain cell activity by trying to remember your grocery list in your head instead of relying on a written list.
And I’ll basically come home with nothing but chocolate and ice-cream because the reason I’ve written things down is because I can’t remember anything to begin with you idiots! What about that can’t you understand?
Have a silent family dinner: Enforce a no talking while eating rule for one night. You’ll have to communicate your request for an extra roll in a visual way which will spark creativity.
Oh how the sparks will fly. I will point to a roll, my husband will roll his eyes, a gentle hint to let me know that I could do without the extra carbohydrates, and then I will creatively use my finger to let him know what I think of his editorializing about my weight. And then we will have a silent family dinner for the rest of the month.
Maybe I should just reconcile myself to the fact that I’m going to be saying, “No I don’t remember” to people for the rest of my life. After all it made my friend Mike happy when I forgot that I had lent him money. Who says that you have to remember everything? Who says that a phenomenal memory is so great? And just what was the question again? I can’t seem to remember.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Park Your Dog Here
Park Your Dog Here
The one thing that is as sure in our house as the sun coming up is that Snoopy needs his daily walk. Some dogs are happy to sit outside in the yard, others prefer a short stroll around the block, but beagles need proper walks so that they can sniff out every living thing that has passed their way in the past two hundred years. Plus, if they don’t get enough exercise they quickly become couch potato fatties. I have seen beagles that are so huge that they look like Tootsie Rolls on steroids.
Snoopy’s walks vary depending on the weather and how much time and patience the person on the other end of his leash has that day. And if it’s raining he simply refuses to go out at all. The only water he abides is the water in his bowl—he detests it in any other form--baths, lakes, rivers--you get the picture. He’s not too thrilled with ice either, but I can’t blame him for that. When your four feet refuse to stay firmly on the ground it can be disconcerting. He seems to have accepted snow. He just ignores it.
He’s also not a great trekker when it’s hot. Our puppy’s no fool. He’d rather stay inside where it’s air conditioned. When we try to take him out on warm days he stops short, shoots us one of his looks and then proceeds to walk about as quickly as a slug in an effort to discourage a long outing.
But if it’s a sunny day, with a cool breeze and no typhoons in the offing, Snoopy picks up the pace and can walk forever. He looks positively regal, head and tail high, trotting along surveying his surroundings, stopping only when an interesting scent pulls his nose to the ground. If he’s lucky enough to be with Steve he gets a nice long hike but when he’s with me we go for a shorter one.
I’m a creature of habit. I take the same route every time, skirting the pond in back of our house and continuing into the woods. I enjoy watching whatever wildlife has decided to rest there and noting the changes that the seasons bring. What I don’t enjoy though, is meeting other dogs because Snoopy has appointed himself the neighborhood sentinel. If he spots another dog coming towards him, his back hairs stand straight up, his ears spike and a low growl begins in the back of his throat. Within seconds it becomes a full throated howl complete with a solid mass of tugging, lunging, manic dog. It’s such a treat to walk him sometimes.
Last week, Steve and I dared to try something different. We had heard that there was a dog park in Sharon and despite Snoop’s dismal record with other dogs we decided to give it a shot. We discovered that the park was part of a beautiful walking trail through some woods. We found the dog area, walked in, took a deep breath and removed Snoopy’s leash expecting him to challenge the pack, but he just stood there.
Slowly he began a circuit of the park, sniffing carefully and then indicated that he wanted to leave. We were surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t gotten any doggie “action” but we left. We walked further down the trail but suddenly Snoops stopped and turned around. We thought that he wanted to go home but when we reached the entrance to the dog park he nosed his way in.
I guess he needed the short walk to process what he had seen in the park because this time around his behavior changed. He began following the pack of playing dogs slowly but surely. There weren’t many at that point but more began trickling in, dogs of every size, kind, color and temperament, all running wildly, bounding, jumping all over each other enjoying the play. No one growled, no one threatened, every canine there simply played.
Snoopy latched onto a lady named, “Gootchie”, who, we learned was part Rottweiler, part Beagle though we couldn’t figure out which part was Beagle. After chasing her around the park for half an hour he was exhausted.
The next time we visited he repeated the same pattern: despite the fact that there were at least 20 dogs there he chose one, a gorgeous husky named Ranger, and followed him around continuously. When Ranger refused to play with him Snoops barked at him angrily, chasing and barking at him the entire time we were there.
If we thought the dogs were friendly their owners were even friendlier. Entire families were there enjoying the day. We were all strangers but we had our love of canines in common and in seemed like we never tired of watching them. It felt like an inclusive, welcoming club.
We had discovered a whole new world where the only thing anyone cared about was your dog’s name and any stories or advice that you could pass on. No one was angry or impatient or talking on a cell phone. No one cared what anyone else did for a living or where they lived. Everyone just relaxed and enjoyed the fact that they were out on a beautiful day with people and animals that they loved. Such a simple thing and yet so hard to find outside of a dog park.
The one thing that is as sure in our house as the sun coming up is that Snoopy needs his daily walk. Some dogs are happy to sit outside in the yard, others prefer a short stroll around the block, but beagles need proper walks so that they can sniff out every living thing that has passed their way in the past two hundred years. Plus, if they don’t get enough exercise they quickly become couch potato fatties. I have seen beagles that are so huge that they look like Tootsie Rolls on steroids.
Snoopy’s walks vary depending on the weather and how much time and patience the person on the other end of his leash has that day. And if it’s raining he simply refuses to go out at all. The only water he abides is the water in his bowl—he detests it in any other form--baths, lakes, rivers--you get the picture. He’s not too thrilled with ice either, but I can’t blame him for that. When your four feet refuse to stay firmly on the ground it can be disconcerting. He seems to have accepted snow. He just ignores it.
He’s also not a great trekker when it’s hot. Our puppy’s no fool. He’d rather stay inside where it’s air conditioned. When we try to take him out on warm days he stops short, shoots us one of his looks and then proceeds to walk about as quickly as a slug in an effort to discourage a long outing.
But if it’s a sunny day, with a cool breeze and no typhoons in the offing, Snoopy picks up the pace and can walk forever. He looks positively regal, head and tail high, trotting along surveying his surroundings, stopping only when an interesting scent pulls his nose to the ground. If he’s lucky enough to be with Steve he gets a nice long hike but when he’s with me we go for a shorter one.
I’m a creature of habit. I take the same route every time, skirting the pond in back of our house and continuing into the woods. I enjoy watching whatever wildlife has decided to rest there and noting the changes that the seasons bring. What I don’t enjoy though, is meeting other dogs because Snoopy has appointed himself the neighborhood sentinel. If he spots another dog coming towards him, his back hairs stand straight up, his ears spike and a low growl begins in the back of his throat. Within seconds it becomes a full throated howl complete with a solid mass of tugging, lunging, manic dog. It’s such a treat to walk him sometimes.
Last week, Steve and I dared to try something different. We had heard that there was a dog park in Sharon and despite Snoop’s dismal record with other dogs we decided to give it a shot. We discovered that the park was part of a beautiful walking trail through some woods. We found the dog area, walked in, took a deep breath and removed Snoopy’s leash expecting him to challenge the pack, but he just stood there.
Slowly he began a circuit of the park, sniffing carefully and then indicated that he wanted to leave. We were surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t gotten any doggie “action” but we left. We walked further down the trail but suddenly Snoops stopped and turned around. We thought that he wanted to go home but when we reached the entrance to the dog park he nosed his way in.
I guess he needed the short walk to process what he had seen in the park because this time around his behavior changed. He began following the pack of playing dogs slowly but surely. There weren’t many at that point but more began trickling in, dogs of every size, kind, color and temperament, all running wildly, bounding, jumping all over each other enjoying the play. No one growled, no one threatened, every canine there simply played.
Snoopy latched onto a lady named, “Gootchie”, who, we learned was part Rottweiler, part Beagle though we couldn’t figure out which part was Beagle. After chasing her around the park for half an hour he was exhausted.
The next time we visited he repeated the same pattern: despite the fact that there were at least 20 dogs there he chose one, a gorgeous husky named Ranger, and followed him around continuously. When Ranger refused to play with him Snoops barked at him angrily, chasing and barking at him the entire time we were there.
If we thought the dogs were friendly their owners were even friendlier. Entire families were there enjoying the day. We were all strangers but we had our love of canines in common and in seemed like we never tired of watching them. It felt like an inclusive, welcoming club.
We had discovered a whole new world where the only thing anyone cared about was your dog’s name and any stories or advice that you could pass on. No one was angry or impatient or talking on a cell phone. No one cared what anyone else did for a living or where they lived. Everyone just relaxed and enjoyed the fact that they were out on a beautiful day with people and animals that they loved. Such a simple thing and yet so hard to find outside of a dog park.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Far From Home
Far From Home
Pack, ship, give away. Forty years dwindled down to four words. This summer Mom and I went from room to room, closet to closet, drawer to drawer repeating that mantra, answering those three seemingly simple questions that embraced our hardest choices. How do you decide which one of your forty years to pack, ship, or give away? And sometimes, throw away. Everyday I stood next to a closet or a drawer, looking questioningly at mom as she whittled away forty years of her life. People who have never done it before use our decade’s most thoughtless word---downsizing. A better word would be heart breaking.
Since my dad died ten years ago my mom had been living in Israel alone. I accepted her decision even though I wanted her near me. I had long ago grown tired of seeing her only once a year and worrying long distance the rest of the time. But she couldn’t leave her home, the place that her father had dreamed of so many years ago. “I’m not ready yet,” she kept telling me. And I respected what she wanted even though I didn’t like it.
But then last year there was an opening in a senior housing complex nearby that had a caring staff and residents who formed a close community. There were support services and programs that mom would enjoy. I called mom to tell her that I had found a wonderful place for her to live and to my amazement she confessed that she was finally ready to move. I was ecstatic. All I could think of was that I would finally have a full time mom. I could pick up the phone and call her whenever I wanted and not figure out the seven hour time difference. And even better, I could see her once a week instead of once a year.
And so that’s how I found myself in Israel in July sorting out forty years of my mother’s life. I had known that it was going to be difficult but I hadn’t been prepared for how difficult.
Mom had already sold her apartment and most of her furniture so I thought, how much more could there be to do? Looking back on it now I can’t believe that I had been so unprepared—but in my defense it wasn’t only me. Mom’s friends would constantly ask us—why are you so tired? What is there left to do? Besides the dissolution of the apartment there were lists of bureaucracies to deal with since my mom was leaving the country--everything from city hall to the cable company. We spent days in offices and on the phone. It took us three days to just cancel phone service and we never fully resolved the cable company. I finally had to threaten to throw the cable box out the window before they agreed to send someone over to pick it up.
But despite the endless office visits and phone calls it was the house that was the most difficult. Though we would be shipping whatever mom wanted to take with her, we were limited by the cost and the amount of room in mom’s new place. I advised her to take whatever could not be replaced—photos, letters, artwork. But mom is a meticulous memory keeper and she had stored our lives so very carefully in plastic and tissue paper for so many years. Each decision became agony, life stories tossed painfully away. We remembered everyone who had created or touched something. I discovered that she had lovingly saved all the years of letters that I had written her, in albums. When I began reading them I realized that they formed our family’s history. I sat on the floor remembering the girls as babies, my dad, our lives for so many years. How could we toss it away?
Pack, ship, give away. In the end we did it. Slowly, tearfully, trying not to think about what we were doing. We tried to look ahead to the good things that were waiting for us and not back to what we had lost. Over and over again we repeated the old cliché, that it wasn’t things that were important but people, but the words were hollow. We could feel the lives that had passed so quickly in all the things that we handled as we tried to hold onto the memories. Don’t believe the people who insist that material things are never important. When you live in a place long enough the place and its people become one---people’s voices, their music, their faces become ingrained in all the things that they’ve touched and lived with.
