The 'Other' Inbox

Years ago, when I was the kind of person who would pick up and move to Colorado with my beau of one month- in part, to benefit from altitude training, but mostly to give everyone something vaguely novel to talk about- I started appreciating how quotable kids are. My beau’s five year old was telling me that her birthday was January 6. Of course, I responded, ‘Oh, you’re a Capricorn.’ She said defiantly, ‘No I’m not, I’m a Catholic.’ Not long ago, while wasting time on Facebook I thought of that line, and like a good aunt, wanted to share it with the woman Shay had become. I found her instantly, and sent a message sharing the anecdote. I never heard back, and after several moments of believing everything we do in life is a complete waste of time, I forgot the incident altogether. Fast forward to a few weeks ago: Cupid’s bow found me and directed me to put all of my efforts into arranging a match for my friend Naomi. This task was made infinitely more challenging by the demographic of her pool of potential suitors. Single people from New York City have zero tolerance for – anything, really. So something as innocuous as displaying a vulnerable smile on a first date can be an instant deal-breaker. I felt ready for the challenge. Hadn’t I already conquered more treacherous waters? Had I not soldiered through completing sixty four reading assessments for our entire second grade class at my school the previous month? I can now recite ‘Edwin’s Haircut’ and ‘All About Koalas’ in my sleep; Ms. Jackson named me the ‘Running Records Queen’ after seeing me assessing in the hallway outside her classroom for two weeks straight. ‘A Shidduch for Naomi’; It could end up a new Fountas and Pinnell leveled reading title – help even out the cultural chasm in public school literacy. OK, so I plunge into my new assignment, and start to mine my pool of eligibles. It’s quite small, and sadly includes some men that are not in fact bonafide acquaintances- but no matter- I think intuition plays a big role in this art anyway (I’m hoping for Naomi’s sake that this is true.) So bachelor #1 takes a little convincing that Naomi a) Exists b) Has most of her teeth c)Can navigate the subway system without the assistance of a map. In other words, he wouldn’t agree to consideration of the match until offered the prerequisite Facebook link. So I complied, and didn’t blame him one bit for this seemingly superficial allowance. I think people instinctively feel suspicious of motives and/or quality of subjects in these types of situations. But Bachelor #1 seemed pleased with my offering, and bit the bullet and sent a message via Facebook to Naomi. But she never got it. And Bachelor #1 was very sensitive, and felt Naomi snubbed him since too much time had passed without him receiving a response from her. So he thanked me, and went about his merry way. And Naomi was puzzled, since she never received a message from Bachelor #1. And Naomi is a Virgo, and will toil until her fingers fall off to get to the bottom of an unsolved email mystery. And that is how she discovered the inconspicuous link in her Facebook inbox to a special group of overlooked emails marked ‘other’; which roughly translates to email from people who are not official members of Facebook. And, voilà ! Mystery solved, there was Bachelor #1’s message, right next to Bacheleor #2’s, and fifteen junk email messages that would have little affect on her future happiness. For you eternal romantics out there, stay tuned for the ending of that story- for those still wanting to know what happened with the Capricorn Catholic- I excitedly (after much tutoring from a now savvy Naomi) found my own Facebook ‘other’ box- and found a very odd assortment of 18 potentially life-changing messages, which had been awaiting my reply for up to two years. I will share one: a German foreign-exchange student from my junior year in high school wanted to know if I remembered her. I vaguely remembered a pleasant if fleeting friendship in which two teenage girls shared a common angst during walks by the millstream in Woodstock, trying to work through the bad behavior of the grown-ups associated with them. One day she revealed that her adopted American mother was very critical of her, and made mean personal comments about her. I quietly listened, feeling very empathetic. She then shared that her mother was just crazy, and she had things to say about me as well. Alarmed, I asked cautiously what she had said. My friend told me her mother was driving one day and saw me walking to town talking to myself. In my defense, I performed in a lot of community theatre in those days, so could easily have been rehearsing my lines. But knowing me, I was too self-conscious to risk a passing yenta mistaking me for a person who talked to themselves; so I was more likely singing to myself, but doing it discreetly so that no outsiders would pass judgment. Those critics! Those critics!! May they all be banished to the other box and left unanswered and unheard. I do like the idea of the ‘other’ box though. An alternate destiny in---The Twilight Zone.

Street Friends

I have been living in the same neighborhood in New York City since moving here nearly five years ago from the country. There's a special arrangement urban dwellers are accustomed to following with regards to greeting street acquaintances. Those are the neighborhood locals whose paths you will cross at least once a day- the balding short guy from the liquor store, who always has a hearty smile as he stacks up cardboard boxes on the side of the store to be recycled. He and I smile at each other in passing if the mood strikes. There are no hard feelings if one of us isn't in the mood to exchange acknowledgment of the other's existence. There's Jimmy the block guard, who is always in uniform, and always insistent on greeting every human who walks down our block with a bellowing announcement to the neighborhood that you have arrived home. This used to really irk me- I have prided myself on my hard-earned annonymity, and one greeting from Jimmy would set me back months of secret re-entries into my apartment building. Rather than explain my disdain for the boisterous greetings, I simply nod and smile silently in response to him. This preserves the mystery of my identity from would-be serial killers. Better to be prepared, as you never get a second chance to escape insanity. As you can see, I may well have missed mine. Back to the street friends- there are two guys that live next door. One is very small and has an overall grey appearance- his face is kind, and he looks like he walked off of the set of Oliver Twist. I smiled at him once in the beginning, and he smiled back very broadly and genuinely. He and I always smile to each other now in passing, and that is the rule. The other guy that lives in his building has a very shifty look to him. Slicked-back dark brown hair, a pinched nose, and watery brown eyes. He's skinny and always wears dress pants. He smokes nervously. We rarely make eye contact, and if we accidently catch each other's glance, we quickly pretend it was a mistake. When I first met Claudio, I taught him how to play Botticelli. We didn't know that many people in common, so it was a little bit of a challenge. He had me guess his person first, and when I failed to guess who he chose, he told me, 'The Snitch'. I knew immediately he was referring to this same watery-eyed neighbor I just described. If the snitch were an animal, he would be a rat. I'll never forget dragging my 50 pound air conditioner down a flight of stairs and out my two front doors to get rid of it. A small group of men watched from across the street as I struggled to bring it down the last few outdoor steps, simultaneously striving to protect it and my back from permanent damage. As soon as I turned to go back in the building, the snitch was rushing across the street to examine and later carry the unit back into his own lair. I wanted someone to get use out of it, but not him. He was not my street friend. But the street person I have greeted and conversed with more than anyone over the years doesn't have a nickname. He's just the Cuban guy that sits on the corner. He has a little folding chair, and has spent hundreds of days sitting on it right outside the liquor store. Sometimes he has a few friends holding vigil with him. These are older gentleman, wearing derby hats and brightly colored dress shirts. I always want to greet them too, but they're not my official street friends, so we usually don't speak. So basically, there are two members in this elite club. Today on my return from a run in Central Park, I see the snitch. He is standing in front of his building, with his back to me. I know he will turn around, and we will have that awkward moment which is no longer awkward of avoiding each other. I feel an uncharacteristic sympathy towards him today. I wonder if he cares that I don't ever say hello to him. It must have dawned on him how unfair it is, particularly when he is walking with his Oliver Twist friend, and I greet the latter, but not him. As I arrive at my building, I look him in the eyes and give a small smile and a little wave and say 'Hi', as though we have been greeting each other this way since the beginning. He does the same. I hope we don't have to do this again tomorrow.

Doug Ruhe, We Love You

Doug Ruhe has been a great family friend for over twenty years. I was lucky enough to get to hang out with him a few times before I moved to the city. Some of my fondest memories of him took place in unusual environments- watching amateur boxing matches in shifty Bronx neighborhoods; attending narcotics annonymous meetings in Newburgh (neither Doug nor I are drug users; somehow, we just related to these groups); singing Christmas carols with the Bruderhofers in Chester; and one great day of canoeing on the Hudson River. Doug's huge heart and laugh always made me smile, and I really enjoyed hearing his long stories. This post was written in 2007, with lots of love for this great man's spirit. Doug passed away this week unexpectedly.

