Chinese Tendencies

I have narrowed down the criteria for my ideal running partner, and have concluded that I will not compromise on this list. No scars, no history of serious illness in the last three generations of your family, and no tooth cavities. Disqualification for those who have runny noses, ringworm, drug allergies or bad breath. The candidate must also possess a pleasant and adaptable disposition. Yes, I am kidding; though this is an actual list of true criteria for a different type of applicant, I would be more insane than previously believed if it were in fact my design. (Though I wouldn't mind if my future running partner possessed a few of these traits, notably fresh breath). During my run today, I made some daring attempts to recruit future running partners en route. It helped that a 20 mile NYRR run was in mid-stride as I started my own private 6 mile loop. I had a captive pool of runners in all different sizes, shapes, and running paces. I was feeling good for the first time all week, having finally adapted a little to the oppressive humidity that has blanketed the city for the first time this summer. I kept passing runners with numbers affixed to them, and didn't see anyone running my pace for a while. Then I passed a water stop, and some guy with a sweated green t-shirt grabbed a cup and sipped on the run. He seemed to be going my pace, so I thought I'd ask him about this organized run. I think I startled him, as he was kind of reticent about giving information. Then I realized that he wasn't a registered runner, and may have been worried I was going to yell at him for taking the water. He said he was doing an 18 miler. I asked him if he had a lot more to go, and he replied, 'Yeah, one and a quarter.' So this guy was probably exhausted from running 15-3/4 miles in hilly Central Park, guilt ravished the whole way for not officially paying his NYRR dues while using their amenities, and now pressured to not only be charming and sociable, but to keep up with this fresh-legged intruder. Since I had nearly the whole park to cover still, I just picked up the pace and left that one behind. Next I saw some guy tuck in from the right and start a jaunty paced jog. He seemed springy and energetic, and had a white nylon short-sleeved shirt on with foreign words on the front. When I caught up to him, he stopped running, and pulled off to walk. I encouraged, 'You can't walk, you just started!' He looked at me incredulously, a pink face dripping in sweat. Hmm, I thought, maybe he had already finished a long run and was just doing a cool down. Maybe he had a severe side stitch and was disheartened to have to stop, and didn't appreciate anonymous feedback in the least. Maybe he was Hungarian and had no clue what I had just yelled at him. And maybe it was time for me to stop talking to strangers. My failure to engage people this day reminded me of Oliver. Oliver was this adorable half Chinese half Russian 4 year old who was having a hard time finding someone to play Lego Indiana Jones with him on the playground. He was a tough and sensitive kid, and usually very quiet. I kept making different suggestions of potential playmates for him from the kids that I knew out there. 'There's Dylan, I bet he would play with you', and then Oliver would say 'OK', and skip off with a cute little smile on his face and approach the kid. He returned empty-handed, but was game with continuing the search. I suggested at least four more potential players, and each time Oliver good-naturedly skipped over to the party, and each time he returned just a little more broken. I had to attend to some other playground drama, and when I returned a few minutes later, I was thrilled to see Oliver had not only found a playmate (his twin brother) but was smiling ear to ear as the two of them took turns pulverising each other in a mock sword fight. I didn't realize Lego Indiana Jones was such a violent game, but it sure made Oliver happy.
By the end of my run in the park, I forgot all about looking for someone to run with. I was really enjoying being in the park and found myself feeling very strong and fit.
So for those of you still wondering what those strange items on that list were all about, here it is: They are amongst the 100 health requirements for would-be astronauts vying to be part of China's next space team, the Yangtze Evening Paper reported today.

Just Michael

Life on the Periphery

Henry called to share a strange incident with me. His voice sounded dark and concerned on the voicemail message. A mutual friend of ours had just introduced him to her new friend Charles, a mortician. When Henry met Charles, he instantly recognized him as the man who has been serving him coffee every Saturday morning in the local cafe for the past three years. When Henry smiled and told him of course he knew him, how could he forget this face, 'Charles' excused himself and politely denied having any former acquaintance with Henry. Henry was extremely perplexed, and upon his arrival home, was able to ascertain the name of the man in question. It was not Charles. It was Andrew Gibb, and he was no mortician. Now I started questioning this man's identity, as that name was familiar to me in an entirely different context: two years ago I had sold my treadmill to an Andrew Gibb, and we had developed an email friendship upon discovering our mutual interest in parasitology. Reminiscing upon that period of my life, I re-read some of the two year old emails we had exchanged. This man seemed perfectly sane, I wondered what would lead him to this false representation of his identity? Why was I spending the better part of a beautiful day trying to figure this all out? With the few hours of sunlight left, I gathered some reading material and headed for the park. I spend too much time alone, I'd finally decided. As much as I cherish my independence and crave my freedom, it's just not healthy to spend so much time alone. Although at times, it looks as though the majority of New Yorkers are most comfortable in their seemingly solitary existences, I think it's mostly a facade. As I wait for the light to change to cross over to Riverside Park, there is an FDNY ambulance and a police van parked across the street, and a group of uniformed men standing around a man sitting on a bench, holding a white cloth to his face. The light changes to green, and if I cross in a straight line, I will be deposited right in front of the injured gentleman. I can see from his posture that he is elderly; he is also African-American. His clothing looks a little worn, and it is hard to tell if he is a homeless man, as he looks like many homeless men that I have seen sleeping on those benches. As I cross, I try to casually walk to the side, so as not to intrude on the moment. I also want to make sure that the man is being attended to properly, so I make subtle eye-contact with him. He looks at me for a second, and he looks like he is going to cry. His lip is swollen badly, and blood is pouring down freely. I feel like I'm going to completely break down and cry too now, so I walk behind the scene. I see a woman with a Jamaican baseball cap staring at all the action. She has dark skin, and her eyes are very attentive and wide. I know she has been following everything that has transpired. I ask her what happened, as I try to steady my voice. She tells me he was running across the street to catch a bus, and he had all these heavy bags. Why was he carrying such heavy bags, she wanted to know. He fell, and that's when he started bleeding. The bus stopped and then it left. I averted my eyes to keep from breaking down, and prodded her to tell me more. At that moment, some men brought the man on a stretcher into the ambulance. I asked her how long he had been waiting for the ambulance, and she said about an hour. I remembered this story my friend had told me recently about a man who had diabetes but was not yet diagnosed. One day his energy plummeted, and he suddenly became very disoriented. He somehow got himself to the emergency room of a hospital in the city. He had been waiting for so many hours for someone to see him, that his condition deteriorated to the point where he looked like a typical dishevelled and distraught street person. He was somehow able to walk to the check-in desk to see if someone could tend to him, but they assumed he was another homeless person, and told him he needed to wait. He ended up dying in the waiting room. This was a man who had a regular job, lived in his own apartment, and was completely functioning and independent. The ambulance pulled away. It seemed to be going very slowly. Dianna and I talked for a while. We wondered what would become of this man. After a while, she packed up her special edition Time magazine with the Michael Jackson tribute, and said she had to get going. She didn't leave for another five minutes. I saw my neighbor from upstairs who always walks her yellow lab mix dog with black leather doggie shoes on his feet. We never talk to each other, but I noticed she was hanging around longer than necessary to cross the street when she was near us. The sun was setting, and I said good-bye to my new friend. She got up to go home, apparently waiting for me to leave before doing so. I walked down the stone steps to be closer to the river. I read some newspapers for a while, and then headed back. When I returned to my previous spot, I noticed my Grenada friend had only moved to the bench across the way. I guess in the end, she really just wanted to be alone.