As you walk through the rooms you see the bed where you and Steve slept for so many summers, the room that held your daughters’ laughter and fights, the step that Lisa worked so hard to climb when she was learning to walk, the room where she played soccer when she was just a year and half, the terrace where Mariel put together endless puzzles, your father’s favorite rocking chair where he sat and looked out at the city. You can see and hear and feel it all and how do you ship that? People who insist that a home is never the house but the people have never lost it all.
And losing those things takes you so far from home.
Pack, ship, give away. Forty years dwindled down to four words. This summer Mom and I went from room to room, closet to closet, drawer to drawer repeating that mantra, answering those three seemingly simple questions that embraced our hardest choices. How do you decide which one of your forty years to pack, ship, or give away? And sometimes, throw away. Everyday I stood next to a closet or a drawer, looking questioningly at mom as she whittled away forty years of her life. People who have never done it before use our decade’s most thoughtless word---downsizing. A better word would be heart breaking.
Since my dad died ten years ago my mom had been living in Israel alone. I accepted her decision even though I wanted her near me. I had long ago grown tired of seeing her only once a year and worrying long distance the rest of the time. But she couldn’t leave her home, the place that her father had dreamed of so many years ago. “I’m not ready yet,” she kept telling me. And I respected what she wanted even though I didn’t like it.
But then last year there was an opening in a senior housing complex nearby that had a caring staff and residents who formed a close community. There were support services and programs that mom would enjoy. I called mom to tell her that I had found a wonderful place for her to live and to my amazement she confessed that she was finally ready to move. I was ecstatic. All I could think of was that I would finally have a full time mom. I could pick up the phone and call her whenever I wanted and not figure out the seven hour time difference. And even better, I could see her once a week instead of once a year.
And so that’s how I found myself in Israel in July sorting out forty years of my mother’s life. I had known that it was going to be difficult but I hadn’t been prepared for how difficult.
Mom had already sold her apartment and most of her furniture so I thought, how much more could there be to do? Looking back on it now I can’t believe that I had been so unprepared—but in my defense it wasn’t only me. Mom’s friends would constantly ask us—why are you so tired? What is there left to do? Besides the dissolution of the apartment there were lists of bureaucracies to deal with since my mom was leaving the country--everything from city hall to the cable company. We spent days in offices and on the phone. It took us three days to just cancel phone service and we never fully resolved the cable company. I finally had to threaten to throw the cable box out the window before they agreed to send someone over to pick it up.
But despite the endless office visits and phone calls it was the house that was the most difficult. Though we would be shipping whatever mom wanted to take with her, we were limited by the cost and the amount of room in mom’s new place. I advised her to take whatever could not be replaced—photos, letters, artwork. But mom is a meticulous memory keeper and she had stored our lives so very carefully in plastic and tissue paper for so many years. Each decision became agony, life stories tossed painfully away. We remembered everyone who had created or touched something. I discovered that she had lovingly saved all the years of letters that I had written her, in albums. When I began reading them I realized that they formed our family’s history. I sat on the floor remembering the girls as babies, my dad, our lives for so many years. How could we toss it away?
Pack, ship, give away. In the end we did it. Slowly, tearfully, trying not to think about what we were doing. We tried to look ahead to the good things that were waiting for us and not back to what we had lost. Over and over again we repeated the old cliché, that it wasn’t things that were important but people, but the words were hollow. We could feel the lives that had passed so quickly in all the things that we handled as we tried to hold onto the memories. Don’t believe the people who insist that material things are never important. When you live in a place long enough the place and its people become one---people’s voices, their music, their faces become ingrained in all the things that they’ve touched and lived with.
As you walk through the rooms you see the bed where you and Steve slept for so many summers, the room that held your daughters’ laughter and fights, the step that Lisa worked so hard to climb when she was learning to walk, the room where she played soccer when she was just a year and half, the terrace where Mariel put together endless puzzles, your father’s favorite rocking chair where he sat and looked out at the city. You can see and hear and feel it all and how do you ship that? People who insist that a home is never the house but the people have never lost it all.
And losing those things takes you so far from home.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Kindling
Kindling
If you’ve ever read my column you know that Steve and I are not exactly on the cutting edge of any envelope. In fact we don’t even own an envelope. We’ve only had cable for a couple of years and neither one of us has ever twittered or tweeted or face-booked or i-phoned. I’ve only seen an i-pad from a hazy distance and wouldn’t recognize an app if it walked up and kissed me on the mouth. For a brief and shining moment I did own a GPS system but then ended up giving it to Mariel who needed it more than I did. So when I read about the first e-book readers I was surprised at the feeling that overwhelmed me—lust. I wanted one in the worst way.
I couldn’t figure it out. I’m a paper book lady. I love their feel, smell, color-- everything tactile about them. There was a time when we owned so many books that our entire house was filled with them. When the kids came along we even joined a kids’ book club, getting three books in the mail every month. Finally, with our shelves on the verge of collapsing, we came to our senses and turned to our favorite library instead.
A few months ago when I read about the headmaster who transformed his prep school library into a vast computerland I wanted to beat him senseless with an Oxford Dictionary (unabridged). How could someone reduce an entire literary world to a few machines? When I calmed down I realized that what I really wanted was a world where old and new could co-exist peacefully without having the new completely replace the old. Why does there always have to be an either-or? Can’t there be both? Am I being naive?
Still, I felt like Benedict Arnold and Judas wrapped into one as I longed for that e-reader. There was something so seductive about being able to carry around hundreds of books in a slim piece of plastic that was the ultimate shiny apple in the garden. However when I did a little research and saw the price tag I quickly decided that I no longer wanted it—much.
A few weeks ago I began my usual to-do list before heading off to Israel in July. When I wrote, “buy books” I stopped short. For over 30 years now, whenever I visited, I took enough books to keep me busy for three to four weeks. It was the only time that I would allow myself to head to the bookstore and buy tons of books. I never minded the expense because I always knew that I could leave them for mom to read when I left. But now I realized that I couldn’t leave the books, since mom was coming back with me. So not only would I have to spend my usual bucks and fill an entire suitcase full of heavy volumes, but I would have to drag them back as well. This made no sense.
Though the library in my mom’s town is beautiful it only carries Hebrew books. And because it’s not a tourist town, most of the books in the stores are in Hebrew as well. So somehow I had to figure out a way to bring enough reading material without having to drag it all back. That’s when it hit me—the Kindle. At first I thought it wouldn’t work internationally, but after some research I saw that Israel was part of their network and the reader could be used on their current as well. I could take as many books as I wanted and barely feel the heft of them on my shoulder. I couldn’t believe how excited I was.
So jumping up and down I placed an order, then counted the days till it came. Last week Shatz sent me an e-mail at work telling me it had arrived. When I got home I grabbed the package and ripped it open. And there it was--my own slim, white, plastic library sitting in a cardboard box with a note on the cover that said, “Once upon a time………”
I spent that night reading directions and downloading books. I decided to use it for the first time on the train to work the next morning. Idiot that I am I was actually almost too excited to go to sleep. I felt like a kid.
The next morning I waited impatiently at the platform for the train, then ran to a seat. I settled in, got out my glasses and took out my Kindle. Before opening it, I took a deep breath and opened my new toy. And there, written on the screen, was a touching little note telling me that I couldn’t read a thing because my book was out of juice---I needed to recharge the reader. So there I was, finally on the cusp, and no cigar. That would teach me to lust after technology.
But all’s well that ends well. It turned out that it was all my fault since I had inadvertently left the reader connected to the wireless overnight and that had caused the battery to run down. I have since recharged, and tried it out and it is wonderfully easy. So for at least one heady nano-second I will, for once, be a cool person with a piece of advanced technology. Unless I forget to recharge!
If you’ve ever read my column you know that Steve and I are not exactly on the cutting edge of any envelope. In fact we don’t even own an envelope. We’ve only had cable for a couple of years and neither one of us has ever twittered or tweeted or face-booked or i-phoned. I’ve only seen an i-pad from a hazy distance and wouldn’t recognize an app if it walked up and kissed me on the mouth. For a brief and shining moment I did own a GPS system but then ended up giving it to Mariel who needed it more than I did. So when I read about the first e-book readers I was surprised at the feeling that overwhelmed me—lust. I wanted one in the worst way.
I couldn’t figure it out. I’m a paper book lady. I love their feel, smell, color-- everything tactile about them. There was a time when we owned so many books that our entire house was filled with them. When the kids came along we even joined a kids’ book club, getting three books in the mail every month. Finally, with our shelves on the verge of collapsing, we came to our senses and turned to our favorite library instead.
A few months ago when I read about the headmaster who transformed his prep school library into a vast computerland I wanted to beat him senseless with an Oxford Dictionary (unabridged). How could someone reduce an entire literary world to a few machines? When I calmed down I realized that what I really wanted was a world where old and new could co-exist peacefully without having the new completely replace the old. Why does there always have to be an either-or? Can’t there be both? Am I being naive?
Still, I felt like Benedict Arnold and Judas wrapped into one as I longed for that e-reader. There was something so seductive about being able to carry around hundreds of books in a slim piece of plastic that was the ultimate shiny apple in the garden. However when I did a little research and saw the price tag I quickly decided that I no longer wanted it—much.
A few weeks ago I began my usual to-do list before heading off to Israel in July. When I wrote, “buy books” I stopped short. For over 30 years now, whenever I visited, I took enough books to keep me busy for three to four weeks. It was the only time that I would allow myself to head to the bookstore and buy tons of books. I never minded the expense because I always knew that I could leave them for mom to read when I left. But now I realized that I couldn’t leave the books, since mom was coming back with me. So not only would I have to spend my usual bucks and fill an entire suitcase full of heavy volumes, but I would have to drag them back as well. This made no sense.
Though the library in my mom’s town is beautiful it only carries Hebrew books. And because it’s not a tourist town, most of the books in the stores are in Hebrew as well. So somehow I had to figure out a way to bring enough reading material without having to drag it all back. That’s when it hit me—the Kindle. At first I thought it wouldn’t work internationally, but after some research I saw that Israel was part of their network and the reader could be used on their current as well. I could take as many books as I wanted and barely feel the heft of them on my shoulder. I couldn’t believe how excited I was.
So jumping up and down I placed an order, then counted the days till it came. Last week Shatz sent me an e-mail at work telling me it had arrived. When I got home I grabbed the package and ripped it open. And there it was--my own slim, white, plastic library sitting in a cardboard box with a note on the cover that said, “Once upon a time………”
I spent that night reading directions and downloading books. I decided to use it for the first time on the train to work the next morning. Idiot that I am I was actually almost too excited to go to sleep. I felt like a kid.
The next morning I waited impatiently at the platform for the train, then ran to a seat. I settled in, got out my glasses and took out my Kindle. Before opening it, I took a deep breath and opened my new toy. And there, written on the screen, was a touching little note telling me that I couldn’t read a thing because my book was out of juice---I needed to recharge the reader. So there I was, finally on the cusp, and no cigar. That would teach me to lust after technology.
But all’s well that ends well. It turned out that it was all my fault since I had inadvertently left the reader connected to the wireless overnight and that had caused the battery to run down. I have since recharged, and tried it out and it is wonderfully easy. So for at least one heady nano-second I will, for once, be a cool person with a piece of advanced technology. Unless I forget to recharge!
