Leaves, pumpkins and a little breeze

Fall is upon us. This is my favorite time of year, hands down. I love the crispness in the air and the box of sweaters that I can finally take out from under my bed. I love the pumpkins that fill the market and I dream of carving one each time I pass by them. Last year, I carved Jack from Nightmare before Christmas, and it was a masterpiece. I don't know that I can top it this year, but I am sure going to try. I love Thanksgiving, which is my favorite holiday of all and fills me with warmth. Finally, in a true mark of my simple heart, I love the crunch of leaves and acorns under my feet. I know that this is maybe a little silly, but that little crunch under my feet when I walk is one of my favorite sounds in all the world. I will often go out of my way when walking, just so I can step on fallen leaves and acorns. It simply makes me happy. Everything about this season makes me glow a little. I wish that I had a fireplace so that I could curl up beside it with a good book, a good friend, or both.

It's a little chilly in my house now as I write, but I have my fan on anyway as an excuse to keep wearing my warm scarf and wool socks. It's going to be a very long night of grading, so I am wrapping myself in comfort. This is the time of year when grading also never ends. My students (those who want to pass at least) have just submitted their term projects and I am immersed in the task of grading them all. It is a good thing that I love what I do!! Still, the workload kind of makes me dream of escaping. I am itching for travel, even if it is just a few states away. I long to go back to Germany and to Nicaragua, and I am dreaming of mountains. It is fitting that I feel this way as I begin to teach my students about American Romanticism.

I love the look on some of their faces when they come into the room and they see the word ROMANTICISM glaring at them in 4-inch letters on the projector screen. To amplify the reaction, I always couple it with some tasteful Fabio-esque picture and wait for their excitement to take root. The girls always glow a little imagining Zane novels and chick flick scenarios and the boys usually grown imagining the same. It isn't long, however, before I comfort the boys with the knowledge that I have better things to do than to build unrealistic Hollywood expectations in the minds of impressionable teenage girls. The girls are disappointed, the boys are relieved, and the dialogue begins. I LOVE the American Romantics. I think that I understand them in a way that I have never understood the Realists and the Modernists with their invading pessimism. The Romantics and the Transcendentalists that follow them speak to me in a way that I just get.

As our fledgling nation moved toward the great progress of the Industrial Revolution, Americans realized that a transition from pastoral living to city living would be less than smooth. The new cities spawned by the mechanization and promise of the Industrial Revolution were hardly the metropolises of today. In New York, overcrowded tenements encouraged the spread of diseases such as cholera, an outbreak of which killed up to 100 people a day. Considering that Cholera could strike a man down so quickly that he would be healthy in the morning and dead at night, these numbers aren't surprising. The streets of New York were littered with trash, dead animals, and improperly treated sewage. They were ripe for disease. Add to that the rising crime rates both at the hands of organized criminals and the nearly 20,000 orphans living in the streets, and it is no wonder that people wanted escape. Cities that had promised a better future were often suffocating machines. Out of this sprung a new breed of writers - the American Romantics. The early Romantics fitted neatly into two camps - those who wrote about a return to the wilderness and great American heroes of the wild like James Fenimore Cooper's Natty Bumpo and the real life Davy Crockett; and those who wrote about the darkness of the human heart like Edgar Allan Poe. Both of these camps of writers was directly impacted by what they saw in the burgeoning cities. They were both dreaming of escaping, one through embracing the wild frontier and the other through wandering deeply into the human psyche and exploring the darkness there. In the end, I get that.

While I am not so much a fan of the horror movie genre that sprung forth from the likes of Poe, I do appreciate his writing and the darkness he captured so beautifully. Still, I have to believe that he is wrong. We are not all evil at heart. There is still much goodness in the world and many people who know how to withstand pressure with grace. Yet, beyond Poe who is undoubtedly the most famous of the Romantics, I do hold in my heart a soft spot for the idea of a Romantic hero who lives off the land, honorable and young at heart. There is something cloying about the idea of being swept away into that life and out of the rush and push of society. I am sure it is not always practical, but it is always appealing. I love teaching my "urbanite" students about these heroes. They enjoy learning Poe more, perhaps, but I will never stop trying to feed them little bits of my wilderness dream. Maybe they'll catch the bug one day!

FOR MY STUDENTS: Extra Credit - After reading the blog and revisiting your American Romanticism notes, write an acrostic poem in which the first letters of your lines (when viewed down the left margin) spell out the word R-O-M-A-N-T-I-C-I-S-M. The poem needs to show a clear understanding of the Romantic movement and may include any information in your notes or this blog. Make them good. Up to 40 points EC. Due Thursday, October 27th. See me if you have any questions.

All That Glitters . . .

There is something to be said for glittery things. The simple beauty in the way light reflects off of a drop of water, creating prisms of light; the shine of a newly polished ring upon the hand of a woman who, herself, glitters with joy; the sparkle of laughter that emerges from a place of deep happiness in the heart of a child; these things are all "glittery." They evoke something within us that speaks of goodness and leaves a sweet taste in our proverbial mouths. If life were always honest and straightforward, then glittery, happy, shiny things and moments and opportunities would always be good. But they aren't.

We humans have become experts at covering dirtiness and deception with a little shine so that we may call it clean. We live in a society where a good offer is often a scam, where doctored pictures can make anyone look like a catch on eHarmony, and where cheap fakes of designer brands and quality jewelry are peddled on the streets as great buys! When the gold begins to darken and tarnish and the silver turns our fingers green, we scoff in disappointment that we didn't see it coming.

In his 1596 play, The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare offered a warning to the cautious listener:

All that glisters is not gold;
Often you have heard that told:
Many a man his life has sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold

The message is clear: A wise man is not fooled by what looks outwardly good. A foolish man, will sell even his own life for that which seems to have outward value. On the outside, the tomb may be gilded (covered in gold), but inside, there are still worms. While Shakespeare's expression is certainly the most famous, it is hardly the first. French thrologian Alain de Lille said, "Do not hold everything gold that shines like gold," in the 12th century. Thomas Becon repeated the sentiment in 1553, when he remarked, "All is not golde that glistereth." These men understood what some of us clearly fail to grasp - the outside package can hide rather sinister truth.

Perhaps in a more metaphorical nature, Dimmesdale reaches this conclusion at the end of the book. Having planned a "glittering" future for himself, he came to understand that there was actually something better. When he says to Hester, "Is not this better than what we dreamed of in the forest?" we see that he has learned to be, as Shakespeare said, "as wise as bold."

EC - Consider the ending of the book and write a one page, well-supported paper in which you discuss the following prompt:

Why is Dimmesdale's final choice "better than what [they] dreamed of in the forest"? How is this decision a reflection of the idea that "all that glitters is not gold"?

A Secret and Suffocating Soul

A pillow pushing hard against my face,
To soften my sinful cries.
To cover my pain and disgrace,
And hide away my lies.

Pushing so hard now,
That I can hardly breathe.
Suffocating ever so slowly,
Like every day I lead.

Becoming weak under the pressure,
Too tired to even strive.
So I try and become what I was,
And make my days a 'life'.

It seems hope is really bleak,
Because these walls are closing in.
I'm crumbling under the weight,
Of my every little sin.

These words, penned by an internet poet who calls herself "Torn" seem to be spoken from the very mouth of Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale. As we work our way through The Scarlet Letter, I cannot help but think about the intense suffering of the characters. Each of them is somehow facing "walls that are closing in." Their foundations of security are rattled by shame and loss, unrequited love and unquenchable hate. Through it all, one will become angelic, one will become monstrous, and one will suffer the greatest torment of all, the suffocation that is born of silence that hides a guilty heart.

It is easy to understand the pressure that Dimmesdale faces. He is, after all, the spiritual leader of the entire town and, as such, is expected to be blameless. He should be without sin. That is without question, but is there no redemption for sin? Is there no reconciliation to be had for a man who truly loves God?

Torn writes, "I'm crumbling under the weight of my every little sin." Like Dimmesdale, she says that her own sin is hidden, secret, suffocating. If hidden sin is so capable of breaking us, then why do we not just open ourselves to sharing the truth? Perhaps it is the nature of man to fear openness, to fear transparency, to fear consequences. After all, Adam and Eve hid from God in the Garden of Eden when they knew they had sinned. So we as humans have a long history of hiding from the truth.