The Quieter Race

Last weekend, in an attempt to connect with local runners while simultaneously celebrating the completion of my first real public school teaching job, I joined in on a group of 11 other hearty souls for a ~200 mile relay race in Vermont. It was the sort of adventure that brings city-dwellers a little uneasiness, as we had to make do without our covetous staples: sleep, privacy, and 24-hour artificial lighting. Adapting to the awkwardness of travelling with strangers was made easier by our common goal: run your leg, let the next guy run his. Try to run fast. Try to be pleasant. Try not to stink too much after, because it will be noted and likely blogged about at some unknown date in the future. Rinse and repeat, two more times. So that's the short version. I just read three longer versions written by my teammates, and don't want to risk accidental plagiarism, so I think I'll stick with what I've got. So coming home was the strangest part of all. Now what? Sort of like post-marathon apathy, this big grand exciting event in Vermont was over, and so was my beautiful teaching job. (It is summer break, I reminded myself, though the younger kids I worked with would surely be in favor of year-round schooling.)
So having raced three times over relay weekend, (a 4 miler and two 5 milers, one run at midnight) I was sort of in racing mode, and ready to go again. The only problem was that physically my body was barely able to jog slowly. One day I went out two miles and had to walk back. I didn't feel tired or sore, but I just couldn't run anymore. Despite this, the two races that were coming up this weekend kept playing in my head. Mentally I was really ready to race. Saturday rolled around and I got up early to watch race #1, the Gay Pride Run. Despite the extreme humidity, the top four runners came flying down East Drive in Central Park to finish in some phenomenal time under 24 minutes. For five miles. Wow. It is always exciting watching races, and discovering and cheering for people I know. I thought I saw a friend finishing, and I walked towards the finish to say hello. There were so many runners, I lost track of my friend, but then discovered something that really distracted me: each finisher received a rainbow missile popsicle. I walked across the street, half searching for my friend still, but I couldn't get the thought of obtaining one of those popsicles out of my head. I had never seen that kind before. It looked like it had a lime flavored coating on the outside, wrapped around a rainbow swirl of flavors inside. I really had to have one. I walked back to where the volunteers were handing them out. It didn't look like they had enough for all the runners. I looked longingly one more time at some racers enjoying their treats, and realized that it wasn't meant to be for me. So I ran my little training run, felt like my legs were coming back, and decided that I would run race #2 the next morning, the Hope and Possibility 5 miler, for athletes with disabilities and able-bodied runners. I woke up in the middle of the night with the Michael Jackson song 'Miss You Much' in my head, and then heard that song in real life a few seconds later on some one's boom box in my neighborhood. I wanted to acknowledge the singer during the race somehow, so that morning I stuck some craft letters on my good-luck Kenya tank top: MISS YOU MJ. Off I went to the 110th street subway station, this time with 'I'll Be There' firmly planted in my brain's turntable. In Central Park at 7:30 a.m., one hour before the start of the race, there were many vans parked near Tavern on the Green unloading athletes and race participants in wheelchairs. I saw a woman around my age looking very fit and sprinting. As her figure receded in the distance, I noticed her black prosthetic leg attachments. I heard an announcer introduce Trisha Meili, the famous Central Park Jogger from the brutal 1989 attack. It sounded strange to hear his game-show host voice say jovially, 'And here she is, The Central Park Jogger!' She had a surprisingly big and strong voice, which made me happy. A handsome man asked me if there were corrals in this race. We started talking a bit about training and racing, and then I had to remove myself to focus on the total anxiety that sometimes overcomes me before a race. This race was much smaller than the one the day before, so it was possible to line up close to the front. I took a good spot, re-affixed the letters on my shirt that the air's moisture was loosening, and felt calm. It was good to be on a starting line again. I smiled to myself. Some guy in the front had turned around and was staring intently at me. It was my friend Gael. I felt my face start to smile at him, then instinctively stopped its course. I looked back at him with a blank expression, then we both looked away. Gael had written me a really nasty email some days before, so nasty in fact, that I actually felt sorry for him. Clearly he was projecting something that had more to do with his own issues than anything I could have incited in him. Unfortunately, words can have better staying power than Michael Jackson tribute letters on a humid day. I tried to put my mind in a neutral place. Somberness replaced my previous pre-race giddiness. The horn went off, and the race begun. My first mile felt like work, and then my pace and energy died. I knew that I might not be recovered still, so I tried to change my mindset from race mode to 'getting a good workout' mode. The finish line was in sight, and I kicked to get under 37 (37! I have run 1/2 marathons at faster paces than that!) As I gave my final kick, there was Gael cheering me on with a big smile. In my spent state, I thanked him and smiled genuinely. I walked to catch my breath. Someone handed me a bag of pretzels. (Pretzels!) I stood to the side as finishers walked by to the baggage claim area. Three young women who had just finished the race were laughing and enjoying themselves. One called over to me. 'Kenya! Kenya!' she said excitedly. Turned out they were all from Kenya. One of them commented on my DIY graphics. 'Aww, MJ.' They all took a moment to make sad faces, and one did a sort-of moondance. The one who called me over looked at my arm and pointed. 'You're getting goosebumps!' Why is it only foreigners seem to notice things like this? We talked for a while, then went our separate ways. I liked the low-key aspect of this race. I felt like it was OK to run slower. Today it was OK to just be.

No Child Left Behindathon

Who remembers the famous Felix Unger speech about the word 'assume'? I am starting to take on the same view of the word 'assessment'. In between creating a transportation museum with the kids, tying eighteen pairs of sneakers several times a day, singing lively rhythm and movement songs for 40 minutes when our broken down CD player insists there's 'no disc', ensuring everyone in my classroom is getting all of their spiritual, educational, creative, and intellectual needs met, a stack of report cards waits to be completed. By me, I believe. Since taking over this pre-k class at the end of April, I've pretty much been left to my own devices. I have no complaints with this, as I am used to being the captain. However, had the swine flu scare not robbed my principal of much precious time, I believe I would have been given more instruction and encouragement on this one task which is pretty much the nation's barometer for the educational health of a school. So rolling about the recesses of my brain has been the contents of those odd-sized manila envelopes quietly resting in a rusty file box in our locked closet. One day several weeks ago, I asked my para Ms. B. if she knew where they resided. She unlocked the closet, ferreted around, and provided me with the treasures. I leafed through the first four page document hypnotised. Wow. That's a lot of information to gather on one kid. I wondered who was going to assess these eighteen kids in June. I tried not to think about it too much, because I had a lot of other things to focus on that were in my mind a lot more important and immediate. So that's what I did. Then two weeks before the end of school, one of the literacy coaches hands me paperwork for assessing the children's ability to rhyme. I think I was starting to understand where this was all heading. Still trying to keep an optimistic view that some mythical report card assessor would be called in (possibly from the 1,000+ absent teacher reserve pool), I started the preliminary efforts of a person attempting to conquer the first step of a very long race. Armed with a two page document simulating benchmarks on their last term's report, I brought Alyssa out into the hall to begin the testing. We're not supposed to call it a test. Just like 'time out' is not 'time out'. That's corporal punishment. The concept can be the same, but you must rephrase it. My 'time out' is called 'think time'. Anywho (!) Alyssa smiled at me suspiciously as I ruffled through the right set of papers for her. She often does that, but she had a good reason to this time. Halfway through her identification of the alphabet, she started adding terse but polite comments to her answers. I pointed to the 'r', she recited, 'r, please'. She was getting annoyed with the predictability of this game. She also didn't much care for my placement of an 'X' on her missed letters. Do these kids really need to have a sense of failure as they're working on their emergent reading skills? She was frustrated when she didn't know a letter, and when I asked her what it was, she started replying with a cute little smile, 'nothing'. Then it was time for her to demonstrate her ability to write the alphabet. After a few letters, she told me, 'I don't know how to do that, but I can make a smiley face.' I let her draw a smiley face. When I asked her to retell a story, she started telling me about the Gingerbread Man. 'The Gingerbread Man.. HMMMM, HMM HMMMM HM HMMMMM'. George Costanza popped into my mind. Alyssa was done with these shenanigans, and wasn't humoring me anymore. I didn't blame her one bit. Where was the section on the report card that indicated 'Smart enough to rebel against being treated like a statistic'? I love the whole school environment, the dedication and good intentions of the teaching community- but students are individuals with diverse abilities to process information and demonstrate their knowledge. Why do we have one test for every student across the board? Isn't it sort of like a shoe store offering size 7shoes only? Your feet are a size 10? Adapt. I would be in big trouble if that were the case. I don't know what the answer is. Tomorrow I am going to run a 5k race on a very humid day. Maybe something will come to me magically. And maybe those report cards will fill themselves out. And maybe I'll break 20 minutes.