Friday, June 18, 2010
Designing Woman
Designing Woman
It all began when Steve and I saw the studio apartment that would be mom’s home. We had already been concerned that she would feel that it was too small after having lived in an apartment. So when we saw a studio that belonged to a lady who liked stuff, (There were things crammed in every corner and all of it on doilies), we gave each other a glance that said, “Oh God. This is definitely a bad idea.”
Mary, who had been showing us around, caught the glance and quickly said, “Let me see if I can get you into another apartment that’s a little less, um, cluttered.”
Luckily she did because this lady had a good sense of what should be included in a living space. We heaved a sigh of relief when we saw that mom could definitely be comfortable living there.
Mary gave us a floor plan so we could begin planning the space. My mom and I are so much alike. Neither one of us can stand clutter. We prefer clean lines and room to breathe. Steve and I set out to create an apartment that would have everything that she would need, including empty space. Large furniture was out of the question. We needed scaled down pieces that would fit a compact space. It reminded me so much of when we moved into our first apartment after we were married.
We had all the basics: a small bedroom and living room with a kitchen so tiny that you had to leave if you wanted to change your mind. We both liked colonial style furniture so we hunted for weeks through stores that equated colonial with huge, until we found one store that sold furniture that would fit our apartment. We spent weeks measuring and poring over their showroom until we designed the perfect place. Here we were doing the same thing again. We both loved the challenge. It was like finding all the puzzle pieces and piecing them together till they fit.
We visited furniture stores, looked through catalogues, drew lines on our floor plan, erased them and drew others. Finally we saw that IKEA was the store that had what we needed so we toured it again and again, matching all the pieces together. And then we returned to mom’s place with Mariel as a third pair of eyes.
The three of us spent hours measuring, discussing, imagining. It was all coming together pretty well except for one desk so we trekked back to the store. The twentieth time was the charm. We finally found it so we bought it all and had it shipped. But the hardest part was yet to come. Steve had to put it all together. I was useless at that task so, shopper extraordinaire that I am, my job was to shop.
It’s been over thirty years since I completely furnished a home and let me tell you it’s a blast. Since I’m constantly looking at my house wishing that I could redesign it from scratch, being able to do it for my mom was the next best thing. And the pleasure of it all is that it feels like a gift that I’m offering her. I hope that she has as much fun living with it as I had designing it.
Since we furnished our first home home, my tastes have changed. I’ve come to appreciate the clean lines of modern and Shaker furniture. My color tastes have changed as well. Whereas my entire house is a sketch in rose and French blue, I’ve come to love a brighter palette of lime greens, soft yellows and even pale oranges and blues. Luckily for me I was shopping for mom in the spring and those were the colors that the stores were featuring.
You tend to forget all the things you need when you’re setting up a home. Steve and I made a list and taped it to the refrigerator so that we could add to it whenever we thought of something else. The big things are easy, but it’s the little ones that drive you crazy. The cutting boards, tea kettles, bread knives and can openers. And what about dish towels and a dish rack, a potato peeler and a cutlery tray? Our list ballooned and the few week-ends that I had envisioned steadily grew to take over a couple of months. It’s amazing the silly things you can’t find no matter where you look. My current nemesis is a napkin holder. Steve is a firm believer in buying on-line but I refuse to pay shipping costs for a napkin holder!
Last Saturday I started out at 10:00 and drooped home at 4:00. Steve took one look at me and the packed car and shook his head. I just looked at him and said the words I never thought I would ever hear myself say, “Shatz, I am completely shopped out! I couldn’t buy another thing!”
But it’s been fun and so very satisfying. Mom’s place is airy, roomy, colorful and welcoming. Steve and I should start a company designing small spaces on a budget. And it will all be worth it just to see mom’s face when she sees her new home. And if she doesn’t like it, well, I’ve rested up--I could force myself to go shopping again!
It all began when Steve and I saw the studio apartment that would be mom’s home. We had already been concerned that she would feel that it was too small after having lived in an apartment. So when we saw a studio that belonged to a lady who liked stuff, (There were things crammed in every corner and all of it on doilies), we gave each other a glance that said, “Oh God. This is definitely a bad idea.”
Mary, who had been showing us around, caught the glance and quickly said, “Let me see if I can get you into another apartment that’s a little less, um, cluttered.”
Luckily she did because this lady had a good sense of what should be included in a living space. We heaved a sigh of relief when we saw that mom could definitely be comfortable living there.
Mary gave us a floor plan so we could begin planning the space. My mom and I are so much alike. Neither one of us can stand clutter. We prefer clean lines and room to breathe. Steve and I set out to create an apartment that would have everything that she would need, including empty space. Large furniture was out of the question. We needed scaled down pieces that would fit a compact space. It reminded me so much of when we moved into our first apartment after we were married.
We had all the basics: a small bedroom and living room with a kitchen so tiny that you had to leave if you wanted to change your mind. We both liked colonial style furniture so we hunted for weeks through stores that equated colonial with huge, until we found one store that sold furniture that would fit our apartment. We spent weeks measuring and poring over their showroom until we designed the perfect place. Here we were doing the same thing again. We both loved the challenge. It was like finding all the puzzle pieces and piecing them together till they fit.
We visited furniture stores, looked through catalogues, drew lines on our floor plan, erased them and drew others. Finally we saw that IKEA was the store that had what we needed so we toured it again and again, matching all the pieces together. And then we returned to mom’s place with Mariel as a third pair of eyes.
The three of us spent hours measuring, discussing, imagining. It was all coming together pretty well except for one desk so we trekked back to the store. The twentieth time was the charm. We finally found it so we bought it all and had it shipped. But the hardest part was yet to come. Steve had to put it all together. I was useless at that task so, shopper extraordinaire that I am, my job was to shop.
It’s been over thirty years since I completely furnished a home and let me tell you it’s a blast. Since I’m constantly looking at my house wishing that I could redesign it from scratch, being able to do it for my mom was the next best thing. And the pleasure of it all is that it feels like a gift that I’m offering her. I hope that she has as much fun living with it as I had designing it.
Since we furnished our first home home, my tastes have changed. I’ve come to appreciate the clean lines of modern and Shaker furniture. My color tastes have changed as well. Whereas my entire house is a sketch in rose and French blue, I’ve come to love a brighter palette of lime greens, soft yellows and even pale oranges and blues. Luckily for me I was shopping for mom in the spring and those were the colors that the stores were featuring.
You tend to forget all the things you need when you’re setting up a home. Steve and I made a list and taped it to the refrigerator so that we could add to it whenever we thought of something else. The big things are easy, but it’s the little ones that drive you crazy. The cutting boards, tea kettles, bread knives and can openers. And what about dish towels and a dish rack, a potato peeler and a cutlery tray? Our list ballooned and the few week-ends that I had envisioned steadily grew to take over a couple of months. It’s amazing the silly things you can’t find no matter where you look. My current nemesis is a napkin holder. Steve is a firm believer in buying on-line but I refuse to pay shipping costs for a napkin holder!
Last Saturday I started out at 10:00 and drooped home at 4:00. Steve took one look at me and the packed car and shook his head. I just looked at him and said the words I never thought I would ever hear myself say, “Shatz, I am completely shopped out! I couldn’t buy another thing!”
But it’s been fun and so very satisfying. Mom’s place is airy, roomy, colorful and welcoming. Steve and I should start a company designing small spaces on a budget. And it will all be worth it just to see mom’s face when she sees her new home. And if she doesn’t like it, well, I’ve rested up--I could force myself to go shopping again!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
June is Busting Out All Over
June is Busting Out All Over
Dedicated to Shirley B. who missed
My column last week—I’m still here!
June is my favorite month of the year. It’s just so very June. You can put away your ice-scraper without fear of a surprise squall, lock up your mittens, store your bulky sweaters. In June the summer hasn’t formally started so it’s still there in front of you to dream about. You can leave the windows open all night and not feel like a popsicle in the morning. In June the sun rises early and so do the birds and they make a much better alarm clock than your alarm clock. It gets dark so late that you feel like you have a bit of a holiday each day after work. And best of all, school is over no matter how old you are. June is delicious.
On one of my many web journeys I found that I am not the only person in the world who thinks June is special. There are scores of groups who think it is such a great month that they have sponsored days, weeks and even the entire month in honor of their cause. Some are quite serious, but others are a bit, shall we say, loony? Let me share a few and you can decide for yourself.
June is:
Potty Training Awareness month. Who exactly is being made aware of this? Not the parents who are desperately trying to get their youngsters to go in the big boy/girl toilet. Last time I checked, potty training is usually between a parent and their kid and they’re already pretty aware of what’s going on so who else needs to be aware? Friends? Relatives? The free world? I guess if the kid has a Facebook page he could announce that he’s in the process of said training and is going to do a ceremonial flush in honor of this hallowed month.
Rebuild Your Life Month. Imagine it only takes a month to rebuild your entire life. I guess we should be thankful that it’s not just a day. How does one go about honoring this goal? Do you simply wake up, and upon seeing that it’s June 1st declare, “I’m going to rebuild my life this month and nobody is going to stop me!” Just seems odd to me.
National Accordion Awareness Month. I know I’m probably going to get outraged phone calls and e-mails for saying this, but do we really need to be made more aware of accordion music? Doesn’t it sort of shout itself out to the world already? Last time I checked there was nothing subtle about an accordion or the music it produces…now if it were national polka month I might understand.
National Bathroom Reading Month. What’s so great about this is that there is a link that you can click on to get a list of the “10 loo-brary books” for this month. The two that stand out are, “Confessions of a Tabloid Writer” and “Everyone Poops”. (That last one can probably be used during Potty Training Awareness Month as well.) Now I know that I’m often not the sharpest tool in the shed, but why do we need to be made aware of this? And for an entire month? Most women who are living with a significant other of the male persuasion are already quite aware that their partners are taking magazines and encyclopedias into the bathroom on a regular basis. Now I could maybe see the need for, Everybody Poops Month (and it already has a book!)
Fish Are Friends Not Food Week. Oka-a-a-ay. I guess I could take a fish to lunch, but think how awkward the ordering would be: “Waiter I’ll have the halibut, oh God I didn’t mean you Fred, I meant another halibut….. You know some of my best friends are halibuts.”
Take Your Dog to Work Day, 25th. Yes! I am so definitely shlepping Snoopy into work with me. It’s about time that lazy good for nothing animal learned how hard his mommy works to provide him with treats. Let him be more grateful for the working hours that are needed to pay for his daily chicken! Of course knowing how restless the Snoopster can be I’ll probably have to observe, National Leave Work Early Day (2nd) but nonetheless this day is only surpassed by,
Please Take My Children to Work Day, 28th. Is this a Henny Youngman punch line? You’re begging someone to take your kids off your hands and into their workplace? So they can see how hard a total stranger works? Someone please explain this to me.
Stupid Guy Thing Day, 22nd. Only one day? You’d need a lifetime to list, explain and laugh hysterically at all the stuff that would arise from observing this holiday including the fact that it was probably a guy who sponsored it. Oh where do we begin?????
World Handshake Day, 21st, Do not confuse with National Handshake Day which has a different sponsor for the 24th. This is such an important holiday that we need two different organizations and sponsors and two different days. Get your hands ready folks.
And a holiday that should be observed with champagne, roses, chocolate and a huge bonus:
National Columnists Day, 22nd. Finally some recognition for all the brilliant ideas we overworked columnists come up with and the paper that we waste in their execution. Isn’t June great?
Dedicated to Shirley B. who missed
My column last week—I’m still here!
June is my favorite month of the year. It’s just so very June. You can put away your ice-scraper without fear of a surprise squall, lock up your mittens, store your bulky sweaters. In June the summer hasn’t formally started so it’s still there in front of you to dream about. You can leave the windows open all night and not feel like a popsicle in the morning. In June the sun rises early and so do the birds and they make a much better alarm clock than your alarm clock. It gets dark so late that you feel like you have a bit of a holiday each day after work. And best of all, school is over no matter how old you are. June is delicious.