The inevitable high anxiety brought on by Thanksgiving Day preparations was not lessened in the slightest by having it at Doug's house. If anything, it made things worse. At least when Thanksgiving was at Dakota’s, they had the luxury of being able to blame each other for their individual anxiety, as families predictably do, and then carry on happily over-eating. Noa felt to have it at Doug's meant her holiday stress would be transferred directly onto his shoulders, but the guilt for putting it there would bring it right back to her, defeating the whole purpose. Dakota called Noa at 7 pm the night before to express her concerns about the pending doom. She had just quit smoking four days earlier and couldn’t stop thinking about cigarettes. There would be smokers at Doug's house and they would be free to wander about the house smoking, tempting her off the wagon. Also, Doug had never made a turkey in his life; there was no mention of stuffing or gravy or any of those essential accompaniments that make it a Thanksgiving meal. Who eats turkey without gravy? While she continued down the list of reasons why this was going to be a horrible evening, Noa tried to monitor her own now rising anxiety level. Suddenly she couldn't hold back either, and burst forth with her own personal gripe with the host. Noa had invited Gilbert to join them. Doug had told her that some of his Kenyan friends would be coming, and Noa knew that Gilbert had been feeling particularly homesick that week, and she cheered him up with the news of the other Kenyan guests. After speaking with Doug a second time, the truth came out that these African friends were not Kenyan at all; in fact, they were not even from East Africa. How could she disappoint Gilbert with fake Kenyans? Not to mention how racist it made Noa appear- just another ignorant American, thinking all Africans speak the same language. The wrath of the sisters was all over Doug. They concluded that they were not in the proper Thanksgiving frame of mind, and that they needed to just let everyone bring to the table what he was capable of and to stop trying to control everyone else. Noa hung up the phone feeling emotionally drained. The next day, try as she might, she couldn't maintain the calm she had wanted. She spent the whole day preparing her signature dishes and then getting dressed up for the special day, right up until the last minute. She loaded up her car with the goods, and as she put on her seatbelt, realized she was now physically exhausted. Roasted root vegetables still hot from the oven gave her car a homey smell, but her nerves could not belie the frazzled soul inside. She put in her Rokia Traoré CD, hoping to regain her sense of peace. She arrived at the Barnes and Noble parking lot and saw Gilbert patiently waiting for her inside his green Hyundai. He looked like a person who never lost his inner peace. His voice made her instantly relax. He had that soft Bantu accent that reminded her of a more peaceful life where no one lived in the confines of the hour. He got into her car, and off they drove. They were running late. She passed the street she thought she was supposed to turn on to. Gilbert said he does that all the time. When they arrived at the house, the sky was starting to darken, but the neon orange and gold leaves outside framed the house. They walked in with the dishes and placed them on the kitchen counter tops. Dakota smiled and said, “Nothing is ready.” Noa smiled back and wished someone had brought a bottle of wine. Noa stepped into the living room and sat down on the couch. She greeted Meg, Doug’s mother, who was wearing a sparkly red sweater. Hailey and her boyfriend Arturo were there. Noa was happy to see her niece with her beau, especially after the disappointment of him not showing up last year for the holiday. Meg asked Noa for the third time who she was. At 91, the recent details escaped her. Noa wandered into the kitchen, and found a stylish Shamsi, Doug’s daughter, checking on the temperature of a large pan of stuffing. The women hugged each other in greeting. Noa admired Shamsi’s striped knit arm-sleeves and commented. Shamsi ran out and got a pair for Noa. Not wanting to get stuck in the kitchen, Noa brought apple juice for the living room people. The only one talking was Meg, who seemed to have a bottomless pit of questions. “Are you married?” The question hung in the otherwise quiet room. “No,” Noa laughed. Doug arrived home and dinner was ready shortly after. Though most of the guests were practicing Baha’is, the eating had begun without the usual thanks. Another Dakota ritual fell by the wayside. About ten years ago, when her children were little, Dakota started the tradition of having all the guests share a few words with everyone of what they were thankful for. Noa was sure it was inspired by her desire to get Noa's extremely shy date to open up about his intentions towards her. The poor guy's face turned deep red as he softly claimed thanks for having been invited. The following year, Noa suspected once again Dakota was using this flimsy guise to get her own closed-mouthed boyfriend Tom to express a little public appreciation for her. This time it backfired. The group that year was standing in a circle awkwardly obeying the Thanksgiving rights. It was finally Tom’s turn. Dakota was beaming at him expectantly. He said, 'I just want to say that I am so thankful for my beautiful, wonderful son Ezra.' Noa and Dakota had to excuse themselves to the kitchen to relieve the hysteria. Maybe it was time to break with tradition for a while. So on this day, there were no speeches, no thank-yous, just a big group of people that Doug had collected to share a delicious meal. Doug turned to Gilbert: “We had a Kenyan named Hezekiah Nyamau stay with us in the 1970's.” Noa turned to her friend and asked jokingly, “Do you know him?” Arturo laughed. She liked sharp men, and thought he was well suited for her niece. Conversations splintered around the table. Noa heard her sister asking Gilbert about his background. “So your father is a king?” She heard her say. “Yes,” he answered earnestly. “And how many children did he have?” “Eighteen,” was the next sober answer. When dinner was finished everyone helped clear the table. Doug sat down in the kitchen and started handing out slices of pie he had cut. He then singled Gilbert out with a finger point and beckoned him to sit down and talk to him. Doug doesn't hold conversations, he holds audiences. He's got a million stories derived from his colorful life, ranging in topic from being a Vietnam vet, to hitchhiking across the states. Noa and Dakota looked at each other and raised their eyebrows in concern for young Gilbert. Doug's voice grew louder and louder as his story continued, and Gilbert could be seen from the back nodding periodically. After a while, Doug received a phone call, and Gilbert was free to walk about once again. It was getting late, and Noa started packing food to take back with her. She asked Gilbert if he'd like anything else to eat, and he indicated with facial expression that he was so too full to eat another bite. Then several more people who hadn't heard his rejection offered him the same plate of seconds. He declined politely. Doug came busting back into the kitchen, patted Gilbert's shoulder and said, “Come in the living room, I have another story I want to tell you.” “OK, I'll be right there.” Noa was cutting a piece of pie for Hailey to take back with her. Gilbert handed her a paper plate and said, “I need a piece too, Doug is going to tell me another story.” Hailey and Noa were doubled over in laughter as poor Gilbert made his way into the Doug Show with his apple pie prop. Then Dakota came into the kitchen. She told Noa that she didn't know that Gilbert had come from royalty. Noa told her that he hadn't. “Then why did he tell me that?” The other girl didn't have an answer. Dakota went on to say, “And he told me he has 18 brothers and sisters altogether.” “Gilbert is an orphan,” Noa announced straight-faced. “So he's a liar?” Dakota was confused. “No, he's not a liar. He was probably playing with you.” Dakota looked over at the display of Doug flailing his arms excitedly as he went into detail about the riots during the civil rights movement to a still Gilbert. “I should rescue him,” Noa said. “Well, you can tell him later that this is the punishment we inflict on liars-we have them sit and listen to Doug's stories for hours.” Noa was curious about her friend's behavior, but she was sure there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. They said their good-byes and quickly left before a new story could spring out. When she dropped her friend at his car, she commented on the interesting stories he had told her sister. He looked down and laughed softly. “What stories?” he asked, his face now completely serious. “Your father is a king?” she said. He laughed again, and then explained that when people ask him those kinds of questions, he has to test the royal family story, as it's common for Americans to think that all Africans come from royalty and have large families. He said he didn't mean to lie to her; it's just that he's experienced people's moods changing when he tells them his real story, and he didn't want to change the Thanksgiving mood. Then he gathered his courage and asked the question he'd wanted to ask but couldn't find the right time. “When that old lady asked you if you were married, and you answered that you were not, I felt a pain in my heart for you. I hope you don't mind that I'm asking you this. But why don't you wish to be married?” Noa started explaining how she was really happy alone, and she had had her share of boyfriends in the past, but really, men were just annoying. She believed what she was saying, but also thought the words sounded very sad and somehow didn't ring completely true. Then she thought of the words of that song by Traoré that she had listened to on her drive to Doug's house: M'bifo It is true that strength is in unity Thank you my love For being at my side no matter what Only a distant memory remains Of my solitude and my fears Now I am strong through your support Your presence makes me radiant. I still remember my sadness When I observed couples Crushed by the weight of their bond. Men and women for whom Union becomes a yoke "Solitude would be a guarantee of a more agreeable life." I told myself I would not have to deal with the sweet bitterness Which pervades couples with the passage of time This way I would only enjoy love affairs. Never bitter unions These sad thoughts are far behind me At your side, I have transcended all that. When things go badly. We have each other. And we should tell each other When we are happy Thank you my love, thank you my dearest. I brought you an empty receptacle from the period of my solitude. You filled it with love, you have filled me with happiness.