Haiku for You

H1N1 meets R2-D2

I'm sick, so are you,
she transmitted through her blog.
Porky said, 'That's all, folks!'

An Interesting Day

So many great snippets of life and dialogue overheard, that I need to get some of it out of my head and onto some written format before it gets buried underneath months of mediocre dailyness. OK, so I'm sitting near the rear door of the #4 bus heading to work at 7:30 this morning, when a yuppie family boards the front of the bus. Dad heads straight for the back, alone, and mom stays up front with her two tow-headed boys. The older one is about 6 or 7, and he is giving an impassioned lecture to his mother. The bus is full of workers and students, silently partaking in their morning ritual. His voice is the only one heard. 'Why did you do that, mom?! Why did you make me run through the red light? I could have been hit by a car!' The mother must have replied, though not audible to the rest of us. 'Just to get a bus? You almost made me get HIT by a CAR so you could get the bus??' he said incredulously. Snickers from the back of the bus, as we imagined the kid calling his lawyer. I actually felt sorry for the mom. The kid would not let up, and his rant continued to be the sole voice on the bus. 'Imagine yourself, having a terrible time, and someone made you almost get hit by a car, JUST TO GET A BUS!' Now I started feeling sorry for the kid. The way he expressed his anguish made me jealous. The mom must have been doing something right. No idea how that one ended, as my day as a pre-k teacher was about to begin. I have been with this class as a replacement to their teacher who went on maternity leave since last month. It's kind of amazing how much there is to learn about children when you go from being a non-parent to suddenly being responsible for the growth and education of 18 four and five year olds. The parents bring their children directly to the classroom in the morning, so I try to talk with them a little. One mom shared with me that her son did not get accepted into a gifted and talented program. I was shocked, since this four year old was able to identify by name the pygmy marmoset (my favorite primate.. well, the Golden Lion Tamarin is up there too, now that I spotted one at the Central Park Zoo) from the library book I read to them yesterday. Another nail in my coffin for educational assessments. And then the day continued with tears (little girls claiming other little girls saying they were not willing to be their friends); my bossiest Leo girl, who loves to communicate by whispering directly into my eardrum, crying inconsolably sorrowfully- shaking her head quietly and muttering, 'I just want to go home.' When she finally told me what happened (another girl jumped in front of her in the lunch line), we coerced the apology from the perpetrator, and the victim was once more enjoying her pizza and chocolate milk. One boy, who smiles and waves at everyone in greeting upon his arrival, inevitably falls into at least three crying fits a day. The last one happened at the lunch table. 'Damien, what's the matter?' I asked. 'Alyssa did this to me.' And he mimicked a person bobbing their head from side to side with their eyebrows raised. This gesture has caused him tears before, and I just sort of accepted that it was insulting, but now I was really curious: what did that gesture mean? He couldn't tell me. Neither could Alyssa. I had to do some more probing. I asked Damien what he had said to prompt it, and he told me that he informed her that he got a second chocolate milk. I looked over at Alyssa. Then I understood. That's the gesture that signifies, 'And then what?' There really is no great response to that statement. After lunch is quiet time, reading a few books, and then nap time. For some reason, there seems to be the most potential for utter chaos during this time, and I'm still honing my craft with fixing this. What's funny is, these kids really love being read to. Even though it seems like their attention spans are shorter than five minutes, if they are engaged in listening to an interesting book, I can keep them audience for 15 minutes. Today they were cranky and moaning about being mooshed together, and I couldn't get that zen quiet that I like. So I dug deep down in my bag of tricks, and commanded them to rest their hands palms-up on their crossed knees, and chant 'OMMMMMMMM' with me with their eyes closed. Nobody questioned this, and it actually worked! They were om-ming away their shifty behavior, and in perfect form to listen to 'Anansi and the Moss-Covered Rock'. I'd go on, because a lot more interesting things happened in my day, but it's your turn. How was your day?

In honor of National Poetry Month.. (prizes for the first to name the poet)

"Si Tu Me Olvidas"

Quiero que sepas
una cosa.

Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
todo me lleva a ti,
como si todo lo que existe:
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.

Ahora bien,
si poco a poco dejas de quererme
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.

Si de pronto
me olvidas
no me busques,
que ya te habré olvidado.

Si consideras largo y loco
el viento de banderas
que pasa por mi vida
y te decides
a dejarme a la orilla
del corazón en que tengo raíces,
piensa
que en esa día,
a esa hora
levantaré los brazos
y saldrán mis raíces
a buscar otra tierra.

Pero
si cada día,
cada hora,
sientes que a mí estás destinada
con dulzura implacable,
si cada día sube
una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
ay amor mío, ay mía,
en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
sin salir de los míos.