On one of my many web journeys I found that I am not the only person in the world who thinks June is special. There are scores of groups who think it is such a great month that they have sponsored days, weeks and even the entire month in honor of their cause. Some are quite serious, but others are a bit, shall we say, loony? Let me share a few and you can decide for yourself.
June is:
Potty Training Awareness month. Who exactly is being made aware of this? Not the parents who are desperately trying to get their youngsters to go in the big boy/girl toilet. Last time I checked, potty training is usually between a parent and their kid and they’re already pretty aware of what’s going on so who else needs to be aware? Friends? Relatives? The free world? I guess if the kid has a Facebook page he could announce that he’s in the process of said training and is going to do a ceremonial flush in honor of this hallowed month.
Rebuild Your Life Month. Imagine it only takes a month to rebuild your entire life. I guess we should be thankful that it’s not just a day. How does one go about honoring this goal? Do you simply wake up, and upon seeing that it’s June 1st declare, “I’m going to rebuild my life this month and nobody is going to stop me!” Just seems odd to me.
National Accordion Awareness Month. I know I’m probably going to get outraged phone calls and e-mails for saying this, but do we really need to be made more aware of accordion music? Doesn’t it sort of shout itself out to the world already? Last time I checked there was nothing subtle about an accordion or the music it produces…now if it were national polka month I might understand.
National Bathroom Reading Month. What’s so great about this is that there is a link that you can click on to get a list of the “10 loo-brary books” for this month. The two that stand out are, “Confessions of a Tabloid Writer” and “Everyone Poops”. (That last one can probably be used during Potty Training Awareness Month as well.) Now I know that I’m often not the sharpest tool in the shed, but why do we need to be made aware of this? And for an entire month? Most women who are living with a significant other of the male persuasion are already quite aware that their partners are taking magazines and encyclopedias into the bathroom on a regular basis. Now I could maybe see the need for, Everybody Poops Month (and it already has a book!)
Fish Are Friends Not Food Week. Oka-a-a-ay. I guess I could take a fish to lunch, but think how awkward the ordering would be: “Waiter I’ll have the halibut, oh God I didn’t mean you Fred, I meant another halibut….. You know some of my best friends are halibuts.”
Take Your Dog to Work Day, 25th. Yes! I am so definitely shlepping Snoopy into work with me. It’s about time that lazy good for nothing animal learned how hard his mommy works to provide him with treats. Let him be more grateful for the working hours that are needed to pay for his daily chicken! Of course knowing how restless the Snoopster can be I’ll probably have to observe, National Leave Work Early Day (2nd) but nonetheless this day is only surpassed by,
Please Take My Children to Work Day, 28th. Is this a Henny Youngman punch line? You’re begging someone to take your kids off your hands and into their workplace? So they can see how hard a total stranger works? Someone please explain this to me.
Stupid Guy Thing Day, 22nd. Only one day? You’d need a lifetime to list, explain and laugh hysterically at all the stuff that would arise from observing this holiday including the fact that it was probably a guy who sponsored it. Oh where do we begin?????
World Handshake Day, 21st, Do not confuse with National Handshake Day which has a different sponsor for the 24th. This is such an important holiday that we need two different organizations and sponsors and two different days. Get your hands ready folks.
And a holiday that should be observed with champagne, roses, chocolate and a huge bonus:
National Columnists Day, 22nd. Finally some recognition for all the brilliant ideas we overworked columnists come up with and the paper that we waste in their execution. Isn’t June great?
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Perseverance
Perseverance
Today I introduced ten new vocabulary words that were harder than usual because my class likes challenges. The words may be difficult but we shall persevere, both because of their attitude and because persevere is on the list. They liked that word. They felt that it described them and their quest for a GED. All except Willy who announced that he does not persevere when life gets hard.
“If something is too hard I give up,” he told me. “It’s just not worth it.”
It’s not often that someone will admit that out loud. We may give up in our hearts but we usually put on a brave front for the world. It made me sad that this 30 year old man has found nothing in life that he values enough to strive for. I asked him,
“You have never had anything in your life that is important enough to fight for? No friend, no love, no job, no ideal?”
“No,” he answered. “Who needs the trouble? I would rather give up.”
When I asked him how he intended to get his GED if he didn’t persevere in his studies, he told me that he had attended classes before and had dropped out when they got too hard. He told me that if this class got too hard he would do the same thing here as well. Every work-ethic bone in my body rebelled at his attitude. In the US, where we’re all descended from immigrants who never had the luxury of giving up, perseverance is our mantra. When faced with someone for whom giving up was a way of life, I was speechless.
And Willy seemed to echo the limping spirit of our highest level students who had just taken their GED tests and not done as well as they had hoped. We’ve been spending a lot of time these past few weeks doing damage control, convincing them that this was just the first step on the road that they’ve chosen.
Throughout the year I spend a lot of time convincing students to study a little more, write one more sentence, read one more book. Especially the book part because, call me a romantic, I believe in the healing power of words sprinkled across a page. They remind me that there is much in this world that is well worth the fight. And above all it is Mr. William Shakespeare’s words that convince me that, if their sheer beauty can exist in this world, then there is always something worth getting up for.
So when I opened my morning paper to see that William had made the front page, I let my coffee grow cold as I read what catapulted him to the headlines. And as fate would have it, it turned out that old Will has managed to introduce perseverance to teenagers who were ready to give up. Ripeness is all.
The Globe’s Louise Kennedy in her article, Caught in the Act: Juveniles Sentenced to Shakespeare, described how the Bard is being used to turn lives around,
Tonight, 13 actors will take the stage at Shakespeare & Company in “Henry V.’’ Nothing so unusual in that — except that these are teenagers, none older than 17, and they have been sentenced to perform this play.
The show is the culmination of a five-week intensive program called Shakespeare in the Courts, a nationally recognized initiative now celebrating its 10th year. Berkshire Juvenile Court Judge Judith Locke has sent these adjudicated offenders — found guilty of such adolescent crimes as fighting, drinking, stealing, and destroying property — not to lockup or conventional community service, but to four afternoons a week of acting exercises, rehearsal, and Shakespearean study.
The teenagers show up resentfully on their first day of rehearsal. They tell each other that they’d rather go to jail or perform more traditional community service than do Shakespeare. They’ve given up before they’ve even laid eyes on one word sure that they’ll fail. How could they possibly be expected to read Shakespeare let alone perform it? The judge must be crazy. But in the end they do it.
Assitant director, Jenny Jadow explains, “We don’t have a standard we expect them to get to. We say to them, ‘You’re going to do this impossible task.’ And then, by God, they do.’’
It makes me wonder if that is the reason the directors chose Henry V, which tells the story of the Battle of Agincourt where 6,000 British soldiers managed to defeat 36,000 French knights. The play is a lesson in achieving the impossible through sheer perseverance.
Probation officer Nancy Macauley, who has worked with the program since its inception, sees its effects. “It makes a difference in their self-esteem, in their willingness to try something new,’’ Macauley said. “And the beauty of the program too, is that learning the words, and learning the meaning of the words, is something that they’ll have forever. . . . Nothing can take it away from them, which unfortunately is not always the case in life.’’
And so I decide that I will take Shakespeare back to Willy and my class. I will gather his words in my hands and offer them to my students to hold and to keep, so that they will be always be able take them out and dust them off when life gets too hard. And no one will be able to take that away from them.
Today I introduced ten new vocabulary words that were harder than usual because my class likes challenges. The words may be difficult but we shall persevere, both because of their attitude and because persevere is on the list. They liked that word. They felt that it described them and their quest for a GED. All except Willy who announced that he does not persevere when life gets hard.
“If something is too hard I give up,” he told me. “It’s just not worth it.”
It’s not often that someone will admit that out loud. We may give up in our hearts but we usually put on a brave front for the world. It made me sad that this 30 year old man has found nothing in life that he values enough to strive for. I asked him,
“You have never had anything in your life that is important enough to fight for? No friend, no love, no job, no ideal?”
“No,” he answered. “Who needs the trouble? I would rather give up.”
When I asked him how he intended to get his GED if he didn’t persevere in his studies, he told me that he had attended classes before and had dropped out when they got too hard. He told me that if this class got too hard he would do the same thing here as well. Every work-ethic bone in my body rebelled at his attitude. In the US, where we’re all descended from immigrants who never had the luxury of giving up, perseverance is our mantra. When faced with someone for whom giving up was a way of life, I was speechless.
And Willy seemed to echo the limping spirit of our highest level students who had just taken their GED tests and not done as well as they had hoped. We’ve been spending a lot of time these past few weeks doing damage control, convincing them that this was just the first step on the road that they’ve chosen.
Throughout the year I spend a lot of time convincing students to study a little more, write one more sentence, read one more book. Especially the book part because, call me a romantic, I believe in the healing power of words sprinkled across a page. They remind me that there is much in this world that is well worth the fight. And above all it is Mr. William Shakespeare’s words that convince me that, if their sheer beauty can exist in this world, then there is always something worth getting up for.
So when I opened my morning paper to see that William had made the front page, I let my coffee grow cold as I read what catapulted him to the headlines. And as fate would have it, it turned out that old Will has managed to introduce perseverance to teenagers who were ready to give up. Ripeness is all.
The Globe’s Louise Kennedy in her article, Caught in the Act: Juveniles Sentenced to Shakespeare, described how the Bard is being used to turn lives around,
Tonight, 13 actors will take the stage at Shakespeare & Company in “Henry V.’’ Nothing so unusual in that — except that these are teenagers, none older than 17, and they have been sentenced to perform this play.
The show is the culmination of a five-week intensive program called Shakespeare in the Courts, a nationally recognized initiative now celebrating its 10th year. Berkshire Juvenile Court Judge Judith Locke has sent these adjudicated offenders — found guilty of such adolescent crimes as fighting, drinking, stealing, and destroying property — not to lockup or conventional community service, but to four afternoons a week of acting exercises, rehearsal, and Shakespearean study.
The teenagers show up resentfully on their first day of rehearsal. They tell each other that they’d rather go to jail or perform more traditional community service than do Shakespeare. They’ve given up before they’ve even laid eyes on one word sure that they’ll fail. How could they possibly be expected to read Shakespeare let alone perform it? The judge must be crazy. But in the end they do it.
Assitant director, Jenny Jadow explains, “We don’t have a standard we expect them to get to. We say to them, ‘You’re going to do this impossible task.’ And then, by God, they do.’’
It makes me wonder if that is the reason the directors chose Henry V, which tells the story of the Battle of Agincourt where 6,000 British soldiers managed to defeat 36,000 French knights. The play is a lesson in achieving the impossible through sheer perseverance.
Probation officer Nancy Macauley, who has worked with the program since its inception, sees its effects. “It makes a difference in their self-esteem, in their willingness to try something new,’’ Macauley said. “And the beauty of the program too, is that learning the words, and learning the meaning of the words, is something that they’ll have forever. . . . Nothing can take it away from them, which unfortunately is not always the case in life.’’
And so I decide that I will take Shakespeare back to Willy and my class. I will gather his words in my hands and offer them to my students to hold and to keep, so that they will be always be able take them out and dust them off when life gets too hard. And no one will be able to take that away from them.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Grey's Calalmity
Grey’s Calamity
There are times in my life when I’m thrilled to get more anything but most of the time I, like the architect Mies van der Rohe, believe that less is more. I don’t like things when they are overdone, overblown, overdressed. That being said there are still too many times when I get caught up in some ridiculous television series where everything is overdone, especially the melodrama.