Think about it: As children, we hide when we know we have done wrong. By our teens, we are experts at lying to cover our transgressions. Grown men and women create entirely separate identities so that they can live dual lives and cover their many indiscretions. Lest we believe that we humans are alone in this, remember that even dogs cower when "master" yells. We hide ourselves behind webs of deceit for fear of discovery and we slowly die inside. We are all like Dimmesdale in some way or another. His story is so moving, so memorable, so painful to read, because it is so human. We all see ourselves a little bit in him and we understand his suffering. Over the next week, you will see yourself in Dimmesdale, and part of you will hurt. I hope that his story will inspire you to explore your own soul and find your own hiding places so that you may find your way out of them into the open air that brings redemption.

E.C. #1 - "Follow" this blog (you can figure it out!!) and add a comment to this blog post. What do you think about the human desire to hide from truth? Can we find redemption for even the worst sins? Is it better to confess? What do you think about Dimmesdale's situation? Write about whatever you would like in your comment, but make it good! 25 points

E.C. #2 - Read over Torn's poem again and think about how it relates to Dimmesdale. After considering that, write your own poem in the "voice" of one of the main characters (Hester, Dimmesdale, Pearl, Chillingworth) that expresses their struggles. It should be the same length as Torn's (4 stanzas of 4 lines each). Make sure to use poetic form in stanzas with meaningful line breaks. (Don't just write until you run out of space. Decide what each line should say and then break to the next line. This isn't an essay or a paragraph, after all!) Up to 40 points. In ink or typed only.

Wild Beasts and Wild Men?

William Bradford once called the New World a land of "wild beasts and wild men." It is always interesting to me the ways that we describe people who are different from us. I see it all the time. An Asian student walks into a room and some ignorant child yells out "ching, chung, chang!" A Muslim man walks into a business and people walk to the other side or leave, sure that he is a terrorist. A single woman with three children of mixed race walks down the street and people assume she sleeps around and is probably ghetto and on welfare. Those of you who read The Poisonwood Bible will remember the way that the Prices viewed the Congolese people when they arrived on the "wild, uncivilized" African continent. We are really good at stereotyping. We are really good at making assumptions about people. We are really good at being wrong.

William Bradford was wrong. The "wild" men he encountered, now dubbed Native Americans in a nod to their "first nation" status, were quite civilized. They had families and homes and a functioning society. They were not savages bent on death and destruction. As a matter of fact, they didn't become violent with the settlers until it became clear that the European settlers had no intention of sharing land and food with them. As they lost their land, their families, their food, and their ability to survive, they fought back. For it, they were labeled as ruthless, violent people who murdered for no reason. Their love and compassion, their desire to be providers for their families, and their knowledge of the land and its terrible beauty all went unnoticed.

Certainly, we should have learned better. Certainly we should have stopped making hurried assumptions about people who are different from us. But should is a difficult word. We often choose not to do what we should because it is too difficult, and we suffer for that choice. Just think how much the Europeans could have learned from the Native Americans. Just think of how much we could have learned from non-violent Muslims in the days following 9/11, how much we could have understood about gentle people who didn't condone the violence of a few. Just think of how much knowledge and peace could arise from withholding our judgments based on "race" and language.

Think about what life must have been like for the Native Americans during the 1500s and beyond as their land was taken and they were viewed as evil. How does that mirror life today? For extra credit, write one page(in pen or typed) about a time when either you misjudged/stereotyped someone else or when someone misjudged/stereotyped you. Explain the situation, how you felt, how the truth was revealed and what the experience taught you. Turn in the paper by Thursday, September 1.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

There are some things that you should be told before you travel. Most of them relate to transportation in one way or another, and I am pretty sure that most of them are left unsaid out of some personal sadistic joy on the part of the silent friends. They are adhering to the classic "learn by experience" principle. This is wrong. I seek to enlighten by sharing some of my experiences from the last six weeks.

Planes

1) Prepare yourself for sickness. Seriously, this is the least of your worries, but be ready. I tried to do the math to calculate exactly how many germs were being recycled into my lungs during a 9+ hour flight, but then I remembered why I'm an English teacher and I stopped torturing my brain. Needless to say, there were enough germs to give me the plague.

2) Rows with escape hatches really do have more room. Don't neglect the "choose a seat" option when booking, and look for these. Most people decide window or aisle, but that is simply not enough. I am only 5'6" and my knees battered against the seat in front of me. While I probably have abnormally long, mutant femurs, I can't imagine that any non-mutants of, say, 5'7" or more can live through the contortion required of flying across "the pond" (incidentally, Brits, a lame moniker for something as large as, well, an ocean)! That "escape row" inch or two makes all the world happier.

3) Don't try to sneak into first class or you will get caught. And when you do (Little blonde girl with your snooty escort and ugly headpiece that looks like a twisty black tumor) and they escort you scowling back to your proper seat in my row, I will chuckle internally and grin out the window into the Czech night that hides my glee. Of course, then I will lament that I do not actually have a row to myself. Maybe chuckling was too much.

4) When you fly, know the customs and characteristics of people around you. For instance, you should know that Armenian men, while fit and handsome as youths, often grow portly and smoke too much as they age. To boot, they don't have the same relationship with "Sure" that we do in America, a fact that doesn't keep them from raising their arms. Not a problem until you are squished between two of them, they remove the armrests, and they begin to sprawl. Knowing the country will at least prepare you to take a sedative if needed. Yeah. It was as fun as you imagine.

5) When anyone with an official uniform barks at you in any language, just try to comply while making it clear that you only speak English. Follow this immediately with acute regret that you only speak English.

6) When a nice-looking German man smiles at you more than once while flying home, makes a point of talking to you as you deplane, waits for you at customs, and then invites you to dinner in the airport, you just say, "yes" because there really is no other answer. ;)

Trains

1) When riding a train between countries in Europe, do not believe the "reserved" signs on seats or you won't find one. When you have a Misha to point this out, you get a seat. When you don't, you spend the whole ride in a dining car, smiling at the waiter, making bread and jam and coffee last 2 hours so you can save precious Euros.

2) Each country, heck, each city has a different definition of "single ride" and "day" tickets for public transport. This is a good lesson to know BEFORE you are pulled off of a tram by ticket checkers who inform you that your "day" ticket was not for 24 hours, but rather expired at 4am. If this does happen to you, smile a lot, be really sweet and explain that you couldn't understand the German writing on the ticket. Then smile more. If you execute this correctly, the nice man will smile back, give you a warning instead of a 40 Euro fine, and give you a free hour to ride the tram so you can finish your trip. (I also got a free 10 Euro credit for my German cell phone this day by smiling and being sweet, but I digress.)

Automobiles

This is easy: People in other countries (read Armenia here) don't actually follow laws or believe that lights mean anything or give the right of way to pedestrians in crosswalks WHO HAVE WALK SIGNALS. They will run you over. They will feel bad about it, but it won't trouble them for long. How dare you walk when the little green man tells you too! They also will make 4 lanes where only 2 exist, pass on curves and with no sight-line, and just generally terrify you every moment that you are on any street in their country. You will love their country anyway, but you will fear. And speaking of fear, I must give a nod to the Germans here: the autobahn is a little scary at 160km/hr.

Happy travels. Start the joyful planning NOW!

Doors Left Ajar

A door left ajar
lets whispering from afar
breath life into... a dream of me and you

I will the spark to die
But still it lights my eye
Still makes me feel that this alone is real

And though I know it
I dare not show it... or let this madness makes a kill
By dwelling on what might have been
Or giving sadness space to fill
I'll balance on the edge a while but won't... fall in

I am sitting in Dresden listening to the rather haunting voice of Silje Nergaard and bemoaning the end of this beautifully lyric summer I have had. In three days, the coach will turn back into a pumpkin and it will all be over. While I deeply love home and my friends there, and I am super excited to meet my new nephew, Jaxon, part of me wants to hole up in a remote corner of Germany and stay. I am aware, even as I type these words, that they sound incredibly selfish, that many people will never have the chance to experience even a small corner of the world, but my desire to exercise humility and gratitude does not cover the truth of the matter.