Tea Party - 茶话会 (Cháhuàhuì)

“A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwards.” ― A.A. Milne

I am sitting in my Monday class on Managing the Environment to Support Young Children's Learning. We have a guest speaker who is enthusiastically showing a slide show of pictures from her center. I look at my watch, and calculate that if I leave class in fifteen minutes, I will be able to make it to Pearl River Mart to pick out a nice tea set for the next day's party before the store closes at 7:20. I hate missing class, but my compulsion to buy this tea set at Pearl River Mart takes precedence over my desire for perfect attendance. Confident in my choice, I quietly pack my books and leave the classroom with as little fanfare as possible. Down in the basement of Pearl River Mart, it is easy to become completely distracted by their enticing knickknacks and odd merchandise. I find a painted metal toy with four hens that peck feed when you twist the base of it. My search for my mother's birthday gift is over. I have seventeen more minutes to pick out a tea set for eighteen. There are several inexpensive pre-packaged sets with a teapot and four little cups. I want saucers as well, and realize that I need to find individual wares. On the other side of the packaged sets are a huge selection of painted cups and saucers, reminiscent of teacups used in Chinese restaurants. Some have dragons painted on them; some are jade colored with Mandarin letters. I quickly choose three different styles of six, and then rush around searching for the respective matching saucers. With my remaining six minutes, I quickly decide on just purchasing one teapot. I realize I need to ignore my budget for this spree- I can't leave the store without the goods. As an afterthought, I bring my now very heavy basket next to the cash register, and run over to the food section so I can pick out a box of tea. I need something fragrant and different from the Pu Er tea I have at home, which I will use for the children as well. I find a box of 100 Jasmine Green tea bags for $3.99, and grab it. In front of the cash register, at 7:15 P.M., a man rings up my numerous items, and a woman wraps stacks of the saucers in local newspapers. They are talking very loudly and agitatedly in Cantonese. I apologise in English for bringing so many items up five minutes before they close. The woman says it's fine, as she continues yelling at the man. It looks like no one has bought these particular cups and saucers in a while. The next day in Ms. B.'s prekindergarten class, I come in quietly and set my large yellow canvas Pearl River Mart bag down next to the sink. As I unwrap the little cups and saucers, the children watch me from the rug. Ms. B. is talking about a special surprise that Ms. Tamar has for them today. I say good morning, and ask the children if they know what we are going to be doing? Kelly, who has a great imagination, says, 'We're going to have a tea party!' I ask her how she knows this, and she points to the bag and says, 'Cause you bought the stuff at the store!' I felt very proud of the children for being the curious, eager little souls that they were, and couldn't imagine a group more deserving of its own tea party. As I rinse out the little cups and saucers in the sink, the assistant Ms. D. tries to take off the price stickers. I am struck by what great team work this class has- an atmosphere of helping one another and working together always permeates the environment. I didn't need to ask her to help me, she simply saw that I needed help, and there she was. It reminded me of the studies I'd read on collectivist cultures. I made my way over to the children who were waiting for me on the rug. As I sat down in front of them, Ms. B. walked over to help Ms. D. arrange the tables in one long rectangle. They found my assortment of table cloths I'd brought from home and covered the tables with them. To my amazement, this all seemed to happen automatically- how did they know I had brought table cloths? I greeted the children, and reiterated to them that we were going to have a tea party today. Jackie, a tiny girl with a head full of cornrows and barrettes couldn't contain her excitement. In a surprisingly loud voice, she says, 'Because we never had a tea party before!' I smiled at her, and considered this. I asked the group, 'Have any of you ever had a tea party before?' Some of the girls said they had with their dolls. One girl said she had a tea party with a friend. I brought an actual tea bag out, and walked them through the steps of making a cup of tea. They focused as though watching a dog giving birth. Their comments revealed that for some children, tea was a part of their daily lives; but for most it seemed, this may have been their first exposure to the concept. I then opened the little tea bag and poured the contents into a white plastic dish and passed it around to illicit some feedback from the children on the sensory components of the plant. Some of their descriptors included dirt, seeds, raspberries and soil. This was pretty impressive for urban four year olds, who are likely not coming into contact with any of those things on a regular basis. After the lesson, we gathered the children around the table. Each one had a little teacup and saucer sitting in front of him, and a few animal crackers on a napkin. Each child took a turn pouring himself tea from the pot, and then passing it to his neighbor. One child noticing that his saucer was pink and his cup was jade, said to me, 'Excuse me, mine's don't match my tray.' Another little girl asked me if she could dip her cookie in the tea. A different boy, noticing that his friend was shifting the table cloth, told me: 'He's moving the blanket.' One very quiet boy was leaning back drinking his tea with his pinky raised in the air. He looked like a cup of tea was part of his morning ritual. At an age where routines, rules, and rituals are such crucial elements in teaching about classroom community, maybe tea parties should have more of a presence in the early childhood curriculum.

Happy Valentine's Day

"Without You"


I'll grow when you grow
Let me loosen up the blindfold
I'll fly when you cry
Lift us out of this landslide
Wherever you go
Whenever we part

I'll keep on healing all the scars
That we've collected from the start
I'd rather this than live without you
For every wish upon a star
That goes unanswered in the dark
There is a dream, I've dreamt about you

And from afar, I lie awake
Close my eyes to find I wouldn't be the same

I'll shine when you shine
Painted pictures on my mind
Sun sets on this ocean
Never once on my devotion
However you are
Or far that you're far

I'll keep on healing all the scars
That we've collected from the start
I'd rather this than live without you
For every wish upon a star
That goes unanswered in the dark
There is a dream, I've dreamt about you

And from afar, I lie awake
Close my eyes to find I'd never be the same
Without you, without you?

Please Keep Your Feet to Yourself

Half asleep, I shuffled onto the uptown 1 train to head home. The crowds of people with their holiday shopping bags took me by surprise. Was it that time of the year again? As the doors opened to let passengers off at the next stop, a seat near the door became available. In anticipation of a good nap, I quickly claimed it. Instantly I felt all of my muscles relax upon sitting down. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and thought about how odd it was that I could take a nap in the midst of total strangers who were looming over me. The train stopped and the doors opened again to let on the next crowd. A short attractive woman holding a toddler walked on. She looked a lot like one of my professors who was from India. I stood up and leaned towards her. 'Would you like to sit down?' She nodded as if it was the only civilized thing I could have asked her, and thanked me politely. She was well-dressed, and cooing to her child softly. The angular mousy-blonde woman sitting next to her was intently reading her book, arms stiffly guarding her space. Someone stepped in front of me and obscured a clear view of the action to come. I heard the toddler vocalizing excitedly. I saw blondie protecting her space. 'Your child is kicking me', she said in a controlled voice. I saw her long arms exert halting little movements towards the Indian woman, which I imagined were attempts at corraling the child's unweildy legs back into his mother's lap. 'He's only a child, he can't help himself', I heard the mother defend. Her face was clearly visible to me, and she held a broad, confident smile that was turning into condescension. Blondie continued guarding her territory.'His legs are kicking me, keep them under control.' The mother responded instantly with the same crinkly-eyed smile, 'Oh, you obviously will never be a mother, or never a good mother, anyway, that's for sure.' The mother started laughing, and before Blondie could respond, a heavy woman on her other side offered to switch seats with her. The new arrangement was quickly implemented. The mother suddenly burst into tears. A seat opened up on her other side and a man was walking towards her with a look of concern. He sat down next to her and asked her what had happened. She answered in between quiet, heaving sobs, 'I was so upset, I said something I wouldn't normally say. Why was she so mean?' They talked in hushed tones as the toddler calmed down and stopped kicking. I didn't feel sorry for the mother, though she was clearly vulnerable and full of self-doubt. I felt sorry for the crazy book reader. People were now glaring at her and whispering about how horrible it was to treat an innocent baby like that. Some were even doing double takes to record her image, lest she be caught in future tussles with babies on subways. Had this incident taken place in the car adjacent to this one, she may have been supported by like-minded adults in favor of preserving kick-free seating zones. There probably is something wrong with me, I thought as I reflected on my utter fascination with scenarios that involved very uncomfortable verbal conflicts among strangers. Calm was restored, as the mother and her male counterpart now spoke in voices which were inaudible. If the emotions of the incident were still on their tongues, it was impossible to detect from their facial expressions. They could well have been discussing what silverware to use for their Sunday brunch in the Hamptons. Blondie got up at the next stop, and with little fanfare, exited the train. No parting advise on how to raise children with urban sensibilities. Another day on the 1 train, and no one lost an eye.