The worst offenders are the final episodes, both end of season and end of show. They tend to sink under the weight of their writers’ overwrought imaginations. Last week I was the victim of one such overblown hit-and-run and I was powerless to stop watching. My old curse of having to know how it all turns out did me in.
I’m hooked on the show, Grey’s Anatomy, and thanks to cable have now seen every episode. I know every character’s quirks and every part of their convoluted relationship history. Last Thursday when I read that the finale would run for two hours, warning bells rang in my head. I knew if I was smart I would not watch it. The two hours were sure to be filled with every ridiculous scenario that the writers and their fevered imaginations could come up with.
Unfortunately I finished the book I was reading at about 8:30 and since it was too early to go to sleep I tentatively picked up the dreaded clicker. I assured myself that I would just find something else to watch for an hour and then go to sleep early for a change. Upon grazing the channels surprise, surprise, I happened upon Grey’s Anatomy—and I was sunk.
For those of you who have never seen this show I’ll give you a bare bones summary. It takes place in a hospital and follows the lives of a bunch of surgeons. End of story. But it helps to know that Derek Shepherd (McDreamy) is a brain surgeon and chief of surgery and Meredith Grey (aha now you understand that clever word play that is the show’s title) is a surgeon resident who has had an on-again-off-again relationship with Derek since time began and her best friend Christina is dating Iraq war vet surgeon Owen who might be in love with fellow Iraq veteran surgeon Teddy, who has dated Mark Sloane (McDreamy) who slept with Derek’s wife Addison and is Derek’s best friend and who still loves Meredith’s half sister Lexie who now loves Alex Kerev who has never really gotten over fellow surgeon Izzie who was dying of cancer but is okay now and starring in movies since George got hit by a bus. Any questions?
The finale threw a crazy shooter into the mix. I began the show thinking maybe this could make sense. The shooter’s wife had been operated on by Dr. Shepherd (see above) and something had gone wrong and they had to cut off her life support so of course he comes back to massacre everyone. I could kind of accept that. I watched as this looney-tunes guy randomly shot people if they weren’t nice to him and everyone hid in closets and under beds. And I knew that I was supposed to be sitting on the edge of my bed waiting to see if they were going to kill off anyone really important to the series but I didn’t have it in me.
About fifteen minutes into the show I realized that the reason the show was two hours long was because that there were at least a gazillion commercials between each five minutes of actual show. It became a bit surreal watching five minutes of people bleeding profusely interspersed with suggestions for dealing with “regularity”.
I was okay until the writers began throwing everything at the plot that they could think of. Meredith finds out she’s pregnant—someone gets shot—Christina breaks up with Owen--someone shot—Sloane begs Lexie to come back---shot—Bailey desperately tries to stop a guy from bleeding to death—shot. I could barely keep up. But when the only one who can operate on Derek (who has been shot of course) is Christina, and then the shooter holds a gun to her head while she’s operating and then shoots Owen who can only be operated on by Meredith, I began to get the giggles. Where were the locusts? The tsunamis? At the very least an earthquake?!
When Meredith operates on Owen while having a miscarriage and Bailey drags the bleeding surgeon on a sheet to the elevator where she thinks she can load him up to get him to an operating room so she can operate on him all by herself, I am laughing so hard I can’t stop. And when Bailey sees that the elevators aren’t working, because of course the swat team has stopped the elevators because they’re making it too easy for the shooter to get around, (what he won’t use the stairs????) and the poor shnook asks her if he’s dying, she says yes--then I chime in--Oh yeah big time along with your acting career and this show!
Didn’t anyone check this script for lunacy? Has anyone checked me lately for insanity for watching two hours of commercials interspersed with idiocy? The only surprise ending here is that the show is coming back next season. And knowing me I’ll be back next fall watching. Just call me McNutsy.
There are times in my life when I’m thrilled to get more anything but most of the time I, like the architect Mies van der Rohe, believe that less is more. I don’t like things when they are overdone, overblown, overdressed. That being said there are still too many times when I get caught up in some ridiculous television series where everything is overdone, especially the melodrama.
The worst offenders are the final episodes, both end of season and end of show. They tend to sink under the weight of their writers’ overwrought imaginations. Last week I was the victim of one such overblown hit-and-run and I was powerless to stop watching. My old curse of having to know how it all turns out did me in.
I’m hooked on the show, Grey’s Anatomy, and thanks to cable have now seen every episode. I know every character’s quirks and every part of their convoluted relationship history. Last Thursday when I read that the finale would run for two hours, warning bells rang in my head. I knew if I was smart I would not watch it. The two hours were sure to be filled with every ridiculous scenario that the writers and their fevered imaginations could come up with.
Unfortunately I finished the book I was reading at about 8:30 and since it was too early to go to sleep I tentatively picked up the dreaded clicker. I assured myself that I would just find something else to watch for an hour and then go to sleep early for a change. Upon grazing the channels surprise, surprise, I happened upon Grey’s Anatomy—and I was sunk.
For those of you who have never seen this show I’ll give you a bare bones summary. It takes place in a hospital and follows the lives of a bunch of surgeons. End of story. But it helps to know that Derek Shepherd (McDreamy) is a brain surgeon and chief of surgery and Meredith Grey (aha now you understand that clever word play that is the show’s title) is a surgeon resident who has had an on-again-off-again relationship with Derek since time began and her best friend Christina is dating Iraq war vet surgeon Owen who might be in love with fellow Iraq veteran surgeon Teddy, who has dated Mark Sloane (McDreamy) who slept with Derek’s wife Addison and is Derek’s best friend and who still loves Meredith’s half sister Lexie who now loves Alex Kerev who has never really gotten over fellow surgeon Izzie who was dying of cancer but is okay now and starring in movies since George got hit by a bus. Any questions?
The finale threw a crazy shooter into the mix. I began the show thinking maybe this could make sense. The shooter’s wife had been operated on by Dr. Shepherd (see above) and something had gone wrong and they had to cut off her life support so of course he comes back to massacre everyone. I could kind of accept that. I watched as this looney-tunes guy randomly shot people if they weren’t nice to him and everyone hid in closets and under beds. And I knew that I was supposed to be sitting on the edge of my bed waiting to see if they were going to kill off anyone really important to the series but I didn’t have it in me.
About fifteen minutes into the show I realized that the reason the show was two hours long was because that there were at least a gazillion commercials between each five minutes of actual show. It became a bit surreal watching five minutes of people bleeding profusely interspersed with suggestions for dealing with “regularity”.
I was okay until the writers began throwing everything at the plot that they could think of. Meredith finds out she’s pregnant—someone gets shot—Christina breaks up with Owen--someone shot—Sloane begs Lexie to come back---shot—Bailey desperately tries to stop a guy from bleeding to death—shot. I could barely keep up. But when the only one who can operate on Derek (who has been shot of course) is Christina, and then the shooter holds a gun to her head while she’s operating and then shoots Owen who can only be operated on by Meredith, I began to get the giggles. Where were the locusts? The tsunamis? At the very least an earthquake?!
When Meredith operates on Owen while having a miscarriage and Bailey drags the bleeding surgeon on a sheet to the elevator where she thinks she can load him up to get him to an operating room so she can operate on him all by herself, I am laughing so hard I can’t stop. And when Bailey sees that the elevators aren’t working, because of course the swat team has stopped the elevators because they’re making it too easy for the shooter to get around, (what he won’t use the stairs????) and the poor shnook asks her if he’s dying, she says yes--then I chime in--Oh yeah big time along with your acting career and this show!
Didn’t anyone check this script for lunacy? Has anyone checked me lately for insanity for watching two hours of commercials interspersed with idiocy? The only surprise ending here is that the show is coming back next season. And knowing me I’ll be back next fall watching. Just call me McNutsy.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Returning
Returning
I looked at our carts brimming with thin, flat boxes and thought about how many times this store had solved our furniture problems. IKEA, I just found a store named IKEA and suddenly that name…..you get the picture. I may make fun of it and claim that the name roughly translated from the Swedish means, thousands-of-screws-and-pieces-of-wood-that-need-to-be-assembled, but the store always comes through for us. Lisa’s rooms are furnished with its wares, our bed gets constant raves and even Mariel sleeps on an IKEA mattress. And now we were trolling its cavernous aisles once more for mom. Because, you see, my mom is finally returning to the U.S. to live and we were busily putting her future home together.
I left for Israel in the fall of 1970 knowing that my parents would soon be joining me. Moving to Israel had always been our family’s dream. The original plan was for us all to go together once I had finished college, but lives change, plans change, different roads suddenly appear and so it was with us. After my first year of college I spent the summer in Israel on my own and fell hopelessly in love with the country, with someone I had met, and with heady, reckless freedom. So I went back to the States in August planning to return to Israel in the fall.
By the summer of 1971 we were all together in Israel though we had picked up another family member—my new husband Mark. It would take us the better part of that year to finally feel that we were home. My parents bought an apartment in the northern town of Nahariya, while Mark and I lived in Haifa about a half hour away. Mom and dad quickly found a wonderful group of friends and settled into their new life.
But we never had our happily-ever-after. War exploded in 1973 and shortly after Mark’s sudden death shocked us. Mom, dad and I spent the year trying to recover. That summer we flew to the States for a holiday and some rest. It was then that Steve and I reconnected. Though I went back to Israel in September, Steve had asked me to marry him and so at the end of the year I returned to the States. Leaving mom, dad and Israel was one of the hardest things that I had ever done. And I would have been sadder still had I known that it was also to be the beginning of a long separation from my parents—almost 40 years of being a long distance family.
None of us ever got used to the separation but that’s the way our lives remained for over 30 years. Then, when dad died ten years ago, I began to hope that mom would join us here. But mom couldn’t imagine leaving her home. Still I kept hoping that one morning mom would wake up and change her mind. I would dream of all the everyday things that we would do, all the places that I would take her, all the holidays we would finally celebrate together.
Every summer when we were together I would ask her,
“Mom, have you thought about moving back to the States? Are you ready? “
And each time the answer was the same, “No, I’m not ready”.
So I would wait and try not to push her because it wouldn’t be fair. I could never force her into anything that she didn’t want just to satisfy a selfish need of my own. But last year, for the first time, I pushed a little harder. And I could hear the anger in my voice when I asked her why she wouldn’t change her mind. And then suddenly she said the words I honestly thought I would never hear her say,
“I’m ready.”
I caught my breath not believing that I had actually heard correctly, but as we talked she told me that she thought it was time for her to join us. She didn’t know that when I hung up the phone I cried. After so many years we would actually live a normal family life where we could see each other any time we felt like it. It seemed like a miracle.
So Steve and I have been spending the last few months getting everything ready for her. It’s been hectic but exciting. We’ve had luck that we couldn’t believe. I truly believe that my dad is overseeing everything that we do. We were able to find her an apartment in a wonderful senior living housing complex just 15 minutes away from us. Mom will have everything that she needs virtually at her doorstep.
The last major thing on our “mom” list was designing her apartment. We spent months poring through catalogues, visiting furniture stores, measuring and arranging and finally realized that IKEA had just about everything we needed and it all fit together with style. So that’s how we found ourselves tracking down tables, chairs, bureaus, a bed and sofa and other assorted household stuff, praying that every piece we had chosen was on the shelves. The store computer claimed that it was all in the store but until we actually loaded it on the cart I couldn’t relax.
Finally we stood there, mission accomplished, and headed for the registers and at least a months worth of furniture assembling. But it’s all worth it because Mom’s coming home.