This world is an expanse of goodness, the kind that swallows you whole. And I, in turn, want to devour it. It really is ravenous, this feeling I have about the world. I want to inhale and embrace and consume every bit of it that I can. It is insatiable, this desire in me. So why, I wonder, can I not actually take the plunge and leave the comfort of home? I often think about teaching in remote regions of the world or working for an NGO for a while or even joining the foreign service (this one is Jay's fault), but when it comes down to it, I "balance on the edge" but don't fall in.

Often, when I am in the mountains, I stand on the edge of cliffs and look over the edge as far as I can without falling. I like the rush of it, the high upness of it, the risk of it. But I always know that I won't go far enough to fall over. Certainly, in the mountains that is wisdom, but in life? Is traveling the world my version of standing on the edge of the cliff? I get the thrill but never have to take the plunge. I think that is it. For all my wandering heart speaks of the world and its greatness, I am still a scared little girl.

This is not easy to admit. I like to believe that I am part super woman, but tonight I was reminded that I am not. Tonight, I allowed a raw edge to be exposed and, while I am better for it, I also am more acutely aware of my fear to take big jumps, to risk when risking matters. I don't know what the future holds. I can barely see beyond today, but I want to be fearless about whatever it is. I want to always leave the door ajar for something greater than I can imagine, even if it lets in memories or sadness or fear. I want to remember that light seen in doorways and through cracks in windows and from around corners is powerful enough to cut the darkness that I may imagine in the idea of change. I have grown so much in the past 6 weeks, but I realize that I am only on the edge of the abyss, looking down, waiting for my wings.

The Time of My Life

We're coming home tonight, singing together,
coming home by white moonlight.

These words were penned in the early 1900s by Daniel Varoujan, an Armenian intellectual who would lose his life in 1915 during the Turkish conflict. Nearly 100 years later, I have walked in his footsteps, coming home in white moonlight. Last night, as I returned to Jay's apartment for the last night of my visit, I was bathed by the full moon in a clear Armenian sky. It was appropriate that the moon should light so bright a path over such a beautiful city that has left a little more light in my heart. This country, its people, and the amazing Jay Treloar have made the last week one of great adventure and great joy. I am left a little tired from it, but I simply don't care.

Jay and I spent my last night in Armenia driving back from Gyumri after a long day with director Braden King. Braden and his wife were easy to talk to and the day was a success, even if they did have to rewind 7 reels of film by hand and nothing ran on schedule. The people of Gyumri were alive with questions for Braden and they were openly moved by an American film showcasing their beautiful country. They understand the richness of this nation, even if most of the world does not. After the screening and Q&A, we decompressed with pizza and began the long drive home. That's when the real fun started!


Jay and I came home singing and dancing (maybe safer when NOT driving, but whatever), carried our singing into the streets of Yerevan and capped off the evening at the magical fountain in Republic Square that dances to music on its own with colorful lights. It really is a show. It was a joyous night. And so is all my time with Jay. I really appreciate those people in my life with whom I can have serious conversations and still be an absolute goof. I am so glad that I came here to see my friend. Our visit alone would have been worth the journey, but Armenia offered me so much.

I have spent the last week laughing and dancing (until almost 5 in the morning), meandering through streets filled with history, standing in darkened doorways of monasteries that dot the country, and listening to a people who remember the pain of the past but are so filled with hope for the future. These are a kind people, and even though they are prone to rather uncomfortable bouts of staring, they are open and hospitable and welcoming to strangers, which is great since I couldn't communicate! I quickly became painfully aware of how bad my Russian is when I realized that I don't even remember the letters. I could have survived here with Russian, even knowing no Armenian, but alas, it was not to be. Eva Eikhorn, my college Russian professor, would be so disappointed. I was forced to get by with smiles and the kind help of people I met in the street or on my tours.

Tours are something new for me. I never do tours when I travel, as they are usually expensive and slow and crowded. None of this was true here. With Jay gone most of the time at work, I had to occupy myself. This proved a little more difficult in Armenia than in Germany, so I turned to the Hyur tour group. I purchased two 8-hour English language tours for only $18 each (WOW) and got to see beautiful Armenia outside of Yerevan. I am so glad that I did it. Not only did I see a lot of breathtaking country and explore beautiful monasteries, I also met some travel companions, particularly a husband and wife from Lebanon who danced with me by a river to live music and helped me go shoe shopping (I broke my good ones). They were long and wonderful days.

Add to that a hike to Havuts Tar Vank with Jay, the exquisite Garni Temple (and Juliete), the Symphony of Stone, a seriously crazy birthday party, a lot of music, a lot of dancing, a little U.S. Women's Soccer (hooray!), an art market, a fruit market, a visit to an Armenian home, a film festival, more apricots and cherries than any human should consume in a week, new foods, new friends, and a delicious fish named Hripsime. Yup, it was an eventful week. I leave it all with a song dancing in my head (dirty bit) and prepare myself for a few days in Prague.

More good things to come if I can survive an 11+ hour layover in Kiev, Ukraine. Here goes nothin'! Goodbye Armenia. Goodbye Jay. I will miss you both very much.

Curiosity minus the cat

Whoever first said, "Curiosity killed the cat," must have had a truly boring existence. Surely it was some adult's idiomatic way of telling a child to stop being nosy. Yes, this is what we do in America; we threaten the death of cute animals to children whose minds are full of wonderment! Now, I don't believe that anyone is really advocating felinicide, but are we still squelching the truly probing minds of children? If there is anything that I have learned since arriving in Europe, it is that curiosity and wonder are the centerpiece of a happy existence.

I realize that, to some people, wandering a city where no one speaks your language and you resort to poor renditions of charades to communicate does not sound like a good time, but for me, it represents a certain freedom. It also pushes me to be a better communicator and a more patient person. These are such good things. E.E. Cummings once said, "Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit." I have learned, more than ever in the last two weeks, that I believe in myself and my ability to take risks that free my spirit.

Where Nicaragua taught me such love for humanity and such compassion for others, Europe has taught me a self-sufficiency that has made me stronger and more open to the world. In Nicaragua, I spoke the language and understood the culture. I felt a communal bond with the people that I don't always feel in Europe. Here, I have been challenged by different personalities and different customs. I have learned to enjoy the adventure of getting lost and rely on my own reasoning to find my way again. I guess there really isn't much choice but to become self-sufficient when you are in country after country where few people speak your language and you know nothing of theirs. Traveling alone like this has brought out the phlegmatic in me. I have always known the sanguine part of my spirit, and I think that it is also obvious to those around me, but being here, wandering, has revealed to me a level of self-content that I am not sure I knew before. Some of the most beautiful moments of this trip have been those I have spent completely alone - watching the Elbe flow beside me as I took the train to Prague, meandering slowly toward the Blue Wonder (bridge) along Dresdner StrasBe (this is my attemt to make a letter that isn't in English), and today, walking, completely lost, toward an apt I only barely remembered through alleyways and crooked streets.

I have discovered how happy I am to sit on a corner absorbing the sights and sounds of cities around me. I have found such beautiful music in the words that float effortlessly in the air above me. I have discovered that pain and anger and joy and love are not contingent upon understanding another's language. They are the expressions that transcend, and in the last few weeks, I have shared smiles and laughs and knowing glances with people who are so very different from me yet, at the core, still so infinitely human.

To be sure, I have also shared incredibly beautiful moments with friends. I have laughed at a restaurant with Kris and Conny, two beautiful Germans I met more that 3 years ago when they wandered through Gainesville. I have sat across from my arrestingly lovely friend Cindy (de Chile) at a cafe in Berlin, just enjoying the precious moment of reunion (we haven't see each other in more than 3 years). I have gone to the opera (there are no words for the beauty of Carmen) and wandered the beautiful, misty city of Dresden with Micha, my dear friend who has taken such good care of me and drugged me with love of Dresden. I met my Lithuanian Doppelganger, made a new Finnish friend, and visited the beautiful German countryside to see Mutti and the rest of Micha's lovely family. And now, just today, I am reunited with my friend Jay, one of my favorite people and the only person other than my dad who gets away with calling me Heath. I have felt welcomed and loved and warm despite the rain, and it has all deepened my understanding of how blessed I am as a human being. My life is so small but so rich with beauty and meaning.