To all the innocent ones

My friend in Saltash, a small town about a four hour train ride from Heathrow airport, sent me a quick message on Facebook last month. She mentioned that she'd like to come visit when the Freedom Tower is built. We receive so many bits of information online in such a short period of time, in comparison to BC (before computers), that our filtering system has become very efficient at responding mentally to specific data and filing it as necessary. My gut response to her statement was to feel slightly foolish at not being as interested in 911-related news as Cornish friends half a world away. It's not that I was so physically removed from the site, living five miles north of it. Every week for the past three years, I have taken the number 1 train to Rector street to tutor my young student. Every time I crossed the West side Highway I would see the construction of this tower. My focus on arriving on time for my weekly appointment and crossing the highway invariably took precedence over reflecting on 911. And then one day, waiting for the light to turn green and wondering if the crossing guards took their jobs home with them, I looked up and saw a glittering piece of architecture that seemed to have materialized from nowhere. It caught my full attention, and it dawned on me that this was what everyone was talking about. The foolish feeling returned, accompanied by a sense of awe at the power commanded by a giant structure. This Friday morning, two days before the tenth anniversary of 911, I am sitting in front of my new class of children. The school is in a community center in the Bronx. There are twenty four-year-olds sitting in front of me on the rug, waiting to hear 'The Man Who Walked Between the Towers'. I checked first with my director for approval to read this book. She requested that I not go into any detail about the disappearance of the towers at the end of the book. As a person highly committed to honesty, this posed a slight problem. I had planned on answering any question that came up in a way that children could understand and use in their struggles with conflict resolution. (Sometimes people don't agree on things, and sometimes they forget to use their words when they become angry). My director was firm on her stance, explaining that some parents might become irate over such exposure to 911 events to their children. Having experienced the wrath of an angry mother on two occasions, I quickly accepted the argument and began my reading. The children were focused. Jason, who was sitting in the front, saw Philippe Petit juggling in the park wearing his street performer outfit. 'He looks like Michael Jackson!' When I read the part about Petit contemplating sneaking up to the rooftop against the instructions of the police officers, I said, 'He knew he wasn't supposed to be up there, but he wanted to walk across the wire so badly, he couldn't help himself. So he snuck up there.' My assistant Ms. Shandra walked over to set the tables for breakfast and said under her breath, 'Hmmm. They know a lot about doing things they're not supposed to.' When I got to the page where the towers were missing, I asked the children where they were. 'They broke', Jason said. 'How?' I asked. He shrugged. He tried again. 'They disappeared!' 'Yes' I said, 'But how?' He waved his hand like a magician making something disappear, then clapped his hands with the flourish of a seasoned performer and smiled up at me. I smiled back at him. At that moment, I agreed with my director. Let's hold on to our innocence a little longer.

Asian Persuasion

My friend AeRhee and I had just finished watching a Brazilian documentary at MOMA. This was the type of film that would fall into the category of 'films about quotidian routines that are not designed to promote tourism'. For some reason, we both decided to wait it out to the bitter end. The rough premise was to highlight twenty little known villages in Brazil with short vignettes of their local inhabitants. Upon leaving the theatre and marching out into the steamy evening air, we got into a discussion about how we express our dissatisfaction with others. In my usual self-deprecating manner, I confessed that I was noticing my occasional tendency towards passive-aggressive responses to strangers' unintended slights. I gave AeRhee an example from the night I went to see Pink Martini live at Summer Stage in Central Park. I was standing not far from the stage with an audience of a thousand or so people, and was dancing a little to 'Lilly', one of their catchiest songs. Suddenly, a young woman arrived with a large tote bag which she tossed in front of her, and then planted her body two inches from my nose. My Cha Cha moves ceased, as I looked down on this spectacle of space invasion. As the red in my cheeks started deepening, I tried to think of a tactful way of asking this person not to insert her hair in my mouth. My friend had no trouble coming up with a solution. 'I would have said, 'Excuse me, can you please move forward a little, I don't have enough room here.' I looked at my friend and smiled. Yes, that would have been the normal thing to say. I told her that culture plays a role in our responses, as I recalled learning about Asian cultures having a very direct way of communicating. AeRhee, who is Korean-American, agreed with me. As we quickened our pace down 58Th street, we arrived at a bar my friend wanted to go into. It had an East side look to it that I wasn't used to. Men were wearing business suits or collared shirts, and the women were in cocktail dresses. I was wearing an outfit more appropriate for hiking a mountain. AeRhee and her direct communication skills miraculously got us two bar stools as we slid through the crowd of suits. I ordered a Czech draft beer. It was cold and crisp, but it lacked a pulse. It put me in a bad mood. I like my friendly Belgian ales. Being heard involved screaming, so our conversation was limited to lots of nodding. Through the sea of conversations one voice succeeded in getting its message across. A clearly inebriated man wearing a pink sports shirt repeated the same phrase several times as he looked over in our direction. 'My friend just got back from serving two terms in Iraq'. AeRhee responded by taking out her cell phone to show me pictures of the pianist she had become friends with. As she scrolled through the images of a pensive looking man in a tuxedo with long flowing hair, the war veteran made his way up to the bar. He too was drunk. He leaned over and touched an image of the pianist sitting in AeRhee's convertible. 'He's a good-looking guy', the vet slurred. AeRhee and I looked at him momentarily, and then went back to the pictures. I felt bad for the vet. I turned to him and said, 'Welcome home'. He thought I was offering an invitation. He must have had a lot of those Czech beers. As I glanced at a picture of the pianist standing in the woods, the vet stuck his finger under my arm. What was he doing? The gesture was unacceptable for many reasons, not the least of which being that I had been sweating all day from the record-breaking temperatures. What to do? With all my Asian moxy I turned to him and in a clear, direct voice announced, 'Don't ever touch me again. I don't like being touched by strangers.' This huge, drunken man who had previously worn a mask of arrogance, suddenly woke up from his stupor. His features slackened in a moment of defeat, and gazing at the floor, he apologised. Though thrilled with this new found directness, I still didn't trust it's power to permanently block future space-invading attempts. I picked up my stool and moved it closer to AeRhee. I was on the right path. I looked forward to a future of directness accompanied by better beer.