"If You Forget Me"

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists:
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loveing me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

You Need an Alternate Exit

Ten minutes back in my apartment from a great one week trip to Texas, and pure panic sets in. The dance with the cute, sweaty-palmed cowboy, the thrill of finding deep-fried okra at a Texan dive called Dickie's BBQ, the strong bonds of female friendship renewed thanks to my awesome travel partner- not even the taste of a running comeback in the form of an unexpectedly fast marathon time on a hilly course could wipe away the fact that I'm living in the city, I have no job, no prospects, no direction- and it's just me here to get through this. Instead of unpacking, I drowned my fears of the future in mindless searching on the internet. Going to sleep meant having to face the morning and a life that expected some drive from me which seemed to have evaporated. The next day my friend Andria tells me she's in town, and she's got my olive oil. She threatened to buy me some when she learned how expensive my daily habit had become since moving South. I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd already adapted to canola. Wow, she lugged one of those heavy 4-quart tins of olive oil for me? Life was already starting to turn around. We were trying to incorporate a fun get-together out of the olive oil drop-off event, but the thought of dragging that container all over the city was starting to depress me again. Then I found it: A free comedy show in Williamsburg. Perfect. Andria and my olive oil were relaxing in her sister's homey little apartment not far from there. I emerge from the 7 train to a freezing 35 mph wind in my face. Immediately a short blonde woman stretches her arm out and hands me her camera. 'Hi', she says with a heavy nasal Brooklyn accent, 'Can you get a picture of me? Try and get those buildings in there, too.' I don't mind, as my friend is not here yet to meet me. The wind promptly snatches the cover of my newspaper and whips it down the street, too fast for me to chase. Darn, the cover was the best part of this paper today. It was the one with the bizarre story of the woman whose 17 yr old chimpanzee mauled her bestfriend, and forced her to kill it. I took a few pictures of Brooklyn lady, and then noticed my fingers were completely numb from the cold. I told her I'd have to bow out of the job. She forgave me, and as I descended back down to the subway station to avoid the wind as I continued to wait for my friend, I heard her unsuccessful attempts to recruit new photographers. My friend arrived and we walked many blocks to her sister's subletted apartment in Greenpoint. They were making fried chicken and rice, and there was a relaxed, warm atmosphere. Of the four girls in the apartment, only one was employed, and that was in a funeral home. I asked Lea, Andria's sister, who was not employed, if she was stressed about it. She said she was, but she did not look the least bit stressed. Somehow we got into a conversation about depressed people, and she said they were annoying. I was intrigued with her laissez-faire attitude over a community that's familiar and confusing to me. I asked her how she dealt with them. She waved her hand and rolled her eyes, and said, 'Oh, they're easy. You just gotta keep 'em busy.' I thought about every depressed person that I ever knew. She was right! They didn't seem depressed when they were busy. I opened the bottle of French Gewurtraminer I had picked out several weeks earlier. I was curious if I had picked a winner or not. I was kind of heartbroken the last time I'd found a Gewurstraminer that I'd loved, and then found out the winery discontinued its production. I could tell from the first sip of this new one that my luck was indeed starting to change. Sweet clover and tea roses danced in the air. I wished there was someone there without a stuffed nose who could appreciate it with me, but the girls said they liked it. We rushed off to our comedy venue. Ah, the crowds in Williamsburg. Reminded me of Berkeley in the '90s. Gentlemen with James Dean perfect hairstyles, pinstriped longsleeved shirts, and smoking clove cigarettes. (Outside, of course). The bartender was wearing an oversized red-striped dress, thick horn-rimmed glasses and not one stitch of make-up. She smiled at me when I ordered my drink, and reminded me of a shy church girl. What a culture shock from the jaded set in Manhattan. I really enjoyed the first comic the best, laughed the hardest- but it was the last comic with his forced audience participation bits that probably made my night. I discovered that hipsters, despite appearances, do not all have their acts together. Underneath the smooth veneer of hipsterity often lies one more unemployed New Yorker. OK, so fast-forward to the next day. Back in my little bachlorette pad, once again checking the pages of craigslist for that elusive teaching job. I come across an appealing gig. Someone offering to do all the paperwork to get me registered as a family daycare worker in my own apartment. Hmmm. Do I really need them to do that? I investigate further, and find a number of an office where you can apply for a license to work in this field. I leave a message, and receive a return call within 5 minutes. This is very surprising. The woman tells me she's from the office of family daycare registration. How many kids was I looking to care for, 4-6 or 6-12? Sounds like a Kentucky Fried Chicken order. I opt for the smaller size, wondering how I can bring more than two children to a park? Do I tie them together? On the kibbutz in Israel they would stick them all in a shopping cart that they called an aggala. As I'm imagining my new life as Mother Hubbard, Luz on the other line asks me if I have an alternate exit. Hmm. Well, sure. I have my front door and my windows, those are alternate exits. 'Do you live on the first floor?' she asks. 'Well, not technically,' I answer, 'but my apartment is considered 1A.' She pauses. I can feel her smiling. 'Are you on the street level?' She asks to humor me. 'Well no,' I answer slowly, 'I have to walk up a little flight of stairs to get to my apartment.' I then walk over to my window and look down onto the sidewalk below. I imagine passing kids out the window during an unexpected fire. 'It's not much of a drop,' I tell Luz. We both laugh, and then as soon as it begun, my new career has ended.

They Can Smell Your Fear

These past two weeks I have been pushed into the abyss of teaching. One of my assistant principals announced firmly that I would be covering classes for teachers conducting individual student assessments outside the classroom. I glanced at the schedule she handed me. Uh-oh, there were 4th and 5th graders on this list! I was not used to big kids or big kid lessons. Even second graders had an air of smugness to them that made me miss the unjaded little kindergartners. Suck it up, Tamar. Sooner or later you're going to have to start dealing with the adult world again, and upper elementary kids were as good a place to start as any. I walk into Jordan's class, and she hands me a perfectly laid out substitute teacher's lesson plan for the two hours I am to be with her 4th graders. Things look easy enough, until I get a glimpse of a two page lesson plan on Deforestation. She tells me this will be easy, just go over it with them on the rug, take as much time as I want to explain anything. I nod and smile as she heads out the door to start her first assessment. There's a slight problem. I don't really have any idea how to talk about Deforestation. I feel like a Seinfeld character. Yeah, I know that I can write-off many expenses when filing taxes, but what exactly am I writing-off? (OK, I have been doing my own taxes forever now, so this is just an analogy.. for other people, who really don't know about their write-offs. Not that it's an indication of great intelligence, just to illustrate that we do some things as adults for too many years without really questioning what it means, and then it's too late or embarrassing to ask.) No real time to panic about looking like a fool in front of twenty 9-year-olds, (no doubt, there will be plenty of opportunities to accomplish this task properly),as it is attendance time. I actually have had this bunch of kids before, and they are not particularly obedient with substitute teachers. I decide to have them tell what one food they would choose to eat for the rest of their lives if they had no other choice, as they answered to their name being called for attendance. They seemed interested in this challenge, and had fun with it. Somehow, it still took three times as long as it should have to complete this daily task. The future of the rainforest was going to be discussed after library. I lined up the troops and marched them upstairs. I decided to stop every time they became disorderly, to establish authority. I wanted to ensure that they would be listening attentively when it came time for me to bluff my way through an environmental discussion. Yes I recycled, yes I conserved water, electricity and paper- but those important facts and connections explaining the benefits of saving the rainforest were just not at the forefront of my mind. Surprising, really, given the amount of rainforest saving coffee I've drunken in my lifetime. Yes, I know, time to widen my horizons and put down my Bob Glover book for a moment. So in the library, I notice something remarkable. Tessa and Jean are sitting together and laughing! (Quietly). Two months ago, when I subbed for their class, Tessa was crying her eyes out over Jean and another girl excluding her. She even had me go over and speak with them, because she was positive that they were talking about her. When I agreed, Jean defiantly informed me that Tessa is the one who starts the trouble, as she is constantly telling lies about her, and that she has no intention of ever talking to her again. I learned then that regardless of how hurt a child appears to be, that it is entirely possible that they brought it on themselves. It is amazing how blind we can become to our own undoing in social situations. Seeing the two of them together getting along was uplifting. Not enough to power me through my upcoming social studies test, but a slight push in that direction. So after I gathered the troops again, we trotted down to the classroom. I didn't give them a minute to start taking over the class with their potential for social debauchery. I called them directly to the rug. My game plan was this: a certain astrophysicist involved in demoting Pluto from planet status, was recently quoted as saying he received a lot of hate mail from third graders over this reclassification of a beloved planet. Yes, they have strong opinions, and are eager to voice their concerns over causes. (Even if those opinions are the result of educators prodding them to think persuasively). So after reading a few dismal statistics on the rate of deforestation, I mustered up my best Greenpeace canvassing voice, and asked the troops: 'If I told you there was a way for you to make a difference in our future environment, would you want to help?' The troops were ready and willing. That meant that they would listen to the lesson for another eight minutes without trying to beat each other up and get me off topic. It turned out more than half the class already is actively recycling. We had an interesting discussion about the hypocrisy of saving paper by reading the news online, as electricity is then generated. Not knowing which was more damaging to our cause, I said in my best teacher voice, 'Excellent point, let's continue.' OK, I didn't really let that one slide. I admitted ignorance, and suggested they investigate this further. I am not too sure what this group learned from my presence that day, but I certainly learned from them. I left their classroom with a reinforced view of the power of enthusiasm. I got excited talking about a global catastrophe that they can help reverse. Not to mention saving my dear little friend the Pygmy Marmoset from falling into extinction.