I feel very much like Cummings must have when he wrote, "The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful!" Covered in dirt in Nicaragua, walking through rain in Berlin, breaking bread with great friends in Dresden, being barked at by an official in Prague, getting shocked (badly) in Kiev, trying to find my way through back streets in Yerevan - all of it, every tiny moment, is absolutely stealing my breath away. I hope that these blogs, in even the smallest measure, are conveying that, because I feel absolutely lost for words.

Hambre and other words painted blue

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard the Blues he played . . .

As I write these words, the clock in Nicaragua is working its way toward midnight and Thursday is fast approaching. It has been one week since my last blog and there are many words to be said. The easiest place to begin is with Friday and the first stroke of blue.

You see, until this point, I had seen the people and their poverty, but nothing pierced me except their joy and their hard work. That changed on Friday, and I ended the day grieving. A week later, there is a lingering ache each time I remember it. The day began like all the rest as we prepared to return to La Conquista for another day of games with the kids in Robin's program. It really was a glorious day of games: puzzles, hula hoop, dominoes, checkers, and jump rope (I taught the Cinderella dressed in yella song and had some very competitive boys who LOVED it, each trying to best the others in how many doctors it would take.) Dance lessons continued with the girls and I was overjoyed when Nikito's family arrived. They love seeing us and the feeling is mutual, but I am all about Emmanuel. Guillermo calls me Emmanuel's "chela" mama. (Chela is another word for gringa.) The day was fine until Emmanuel disappeared while I was playing with some other boys. Now, it is pretty common here to just let the kids walk away whenever they want, even if that means a 6-year-old wandering in the streets, but I am not Nicaraguan, so I was worried. I finally saw him when he peaked his head around the corner from outside and looked directly at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. In my general arrogance, I assumed he was upset because I was giving other boys more attention, so I went outside, held him in my lap and told him he was my favorite. It seemed to work for a minute and he returned, but this behavior continued. Each time, I convinced him to come back inside, but he never told me what the problem was. Finally, he answered me, cradling his head in the crook of my neck, he cried and said, "Yo tengo hambre." Literally, I have hunger. I wanted to cry to see that kind of sadness born of a complete lack of food. I told my Nica friends how much it hurt me and they reminded me that "hambre" was a part of every day in Nicaragua and that missing meals was commonplace for all the kids. There was a snack that day for Emmanuel, but it couldn't fill the caverns of hunger within him. Nothing that San Lucas does can stop the hunger, but they are working so hard to bring change. They are great people fighting an impossible battle against an invisible foe.

. . . In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone, I heard him sing, heard the piano moan . . .

The weekend brought rest and a little vacation, but the look in Emmanuel's eyes was not erased by the tide. The gray skies that cast an ominous shadow on the ocean all day as we relaxed at Playa Mango Rosa seemed a fitting bass line for the song that danced in my head. Don't get me wrong, there was something hypnotically beautiful about the waves that crashed ashore as the sun set behind craggy rocks that jutted into the Pacific Ocean. I enjoyed every minute of it (especially the Mahi sandwich that found its way into my belly that day), and I left our Saturday beach outing with a content heart, but there is just something beneath the surface of it all. I can't describe what I am experiencing, because it is so new to me. It is like there is music playing, notes that I don't recognize but that have always been there. It is a song that is jubilant and freeing in its expression of living, all at once beautiful and mournful. It is as if the whole world is singing the blues.

I have always loved the blues. They represent something truly beautiful to me. Singing the blues has always been about freeing your soul, unloading your suffering, and finding healing. One of my favorite short stories is called "Sonny's Blues". I think that I love this story so much because it is one of delicate hope, birthed from music. Sonny is able to escape his heroin habit through the piano. The instruments "speak" to each other without words and things are made whole when others listen to the story Sonny tells through his music. I believe that we are those who listen, and that if we will hear the world, hear its song, the way that grief bespeaks grief and love bespeaks love like so many instruments, then the world will begin to heal. I carry with me a delicate hope.

Sunday was all about rest, a true Sabbath. We relaxed and napped and relaxed and napped and then went to church with the family that night. So Sunday left little to be told, but Monday brought Ometepe. The island of Ometepe was our real vacation, two days on a gorgeous island with two ginormous volcanoes, in the middle of a lake big enough to have its own tide. This lake is the only fresh-water lake in the world with sharks and it was beautiful. My hotel room had a beach side window and I slept and woke to the gentle sounds of waves lapping against the shore. We explored a nature preserve, swam in a perfect spring and watched the sun set at the Western-most point of the island. The next morning we went to see petroglyphs and then caught the ferry back to the mainland. It was a perfect few days spent with great kids and the ever mirthful Guillermo. Oh, how we love Guillermo! A few words must now be written about this wonderful man. Guillermo has been our appointed driver for the majority of the trip. He has been our chauffeur, our GPS (in a country where no streets have names or numbers) and our friend. He makes us laugh, tries to remember our English names, calls Jon "Chino" and bats his impossible eyelashes "como un caballo" at us. There is such light in his eyes, that his "blue" word had its own luminescence. You see, Guillermo has a giant scar on his head (which is easy to see since he is bald) and the kids have wondered about it but been afraid to ask. On Monday night, as we sat down to dinner at Finca Santa Domingo with sound of waves in the background, Guillermo handed us a letter and walked away. The bluest word on the page was "tumor". Guillermo had been struggling with a tumor and ensuing radiation for years and is, even now, waiting on more results. He wrote about the hope God had given him and how the doctors had said three times that he would not live, but that he had three times defied them. He wrote about his love for his wife of 13 years and his daughters and how he wanted to continue to be with them. He wrote about his joy and his peace and the love for God that he had in his heart. In the midst of it, words like cancer and tumor began to mean little. His "blue" was like the brightness of the sky made brighter by the sun. He was saying that shadows exist, but they create no darkness of their own. Shadows are only powerful if you hide in them. Guillermo is no hider.


Thump, thump, thump went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more.

That brings me to today (or yesterday as the case may be). Today was a celebration of the new community center in La Conquista. It was a happy day and we saw all of the kids one last time *tear* before we left and spent time with Anke, the German implant, at the library she and her husband started. They are doing great work in literacy and education within the community of Diriamba and hoping to expand. When the library closed, Anke took us back to her house for fresh-baked German cake (AMAZING!) and Nica coffee. It was a perfectly lovely afternoon (and I would have so much more to say about Anke and her family if there were any energy left in me). Throw in a soccer game and a very late dinner and the night was complete.

This week has been so dichotomous for me. It has been restful and mind-emptying, while filled, at the same time, with questions that can never be answered. It has been bright and full of joy, and it had been peppered with blue. I know I am better for it, and I know, now, that the bluest word of them all is adios. It swirls around me in shades of navy and indigo and wraps me in its blueness. Blues singer Alberta Hunter once said, "We sing the blues because our hearts have been hurt, our souls have been disturbed." On the surface, this seems a statement of pain, but I don't see it that way. Merriam Webster says that to disturb is to alter the position or arrangement of something. Nicaragua has altered the arrangement of my soul. These people have disturbed my understanding of the world in beautiful notes saturated with color and hope and laughter and a little sadness. Tonight, I am a Picasso, and yes, Alberta, my heart does hurt a little as I prepare to leave this exquisite country.

. . . and late into the night, he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon.

Gringa! Gringa!

I am glad to report that all five of the kids are healthy now. Nick was the holdout. He stayed sick for three days. While he remained in bed waiting for the earth to end or his stomach to cooperate, we worked hard. Tuesday's work was, by far, the hardest I have ever done. We continued planting las frutas, but we also had to plant hardwood trees to reforest an area that was destroyed by fire. I am pretty sure that I single-handedly planted 100-200 cedar trees. Child's play! Oh wait, did I mention that we were planting on the side of a mountain? The Nicaraguans would have certainly laughed at the name "mountain" for this hill, but for a Florida girl, this was, in fact, a mountain. While I love mountain climbing, I have never before done it while carrying little trees. My first job was digging holes, but I broke the tool, snapped the steel in half at the welding. The Nicaraguan men all commented on my fuerza, but relegated me to tree carrying and planting all the same ;)The earth was so dry that I slid constantly, cascading dirt on anyone who had the audacity (or lack of foresight) to stand below me. I only really slid a few times. The danger was minimal . . . but then there was the cacao.