The Me Generation

Being a CUNY student, I have unlimited free access to all films showing at the MOMA. Being unemployed, I take advantage of this quite often. MOMA supports film makers from all different stages of their careers- some of the best of the lot, like last night's 'Das Lied in mir' directed by Florian Micoud Cossen, was a final film school project. Unfortunately, the previous eight films I watched there left me wondering if my taste in film was no longer in sync with my budget. Two weekends in a row I viewed international documentaries that sounded very promising- the first, told from the protagonist's perspective, about a woman in South America sold as a child to work as a servant for a middle class family. The first hour of the film featured no dialogue, no music- just straight footage of this woman as an aging servant, toiling through her chores. The camera followed her as she pruned the plum trees, watered the plants, chopped wood. An hour. One hour. I had to stop asking my friend Mel to join me for these viewings, as she no longer trusted any film I showed interest in. So I invited Mike, who hadn't seen me for much of my 'MOMA film marathon' period, so was unaware of potential pitfalls with my film selections. The very long line snaking around the entrance door to the downstairs theatre was a good sign. We found some empty seats, and started settling in. I looked behind me, and realized that the very short man in back of me would never be able to see over my head, so I asked Mike to move down a seat, and I followed. We put our coats and bags on the now empty seat on my left. Within seconds, the elderly lady sitting on the other side of the seat said in a very audible voice, (something all little old ladies seem to possess), 'Don't you think it's rude to put your belongings on one of the seats when the theatre is so crowded?' I looked around to see if I had missed some movie-goer who was looking for an empty seat. Seeing none, I replied, 'It's not a big deal, if someone wants this seat, we can simply take our jackets back.' She was intent on forcing the issue. 'But they'll think someone is sitting there if they see your jackets.' Then she turned to her friends before I could come up with a good answer, and said very loudly, 'It's all about them, the 'Me' Generation.. Me, me, me!' All of a sudden I turned into my grandma Blanche, and was fired up and willing to risk being kicked out of the theatre to stand up to this seat Nazi. 'If someone wants to sit here they're welcome to, I don't know why you're getting so angry.' 'You want to see angry, I'll show you angry!' she said in a huff, and then added quickly, 'Well anyway, I want to sit there!' I smiled triumphantly. 'Well why didn't you just say so in the first place, instead of giving me this big lecture?' I took our stuff off the seat, she moved over next to me. I turned to Mike, my heart pumping from the adrenalin- 'Is this funny? It sounds funny to me, but no one is laughing.' Mike is a therapist by day, and has a penchant for keeping the peace. Since granny was still muttering about me and my selfish ways, and Mike saw my haunches up, he said jovially, 'Am I going to have to sit between you two?' I was thinking it might be a good idea, but then granny sat quietly with her hands on her lap looking straight ahead. All bark and no bite. I was tempted to give her another piece of my mind, but eh. I have been tested by the best of them- irate phone company customers, out of control three year olds, and revenge-seeking stalkers, to name a few. It's hard to take pride in engaging in warfare with someone half your height, but I must say- it really feels good to tell someone, 'You picked the wrong person to act like a lunatic with. Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up.'

How do I love thee?

I was walking hurriedly down the Sugar Hill side street to get to work. Patches of black ice were glazing the sidewalk, keeping my gaze low. As I looked up, a large man looking like the late Biggie Smalls was approaching me, slowly walking his cuddly dog. It was Riley's father. Riley was a a three year old in my class who was in constant motion, defying any direction that she herself did not initiate. On my second day of work as a substitute teacher at this school, I found her moodily sulking on the floor with her arms crossed across her chest. She turned to me and said, 'I don't love you no more, Ms. Tamar.' It was one of the cutest things anyone had ever said to me. At least coming from her, it was. I wasn't even aware that she knew my name. Seeing her father on the street seemed like a good opportunity to find out more information about his complex little girl. I shared my story with him, and he confided that Riley often says the same thing about him to her brother. 'Jared, I don't love daddy no more.' He shared some more stories about the trials of getting her to sleep before midnight, and how he spends hours reading to her. I didn't have any solutions, but thought it was a good step to building some rapport with a parent. Later that day at work, my assistant teacher asked me to find some Valentine's poem to include with the heart-shaped pictures she had been working on with the kids to send home to their families. I thought gathering some insights from the kids directly and compiling a list of quotes would be a more personal gift for them to bring home. I started an inquiry into the reasons behind their love for their families. Having a mathematical background (yes, completing an undergraduate minor in math qualifies), I couldn't start with the assumption that love existed. The interview consisted of two questions- do you love your family, and if so, why? Kid #1: 'Yes, because they make me rice and chicken.' I liked that logic. Kid #2: 'Yes, because they buy me candy.' OK, a little pedestrian, but if someone were to buy me some Sour Patch kids, I may be inclined to have warm feelings towards them as well. I asked Riley: 'Do you love your family?' She didn't miss a beat: 'Mommy's good and daddy's bad.' Had she been rehearsing? I paused for a second, and thought maybe a second round would illicit something more generous to her poor sleep-deprived father. I repeated the question, and she repeated the answer. Twice. I said OK, and wrote down her words. You can't edit kids' feelings. I thought it was original, heartfelt, funny, and mostly, I thought her father would get a big kick out of seeing it. I compiled all of the quotes into one page of classroom voices, ran it by my assistant teacher who agreed to keep the unedited version, and off the cards went to the homes. That was a Friday. The following Monday, my supervisor came into the classroom and sighed, 'I wish you would have showed me the card you sent home before sending it out. One of the parents was very upset.' I had a feeling that this might happen, but felt confident in the good intentions behind the decision to send the children's quotes home. Apparently, one of the moms thought that Riley's statement was given by HER daughter, and that brought up issues with the estranged father. The issue escalated to a point where the mother lost control and came into my classroom to voice her anger. Unfortunately, I was sick that day, and her wrath was taken out on teachers from another classroom that had no idea what she was talking about. This scenario ran over in my mind many days and nights, and though I am positive that I had the best of intentions by sharing Riley's quote, I have now learned to reign in a bit of my off-center humor. Somberly waiting for the 1 train on my last day of work, Melissa, the mom of another girl in my class came up to me with her daughter. 'Tamar! We're so lucky we get to see you on your last day!' Our train came, and we all boarded together. I asked her if she had heard of the drama that had been going on in my class. She said she had, and after I explained how the children's collective quotes were mistaken by one mom for quotes of her own daughter, Melissa looked sheepishly at me. 'I thought they were Alyssa's quotes too.' I asked her if the quote about mommy and daddy was upsetting to her. She told me that she is not on the best terms with Alyssa's dad, and when she read the quote, she said to herself, 'Yes! She finally sees him for what he really is!' and she has happily displayed the card on their fridge ever since.
I don't know, but for some reason I couldn't get the Pebbles Flintstone song out of my head that week either.

Note: if you want to hear this video, first scroll down to my playlist at the bottom of this page and click the two vertical lines buttom in the middle of the three button volume control to turn off the automatic music

The Mumbling Man

I have known Gogol Bordello would be giving a performance locally for about a month, but kept putting off getting a ticket. Gypsy punk music with Eastern European roots kind of sums up my childhood, so I wanted to go with someone like a sibling- you know, someone who would 'get' the music, and dance along with me until the last set. Having no handy siblings, the tickets sold out, and I was left with the next best option: posting on couch surfing for a like-minded fan. I was happy to find a Gogol Bordello group had already formed and were sharing tips on getting last minute tickets to the concert. Before I knew it, I was waiting inside the Time Warner building for at least one of those fans. Aren was supposed to meet me by a designated escalator entrance. I arrived early, and was struck by the throngs of New Year's day crowds, well dressed out of towners happy to be spending their money. I witnessed several impassioned reunions, and found myself smiling along with the anonymous reunitees. For a moment I felt like I was in an airport. When Aren arrived, we shared ideas on best practices for negotiating with a scalper. Armed with no concrete plan, but an abundance of confidence, we inserted ourselves at the end of the ticket-holder's line. We waited a short while until they had checked our IDs and given us charming paper bracelets to allow us access to alcohol purchase if we so desired (I didn't, thank-you- this was New Year's day and I was still a bit groggy from the previous evening's adventures in Green Point). Security checked our bags for weapons, and sent us inside to enjoy the show. Of course Aren and I were not quite ready for this step, and were instantly turned away without our tickets. Standing in the unlit street was a a big guy with an over sized bomber jacket, telling us to come over to him so we could 'talk'. A security guard opened the velvet rope allowing us to exit. I was assigned the task of talking, since Aren was too dressed up to be considered for the sliding scale rates. I shifted my gaze non-challently, as if I really didn't have any interest in buying these tickets, and asked casually, 'How much?' The scalper countered, 'What were you looking to pay?' 'Twenty dollars.' The scalper grimaced, and in a raised voice, answered, 'Now miss, I know you didn't come to a sold out concert thinking you were going to get a ticket for $20.' I work with three year olds, I wasn't falling for this circular logic. I thanked him, and walked away. I did have a sheepish smile though, as I mimicked the guy's words to Aren. It was pretty funny. So plan b was to tend to nutrition needs first, and avoid the trap of purchasing under desperation. This band has been around and touring for twenty plus years, this wouldn't be their last concert. We got a bite to eat, talked about things couch surfers love to talk about, and tried one more time. Crossing 11th avenue in its notorious darkness, two lurking scalpers remembered our plight. 'Got tickets,' they said as smoothly as a Barry White lyric. How much?' Aren asked. '$80' was the answer. 'No thanks.' We kept walking. One of them called after us, 'You won't find anything cheaper. Go back to the movies.' Every one's a comedian. We did find something cheaper, but still overpriced. I was really tired, and we decided to call it a night. We parted and I headed back uptown for home. I remembered I needed to buy stuff to make playdough, so dragged myself into D'ags. I picked up an appealingly green bunch of broccoli rabe. As I studied it, the sprinklers for the fresh vegetables activated and startled me into jumping. I was too tired to laugh, like I usually do. A song I liked was playing in the store's system, and I started singing softly into my broccoli rabe. I was alone in the produce aisle. I walked around looking for items I needed. Passing the pasta section, an older man who may have been homeless was mumbling as he looked up at some out of reach boxes of pasta. I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or himself, so I kept walking past him. I got around the corner, and thought, 'Wait. Maybe he needs assistance.' I walked back and asked him if he needed some help. He was in his own world, and didn't hear me. I asked him again, this time approaching him from his other side. He turned to me, and had one cloudy eye. He looked around 80, but was probably only 60. His face softened into a smile when he realized I wanted to help him. With a thick island accent, he replied, 'No, I'm fine.' At that moment, I saw a man that seemed to be completely alone in the world. He had taken to talking to himself as the rest of the world had stopped listening. I felt overwhelmed by sadness, and had to leave. As I started the three block walk to my apartment, the sultry dark night swallowed me in its emptiness.