A Person is a Person No Matter How Small

It's my last class of the day, and the hardest one to keep motivated. It's Saturday, and before they enter my classroom, they've already had music, Chinese, and English classes. Now they have Ms. Tamar for their third grade reading and writing class. Jeffrey told me one day his Chinese teacher is mean. I'm much nicer than she is. I notice he feels very comfortable interrupting the class with questions completely off topic. I imagine the Chinese teacher not putting up with that at all. I'd love to watch her in action, maybe pick up a few pointers. I must admit, English intimidates me. The grammar, the syntax..literacy in general instills a subtle fear in my heart, so I totally understand when these kids need to digress a little, and I often indulge them. When I ask them to turn to page 18 of their Essential English workbooks, Jeffrey asks me what year I was born. Clever tactic. I have discovered all kids are fascinated with discovering their teacher's age. I just don't feel that they need this information. But Jeffrey's question leads me to want to test his mathematical abilities, so I tell him. 'You're that old and you're not married?!' he asks incredulously. I laugh. The other kids are shocked as well. Susan tells me, 'You have to be married!' 'Why?' I question, quite curious as to where this will lead. 'Well', I can tell she's just made something up on the spot, as she often does when answering questions, 'the government says if you're not married, you have to sleep alone.' My mind races for an appropriate response to this interesting logic. 'Well, that's good, because then I don't have to hear anyone's snoring.' And with that, we start reviewing the homework from the previous week. The kids were tired, and Jeffrey keeps interrupting with questions, and he was starting to wear me down. Near the end of this one and a half hour class, I ask Alice, one of the quieter students, a question. Jeffrey blurts out the answer. I yell at him a little too harshly to let her give me the answer. That was the first time I yelled at any child this year. I feel guilty, and hope he isn't insulted. Immediately he and several other students say in unison, 'Her brain will shrink if you don't let her answer!' I was surprised they were quoting me so readily- that was something I had told them three weeks ago, and they still remembered it. I guess there were no hard feelings with Jeffrey. He had several more questions about Barak Obama, the crash landing of the disabled plane in the Hudson last week, and if the KKK was still in existence. I told him if we have time at the end of class, we can discuss all that, in addition to his questions about my time spent in Israel. When it was time to leave, I was taken with how small this boy was as he exited the room. He probably has more opinions about our current economy crisis than half the people I ride the subway with everyday, and yet he couldn't be more than four feet tall. I am really lucky to be here, I think to myself as I turn off the light and head out into the frigid night on a small street in Chinatown.

It Isn't Easy Being Green

It's hard to believe I've taken a few month hiatus from posting here, and the best thing I can come up with is a story about the Mucinex mascot. Luckily for you, I failed to find the exact image of him that I used for my art class graphic duplication exercise. In case you aren't familiar with this character, he is the personified version of the material that is produced from congestion. Who would bring that in to a class full of kindergartners, you ask? Well, the enrichment program I work at in Chinatown provides very few materials, so I have to scrounge and brainstorm on my own. Advertising circulars are abundunt on my doorstep, so I came across this cute image of Mr. M. looking very green with a crabby expression spread across his broad face. Apparently his host had taken the medication and sent him packing in the middle of the night. Poor guy never had a chance to even dress properly. I handed this picture to each of my 6 four and five years olds today for our first lesson on copying images. I ask them to tell me if they know who this guy is. At first there is a lot of head shaking. Then finally one of my four year old twins screams out 'Kung Fu Panda!' I can't control a laugh. Then I go over all the elements in the image with them, and remind them to include all the details, like his pajamas, his pillow tucked under his arm, the moon in the background. After a few minutes, one of the girls hands me her finished product. She has drawn to near perfection only the details, but has neglected to draw the actual character inhabiting them. I tell her that's OK, she can draw him underneath the details, at the bottom of the page. She laughs and says, 'But I don't want to draw him in his underwear!' How can you not love the way their little minds work? Of course, why would she bother to draw his pajamas a second time when they were all perfectly composed up above?

It's 'Pick a Caption' time!

Pick your favorite caption to this recent New Yorker magazine cartoon. (Hint: one of the choices was composed by this blogger).


Frankly, Mr. Johnson, our law firm just doesn't need a
Classical linguist at this time.


So why did you leave Red Lobster?


So you think you're ready for the corner tank?