You must understand that planting cacao is a whole different ball of wax. We planted the cacao up the walls of what could have only been called a ravine with a small river running through it. The strong men and women (these abuelitas could take you any day) carried in dozens upon dozens of cacao seedlings and placed them at the river bank. Then, one sack at a time, I carried them up to the hole-making crew. I could only carry about 10 at a time and still safely climb to where they were high above me, but apparently that was impressive. It wasn't until later that I realized that there was a man there who could have carried them up for me to plant. But I like to work hard, and they liked talking about me working hard while they rested from hole digging. There were 4 men on my team, and every time I brought up a load, they gestured and commented and laughed heartily at my lack of understanding. I must defend myself here. My understanding of Spanish is quite good if you are patient enough to speak slowly. But the people in Banco, as a rule, have poor dental hygiene, so they are missing a lot of teeth. Add to that their dialect and pronunciation, and it is no wonder I was lost. In fact, I was pretty sure by the end of it that I was being offered in marriage to a man named Nikito, no front teeth. On Wednesday, I met Nikito's wife and EIGHT children and my heart was at peace. They are not big believers in polygamy here!

The day was extremely hard and extremely rewarding. When I got home, I was stricken with feverish cold and such tiredness that it consumed me. Not gonna lie, I was a little concerned. Thankfully, my hosts are doctors, and they treated me with a liter of a FOUL electrolyte solution that nearly made me gag, but left me feeling better in the morning. The diagnosis: too much sun . . kinda hard to avoid. I reapply sunscreen 4-5 times a day and I am still una gringa roja. Oh well :)

Wednesday was more planting, but back on flat land. It was actually a really easy day in comparison, especially because it started to rain and we quit a little early. Unfortunately, the rain did not last. Instead of working, we spent a few hours with some of the 14 families of Banco de Tierra who had come to have lunch with us. They had dressed in their best clothes and looked perfectly lovely. I fell in love with Nikito's family, especially his only son (out of 8), Emmanuel, age 6. Oh my goodness, I adore this kid. He spent hours on my lap imitating my every move and facial expression while "teaching" me Spanish words that I pretended not to know. When I walked, he followed me. When I sat, my lap was occupied. His whole family was loving and gentle. I developed a special tenderness for Flora, the oldest at 19, who was quiet and shy, but always wanted to know when she would see me again. Johana, 16, was pure joy, laughing and smiling at everything, eager to learn words in English. These are a simple and happy people and I am more in love with them each day. It is hard to imagine, given how much we have in America in comparison, that anyone could ever be unhappy and sour. They would say that God has given them a song. It is one I am starting to hear in my sleep, and I am happy for it.

Today was a break from planting. In fact, we are done with planting. When lunch finally arrived yesterday, it was a celebration of everything we had accomplished. They said we had planted 1000 trees in 3 days. WOW! With our work done there, we moved on to a sports program with the kids of La Conquista. It was a brilliant day of playing sports and teaching kids a few words of English. And even though I got more sunburn, it was great to work with these kids who are mostly uneducated and likely to get in trouble if left with nothing to do. Cue Robin, the German volunteering with this program for 2 years. He is a great soccer player, full of good humor, and obviously in good with these kids. After spending the morning in La Conquista, we returned (with much joy) to the home of Nikita. His kids screamed with joy, as did all the others of the community. "Gringas, gringas!" Emmanuel came springing into my arms and all the world was well. People poured from the doors of what would only be termed shacks in America, but which, here, are the homes of which they are so proud. I, too, am proud, proud that I have added even a little joy to their lives.

Reclining once again in my adopted hammock, listening to singing (mostly off key) at the church across the large field beside me, I am humbled. I am so blessed to be a part of this adventure, so blessed to have been given this opportunity, and so aware of the wealth of my own life. Tonight, I will sleep with the music of laughter and the song of the Nicaraguan people as my lullaby.

The chickens are revolting and the sky is dry

It is now Tuesday and we have had a great time so far. Saturday, we spent a lot of time just relaxing and looking at the lay of the land on the beautiful orchard that serves as our temporary home. It is a really great set-up. The five kids are in a house adjoining Francisco and Reyna's, where I am. They have just enough space to not feel me breathing down their necks, and I am oft peacefully unaware that they are here. I spend as much of my free time as possible in the hammock, which should be no surprise to anyone who knows me! The dogs have become my friends, and Tommy and Lukito often lie on the ground next to me while I hammock chill. The chickens strut around them and the mangoes continue their drum beat as the fall from the trees. It's a little piece of paradise. As for the pesky rooster, I gave him the teacher stare and he has abandoned my window. We have made peace, the chickens and I. The girls, however, are not so lucky. I believe they spoke ill of the chickens one morning and the chickens heard. It is full-scale mutiny. Every morning at 3 or 4am, the girls are awakened by the chickens holding revival services. Last night, I gave them earplugs. It is only 6am here, but when they awake, I hope for a good report.

Yesterday, we stated our work here. It was a hot day and we had a lot of planting to do, but we started with a meeting at the office for the San Lucas Foundation where we met the staff and had devotion. Devotion was led by a young German man named Robin. He seemed adorably awkward presenting his lesson to us all, but he did well and in beautiful Spanish. (I hope that I get to spend some time with him to practice my German a little.) The lesson he taught us from 2 Peter was about the importance of exemplifying concepts like "brotherly love" and "compassion" when we work with the people of Banco. Reyna reminded us that compassion and pity are not the same things and that we must not look on them with pity. This is a good lesson for me, but also for the kids. Most of them have never seen this kind of poverty and, while I have only seen it once in Peru, I feel like I am a little more prepared for what we see. Still, my heart hurts a little each time we pass a child standing shoeless in the doorway in what could only be called dilapidated shack, but here masquerades as a house.

These are a strong people. They work hard and for little to no pay. In Banco de Tierra, where we work, the people are learning to establish sustainable crops, so they help in the ground preparation and the planting. It is not a project of the Foundation, it is a project of the whole community. They take pride in their work and they do it well. I was glad to be able to work alongside them yesterday and glad to do it again today. I felt that we did so little, but such a little dent in the work yesterday. We probably only planted 100 trees of the 1100 we purchased, so there is much more work to be done.

And, truthfully, yesterday was a difficult day in a way. Two of the five kids got sick, one with nausea, and one stomach cramping and vomiting. For me, this meant a lot of concern for and taking care of the kids and less working. I wanted to be working, but so did they. It was difficult. Today, I am going to ask them for complete honesty before we leave (they didn't say yesterday because they wanted to work) and will require them to stay behind if they are still sick. It is far too difficult for them to be out in the field, isolated from medical care should they need it. I want them to be safe, and I understand the need of the people to work at a fast pace in order to complete all the work set before them. I think the kids will feel better though.

The biggest thing we need here is rain. The skies remain dry over Banco, and with all the new plants, rain is desperately needed. Without it, the people must bring in huge tanks of water, gathered at a local lake/river and pour it one liter at a time over the new plants. It is tedious work, especially considering that the transport for the water is provided by two rather stubborn bulls pulling a cart. They are comedic to watch, but surely frustrating to those trying to steer.

All in all, a great day. Pray for rain. Pray for health. And pray for the cooperation of those darn chickens!! :) More soon.

There's a rooster outside my window!

Day one in Nicaragua comes with promise and lots of noise. I am staying in a beautiful house with Francisco (who tells me that I may speak no English while here but also lies and says my Spanish is good)and Reyna. Their daughter, Davitha has given me her room and is rooming with her brother, Levi. I was awakened by the sound of a very insistent rooster perched right outside my open window, trucated by the deep thud of mangos hitting the roof as they fall from the trees all around us. Good thing I am an early riser anyway!

I took advantage of the cool morning hours to expore while the rest of the house slept. Immediately, the dogs took a liking to me, hanging at my heels and nuzzling me for attention. The mangoes are EVERYWHERE! They pepper the ground like New Year's Eve confetti in Times Square, but so much more delicious. The air is cool, but I am aware of impending heat and impending rain hanging in the atmosphere.