I looked at our carts brimming with thin, flat boxes and thought about how many times this store had solved our furniture problems. IKEA, I just found a store named IKEA and suddenly that name…..you get the picture. I may make fun of it and claim that the name roughly translated from the Swedish means, thousands-of-screws-and-pieces-of-wood-that-need-to-be-assembled, but the store always comes through for us. Lisa’s rooms are furnished with its wares, our bed gets constant raves and even Mariel sleeps on an IKEA mattress. And now we were trolling its cavernous aisles once more for mom. Because, you see, my mom is finally returning to the U.S. to live and we were busily putting her future home together.
I left for Israel in the fall of 1970 knowing that my parents would soon be joining me. Moving to Israel had always been our family’s dream. The original plan was for us all to go together once I had finished college, but lives change, plans change, different roads suddenly appear and so it was with us. After my first year of college I spent the summer in Israel on my own and fell hopelessly in love with the country, with someone I had met, and with heady, reckless freedom. So I went back to the States in August planning to return to Israel in the fall.
By the summer of 1971 we were all together in Israel though we had picked up another family member—my new husband Mark. It would take us the better part of that year to finally feel that we were home. My parents bought an apartment in the northern town of Nahariya, while Mark and I lived in Haifa about a half hour away. Mom and dad quickly found a wonderful group of friends and settled into their new life.
But we never had our happily-ever-after. War exploded in 1973 and shortly after Mark’s sudden death shocked us. Mom, dad and I spent the year trying to recover. That summer we flew to the States for a holiday and some rest. It was then that Steve and I reconnected. Though I went back to Israel in September, Steve had asked me to marry him and so at the end of the year I returned to the States. Leaving mom, dad and Israel was one of the hardest things that I had ever done. And I would have been sadder still had I known that it was also to be the beginning of a long separation from my parents—almost 40 years of being a long distance family.
None of us ever got used to the separation but that’s the way our lives remained for over 30 years. Then, when dad died ten years ago, I began to hope that mom would join us here. But mom couldn’t imagine leaving her home. Still I kept hoping that one morning mom would wake up and change her mind. I would dream of all the everyday things that we would do, all the places that I would take her, all the holidays we would finally celebrate together.
Every summer when we were together I would ask her,
“Mom, have you thought about moving back to the States? Are you ready? “
And each time the answer was the same, “No, I’m not ready”.
So I would wait and try not to push her because it wouldn’t be fair. I could never force her into anything that she didn’t want just to satisfy a selfish need of my own. But last year, for the first time, I pushed a little harder. And I could hear the anger in my voice when I asked her why she wouldn’t change her mind. And then suddenly she said the words I honestly thought I would never hear her say,
“I’m ready.”
I caught my breath not believing that I had actually heard correctly, but as we talked she told me that she thought it was time for her to join us. She didn’t know that when I hung up the phone I cried. After so many years we would actually live a normal family life where we could see each other any time we felt like it. It seemed like a miracle.
So Steve and I have been spending the last few months getting everything ready for her. It’s been hectic but exciting. We’ve had luck that we couldn’t believe. I truly believe that my dad is overseeing everything that we do. We were able to find her an apartment in a wonderful senior living housing complex just 15 minutes away from us. Mom will have everything that she needs virtually at her doorstep.
The last major thing on our “mom” list was designing her apartment. We spent months poring through catalogues, visiting furniture stores, measuring and arranging and finally realized that IKEA had just about everything we needed and it all fit together with style. So that’s how we found ourselves tracking down tables, chairs, bureaus, a bed and sofa and other assorted household stuff, praying that every piece we had chosen was on the shelves. The store computer claimed that it was all in the store but until we actually loaded it on the cart I couldn’t relax.
Finally we stood there, mission accomplished, and headed for the registers and at least a months worth of furniture assembling. But it’s all worth it because Mom’s coming home.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Confronting the Bullies
Confronting the Bullies
Last week my class discussed the new anti-bullying law. Some of my students had kids who were enduring bullying-hell, others had experienced it themselves. We came to the sad conclusion that at some time everyone has found themselves in the clutches of a bully. They agreed that the experience changed the way they felt about themselves. I had expected that conclusion. What I hadn’t expected was the epiphany.
We had been talking about the suicide of South Hadley teenager, Phoebe Prince and what we thought her teachers and parents could have done to help her. We discussed how she must have felt—terrified, helpless, wondering why she had been chosen. As I listened to my students I suddenly flashed back to sixth grade when I woke up every morning dreading school. I’ve never suppressed that year and have spoken of it often. But it was only at that moment that I suddenly understood that I too had been bullied. All that year I too had wondered, “Why me?”
I had led a normal nine year old life in fifth grade. But sixth grade was a strange new country. Suddenly I was the odd one out. Suddenly I didn’t fit. Suddenly I was the one that everyone talked about behind their backs. They called me a snob—the ultimate sixth grade put-down—and wanted nothing to do with me. And the strange part was that the leader of this group was a former friend, Francine. None of it made sense. But then bullying rarely makes sense.
I remember the slam-book that was passed around at the end of that year. Someone bought a notebook, wrote everyone’s name on separate pages, then instructed us to write what we thought of our classmates. I remember opening it to my name and seeing a page full of slurs and put-downs. All except one line—my friend Doreen’s. She had written only good things. I don’t know why she made the defiant decision to remain my friend. Her loyalty saved me that year.
I graduated and went on to Winthrop Junior High School. No one in that seventh grade class knew me. I became one of the most popular kids in my class that year but I never could believe it. I would wake up each morning with a sense of dread only to remember that school was now safe. I was always nervous that the kids would turn on me at any moment. I’ve held onto those dreadful memories for fifty years yet I never understood that I had been bullied. Even worse is the fact that I’ve learned that even after years of anti-bullying programming in the schools, the problem not only persists but grows. I wonder if the new anti-bullying law will even help since it is already being challenged constitutionally.
Last Sunday the Boston Globe ran a series of articles about education. One of the pieces by Neil Swidey described the dismal ineffectiveness of years of anti-bullying programs.
None of the current anti-bullying programs have been successful in reducing actual bullying among American students in any meaningful way. Researchers from the University of Oregon, led by Kenneth Merrell, conducted a meta-analysis that examined the effectiveness of bullying intervention programs in the United States and Europe across a 25-year period. Their results could hardly have been more depressing. While they found that some programs produced modest improvements in students’ attitudes about bullying and in their feelings of social competence, they found none that demonstrated a significant reduction in bullying behavior. In fact, the researchers found that “the average teacher actually reported more bullying after intervention than before.”
Bullying may not be new but technology has exacerbated the issue and made it more dangerous.
A generation ago, a seventh-grade girl might have dreaded walking into school, convinced that all of her classmates would have instantly heard about some embarrassment she had suffered. That was adolescent paranoia at work. Today her paranoia is justified. By the time she steps off the bus, everyone has been able to read the embarrassing details on somebody’s Facebook wall. Yet most bullying prevention programs are based on research and thinking formulated during the era before the Internet, says Elizabeth Englander, who directs the Massachusetts Aggression Reduction Center in Bridgewater.
Though we have seen that group programs and whole school assemblies are failures, there is a ray of hope. Research has shown that one way of stopping bullies is to pay attention to their sidekicks, the friends who give them power, and the bystanders who say nothing fearing that they might be the next victim if they speak up.
When kids around the bully intervene, the bullying is much more likely to stop. So the real goal must be to boost those willingness-to-intervene levels among students. Doing it well would require a school staff acutely attuned to the social landscape in its corridors and willing to confront bullying head-on, with a focus on the ring of students most closely orbiting the bully.
You can’t do a few assemblies and workshops and solve the problem. It requires unceasing attention and a willingness of both adults and kids to intervene. It requires that every teacher make every student their responsibility. It means that no one can leave anyone at the less than tender mercies of those that are bigger or more aggressive. Careful attention must be paid or we are all bullies in the end.
Last week my class discussed the new anti-bullying law. Some of my students had kids who were enduring bullying-hell, others had experienced it themselves. We came to the sad conclusion that at some time everyone has found themselves in the clutches of a bully. They agreed that the experience changed the way they felt about themselves. I had expected that conclusion. What I hadn’t expected was the epiphany.
We had been talking about the suicide of South Hadley teenager, Phoebe Prince and what we thought her teachers and parents could have done to help her. We discussed how she must have felt—terrified, helpless, wondering why she had been chosen. As I listened to my students I suddenly flashed back to sixth grade when I woke up every morning dreading school. I’ve never suppressed that year and have spoken of it often. But it was only at that moment that I suddenly understood that I too had been bullied. All that year I too had wondered, “Why me?”
I had led a normal nine year old life in fifth grade. But sixth grade was a strange new country. Suddenly I was the odd one out. Suddenly I didn’t fit. Suddenly I was the one that everyone talked about behind their backs. They called me a snob—the ultimate sixth grade put-down—and wanted nothing to do with me. And the strange part was that the leader of this group was a former friend, Francine. None of it made sense. But then bullying rarely makes sense.
I remember the slam-book that was passed around at the end of that year. Someone bought a notebook, wrote everyone’s name on separate pages, then instructed us to write what we thought of our classmates. I remember opening it to my name and seeing a page full of slurs and put-downs. All except one line—my friend Doreen’s. She had written only good things. I don’t know why she made the defiant decision to remain my friend. Her loyalty saved me that year.
I graduated and went on to Winthrop Junior High School. No one in that seventh grade class knew me. I became one of the most popular kids in my class that year but I never could believe it. I would wake up each morning with a sense of dread only to remember that school was now safe. I was always nervous that the kids would turn on me at any moment. I’ve held onto those dreadful memories for fifty years yet I never understood that I had been bullied. Even worse is the fact that I’ve learned that even after years of anti-bullying programming in the schools, the problem not only persists but grows. I wonder if the new anti-bullying law will even help since it is already being challenged constitutionally.
Last Sunday the Boston Globe ran a series of articles about education. One of the pieces by Neil Swidey described the dismal ineffectiveness of years of anti-bullying programs.
None of the current anti-bullying programs have been successful in reducing actual bullying among American students in any meaningful way. Researchers from the University of Oregon, led by Kenneth Merrell, conducted a meta-analysis that examined the effectiveness of bullying intervention programs in the United States and Europe across a 25-year period. Their results could hardly have been more depressing. While they found that some programs produced modest improvements in students’ attitudes about bullying and in their feelings of social competence, they found none that demonstrated a significant reduction in bullying behavior. In fact, the researchers found that “the average teacher actually reported more bullying after intervention than before.”
Bullying may not be new but technology has exacerbated the issue and made it more dangerous.
A generation ago, a seventh-grade girl might have dreaded walking into school, convinced that all of her classmates would have instantly heard about some embarrassment she had suffered. That was adolescent paranoia at work. Today her paranoia is justified. By the time she steps off the bus, everyone has been able to read the embarrassing details on somebody’s Facebook wall. Yet most bullying prevention programs are based on research and thinking formulated during the era before the Internet, says Elizabeth Englander, who directs the Massachusetts Aggression Reduction Center in Bridgewater.
Though we have seen that group programs and whole school assemblies are failures, there is a ray of hope. Research has shown that one way of stopping bullies is to pay attention to their sidekicks, the friends who give them power, and the bystanders who say nothing fearing that they might be the next victim if they speak up.
When kids around the bully intervene, the bullying is much more likely to stop. So the real goal must be to boost those willingness-to-intervene levels among students. Doing it well would require a school staff acutely attuned to the social landscape in its corridors and willing to confront bullying head-on, with a focus on the ring of students most closely orbiting the bully.