Quinn Will Save the Baby Polar Bear

Quinn is a 3 year old girl at the new school that I just started working in. This job came up unexpectedly as a colleague at school approached me timidly after class asking if I was interested in a temporary teaching position. For the first time in two years, despite long bouts of unemployment-related anxiety, I was very tempted to decline. It was the last week of the semester at grad school, and the pressure was on to perform in presentations, case studies, and a dreaded four hour teacher certification exam. I reluctantly told my friend I would be happy to speak with the school, and the next day after a thorough interview, I met the new set of students. Though the youngest group I had ever worked with at 3 and 4 years old, there was a certain toughness about these tykes that was a little unsettling. Quinn's face in particular remained in my mind hours after I left their classroom. She had a very intent look on her caramel-toned face, with set, slightly knit eyebrows. Her expression seemed to say, 'I'm very angry, and I'm not getting over it.' My first day of working with the children, I noted her combative approach to the slightest resistance or barrier. When skinny little Lizette blocked Quinn's view of the story I was reading, Quinn shoved Lizette with such a force, that the child flipped over some books backwards, and got up with a perplexed expression on her face. I was very relieved that no blood was shed. Quinn showed me the same defiance whenever I challenged her point of view. I started noticing a pattern in fact, that many of the children were not really taking me or my gentle attempts at classroom management very seriously. Ms. Ramos, the assistant teacher, announced that the children were playing with me, and that I needed to control them. This did not bode well with me one bit. But I knew that she was right. How do children know how to do this so adeptly? It was as if they had conferenced during lunchtime, and concluded that they would simultaneously disregard anything I asked them to do, and further, if I was occupied with calming one disruptive child, then another one would instantly engage in his own disruptive behavior. I think this is the moment in the classroom where many adults make the definitive decision that classroom teaching will never be their cup of tea. As much as I dislike being disrespected, I respect that children have reasons for their behavior, and I was determined to overcome this obstacle to get through to the fun part of this job. So the next day, while the same group of preschool hooligans were making a fool of me, I asked Ms. Ramos for some advise. She raised her eyebrows and had a look on her face that said, 'I doubt you will ever learn this trick', and said, "You're the teacher." Undeterred, I asked her how she dealt with this behavior. She smiled and said, 'They don't do that with me.' Then she walked over to them and with a very stern voice picked out the ringleader of bad behavior and said, 'Lizette, do you want me to call your mother?! You listen to Ms. Tamar!' And then I got it. Threaten with calls home. I thanked Ms. Ramos, and felt my teacherliness kick into that higher gear as I persisted with the firm/persistent yet caring role that I had lacked the day before. The rest of the day, the kids were mine. It doesn't matter how interesting or creative your lesson plans are, if you can't control the kids, you can't teach them. I had those kids quivering in their boots (well, not quite- but they were sitting on their spots for once during story time, and all 17 were paying attention). And as I started reading to them Claudia Rueda's 'My Little Polar Bear', and asking them questions like, 'Who is going to take care of the little Polar bear cub if his parent disappears?' tough little Quinn calls out, 'Me!' And so goes another day working with the little cubs in the big city.

Tale of The Tape

Well, I don't give up very easily. In anything. But sometimes, you just have to say, 'It's OK, this isn't exactly what I wanted to do.. not really even very close, but it's OK.' After all, I'm only talking about formatting- how much sleep can a person lose over this? You really don't want to know.

So miraculously, all 33 of the Chilean miners have been rescued. I remember before I registered to run in a four mile race in Van Cortlandt Park, I asked my friend Wendy who was running her very first race- if she and her four relatives that she managed to talk into joining her- if they all wanted to run as a team in support of the miners. This was back on August 29, when the miners had already spent 24 days trapped underground. I thought we'd call our team 'Mucha Fuerza' to encourage them. Turned out you couldn't just make up a team on the spot. So I ran that race thinking about those guys, and thinking about how any pain I was enduring was nothing compared with their situation. Then I thought about the estimated rescue timeline of four months. I thought about how it would be November, and the New York City Marathon would be taking place, and those guys would still be stuck down there. A whole season without natural light. I didn't want to think about that too much, because it's a little too much to fathom. Then I got a call from Wendy, a couple of months later. The rescue mission had begun. By October 13, all 33 of the miners were safely above ground. Only the week before I had made up my mind to run in the upcoming marathon. I had been accepted a while ago, but felt unprepared to run it, so I hadn't trained for it at all. Then one day I came across a runner with a prosthetic leg who was slightly ahead of me. I caught up with him, and we completed one loop of Central Park together. I was fascinated with his stories and plight, and inspired by his positive attitude. I finished that loop in a faster time than I'd run all year. That run decided it for me. A month is not a lot of time to prepare yourself to run a marathon. So here I am, a week before the big day, and I have only run one long run, which was only 18 miles. Today I found out that there's another guy who wasn't really able to prepare properly for this endurance race, but he's not letting that stop him either. And for you boxing fans, please excuse the lack of proper competitor stats formatting text-this is the no-frills version due to lack of options on blogger. No one's perfect.

Tamar
Home Town: New York, NY; Weekly Mileage from 8/05/10 - 10/13/10: Around 30; Races Run from 8/5/10 - 10/23/10: X-Country 5k 25:31 Thetford, VT 8/17/10; X-Country 4M 31:53Bronx, NY 8/29/10; Half Marathon 1:42:50 Staten Is, NY 10/10/10; RunTheRiver 5k 22:21 Randall’s Is, NY 10/23/10; Special Challenges Leading Up to the Marathon: Forced to reprimand teen male truants in the middle of a track workout (note: did not slow down in process); Expected # of Fans To View Race 11/7/10: Not as many as Peña, but a well timed, ‘Go, Tamar!’ would be worth a lot


Edison Peña


Home Town: Copiapó, Chile; Weekly Mileage from 8/05/10 - 10/13/10: Around 30; Races Run from 8/5/10 - 10/23/10: Triatlón Piedra Roja 2:36, Chicureo, Chile ;
Special Challenges Leading Up to the Marathon: Trapped in a copper-gold mine for a record 69 days 700m beneath the ground- completed 3-6 miles of training a day in the minimal tunnels available; Expected # of Fans To View Race 11/7/10: The entire population of Chile, and likely the rest of the world

Addendum: Apparently, David Letterman has been reading my blog, and decided to book Peña.. or maybe he couldn't resist the opportunity to host a guest who has more charm in his right eyebrow than half the celebrities saturating the media today. Here is a fantastic five minutes of that show:

Rocking the Crayolas

Tuesday is my Art Education graduate class, a very hands-on, practical course with little controversy save for the continual din of side conversations. Until today. Several of us students had just finished sharing our clay lesson plans with the rest of the class. The subject of play therapy came up, and somehow our professor wound up discussing the large number of kindergartners failing. Belinda from my table laughed to herself at the absurdity of calling a five year old to task on lack of studiousness, and the lone white male in our class, Connor, (who happened to be sitting next to me) said in an incredulous and forceful tone, 'How do so many parents send their kids to school ill-equipped?' The professor, who herself had been an art teacher in public schools for many years, enlightened this gentleman as to the many valid reasons why a child would not be prepared to pass kindergarten, which is not even a mandated grade, as another student pointed out. After listing reasons such as lack of English language fluency, lack of previous experience in formal early childhood programs, and lack of time from economically strapped parents whose priority is putting food on the table, Connor came back with, 'I don't understand how parents can't take one hour out of the day to teach their kids the basics, like the alphabet.' The classroom mood swiftly alighted with the wrath of parents being directly accused of denying their children the best education. These comments hit home for many of these people- a mix of multi-cultural adults who had themselves struggled to not only survive a biased school system that denied the merits of their own rich heritages, but are currently either parents or teachers of children struggling with these same challenges. It was unfortunate that this young man was white, because it is nearly impossible to view his comments as anything but race directed when the inequalities which children in inner-city schools face are inherently attributed to their race. Had a person of color made the same comments, though naive in content, I doubt the class reaction would have been a defensive one. After several passionate responses addressing the inappropriateness of the man's words, I glanced at my scissors sitting on my desk ready for today's construction project. I hoped they wouldn't get used prior to our scheduled assignment. The guy was up against the wall, with the rest of the class completely disgusted with him. He told them that he did not intend to target any culture, and that his comments were directed at children in general, which includes Anglo-Saxon white children. The damage was already done. I had that sick feeling in my stomach that you get when you know there's nothing you can do to save anyone. When that happens, I talk about Rafajella, the six year old student I have been tutoring for the past year. She's an English language learner, but she's Eastern European, so she represents both sides of the coin. Maybe she had the neutrality to diffuse the pressure.'Globally, we have one of the poorest education systems amongst other industrialized nations. The parents of the Serbian student that I tutor want her to be able to keep up with her classmates, but they've admitted to me that it's their believe, as well as the belief of their homeland education system, that children should not be taught to read until they are seven years old. Maybe we should stop looking at the U.S.'s model of education as the right standard.' The professor said that she was glad we had this discussion, and released us for a much needed break, after which we would come back and start our construction projects. Belinda and I headed for the bathroom. We were both surprised at the reaction of the class to the initial comments about lack of school-readiness in our children. Sometimes it's hard to relate to comments that don't directly speak to your own personal issues. Amelia, who moved here from Malaysia five years ago and works very hard to keep up with the graduate courses with her continually evolving English skills, joined our conversation. Belinda asked her if she was upset by the comments. She said at first she wasn't, but then she became very angry when she realized what was being said. Anger is a very powerful force, and once it was ignited in our little art room, it was difficult not to get swept up in it. I felt it sucking me in too, before I had a chance to analyze what the two sides of the issue really meant. It was good to talk about this thing before re-entering the class. When we returned, we each worked on our construction projects. I was doggedly trying to make an old egg carton into a lizard. Belinda was making a free-form play structure (with advent calendar windows). Connor was silently making what looked like a machine gun. After a few minutes, the professor asked us to go around the room and talk about our work. Someone made a cute subway rat. Another person made a cheerios box vacuum cleaner. Connor lifted his piece and told the class it was a telescope. I wonder if he was sending subliminal messages for us to take in the whole picture? I think we could all benefit from capturing a realistic viewpoint. None of us is free from bias, and we all have much to learn. As current and future educators, let the lens of clarity first be pointed inward.

Darkness

Isla Negra, Chile

"Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera"

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda

I am one of those people whose emotions are fully embraced by the quotidian chiens écrasés appearing in the daily newspapers. Mothers drowning their children to flee responsibility, wives dousing abusive husbands with acid causing the victims to be totally ostracized from society, and so on. The acid attack article stuck with me a little longer than the others. Yesterday, walking home from a loop run in Central Park, I heard a man in a distant apartment screaming bloody murder. As I passed the friendly community garden which brought up fond memories of relaxing with Dakota and the local neighbors last summer, I tried to pinpoint the exact apartment the distressed screams were coming from. Cautious to appear indifferent to his cries, lest the perpetrators witness and later seek retribution, wearing a blank expression I maintained my gaze directly in front of me. After I crossed Manhattan avenue, and was safely off of any one's radar, I started to think. Some innocent guy could actually be in the final stages of a homicide attempt, and I had an opportunity to save his life. Now would be a good time to have a cell phone. A couple walking quickly and holding an umbrella (it was raining), passed me. They were having an intense conversation in Spanish. I plunged right in. 'Excuse me. I heard a man screaming across the street. Do you think we should do something?' They stopped their conversation and looked at me intently. The man was short and stocky, with thick, dark eyebrows. His eyes were fully focused on me. 'Do you want to call 911?' He asked me. I told him I didn't have a cell phone. He took his out, dialed 911 and handed me the phone. Both he and his female companion were watching me. I didn't realize he already dialed, so I started pressing buttons, unsure if they were alpha or numeric. 'I already dialed', the man told me. I listened and heard nothing. Then the dispatcher's tired voice tinged with a slight Brooklyn accent came through. '9-1-1, hello?' 'Oh sorry,' I said, embarrassed by everything that had transpired since finishing my run. 'I was walking home from a run in the park, and I heard a man screaming bloody murder.' I thought about that expression. Did people still use that expression? It sounded like something Ralph Kramden would have said to his wife. 'Jeez, Alice, I'm five minutes late, and you're over there screaming bloody murder!' The dispatcher repeated my words. 'So he screamed bloody murder?' I panicked for a second. Was I calling in a bogus report? A guy screams and I call
911. Maybe he stubbed his toe. No, it was a bad scream. A person being tortured kind of scream. 'Yes, he was screaming in pain.' The owner of the phone crossed the street to get the exact address. He came back and told me the building was housing a religious cult. My fantasies of being a hero were vaporizing before my eyes. The dispatcher asked if I wanted to leave my name and number. I told her I could, but I really didn't have anything else to contribute. I returned the phone to the guy, and the couple continued walking and holding their umbrella. I walked awkwardly next to them, since I was going the same way. The guy made a little small talk about running. He told me to have a nice day, and then turned to his companion. We were still walking inches away from each other. It was really awkward. I was glad when they crossed the street.

The news story I read the day before of acid attacks in Cambodia clearly fueled my imagination when I heard that man's screams. But the story that got to me that day was of the 33 trapped miners in Chile. Few of us can imagine with any authenticity what it is like to be trapped below civilization, in the heart of the earth, where the total absence of light is a constant reality. And then, like a Rabbi Boteach joke, the bad news got worse. The rescue effort that was estimated to take four months (four months in darkness!) can not be disclosed to the trapped miners. According to former NASA astronaut Jerry Linenger who survived degraded conditions as a result of a fire on his 1997 space mission, 'Psychologically, you need to know the end point.' Upon further reading, it seems these miners know a thing or two about survival. They likely already know the time frame involved in drilling a rescue tunnel. After my bloody murder saga, I don't think there is much I can contribute to this rescue effort either. But my thoughts are with the miners. One is named Jimmy Sanchez. In 4th grade I had a crush on a Jimmy Sanchez at the Starr King School in San Francisco. For months we exchanged millisecond glances. Then one day he talked to me. He was wearing his turquoise cardigan sweater, and his wavy, sandy brown hair was parted on the side. We were the last ones to leave the classroom for the cafeteria. He said, 'What's for lunch today?' And I told him, 'I think grilled cheese sandwiches.'
Sometimes a few words can bring you out of the darkness.

Boomerang Effect

Interesting gifts have been coming my way lately. It all started when I went out to my favorite bar with a classmate. My friend had just revealed that she'd never been out of the country, and I was listing distant places for us to travel to. When I got to Australia, my friend said she wouldn't feel comfortable going there, as she had heard that minorities are not welcomed. Hearing the mention of racism sober always brings on a visceral response from me. After a Blue Moon or two, unprecitable things can occur. Half joking, I announced 'Well, we can just forget about Australia, then!' And my dramatic accompanying arm gesture sent my fresh pint of Blue Moon flying off the table. The liquid that had been occupying my full glass had now darkened the powder blue back of the shirt of the unfortuate man sitting at our table. I didn't give him a chance to fully express his anger, I just kept apologising, thinking about how thoroughly annoyed I would have been if our roles were reversed. Then I thought I'd explain that the reason for the mishap was related to racism. Instantly, the beer-soaked man took up our cause and started vigilantly decrying every potential country that would dare to ruin the future vacation in discussion. Inebriation is an amazing thing, I thought as I smiled at his attempts at flirting. Magically, a brand new Blue Moon pint made its way in front of me the next moment. Some bystander had witnessed the drama, and wanted to assist in the losses. I smiled at my friend. She now understood why this was my favorite bar.