Our host families live in a beautiful huerta, yet I sense that, outside these gates, the world of Jinotepe is very different. It was so dark when we came in that I could see little, but the eyes are not always the keenest organ (especially mine!) and I know that I am in a different world. The policemen who were hitchhiking and the boy who climbed on a semi truck to wash his windows, unsolicited, for money tell us that we are not in Kansas anymore. But it is greater than that. Sounds and smells all converge to communicate the differnece here. The kids were stricken by that fact almost immediately, and we sat around the table eating rice pudding, surrounded by Nora's family, talking about those first impressions. I am glad that they get to have this experience, but I am more glad that they have made me a part of it. They are great kids and this is going to be a breathtaking journey for us all.

Today, we will buy seeds and other supplies for Banco de Tierra. Let the adventure begin!

This is the end, beautiful friend, the end

These words are running through my head this morning. They are from a song by The Doors that I don't actually recommend (kinda violent, although full of Freudian idealism - think Oedipus complex). The song, however, does go on to say, "And all the children are insane; all the children are insane, waiting for the summer rain, YEAH!" I totally agree with that. Some of you are just crazy right now!!! We have come to the inevitable conclusion of another year and I am glad to have shared it with you. I know that I have, for many of you, pushed the limits of what you believed you could capably do. I hope that you rose to the occasion. I hope you leave here full of knowledge. I have loved sharing that knowledge with you. (And I sincerely apologize for being a blog slacker!!!)

The last blog post that I wrote refused to post and then magically disappeared into cyberspace where some drone is probably feeding on it. This is what happens with lost digital material. I am sure of it. So, having appropriately mourned the loss of good verbiage, I feel ready to move forward and spew more glorious word content into the cyber-universe ;)

I know that most of you are little interested in what I have to ramble about and more interested in the extra credit as the year winds down, but let me remind you that extra credit does you little good if you don't turn in your assignments. You all need to make sure that you have turned in at least PART of your Their Eyes Were Watching God paragraphs/essays and your Across the Universe worksheet. These are worth a total of 280-330 (honors) points, and no 40 pt EC will make up for their absence. You will, of course earn late credit, but TUESDAY, MAY 31 is the last day that I will take ANY work from ANYONE! This includes your Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands questions and character guide, which are worth another 200 points and will be due on Tuesday.

1. Consider carefully every character we have read about this year. Choose one character with whom you most identify. Explain who the character is (making sure to include the name of the text in which he/she appears) and then, in a separate paragraph, clearly explain why you chose that character and what you think you have in common. You may receive up to 20 points of EC for this if it is well-written.
2. If you have the ability to burn a CD, make a 5-10 song CD of either Civil Rights Protest music (or music related to it but written later - think Motel in Memphis, which is about the murder of MLK, Jr.) OR Vietnam War protest music (think Woodstock - War, huh, good God, what is it good for?) Make sure that you either put it in a case and design a cover or write all of the song titles and your name on the CD itself. Please include artist names as well. You may receive up to 40 points of EC.
3. Write a biography entirely in your own words of EITHER Sheriff Willis McCall or Walter Lee Irvin. This should be a brief summary of their lives focusing on pivotal events in the 1950s and what happened in the aftermath of the "Florida Terror." (There are some great YouTube videos that might interest you. Take whatever information you would like from them as well, just put it in your own words.) One page minimum. You may receive up to 45 points of EC.
4. This essay is related to Their Eyes Were Watching God. Defend (agree with) or refute (disagree with) the following statement: Death is a positive force in Janie's life because it always results in a positive new beginning. Discuss your answer in relation to a) Nanny's death, b) Joe's death, c) Tea Cake's death. Make sure to include for each one a discussion of who the character is in Janie's life, how they died, and how it was or was not a positive event for her. This should be a five paragraph essay. I will be strict with awarding points, but you can earn up to 75 points EC.

Have fun!!!!

Spring Break Extra Credit!

In about 5 minutes, I am leaving to pedal to St. Augustine. I am have a little trepidation about the ride, but I am super excited. Sorry it has taken me so long to post this. Here it is!

Find the story "Like a Winding Sheet" by Ann Petry online. Either print it or read it online. Write a response to the following question after reading.

Why is the symbolism of the winding sheet so important to the story and how does the man become more symbolically wrapped up in it as the day progresses to its eventual, tragic end?

Your response should use specific examples from the story and be at least 1 page long. This extra credit is worth up to 60 points, but that is only for superior work, so try hard to be excellent. Blue or black ink. No torn edges on the pages. Be neat! Please title the assignment, "Like a Winding Sheet" Extra Credit.

Have fun and enjoy the rest of your break!

Supermoon, superfood, supertramp?

You may have heard, if you're alive, that last Saturday we experienced a phenomena called "super moon". What this basically means is that the moon was really big and closer to the earth than it had been in 18 years. Weird people who predict things predicted that the world would basically fall apart thanks to said moon. It is now Tuesday. I am alive. I hope that you are also. Thus, epic FAIL on the part of those who talk so much and know so little. I, for one, never believed that the world would tip sideways or the oceans would split or all my students would turn into monsters . . . wait. . . maybe I believed that one! You see, I used this really basic thing called reasoning. This was the biggest the moon had been in 18 years, not the biggest ever. So it follows (to those who reason) that if catastrophe waited on the heels of giant sky orbs, then it should have all gone to hell 18 years ago. That's just my thinking!

Still, the SUPERmoon did cause one seismic shift - Joshua and Israel Roe entered Gainesville! The significance of this statement depends largely upon who you are. If you are one of my students, this is probably pretty exciting news. If you are anyone else, I expect a response somewhere along the lines of "Joshua who?" or "big deal." Oh, it is a big deal. :) While these boys coming to town may not satisfy anyone's 2012-esque longings, they are bound to shake up something. Tomorrow, that starts with my students.

Joshua Roe is perhaps one of the coolest guys I know. When I met him a little over a year ago, he shook my world view. I hope that I also shook his, because that is what friends do - they challenge and push, they stretch and they pull, they make us stronger and support us when we are weak. It was Joshua who told me to go, to experience, to live with less fear and less caution. I was never a particularly cautious girl, so this could have been a risky thing, but I got it. There are all sorts of ways that we hold back our own living, all kinds of fear that keep us exactly where we are. To put it simply, his message to me was most people never LIVE, so don't be a "most". I heard him loud and clear and I began to find the tethers that held me in place. Joshua's message isn't that everyone everywhere should leave their lives and travel the planet (although he would find that pretty cool), rather, his message is that if you embrace where you are as your end, then you will miss a whole lot of journey. That means different things for different people, but there IS a message for everyone. I love this message. I am proud that he's my friend. I count him now as one of my favorite people in the world.

And now he's here, the myth, the man, the . . . biker. He and his little brother Israel arrived with the supermoon into my little neck of the woods. They left San Diego, CA on January 9th, and on March 19th, they pedaled into Ft. White, FL where I met up with them. They were tired, but they were in excellent spirits and it was great to see each other after months of separation. One of the first questions that I asked them was, "Are you guys hungry?" When they were finally able to silence their laughing, they said, "That's a joke, right? We've been hungry for two months!" So I cooked and cooked some more. Then we cooked and shared meals with great people. My house has been a whirlwind of activity, but we are happy and their bellies are full - mine too as Joshua is a great cook. It has been a great reunion and I have loved the commotion of my house.

Still, sometimes, sneaking away onto the front porch swing is a great prospect because it offers a tiny bit of quiet. That is where I am now, happily typing away while sitting on my porch swing and listening to man in the house next door yell a little too loudly. There is also a woman down the street who is probably homeless and is yelling about pills that she may or may not have in her purse. So it isn't exactly peaceful like a mountaintop here (the last time I saw Joshua, we were climbing peaceful mountains) but it is a cool, brisk night and a lovely end to a good day. As I write this, Joshua is out having some strange procedure done that will leave him with big welty marks but feeling great, and Israel is inside finishing up a movie. I feel at ease and happy just knowing that they are both around and that we have more time together.

And tomorrow, they will be at school. This is good. I am very excited to see what they have to offer my students and how much more I will learn from them as well. Seriously, Joshua must know everything. I want to play stump the supertramp, but alas, he would win. I will think of something. No worries. Don't forget, I have an 80 mile bike ride ahead. Lots of stumping time! I can't wait to share my amazing friend and his dear brother with all of my students.

Extra Credit soon to come. One more for Spring Break!!!!