Sometimes you've just got to bark like a dog

I can't seem to find a running partner no matter how hard I try. I didn't even realize how dire the situation had grown until one day during the first few minutes into my run around Central Park. It was a clear, low humidity day, I was rested with no apparent obstacles to prevent me from completing my run, and my mind just said 'enough'. I didn't argue, because I had been a really faithful athlete over these past few months of adapting to hillier terrain and the more aggressive lifestyle of a city person. I walked slowly back out of the park. On my way I passed a man standing holding his tall Boxer dog's leash. The dog had the face of an old man, and stared at me intently as I approached and then passed them. As I expected he would, the dog barked and lunged at me as I passed. I kind of laughed nervously, like the dog was chiding me for quitting my run. The man apologised profusely, and said the dog is just a puppy, and was only playing. That's my favorite line. As I crossed Columbus avenue, it dawned on me that I had been doing all of my training solo for a while. Hard tempo runs, hilly 12 mile park loops, 5 am reservoir sprints, and Harlem track 800 intervals. I needed to drag someone along to share the suffering! That evening I composed the perfect ad specifying the ideal running partner I was seeking. I didn't mince words, as grandma Blanche would have said. I outlined the paces required for my potential RP (running partner), and warned that I was strict about following the watch. No sense wasting my time with a dilly-dallier who was not on the same page as I was. Satisfied with my ad, I posted it on craigslist, and the very next day got a response from 'nybling'. He said I sounded like a cool person (!) and won't have trouble keeping the pace. He also stated he'd never run more than 4 miles before, but knew he could handle the distance. I trusted his confidence, and proceeded to set up a running date. He said that sounded great, he was pretty sure he could run the full 6 miles I'd planned. That was it. He could build his miles on his own, I needed a steady partner. I told him to contact me when the training wheels had come off (ok, I was not that harsh), and he seemed relieved to get out of our run. The next day I headed to the park, team of one. No matter. Lately I've been having unspoken competitions with runners trying to pass me. It's the closest thing to a running partner I can find. This day was pouring rain. Few people were out, which was a nice change, since usually it's a struggle to keep from bumping into the throngs of cyclists, runners, walkers and general park enthusiasts that share the same 6 mile loop as me. As I'm coming off of the big hill past Lasker pool, I hear some squishy sneakers running up my back. I'm wondering if they're my own, and look over my shoulder to check if there's a person in them. Sure enough, despite the pouring rain, there's no one else in sight except this one runner holding a big plastic bottle of some yellow fluid and gaining quickly on me. How odd. I was hoping to be able to run leisurely. Marathon man passes me, and then I decide the park is mine today, and I whip past him in response. Triumphant, I continue building a nice lead. Then it dawns on me that if I really wanted an RP I'd be more sociable, and instead of trying to beat everyone, I'd start talking to them. Oh well. Maybe next time I'll put this insight to good use. I run another 5 miles without seeing Marathon man. I pass other runners, the blind man who I saw walking in the opposite direction as me when I entered the park. Wow, he's doing an impressive pace I calculate. My clothes are soaked, and I'm looking forward to seeing the fountain where I exit the park. Suddenly I hear the squishy shoes again. I look over my shoulder, and Marathon man catches and passes me. I don't mind. Then I hear a strange sound. Like someone barking soft little woofs. There's a young woman sitting in the middle of the road in the pouring rain, kind of gasping or woofing. I didn't really get it, but it seemed very odd. I slowed down, and Marathon man stopped to investigate. I figured he'd handle that situation, and I'd complete my nice little loop without interruption. That woman wasn't crying, she had a calm expression on her face. I think she was just crazy. If that man didn't stop I would have stopped. I decided to turn around and make sure she was ok when I finished my run. Once I turned around, I instantly felt tired. I couldn't remember how far away that woman was, but it didn't seem like more than a mile. Cars were passing every now and then, and I hoped that they saw her. Just when I thought I'd never see her again, there she was this time standing in the middle of the road. I stopped and walked slowly up to her. 'Are you ok?' I asked. She looked at me with a slight look of disgust and started walking away. 'Are you the one that was sitting on the ground?' I asked. 'No, no', she answered and started moving quickly away from me and off the road towards the grass. 'I came back to help you', I said, hoping that might convince her that my offer was genuine. She wanted nothing to do with me. My gut told me that she had serious emotional issues. The sad part is, I'm sure this woman has a boyfriend. But I digress. I walked the half mile through the park to my exit spot. It was still raining, my beautifully straightened hair from earlier was a ratty mass of tangles, and I had bits of leaves and dirt all over my legs. Life in the city can be very sad and lonely. I've had some really close calls with wondering how I could go on with some of the acute disappointments I've experienced since moving here. Maybe sitting down and barking on the road once in a while is a good way to clear the cobwebs. I really can't ever picture myself doing that, but I'm sure if I did I would feel better.

My Kids

My world of 'intuitive living' officially ended 06/17/08. That was the first day the bootcamp teaching program that I enrolled in begun. I had to say good-bye to many habits that I had grown quite fond of- sleeping 8, 9, and shamefully sometimes 10 hours a night; leisurely grinding my own coffee beans and enjoying sipping from my yellow Falmouth mug whilst sitting on the floor and gazing at the dog walkers strolling past my building; running. The latter habit was the most shocking to lose. During that first week of teacher-training, one night I set my alarm for 4:30 am to squeeze in a run before a 9 hour day of graduate classes. The alarm went off and I realized that I had to complete a paper in that time. Something finally took priority over running. I didn't like my new schedule one bit. I felt under a microscope in my classes, with the constant threat of forced group discussions lurking in every corner. I was a fish out of water, suffocating in my desire to learn in solitude. After the first two weeks, 5 pounds lighter and sufficiently sleep-deprived, we had all completed 6 graduate credits. That was a nice little reward. I was dying to go out for a run. The next morning I showed up for my summer school placement, where I would be an observing teacher in a classroom with a cooperating teacher. I showed up with 3 other fellows. They didn't have as many kids as they expected enrolled, and one of us had to go home. I volunteered. Walking down Amsterdam and eying the Dunkin Donuts, I wondered if that was the end of my teaching career. Shouldn't a new teacher jump on every opportunity to learn her trade? I felt strange, doubting my own commitment to this new profession. But I was thrilled that I finally had time to go for a run. Despite the heat and humidity, I was smiling throughout my six mile loop of the park. I passed the Central Park police precinct and smelled a strong odor of Neccos candies or a million carnations. What was that? Whatever it was, I wouldn't be smelling it for long. I got a call from my field advisor (we had many advisors) telling me that they could now take me at my placement school, and I was to show up the next morning. Now it was all starting to feel real. As I walked down the street the next morning to the school,I had that jittery, first-day-of-school feeling, but in a grown-up way. I was excited to meet my new kids. I walked into Ms. H's class. Right away I could tell she was a strong teacher, with strong ideas about how to teach. She greeted me coolly, and said under her breath that there was a gentleman placed with her the other day, and she even wore her best perfume, but he didn't return. Her humor made me laugh, and I knew I was going to like her. She introduced me to the children, and they all took turns greeting me. After a mini-lesson in setting up a graphic organizer to pull out the main idea and details of a story, Ms. H. had the kids go back to their seats to get to work. I'm always shocked by the content of 2nd grade curriculum. A graphic organizer? I think I just learned what that was- last year. So 7-yr-olds can grasp this concept? I think we need a new reality show- 'Are you smarter than a second grader?' Half the class was missing their front teeth. It's impossible to get mad at someone who has no front teeth. I brought a chair over to help Fahema with paragraph format. I opened her text book to a random page to show her how it looked. There was a photo of a lobster facing us. As she was writing her paragraph, she kept looking back at the book for reference. In her tiny smurf voice, she said, 'That lobster is freaking me out.' They're so cute!! But I wasn't suppossed to be appreciating their cuteness, I was suppossed to be learning how to help them succeed academically. Fahema seemed to not need my help. I moved on to another table. Fernando hadn't started yet. I asked him if he knew what the main idea was. He answered me by telling me in Spanish that he is a grandfather. I impressed his friend by answering in English that he is too young to be a grandfather. He still didn't get to work, until Ms. H. came by and questioned why he had nothing written on his paper. I felt guilty for not staying on task. Funny, but I felt myself turning into a second grader in that class. I think the kids started catching on to this, and they would look out for me so I wouldn't get into trouble with the teacher. One day when they dealt out bag lunches for the upcoming field trip to the transit museum, I was given a peanut butter and jelly sandwich lunch. Ms. H. asked all the children to put their lunches in their backpacks, and to keep them on task, she told them she wanted it done by the time she counted down from 20 (this is a very effective trick for getting others to do what you want in a timely fashion. I am waiting for an appropriate opportunity to use this on my friends). Felipe noticed that my bag lunch was still sitting on the desk. He called over to me, 'Ms. S., you can put your lunch in my backpack if you want.' Those kids started really mattering to me, and eventhough I didn't think I knew enough about teaching to be a real teacher, I did feel confident that if we could go on field trips every day, I'd be the best teacher in the world. The last day of summer school, the kids surprised me by each presenting me with a hand drawn card with a letter thanking me for helping them with their reading and writing. Martin drew a picture of a shark with blood on its teeth and two people in its mouth- one was Ms. S., and the other was him, with an arrow explaining that he was saving Ms. S.
Aw! So now summer school is over, and Ms. S. is unemployed. She's been pounding the pavement, but somehow that great teacher shortage seems to have been a myth. I'm almost hoping so, as the thought of having my very own class with no Ms. H. to help with the discipline and keeping us on task is quite daunting.