You can’t do a few assemblies and workshops and solve the problem. It requires unceasing attention and a willingness of both adults and kids to intervene. It requires that every teacher make every student their responsibility. It means that no one can leave anyone at the less than tender mercies of those that are bigger or more aggressive. Careful attention must be paid or we are all bullies in the end.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Your Own Business
Your Own Business
The other night at a Library Trustees meeting our discussion turned to the issue of privacy. Someone mentioned that a popular blogger in Stoughton had published the salaries of all the town employees and so many of the teachers in town were irate. Betty answered that salaries were a matter of public record so we really couldn’t fault the blogger. While I understand that town salaries are public, it’s still disconcerting to see your salary published on a web site or newspaper. People usually don’t bother to go to the library to look up someone’s information but we all read something that is in front of us.
That discussion led to the fact that starting in May, if you want to manage your library account on-line, you can no longer use OCLN as your pin. Now you have to come up with your own. We groaned at the thought of coming up with yet another password to add to our constantly growing collection but Betty said that she had had her own pin for a while.
“Why?” I asked her, wondering why she would care who saw the books she was reading. But then I remembered the privacy issues surrounding the Homeland Security Act that had government agents demanding to see our reading lists on the assumption that if we read about bombings we were automatically terrorists. Excuse the pun but no one wants their lives to be a completely open book.
The issue of our right to privacy surfaced interestingly this year when an Italian court ruled that Google had violated Italian privacy law by allowing users to post a video on one of its services. New York Times reporter, Adam Liptak, wrote on February 26, 2010 that:
The ruling was a nice discussion starter about how much responsibility to place on services like Google for offensive content that they passively distribute.
But in a deeper sense it called attention to the profound European commitment to privacy, one that threatens the American conception of free expression.
“Americans to this day don’t fully appreciate how Europeans regard privacy,” said Jane Kirtley, who teaches media ethics and law at the University of Minnesota “The reality is that they consider privacy a fundamental human right.”
Americans and Europeans view privacy very differently. Americans think of it terms of protection against government interference in their lives and especially their homes. Europeans focus on protecting people from having their lives exposed to public view especially in the media. In America free expression is codified in the first amendment. In Europe privacy comes first. Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights says, “Everyone has the right to respect for his private and family life, his home and his correspondence.”
The historical reasons for this divergence are fascinating. According to Fred H. Cate a law professor at Indiana University,
The privacy protections we see reflected in modern European law are a response to the Nazi Gestapo and the East German Stasi, totalitarian regimes that used informers, surveillance and blackmail to maintain their power, creating a web of anxiety and betrayal that permeated those societies. We haven’t really lived through that in the United States.
Lee Levine, a Washington lawyer who has taught media law in America and France adds,
American experience has been entirely different. So much of the revolution that created our legal system was a reaction to excesses of government in areas of press and speech.
The more I think about the issue the more I agree with Judge Bostjan M. Zupancic of Slovenia’s conclusion:
I believe that the courts have to some extent and under American influence made a fetish of the freedom of the press. It is time that the pendulum swung back to a different kind of balance between what is private and secluded and what is public and unshielded.
I would be the last person to lambaste the first amendment, but would a little privacy be such a bad thing in this increasingly naked society of ours? Last month I noticed signs in my gym requesting that people not use cell phones in the locker room. It took me a while to realize that it wasn’t to grant us some peace and quiet but to protect against people using their cell phones as cameras.
I don’t need to know each last detail about every political scandal. I’m not happy that anyone can Google me and find out more about my life than I care to remember. I’m tired of listening in to the world’s cell phone conversations and don’t want to know which public camera is filming me crossing the street.
Last month Mariel taught my students about plate tectonics and volcanoes. Two of my students are Haitian so the class was especially interesting for them. Suddenly Mariel had a brainstorm. She downloaded GoogleEarth and found their houses in Haiti. They couldn’t believe it. Later on at home she showed me our house on the site. It was incredibly unsettling to see our house complete with Steve’s car parked outside. Google’s StreetView service, which provides ground-level panoramas gathered by cars with cameras on them, was just too close for comfort. I find it interesting that the program has generated legal challenges in Switzerland and Germany. I wouldn’t mind a legal challenge here in the US as well. I’m all for the first amendment but I’d like my business to remain my own.
The other night at a Library Trustees meeting our discussion turned to the issue of privacy. Someone mentioned that a popular blogger in Stoughton had published the salaries of all the town employees and so many of the teachers in town were irate. Betty answered that salaries were a matter of public record so we really couldn’t fault the blogger. While I understand that town salaries are public, it’s still disconcerting to see your salary published on a web site or newspaper. People usually don’t bother to go to the library to look up someone’s information but we all read something that is in front of us.
That discussion led to the fact that starting in May, if you want to manage your library account on-line, you can no longer use OCLN as your pin. Now you have to come up with your own. We groaned at the thought of coming up with yet another password to add to our constantly growing collection but Betty said that she had had her own pin for a while.
“Why?” I asked her, wondering why she would care who saw the books she was reading. But then I remembered the privacy issues surrounding the Homeland Security Act that had government agents demanding to see our reading lists on the assumption that if we read about bombings we were automatically terrorists. Excuse the pun but no one wants their lives to be a completely open book.
The issue of our right to privacy surfaced interestingly this year when an Italian court ruled that Google had violated Italian privacy law by allowing users to post a video on one of its services. New York Times reporter, Adam Liptak, wrote on February 26, 2010 that:
The ruling was a nice discussion starter about how much responsibility to place on services like Google for offensive content that they passively distribute.
But in a deeper sense it called attention to the profound European commitment to privacy, one that threatens the American conception of free expression.
“Americans to this day don’t fully appreciate how Europeans regard privacy,” said Jane Kirtley, who teaches media ethics and law at the University of Minnesota “The reality is that they consider privacy a fundamental human right.”
Americans and Europeans view privacy very differently. Americans think of it terms of protection against government interference in their lives and especially their homes. Europeans focus on protecting people from having their lives exposed to public view especially in the media. In America free expression is codified in the first amendment. In Europe privacy comes first. Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights says, “Everyone has the right to respect for his private and family life, his home and his correspondence.”
The historical reasons for this divergence are fascinating. According to Fred H. Cate a law professor at Indiana University,
The privacy protections we see reflected in modern European law are a response to the Nazi Gestapo and the East German Stasi, totalitarian regimes that used informers, surveillance and blackmail to maintain their power, creating a web of anxiety and betrayal that permeated those societies. We haven’t really lived through that in the United States.
Lee Levine, a Washington lawyer who has taught media law in America and France adds,
American experience has been entirely different. So much of the revolution that created our legal system was a reaction to excesses of government in areas of press and speech.
The more I think about the issue the more I agree with Judge Bostjan M. Zupancic of Slovenia’s conclusion:
I believe that the courts have to some extent and under American influence made a fetish of the freedom of the press. It is time that the pendulum swung back to a different kind of balance between what is private and secluded and what is public and unshielded.
I would be the last person to lambaste the first amendment, but would a little privacy be such a bad thing in this increasingly naked society of ours? Last month I noticed signs in my gym requesting that people not use cell phones in the locker room. It took me a while to realize that it wasn’t to grant us some peace and quiet but to protect against people using their cell phones as cameras.
I don’t need to know each last detail about every political scandal. I’m not happy that anyone can Google me and find out more about my life than I care to remember. I’m tired of listening in to the world’s cell phone conversations and don’t want to know which public camera is filming me crossing the street.
Last month Mariel taught my students about plate tectonics and volcanoes. Two of my students are Haitian so the class was especially interesting for them. Suddenly Mariel had a brainstorm. She downloaded GoogleEarth and found their houses in Haiti. They couldn’t believe it. Later on at home she showed me our house on the site. It was incredibly unsettling to see our house complete with Steve’s car parked outside. Google’s StreetView service, which provides ground-level panoramas gathered by cars with cameras on them, was just too close for comfort. I find it interesting that the program has generated legal challenges in Switzerland and Germany. I wouldn’t mind a legal challenge here in the US as well. I’m all for the first amendment but I’d like my business to remain my own.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Captains Courageous
Captains Courageous
My dog Snoopy is many things but brave is not one of them. That may surprise the neighbors who have walked their dogs past our house to the accompaniment of an animal’s loud roar. They must think that we have some huge beast in here until they look up and spot the vicious 30 pound beagle barking hysterically--then they laugh. Snoopy just can’t carry off intimidating. Handsome--yes, adorable--always, but courageous—not really.
I’ve seen my marshmallow mutt jump back ten feet when a blade of grass blows the wrong way or a dandelion puff brushes past his nose. But the places that truly terrify him are the groomers and the vet.
It begins when he excitedly leaps into in the car. Now most of the times that Snoopy rides in the car are when he’s off to an unpleasant experience. Once in a while we drive to Houghton’s Pond for a walk or out to Amherst to visit Mariel, but usually he’s going to get his nails trimmed or his yearly shots. So you would think that he wouldn’t be exactly anxious to get into the car. But, as Steve pointed out, our pooch is an eternal optimist. In the seven years that he has lived with us a piece of food has dropped from our kitchen counter maybe ten times. And yet he is ever vigilant when anyone is preparing a meal. So I suppose his doggie brain figures that his chances are good that a car ride will lead to a walk or a visit to Mariel. That being said though his optimism usually lasts about two minutes.
I speak as soothingly as I can to calm him down but he’s a suspicious mutt. He paces back and forth in the front seat, sits down, gets up, pokes his nose in my face, places a paw on the wheel. I put him in the back seat or attempt to tether him but to no avail. Once panic sets into his doggie head there’s no placating him. I know it’s not simply being in the car that sets him off because on the way home he’s always perfectly calm. He knows the torture, whatever it was, is over and he’s going home.
Luckily for us Mariel worked for a kennel for a while so the head groomer there, Sue, knows our crazy dog. She calls him “the monster” since clipping his nails is harder than doing the creature from the lagoon and he’s just as slippery. A surgeon once told us rather gently that Snoopy doesn’t like being restrained. Yeah, we get that. But if the groomer is no picnic, a visit to the vet is noon at the OK Corral.
This morning it was time for his yearly physical so I prepared myself with two espressos and some Excedrin. He was so excited to be going with me that I almost wanted to cry, but I told myself that it was for his own good. So we began our usual routine of him jumping into the car, then the heavy panting, nervous yawning, head out the window, pace, pace, sit, stand, scream—oh no wait, the screaming was me. Luckily it’s just a ten minute ride. When we approached the vet’s door he turned to look at me with that, “Et tu Brutus?” expression that he does so well.
I shoved him into the office announcing that Snoopy the brave was here. Immediately two young vet technicians were there cooing over the adorable puppy and making little dove sounds that I knew wouldn’t last long. They would learn. We went into the large back waiting area where he paced like a caged savannah beast, whimpered and then jumped onto the large window trying to make a break for it. I knew there was no way that I was going to calm him down short of taking him out so I just sighed and paced with him.
The poor guy needed not only his shots but also several blood tests so he was going to be a pin cushion before the visit was over. In came the two vet techs, still cooing and exclaiming over his incredible cuteness but Snoopy wasn’t buying it. He knew they were packing needles. I tried holding him but despite their small size beagles can be incredibly strong and he kept slipping out of my grip.
“Would you like me to hold him?” one of the techs asked.
“Absolutely!” I replied. “I think mommy is going to leave the room.”
And I did. Fifteen minutes later they emerged looking mussed and a lot less enamored of my pup. Snoopy gave me a look that would wither daffodils--and we hadn’t even seen the vet yet. The vets at Windhover Veterinary Center are incredibly gentle. Dr. Holmes didn’t even make him go into an exam room she simply got down on the floor with him right there. It almost looked liked she was massaging Snoopy as she carried out her examination while talking softly to him the entire time. He did calm down a bit and stopped looking at me as if I were Benedict Arnold. But still I had to leave when it was time for his shots. It seems that when my pup is in pain, I’m no hero either. I guess neither of us will ever win a purple heart.