Breathing again

Do you ever feel like you are drowning? Metaphorically, of course. That is how I have felt lately. I have felt like I was in some swirling pool of water being sucked into a vortex. I have wanted to stop it. I have wanted to breathe, but it hasn't happened yet. The normal load of grading and planning and teaching has been there, but it has begun to feel insurmountable (maybe I should just give everyone an A and call it a day). Add to that the sad loss of Sarah Landauer and the hospitalization of my stepfather, and I am officially in the suck zone. It has been a long, gray week.

Still, today is a new day and tomorrow starts a new week, so I am glad and the clouds overhead seem a little less gray. While I hope that you are also all feeling brighter this week, I am glad for the perspective this last week has given me. After all, I am teaching you all about the disillusionment of the Modernists, but I don't really know what that feels like. I don't know what hopelessness feels like because my life is always full of hope. I always trust in the new day and the ability of God to change my circumstances or change my heart to accept them. So I don't know that sinking feeling of hopelessness that seemed to consume so many Modernists. I don't think that I will ever know that, but feeling a bit like Eeyore this week has left me with a tiny glimpse of what happens when sadness works its way into your soul and seems to make a home there.

My tiny pattern of disheartening events stacked one on top of another is certainly no true comparison to the Great Depression and 4 wars, but I think I get it. I get what happens to you when you forget to swim up toward the light. I get what it feels like to want to camp out underneath the water in the deep, cool darkness and just wait. I am thankful that warmth and light always win in me, but I get it. Too often, bottom dwelling is just easier. It takes real effort to pull yourself up, to shake off the grays and to live. It takes effort to make yourself breathe through the heavy load and force yourself to answer the question. "Do you dare to disturb the universe?"

I feel profoundly sorry for the people, for the Prufrocks of the world, who simply let themselves sink. But I also feel sorry for the rest of us who may never know the greatness of those we easily ignore, those who will sink away into nothingness. Surely they are not without merit. Surely you, if you are one of those who feels sucked into the murk of life, are not without merit. Just like Prufrock would likely have found love and joy and purpose had he been brave enough to try, so you will find greatness when you dare disturb your universe and shake up what you have always known.

A man named George, whom I greatly respect, is fond of saying, "You can't expect a different tomorrow if you are always doing the same thing as yesterday." How true this is. We must be brave. We must shake off yesterday's funk and today's disappointments if we are going to have new, fresh, remarkable tomorrows. I want remarkable tomorrows. I hope that at least a few of you do as well.

EC - For this week, write me a one page paper in which you tell me about either a) a time when you have felt like you were sinking and were struggling to get your footing OR b) what you plan to do in your own life to "disturb your universe" Feel free to also comment on here so that our thoughts and ideas can mingle together in cyber space.

War, roar, and a little more!

Happily changed out of my 1920s attire, I am sitting in Maude's (coffee!!!!!) giggling as I look at pictures from the prohibition era (although Ms. Wright and the woman with the sniffling problem are both contributing to my giggling). How could I not laugh? Remember those scary looking women from the slide show today? Look up prohibition images. You'll laugh with me. The men in this picture, for instance, were pretty serious about their beer. They look so professional, like they were used to getting what they wanted, but they didn't get beer. And though these men would eventually get beer again, those who fought for prohibition may have felt that it backfired on them in a major way. Sure, they got alcohol outlawed, but instead of family values and pure society, they got the mob - maybe not what they were aiming for!

You see, those who supported prohibition insisted that alcohol consumption led to all sorts of evils, namely prostitution. They were pretty sure that if the country went "dry" then the youth of America would respect the traditional beliefs of their parents, practice sexual abstinence, and live all around wholesome lives. Little did the Women's Temperance Society know that Sigmund Freud was lurking in the proverbial shadows to shake loose all of those bonds. Where Darwin changed people's views on religion and God and Marx changed their views on social conscience and politics, Freud changed their views on SEX. While Freud's view on women has since been questioned and even highly criticized for limiting rather than freeing them, the "flappers"of the 1920s who cut of their hair and shortened their hems felt free indeed. They embraced the idea that sexual expression was available to women as well as men. Boy did they embrace it!

And there was Modernism in a slightly complicated nut shell: abandon tradition, mistrust institutions (like government and religion), embrace individuality, and question anything that claims to be absolute. After all, what use is black and white when gray is such a lovely shade. Sociologist Georg Simmel said, "The deepest problems of modern life derive from the claim of the individual to preserve the individuality of his existence in the face of overwhelming social forces, of historical heritage, of external culture." To put it simply, "modern" men (and women) should be primarily concerned with doing whatever the heck they wanted to do, regardless of what tradition of heritage, or culture said. Selfishness was the order of the day!

This seems an odd contrast to the fact that so many of the modernists were happily influenced by the ideas of Karl Marx who was more of a "unite and support each other" kind of guy. But their personal leanings seemed easily separable from their political ones. Perhaps so many modern writers found Marx's ideas cloying out of a general rejection of all the traditions they knew, which clearly included the political. His ideas were new and controversial and, well, that just worked. WWI proved to people all over the world that the old ways and the old government systems did not speak for the people. If the Russian Revolution of 1917 asked the question, "What will we do for change?" then Communism was the very vocal answer.

Change would come: Communism vs Fascism, 20s excess vs 30s depression, two World Wars and two others (by the 60s we engaged in Korea and Vietnam) that many fought against with fiery passion and sometimes with blood. That is only the beginning. By the time we finish looking at Modernism, we will have witnessed The Harlem Renaissance and celebration of the "black" culture juxtaposed against the rise of the KKK and the violent oppression and persecution of that same culture. We will see matriarchs of the 50s give way to bra-burning hippies in the 60s. We will see oppressed people find their voices, and together, we will discover the soundtrack to it all. Because we can't forget the music!

Three more books and countless lessons to go as we close our year with THE MODERNS!

EC: Read and take notes on pages 825-833 in the textbook. Make sure to use highlighted subtitles. :) 40 pts!!!1

Part Deux: A little lighter

This is the second of two posts this week. This is your extra credit only. The other is your assignment. Make sure that you read both. :)

Extra Credit: While I clearly have issues with Social Darwinists and the Naturalist movement, I am humored by another response to Charles Darwin - The Darwin Awards!

In the spirit of Charles Darwin, the Darwin Awards commemorate individuals who protect our gene pool by making the ultimate sacrifice of their own lives. Darwin Award winners eliminate themselves in an extraordinarily idiotic manner, thereby improving our species' chances of long-term survival. Accidental self-sterilization also qualifies. However, the site notes: "Of necessity, the award is usually bestowed posthumously." But the candidate is disqualified if "innocent bystanders", who might have contributed positively to the gene pool, are killed in the process.


Visit the Darwin Awards site and start reading. Do this when you have time, because you will have a blast reading about the stupid things people do. Maybe eugenicists were right after all. I kid, I kid. For extra credit, tell me about one of the winners of the award and what they did to earn it. Include your information as a reply to this post. Read the other replies first, because you have to be the first to tell about that award winner to get the EC.

Run the Good Race

RACE. What a loaded word that means absolutely nothing. As a nation, we are all bound up in the question of race. Every application you will ever see, every time you are called to jury duty, EVERYWHERE, there is the question of race. My best friend, Rachel, got a jury summons last week and was told she had to answer the race question. She didn't know how. By all appearances, she looks "white," but her father is from Armenia - a country often assigned to Europe, but formerly referred to as Asia Minor. She said, "What do I put? Asian?" We laughed about the options - White and Black (colors), Hispanic (a language classification), and Asian (an area of the world). I told her she simply had to decide if she wanted to be a color, a language, or a land mass that day! Laughable for sure.

Merriam Webster's Dictionary defines race as a family tribe or nation belonging to the same stock. This same term is used for animals belonging to the same stock. Simply said, race refers to animals or people who come from the same ancestry. This seems a rather limited definition. "Race" is more broadly seen as any grouping of humans which shares the same inheritable phenotypical (visible) characteristics or geographical ancestry. So we group people by how they look? This is a bit archaic of an idea and yet we talk every day about race.