All of my Running Partners are Stars

Tomorrow morning I will be running in a race in Central Park that will include the entire American women's Olympic marathon team, about ten other women from around the world who have run under 33 minutes for a 10k (that's a 5:30 minute per mile pace for six and 2/10ths of a mile), and about 3,000 'normal' female runners that want to challenge themselves. I'd be more nervous I think if I were of the elite women's caliber. I can't imagine running a race knowing that my salary was at stake if I didn't finish first.
Wednesday I was doing a casual five mile run around the bridle path in Central Park, and I look up and see Hilda Kibet jogging in the opposite direction. Not a household name to be sure, not in New York households, anyway, and if I weren't such a 'fast-women' stalker, I'd probably not have any idea who she was either. But I recognized her from a recent running journal photo. She was winning the Nike 1/2 marathon run on the streets of Manhattan last Summer. She looked ecstatic to be winning, and her smile was infectious. As I saw her this day, I called out her name. We exchanged greetings, and I asked if I could join her. She welcomed me, and off we trotted as if it were the most normal thing in the world. And really, it was. Two women passionate about their sport, sharing a social bond. After a few steps, I was struck with the realization that I was running with one of the fastest women in the world. Maybe she wanted to be alone. I asked her if it was really OK that I was running with her. She seemed perplexed by my concern. I added that maybe she wanted a little privacy, as I imagined annoying runners bombarding her with requests to run with her all day long. She assured me that she preferred the company. Admittedly, I was too starstruck to offer much conversation at first, but my partner seemed very willing to entertain all the questions that a mortal runner would want to know, and after a while, I started to feel like we were equals. I mentioned to her that the photos that were taken of her at the end of the Nike 1/2 marathon were really striking, and it was great to see a runner so happy during a race. She laughed and told me that she was celebrating before the race was over, high-fiving people and dancing as she was sprinting, and didn't realize that her nearest opponent (Catherine Ndereba), was very close to her, and she nearly jeopardized her win. That sobered her up and she promptly stopped smiling and beat her rival by a mere second. I was happy to hear that story, and told her my old coach Bob Glover used to yell at us for waving and smiling at him during a race. 'That's disgusting!' he'd scold us, 'you don't see the Kenyans smiling!' Thankfully, Hilda crushed that theory. Though I fully agree with this. If you're doing anything but focusing 100% on the race, you're probably not going to run your best. Or maybe not. Maybe you do need to have those relaxing, celebratory moments during a race where you are being human. I don't know. I can't see it working for me. Racing really is a matter of enduring discomfort. We discussed the tireless workouts that Toby gives, interval after interval, and just when you thought this workout must surely be over, he whips out another combination. We agreed the benefits are really more mental than physical. If during those workouts you think to yourself, 'There's no physical possibility for me to do one more mile repeat', and then he has you do another, and you prove yourself wrong.. Well, then you can imagine how that translates to the possiblities open to you for faster times during a race.
When we had arrived at the section of the park where Hilda had to return to her hotel, we said good-bye, and I was wondering where I was. Not that it mattered. It was a gift to have run with that woman. While heading up some long hill back home in the outer loop of the park, I started thinking about how there is really more about us that is similar than not. We will both be nervous and anxious and want to run our best Saturday morning. We may both even run a pr, though hers will be at least ten minutes faster than mine. I was also struck with the fact that here was this woman who had just run a 30:55 10k the previous week and not one single person recognized her during our run! But maybe that's the way it's suppossed to be. Is one person more special and worthy of recognition than another simply because she was born with better genes? Would I have been so happy to have met her and run with her if she was an ordinary 55 minute 10k runner? Yes, I would have been, because I love Kenyans and their sing-song way of talking, and their comfort level with socializing with strangers. It also wouldn't be far off to say that there is a possibility that in the deep recesses of my mind, I'm thinking that if I spend enough tme with Kenyans, learn their language, train with them, live with them, that maybe some of their inherent running speed will find its way into my legs. They say that friends and spouses start to mimic each other in appearance and behavior after a while. And if there is no truth whatsoever to this speed by association theory, I will still feel blessed to have gotten to know these wonderful people.

Stop Feeding them Cinnamon!

At the risk of ruining a lifetime reputation as a 'nice person', I have to share my unkind thoughts on the troll-like presence of a new generation in New York City. Introducing: Population mini-dog. Where ever you turn, there's a perfectly reasonable looking adult tethered to a toenail clicking, eye-bulging, frequently yapping micro-breed canine. Maybe it's more apparent to me as a runner, since much of my time is spent running miles around Central Park, and what more natural environment is there for a leashed little ball of wiry straw and yippability? That's the problem. They don't fit in. They haven't earned their presence. With real estate close to $1800 per square foot for a condo on the Upper West Side, what possible contribution can this homely creature make to justify his place in my park? And make he does! As my Wantagh cousins used to ask upon someone's return from walking their Great Dane Brutus, 'Did he make?' I'll leave that territory alone, because I must say, the owners of these little pitzkeles are really pretty consistent about cleaning up after them. Believe it or not, I am actually a huge animal lover, and stopped eating red meat for ethical reasons related to this love. And a huge wave of guilt washes over me every time I see one of these hideous little dogs prancing down the street, oblivious to his own objectionability. It's truly not his fault he wasn't born of larger stature, and who am I to judge him unfavorably? But my guilt is wasted, as most of these dogs were a genuine investment by someone who cherishes them. This is the part that completely confounds me. What is there to love about a smooshed faced, aggressive bundle of yips and excrement? There's an Israeli saying that translates to: In taste and smell, there is no argument. But could so many New Yorkers have such bad taste?

OK, while researching for this posting, I must admit, that SOME of these dogs I found kind of.. well, I hate to admit it, and really, very few.. but some were kind of.. cute, OK? None that I posted here, but in general- dogs are cool. They never look down their noses at you for having a frizzy hair day or running a slow 5k.

But if any of my readers finds any of these photos appealing in any way, you may just want to keep that to yourself.

New library card, new neighborhood

How do I know I'm no longer living upstate? Because instead of the allotted 60 minutes on the public library computer, I now only have 45 minutes. And the faces surrounding me are exotic and beautiful, some young some old, some haggard from years of surviving the streets of Manhattan, some fresh from their lack of existence. Though there is a separate section for computer use for youth, what are these young people doing using the adult computers?? Maybe they're not that young at all, it's just my memory of youth. The last time I really hung out in NYC libraries was when I was in Junior High School, and I had this obsession with collecting obscure photos of Brooke Shields. I'd sneak a bound stack of magazines like American Home from 1978 that I knew she was on the cover of, and stealthily tear it out when no one was in earshot. My sizable collection ended up in some storage closet in the dorm of a Tel Aviv university. Could still be there, along with the Brooke Doll, and Brooke Books, which actually sold on ebay recently for a grand. OK, a REALLY small person just took the computer next to me. He couldn't be more than 9. Which reminds me also that it's really smart to have a separate section for kids, as libraries tend to attract really weird and possibly dangerous adults. This one looks pretty safe, (I'm referring to the library, not the kid; Though he looked pretty safe, too.) but you can never fully let your guard down. Sunday I was enjoying a beautiful sunny day walking around the upper west side, checking out the street fair with the roasted corn, and this creepy middle-aged man said as he was passing me by, 'Hi miss, can I pet your doggy?' Needless to say, I don't have a dog. So here I am, living in the big apple, and I'm so content to be here. This is my world.