My dog Snoopy is many things but brave is not one of them. That may surprise the neighbors who have walked their dogs past our house to the accompaniment of an animal’s loud roar. They must think that we have some huge beast in here until they look up and spot the vicious 30 pound beagle barking hysterically--then they laugh. Snoopy just can’t carry off intimidating. Handsome--yes, adorable--always, but courageous—not really.
I’ve seen my marshmallow mutt jump back ten feet when a blade of grass blows the wrong way or a dandelion puff brushes past his nose. But the places that truly terrify him are the groomers and the vet.
It begins when he excitedly leaps into in the car. Now most of the times that Snoopy rides in the car are when he’s off to an unpleasant experience. Once in a while we drive to Houghton’s Pond for a walk or out to Amherst to visit Mariel, but usually he’s going to get his nails trimmed or his yearly shots. So you would think that he wouldn’t be exactly anxious to get into the car. But, as Steve pointed out, our pooch is an eternal optimist. In the seven years that he has lived with us a piece of food has dropped from our kitchen counter maybe ten times. And yet he is ever vigilant when anyone is preparing a meal. So I suppose his doggie brain figures that his chances are good that a car ride will lead to a walk or a visit to Mariel. That being said though his optimism usually lasts about two minutes.
I speak as soothingly as I can to calm him down but he’s a suspicious mutt. He paces back and forth in the front seat, sits down, gets up, pokes his nose in my face, places a paw on the wheel. I put him in the back seat or attempt to tether him but to no avail. Once panic sets into his doggie head there’s no placating him. I know it’s not simply being in the car that sets him off because on the way home he’s always perfectly calm. He knows the torture, whatever it was, is over and he’s going home.
Luckily for us Mariel worked for a kennel for a while so the head groomer there, Sue, knows our crazy dog. She calls him “the monster” since clipping his nails is harder than doing the creature from the lagoon and he’s just as slippery. A surgeon once told us rather gently that Snoopy doesn’t like being restrained. Yeah, we get that. But if the groomer is no picnic, a visit to the vet is noon at the OK Corral.
This morning it was time for his yearly physical so I prepared myself with two espressos and some Excedrin. He was so excited to be going with me that I almost wanted to cry, but I told myself that it was for his own good. So we began our usual routine of him jumping into the car, then the heavy panting, nervous yawning, head out the window, pace, pace, sit, stand, scream—oh no wait, the screaming was me. Luckily it’s just a ten minute ride. When we approached the vet’s door he turned to look at me with that, “Et tu Brutus?” expression that he does so well.
I shoved him into the office announcing that Snoopy the brave was here. Immediately two young vet technicians were there cooing over the adorable puppy and making little dove sounds that I knew wouldn’t last long. They would learn. We went into the large back waiting area where he paced like a caged savannah beast, whimpered and then jumped onto the large window trying to make a break for it. I knew there was no way that I was going to calm him down short of taking him out so I just sighed and paced with him.
The poor guy needed not only his shots but also several blood tests so he was going to be a pin cushion before the visit was over. In came the two vet techs, still cooing and exclaiming over his incredible cuteness but Snoopy wasn’t buying it. He knew they were packing needles. I tried holding him but despite their small size beagles can be incredibly strong and he kept slipping out of my grip.
“Would you like me to hold him?” one of the techs asked.
“Absolutely!” I replied. “I think mommy is going to leave the room.”
And I did. Fifteen minutes later they emerged looking mussed and a lot less enamored of my pup. Snoopy gave me a look that would wither daffodils--and we hadn’t even seen the vet yet. The vets at Windhover Veterinary Center are incredibly gentle. Dr. Holmes didn’t even make him go into an exam room she simply got down on the floor with him right there. It almost looked liked she was massaging Snoopy as she carried out her examination while talking softly to him the entire time. He did calm down a bit and stopped looking at me as if I were Benedict Arnold. But still I had to leave when it was time for his shots. It seems that when my pup is in pain, I’m no hero either. I guess neither of us will ever win a purple heart.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Full Circle
Full Circle
Passover’s been over for a while but I’ve only now had the time to think about how this Passover season was once again the same and different from all other years. This year the seders fell on Monday and Tuesday which was not conducive to gathering family together. It was a lot easier when we all lived in the same house. But I was grateful that both girls were in the country. Two years ago Mariel was in New Zealand and last year Lisa was In India, leaving us with empty spaces at the table. This year my daughters’ better halves were coming so we would have a nice full table.
One good thing about having our family seder on Monday was that I had the entire week-end before to shop and prepare. I was also able to take Monday and Tuesday off from work so that I could plan, cook, set-up and then clean up in relative comfort and not worry about stuffing it all into a few hours. I managed to do most of the cooking on Sunday so that on Monday I merely had a hundred last minute things to finish off. I was seriously thinking of drinking a lot of wine that day…..kosher of course.
I woke up that Monday morning feeling fairly cocky and thinking, “The brisket is cooked, the chicken prepared, various salads prepped, the table extended and even the silver has been polished; I’m in really good shape. No need to rush today.” I’m such an optimist. When will I ever learn? It’s always the little things that take the most time and with a Passover seder there are lots and lots of little things. There’s charoseth to be made, that delicious concoction of chopped apples, walnuts, wine and cinnamon, the seder plate to prepare, haggadahs (the booklet that we read telling the story of Passover) to hunt down and matzoh balls to be cooked. Not to mention the preparation of the rest of a major meal where everything seems to go wrong at the last minute.
So it was a usual pre-seder day filled with things I inevitably forgot until the last minute. But miraculously, (it is holiday of miracles after all) by 4:00 the table was set for eight: Lisa and Matthew, Mariel and Dan, me and Steve, and our good friends, Donna and her daughter Alison. Alison has been with us for our seders since she and Mariel met at the Kennedy Elementary school. She knows the Passover songs better than Mariel and has been with us even when Mariel couldn’t be. Sort of like a surrogate daughter.
It was the first time that Matthew and Dan would be joining us so we were prepared to do some Passover explaining. We actually enjoy it since it gives us a chance to remind ourselves why we are doing what we are doing. It has become a Passover tradition because happily there is often someone new at our seder table. Dan was a bit nervous and I can’t say that I blamed him. It’s nerve wracking to be the newbie when everyone around you knows what they’re doing. We assured him that we would not do anything without explaining it first and that there would be no sudden moves.
It was Matt’s first seder too but he was more relaxed. Lisa has introduced him to so many new things already that I don’t think he would even blink an eye if she told him that we were about to sacrifice virgin eggplants in honor of the holiday. He would just nod quietly and take it in. It also helped that he has developed a fondness for Manishewitz grape wine. He was going to need it if he was to drink the traditional four cups.
We had a joyful time. It was quite the experience to see four young adults ransacking the house searching for the afikomen. Steve had explained earlier that this was a piece of matzoh that he would hide and that the “children” would look for after the meal. It was included in the seder to keep young kids awake and interested during the long evening. In order to resume the seder after the meal, the afikomen has to be found and a deal made with the adults conducting the seder. We usually pay for it in chocolate. While they were frantically searching I attempted to ask Alison a question only to be told, “Can’t you see that I’m very busy right now?” That had to be the best line of the evening.
Though the traditional question asked at every seder is, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” it turned out that this year was different from all other years for us. For the first time since we’ve been friends Donna invited us to share Easter dinner with her and Alison. We were delighted. That Sunday, as we sat with our good friends I felt that our lives had come full circle. Sharing both Passover and Easter together felt not only right but inevitable. We have known each other for so many years, have laughed and mourned together and have managed to keep the bond strong. At both our Passover and Easter tables we toasted renewal, rebirth and friendship. But most of all we celebrated life and the differences and similarities that bound us. What a wonderful tradition.
Passover’s been over for a while but I’ve only now had the time to think about how this Passover season was once again the same and different from all other years. This year the seders fell on Monday and Tuesday which was not conducive to gathering family together. It was a lot easier when we all lived in the same house. But I was grateful that both girls were in the country. Two years ago Mariel was in New Zealand and last year Lisa was In India, leaving us with empty spaces at the table. This year my daughters’ better halves were coming so we would have a nice full table.
One good thing about having our family seder on Monday was that I had the entire week-end before to shop and prepare. I was also able to take Monday and Tuesday off from work so that I could plan, cook, set-up and then clean up in relative comfort and not worry about stuffing it all into a few hours. I managed to do most of the cooking on Sunday so that on Monday I merely had a hundred last minute things to finish off. I was seriously thinking of drinking a lot of wine that day…..kosher of course.
I woke up that Monday morning feeling fairly cocky and thinking, “The brisket is cooked, the chicken prepared, various salads prepped, the table extended and even the silver has been polished; I’m in really good shape. No need to rush today.” I’m such an optimist. When will I ever learn? It’s always the little things that take the most time and with a Passover seder there are lots and lots of little things. There’s charoseth to be made, that delicious concoction of chopped apples, walnuts, wine and cinnamon, the seder plate to prepare, haggadahs (the booklet that we read telling the story of Passover) to hunt down and matzoh balls to be cooked. Not to mention the preparation of the rest of a major meal where everything seems to go wrong at the last minute.
So it was a usual pre-seder day filled with things I inevitably forgot until the last minute. But miraculously, (it is holiday of miracles after all) by 4:00 the table was set for eight: Lisa and Matthew, Mariel and Dan, me and Steve, and our good friends, Donna and her daughter Alison. Alison has been with us for our seders since she and Mariel met at the Kennedy Elementary school. She knows the Passover songs better than Mariel and has been with us even when Mariel couldn’t be. Sort of like a surrogate daughter.
It was the first time that Matthew and Dan would be joining us so we were prepared to do some Passover explaining. We actually enjoy it since it gives us a chance to remind ourselves why we are doing what we are doing. It has become a Passover tradition because happily there is often someone new at our seder table. Dan was a bit nervous and I can’t say that I blamed him. It’s nerve wracking to be the newbie when everyone around you knows what they’re doing. We assured him that we would not do anything without explaining it first and that there would be no sudden moves.
It was Matt’s first seder too but he was more relaxed. Lisa has introduced him to so many new things already that I don’t think he would even blink an eye if she told him that we were about to sacrifice virgin eggplants in honor of the holiday. He would just nod quietly and take it in. It also helped that he has developed a fondness for Manishewitz grape wine. He was going to need it if he was to drink the traditional four cups.
We had a joyful time. It was quite the experience to see four young adults ransacking the house searching for the afikomen. Steve had explained earlier that this was a piece of matzoh that he would hide and that the “children” would look for after the meal. It was included in the seder to keep young kids awake and interested during the long evening. In order to resume the seder after the meal, the afikomen has to be found and a deal made with the adults conducting the seder. We usually pay for it in chocolate. While they were frantically searching I attempted to ask Alison a question only to be told, “Can’t you see that I’m very busy right now?” That had to be the best line of the evening.
Though the traditional question asked at every seder is, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” it turned out that this year was different from all other years for us. For the first time since we’ve been friends Donna invited us to share Easter dinner with her and Alison. We were delighted. That Sunday, as we sat with our good friends I felt that our lives had come full circle. Sharing both Passover and Easter together felt not only right but inevitable. We have known each other for so many years, have laughed and mourned together and have managed to keep the bond strong. At both our Passover and Easter tables we toasted renewal, rebirth and friendship. But most of all we celebrated life and the differences and similarities that bound us. What a wonderful tradition.
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