Go To Sleep Tamar!

Beautiful low humidity day. I went out for a short test jog to loosen up before a 1/2marathon I am doing tomorrow. As I start my jog, each fiber in each leg is tight and resistant. As my friend Mike would say, this does not bode well. I really didn't need another excuse to bail on this Brooklyn race. It starts at 7:00 am. In Brooklyn. That's kind of insane, and means I should be going to sleep around 8 at night to get enough sleep. So I'm not taking it too seriously. I finish my jog, and spot one of my building neighbors. A very tall Asian woman who is almost always walking two blond dogs. She is dogless today. We always say hello and only hello as we pass. I'm feeling really bold, and think how nice it would be to find out her name. I look up and she's already crossed the street. I have to jog to catch up to her. She's going to think I'm stalking her. I don't care. Her name is Yu-Chen and she walks five days a week. She was impressed with the fact that I may finish this 1/2 marathon in under 1:40. I have lived in this building for two years and we never said more than hello. I think that's how most New Yorkers tend to be. After I showered, I had a whole agenda. I swung by an old school I worked in when I first moved here. A small group of 2nd graders in Summer school still remembered me when I passed by their school last year coming home from work. They all ran to the playground fence and screamed out 'Ms. S.! Ms. S.!' One girl in particular, Lakshmi, would not let me leave until I gave her my phone number. I'm not sure why she wanted it, but I gave it to her. Flash forward another year, and our community bulletin told me their school was having a festival open to the public. I knew she'd appreciate a visit, so I stopped by. It was in the school yard, and the sun was so strong I started tearing. I looked all around, and didn't see any of my kids. Then I saw Felipe. He looked exactly the same, just a foot taller. He was the one who looked so tough in school, but when the cooperating teacher yelled at all the kids to put their bag lunches away before she counted to ten, he offered to put my lunch in his backpack. I wanted to say hi to him, but thought he may not remember me. I walked around, disappointed that Lakshmi wasn't there. Still I sensed she was there. I walked over to this huge inflatable house where children were jumping inside and could be seen through this mesh window. I saw a jubilant dark girl with straight black hair. That was her. When she came out, I called her name. She turned around and smiled, and gave me a big hug. 'What's your name again?' she asked. I reminded her. She had a worried look on her face as she looked around for her friends. She ran away to find someone, then ran back and gave me another hug. She was distracted by all the things she wanted to play on. She looked beautiful, and she was wearing the same dress she wore on my last day when all the kids gave me a special presentation. Her cousin had made it, and it was a very unique design. She ran off again to get on a line for a ride. I walked around to see if I could find anyone else, but didn't. I thought I'd say good-bye to Lakshmi. I went up to her. She told the girls waiting in front of her who I was. I asked her how school was going, and what she was going to do this Summer. I told her that I was going to run a long race tomorrow. I told her how I'd run an even longer race last month, and that it caused me to lose one of my toenails. Kids love that stuff. I was wearing sandals, so she was able to observe the situation. She studied my foot with concern for a full minute. I told her I had to go. She made me promise to write her a letter. I told her I would, but she'd have to send me one back. She said she would try. I left and trekked over to NYRR's office to pick up my race number and goodies bag. They're so organized over there, I guess they have to be, their events are so huge. As the woman assigned to the R-S box was searching for my number, I was chatting with this other volunteer whose name I can never remember. The other woman handed me my number, and I continued chatting with my friend. I asked her if there was anything else I needed, and she turned over my race packet and said I just need to affix that sticker to my bag. I'm really glad she turned over my envelope, because it belonged to some 31 year old man who wasn't me! He had some similar crazy Eastern European name. I told the woman who handed it to me, and she was a little flustered as she had confirmed it with me. I apologised since it was my fault for not paying attention, but assured her that I am not a 31 year old man. Some other runner picking up his packet looked at me and said, 'I can vouch for that'. That was presumptuous of him. What am I doing still writing?? I have to go to sleep. Wish me luck getting up at 3:30 :-(

A belated thank-you

My creative writing skills have been beaten out of me with the advent of graduate school participation. No one cares about interesting narratives, apparently. It's all about facts and citations and correlations. And correct formatting, let's not forget. So I'll leave the creative stuff for now to someone whose well of talent never runs dry. Here is a great video my sister put together of some highlights from the Boston marathon. This turned out to be a great family weekend for us, with my niece Hailey celebrating her graduation from culinary school in Boston, and then on Monday, both my niece Alex and I boarded the school bus in Boston for the long ride to the start of the race. Alex is an amazing person (as are all of my nieces!!)and an amazing runner. She only recently got into marathon running, and within two tries qualified to compete in Boston- a feat that most runners can only hope to one day accomplish. She definitely has the heart of a runner, devoting most of her life to service for underprivileged and neglected populations around the world.
I was undecided about running in this race until the last few days, but despite my own indecision, I felt the support and caring of many people. Thank-you to everyone who shared in the excitement, I'm not naming names, but you know who you are. Some agreed to drive there and arrange the whole trip, some sacrificed beds to keep the snorers from the racers the night before the race, some created goody baskets with gourmet foods, some provided a selection of Gatorade during a final leg of a long run (a SELECTION, mind you, not just yellow or green- yellow AND green). OK, I have a paper to finish, and I didn't intend to get all sentimental; but I did forget to say thank-you. THANK-YOU, GUYS!

Vain Indulgences

I'm taking a coffee break from writing this paper for school on correlations between course readings in historical educational ideologies with children in cinema. It's as bad as it sounds.
So I hopped on to New York Road Runners website, and viewed a cache of photos of me from a race this past winter. I made a fascinating and previously undisclosed discovery about my appearance: during a run, when my left leg is forward, I look reasonably pretty and free of deformities; but when my right leg is forward, the tables are turned. My features take on a grotesque demeanor caused by gravitational pull, whose appearance is comparable to the expression one makes upon viewing the results of a smashed cockroache. (I can imagine that one pretty well, since I put such a creature out of his misery on my way out the door this morning).
Back to real writing.

Vexatious Requester

The office of vital records in Hawaii is getting inundated with repeat requests from parties with ulterior motives for copies of the birth certificate for Barack Hussein Obama II. The state is looking into putting a two year restriction for receiving governmental records to individuals who make the same request more than once.
Can I adapt this ruling for my own personal use? Maybe it's the pedagogue in me, but I feel there has to be a reasonable limit to the time given to grasp a new concept. After all, there is such an enormous body of knowledge expected of us humans to incorporate into our social constructs, that we have little time to waste dwelling on the concepts that elude us. We can change the language of the ruling to restrict offenders to a two year ban from further contact with me, at least in regards to the issue in question.
So without further ado, here is my top-five wish list of people who would benefit (in my favor) from this restriction:

5. My favorite radio station- I'm sorry, your membership drives are driving me insane. I realize listener support is what keeps your station commercial free, but why do paying members have to be subjected to the two week long round-the-clock request for new members?

4. People on the street telling me to gain weight (!)
I know, this is a weird one. It doesn't sound all that offensive at first, but trust me, when a stranger approaches you and suggests you gain weight- rather than compliment your amazingly toned runner's legs- it just takes the wind out of your sails. (As my old friend Dick Vincent used to say, 'If I look emaciated, that means I'm running well.') Still. Two years, NO SOUP FOR YOU!! (maybe a little more for me)

3. My friend Mike the Pervert- caveman comments when viewing new Facebook photos of me. Come on now, you've been warned enough over the past ten years. Grow up!

2. The man on a street somewhere whose chants vibrate through my apartment every night with the words, 'Glory, glory, hallelujah, I love you! I love you! I love you!'
You've been doing this for two years. Time to take the act downtown.

1. And the number one repeat offender- you guessed it- those pesky people who just don't get it! Despite multiple blog stories of my low tolerance for social exchanges during strenuous runs, people are still coming up to me and asking for directions! In Central Park, where there are hundreds of leisurely walking bodies, just waiting for an opportunity to assist! Double fines for offenses committed during a race.