And I'd like to say a prayer for the people of Myanmar. I can't think about the magnitude of that disaster without tears coming to my eyes. 22,000 people were killed as a result of this terrible cyclone, and thousands more displaced, without homes, clean water or food. What can you wish for the survivors that will help them through the loss of loved ones and the threat of loss of their own lives? I wish them hope and future prosperity, and to know that many people around the world are wishing them the same. May the people of Myanmar be blessed with future healing and strength.

I'm Routing for Blake

Any of you diehard running fans will know that I'm referring to Blake Russell, who is one of the 150 American women who qualified to compete in the Olympic trials this Sunday in Boston. The top three finishers will be sent to Beijing to represent us in the actual Olympics. Why does this runner get my vote? Well, the last marathon trials was four years ago, and she took the bold approach of running alone for the first 2/3's or so of that race. She ended up finishing a heatbreakingly close forth place (a mere 35 seconds behind the third woman). In an interview later on, she was quoted as saying she'd almost rather finish 15th than 4th in this race. I'm sure her thirst for this win is stronger than the rest of the field, since she's been closer than any of them to placing on the team. To help her stay focused, I'm going to put someone else's lyrics here. Mr. Mathers from Detroit seems to know a little about wanting something very badly too.

Album: 8 Mile Soundtrack (2002)Song: Lose Yourself
Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity To seize everything you ever wanted…One moment Would you capture it or just let it slip?
His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti He’s nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come out He’s chokin, how everybody’s jokin now The clock’s run out, time’s up over, bloah! Snap back to reality, Oh there goes gravity Oh, there goes Rabbit, he choked He’s so mad, but he won’t give up that easyIs he? No He won’t have it , he knows his whole back city’s ropes It don’t matter, he’s dope He knows that, but he’s broke He’s so stacked that he knows When he goes back to his mobile home, that’s when it’s Back to the lab again yo This whole rap shit He better go capture this moment and hope it don’t pass him
Chorus X2
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo
The soul’s escaping, through this hole that it’s gaping This world is mine for the taking Make me king, as we move toward a, new world order A normal life is borin, but superstardom’s close to post mortar It only grows harder, only grows hotter He blows its all over, these hoes is all on him Coast to coast shows, he’s know as the globetrotter Lonely roads, God only knows He’s grown farther from home, he’s no father He goes home and barely knows his own daughter But hold your nose cuz here goes the cold waterThese ho's don’t want him no mo, he’s cold productThey moved on to the next schmoe who flows He nose dove and sold nada So the soap opera is told and unfolds I suppose it’s old potna, but the beat goes on Da da dum da dum da da
Chorus X2
No more games, I’ma change what you call rage Tear this mothaf***in roof off like 2 dogs caged I was playin in the beginnin, the mood all changed I been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage But I kept rhymin and stepwritin the next cypher Best believe somebody’s payin the pied piper All the pain inside amplified by the fact That I can’t get by with my 9 to 5 And I can’t provide the right type of life for my family Cuz man, these goddam food stamps don’t buy diapers And it’s no movie, there’s no Mekhi Phifer, this is my life And these times are so hard and it’s getting even harder Tryin to feed and water my seed, plusTeeter totter, caught up between bein a father and a prima donna Baby mama drama’s screamin on and Too much for me to wanna Stay in one spot, another day of monotomyHas gotten me to the point, I’m like a snail I’ve got to formulate a plot fore I end up in jail or shot Success is my only mothaf***in option, failure’s not Mom, I love you, but this trailer has got to go I cannot grow old in Salem’s lot So here I go is my shot. Feet fail me not cuz maybe the only opportunity that I got
Chorus X2
You can do anything you set your mind to, man

My Father Was Right

'Do wind sprints', he advised one day a few summers ago as I was telling him about my then goal to run a certain time for the NYC marathon. My father was an 800 meter runner in Brooklyn in the '50s, and has told me that there was a back page Daily News photo of him beating two guys named Lipschitz and Rosenblatt (who knew there were so many good Jewish runners?) My father is very intelligent and competitive, making him a ruthless Trivial Pursuit opponent. And though I believe he was a fast sprinter five decades ago, I didn't really think his training advise was going to benefit a marathoner. Physiologically, the most important system for a long distance runner to develop is their aerobic capacity. Sprints were anaerobic. The very idea of running a faster than mile pace sprint made my already tired leg muscles spasm. So I continued following the training plan I carved out for myself, ran personal records in the 10k, 1/2 marathon, and did pretty well for my first marathon. But I still had not broken 20 minutes for the 5k. That's something I've been trying to do for the past eight years. A 6:26 pace for 3.1 miles. I came within 30 seconds of it in 2001, and in 2005 within 32 seconds. There's a delicate balance between fanaticism and passion that you have to juggle to keep these goals alive and exciting. My method has been a tactical one of stark patience and determination, combined with some extremely challenging workouts. I believe I am on the path to breaking 20 minutes, and each year of training I'm slightly closer. I've incorporated all the major types of training needed to reach my goal- working on both my aerobic and anaerobic systems, keeping a long run in my weekly workouts, eating a balanced diet, etc. This week I found an article in Running Times magazine about leg speed by Greg McMillan. He said that by doing short intervals of 90% of your top speed with a long enough recovery to clear any lactic acid from your muscles, you will, quite simply, get faster. After reading the article, and the science behind the reasoning, I felt confident that this workout was going to be the possible missing link to my training. I went out the next day to execute my first leg speed workout. Three mile warm up, then 10 x 20-second intervals at nearly all-out sprint pace. Short enough to not fatigue my legs, and therefore maintain form and get muscle memory for fast leg turnover. A 20-second interval feels a little like a joke to me. Just the other day I had struggled with my one mile repeats, hating every labored step of the last three minutes. This appetizer was over before the waiter came back to ask if I'd enjoyed it. And yes, I had. To me, running at a slow pace is healthful, a good habit, sociable- but not beautiful. Running fast is a thing of great beauty. By the time I was done with my final interval, I couldn't believe I'd already knocked off six miles. I had planned on running an additional four miles to bring my days' mileage up to ten. My breathing felt even and smooth as I went through the first of the four miles. My normal running pace when I'm not doing a special workout is around 9 minutes per mile. I glanced at my watch to check what pace I had done that mile in. 7:52! How was that possible? Now, I've run enough years to know that it takes a few weeks at least to witness the training effects of a new workout. But this was astonishing! How could I have run that mile in under an 8 minute pace without my breathing changing? The next three miles were the same result, all under 8. So maybe it was a fluke (there are none in running; you get exactly what you put into it).
I have a good feeling about this year.