We use terms like African-American to refer to those would otherwise be called "black," even though many South African immigrants are "white." Aren't they still African-American? And what about my college roommate, who was black but became quite upset at me referring to her as African-American since she was, in fact, from Jamaica? Is a student who is from Germany anything at all like a rancher from Texas simply because their skin color is similar? Do students living in East Gainesville have anything in common with students living in East Uganda? These are questions that must be asked. We MUST challenge a system that groups us into "races" of people without regard for culture and regionalities.

In his 1175 text "The Natural Varieties of Mankind," Johann Friedrich Blumenbach established five major divisions of humans (Caucasoid race, Mongoloid race, Ethiopian/Negroid race, American Indian race, and Malayan race). In layman's terms, this reads like a box of crayons. Are we really all distinguishable into simply white, yellow, black, red, and brown? Apparently so. Blumenbach believed that these were the identifiable groupings of humans, an anthropological observation based on phenotypic traits; eugenicists of the early 1900s would take this a step further, noting that the heritable traits within each of these groups would either elevate or limit their fitness to exist within society, thus creating a "science of racism."

Natural selection, after all, showed us that some within a species were less valuable to the gene pool and, therefore, they would die out over time and all would be as it should be. So, said Social Dawinists, was it within society (Biologists clearly believe that Darwin was misinterpreted). Those who were less "valuable" to the gene pool would naturally die out due to both their heredity and their social environment. So should they. It was not the job of society to try to help them or change that. In fact, some eugenicists believed that they should help the process along with forced sterilization and euthanasia. Sound creepy? I think that it is. I am a little taken aback by the fact that 65,000 Americans were sterilized through forced sterilization projects during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I am also a little bothered by the fact that early efforts at birth control were not about women's rights but about stopping births in minority and immigrant communities so that they might reproduce less offspring who fell into the "unfit" category. I suppose, however, that it is reassuring to know how inspirational these "scientists" were; after all, they inspired Hitler and that must speak for something.

Sarcasm aside, we must acknowledge that the issue of race has been pivotal for generations in American society. This 4-letter word, which means so little, has meant so much. I have learned in my life that Americans are experts at division. We are a diverse society. We are a society of many peoples from many places with many voices to be heard. Does it follow, however, that those voices must be singular to be heard? Should they be segregated and sometimes silenced? The beauty of a symphony is not a single instrument, it is all of them intersecting and dancing around each other. Why can people not be the same?

When we discussed this in class, one of my students asked, "What should I put, then, when they ask the race question?" My reply: "The question is not, 'What should I put?' it is 'Why should I be asked to put anything?'" What will it take for us to become the human race?

This topic is so interesting and sometimes so infuriating. Rachel, who teaches at Lincoln, and I often rant about it in private, and now, I am giving a little public rant. I think we should shout from the rooftops (sometimes in the form of a blog) when we want to be heard. I think we need to not be afraid to speak what we see as truth even if it might offend. I admit that I am intimidated by the great race debate. I am intimidated by other teachers who have told me that I can't understand my students because I am white. I am intimidated by people who get angry because I don't teach "black history" during February and by those who think that teaching it at all is keeping the division between us present. I embrace the concept of teaching history and literature as HUMAN history and literature, but when the argument over the greatness or inferiority of an author is purely based on race, it cannot be ignored. I want to scream at the top of my lungs that the failure of students in East Gainesville is about parental involvement and social pressures and financial strain, not about skin color! I want people to see with my eyes because I want to stop fighting and because I want to have unity and, well, because I want to be right.

Now, I want to hear your voices. You deserve to be heard as well.

A World of Words

He was born poor and, despite writing success, he died poor, but his life was rich with laughter and his writing ripe with controversy. Mark Twain, the most famous of all regionalists was a genius at capturing the language, attitudes, and customs of the people about whom he wrote. One hundred years after writing The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Twain is still in the news and his novel is the one of the most banned books in the country - all because of one little word. That one little word, common in his time and, arguably, more widely used today, has angered generations and sparked water-cooler debates all across America. This is the power of words. They shape our culture and change our thinking.

Whoever first quipped, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," clearly never removed his earplugs. Words hurt. They enflame dormant fires of anger. They remind us of deeply held hurt and deeply hidden regrets. Perhaps that is why Twain strove to write the people as they were, because he knew that their own words would reveal the most about who they were and what they believed. Perhaps that is why he is the standard for regionalist writing. Perhaps we are offended because Twain wanted us to feel that way and to search for the reasons why. Introspection forced upon us by a few well-chosen words.

Twain said, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightening and the lightening bug." What a powerful idea! The reason that there is a debate at all about Twain's book is that he wanted to accurately represent the people and places, customs and prejudices of people along the Mississippi using all of their colloquialisms, and that included the n-word. Twain simply believed that he was using the "right" word, but was he? And does it even matter?

Huckleberry Finn provides powerful social commentary that clearly demonstrates Twain's distaste for slavery and other social mores (pronounced more-A-s) of the time. Yet, in it, he repeatedly uses a word that we now see as taboo. Just because a word was regionally accepted in the late 1800s, should we accept it today as simply a "representation" of the time, or should we require a higher standard, free of inflammatory language? Does his social commentary work if we take out the word? And if we are trying to banish it from our language, then shouldn't we banish it from music and television as well? I have no answers to these questions (although I do have some opinions), but they do give us some "food for thought." While Twain would be angry to know that any words were taken from his book, maybe you agree with those who say it is simply too controversial and hurtful to leave. Then again, you might stand on the side of those who believe that censorship is a slippery slope that you'd rather stay far from. Wherever you stand in this debate, I would love to hear your thoughts.

And in your free time :) . . . This weekend's extra credit is to research the life of Mark Twain a little more. We only got a small biography in our textbook, so dig a little deeper. For 25 EC points, provide me a list of 15 REALLY interesting facts about Twain's life. Last day for this one is Monday, February 14th!! And since it is due on Valentine's day, I leave you with a little thought about love from Twain himself. "Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired."

Have a great weekend!

Freedom Train

Let me start by saying that I am SO glad I don't live in Chicago. I am sitting in my warm, comfy home and it is 71 degrees outside. In January. While the rest of the country is covered in snow. Yup, glad I live in Florida. Some of my Alaska friends are now in Chicago and I feel for them. This morning there were 17 inches of snow on the ground there with 2-6 more expected today! In fact, it is warmer in Skagway, Alaska than it is in Chicago. Ouch.

The lack of cold makes me feel only slightly guilty about my return to coffee. Not enough to stop me from drinking it though. So today, I write to you warm and full of caffeine, my mind full of ideas of revolution. I love when the events of the world correspond with the teachings of class, and this week they certainly do. Egypt is in turmoil. If you haven't read about it, you should. What started out 10 days ago as peaceful protest (think Thoreau and King) has turned violent and I am saddened by that turn of events. And yet, I think I understand it. While I never advocate violence, I am stricken by the Egyptian people's cry for change. They have been held down for too long. They are longing for rights and freedoms that their government has long denied. They are desperate to believe that their voices will be the catalyst for that change, and they are not willing to back down. They seem unafraid of death. Martyrs for a cause? I guess that remains to be seen, but how similar they seem to me today to the voices of the past.

The Transcendentalists spoke about the value of being true to yourself. They called for personal growth and those like Thoreau called for governmental change. Their voices echoed in the ears of people like Whitman who wrote of equality. Slowly, the match lit the paper and the paper lit the sticks and the sticks set the nation on fire. The words of a few men became the voice of a people who spoke against the institution of slavery. Escaped slaves added their own voices and the power of the abolitionist movement drove the nation toward change. Change came. In the form of a war. And while perhaps Emerson had a point when he quipped, "Sometimes gunpowder smells good," let us hope that the seeds of grow at a lesser cost in Egypt.

Today, I encourage you to think about what it means to be a revolutionary. Not a rebel. Any punk can be a rebel. Anyone can yell about an "unfair" rule or whine about what they didn't get or break the law just because it can be broken. None of that is revolution. Revolution is seeded somewhere else. It grows out of desperation. It grows from the soul. And when it is sparked, it cannot be killed. It's leaders might be slaughtered. It's people might go into hiding. But true revolution is built on the power of an unsilenceable voice.

EC. Write a one page summary (all in your own words) of the events in Egypt over the last 10 days. Follow the events through Friday (a lot might change by then) and submit your summary on Monday.