Home

I recently went back to my hometown for our beloved Toni Chestnut’s memorial.  It was a beautiful celebration of her life. The first person I saw was her mother at the church.  She greeted me with an enveloping hug filled with comfort and said, “I can’t believe you’re here”.  I started to cry a bit, but she put a stop to that quickly.  “Toni wouldn’t want us to cry today.  No tears.”  I did as I was told.  This was a directive from one of my favorite people, so I willingly acquiesced.

The memorial was a touching and beautiful celebration in the church where I grew up.  The sights and smells were so familiar---the impressive white marble altar, the skyrocketing stained glass windows, the angelic voices.  The music was beautiful and reminded me of sitting in those same pews a lifetime ago. I cried when I heard a familiar hymn and the verse, “I love you and you are mine” got me.  That song was one of my favorites and really cemented the reason for the day.

One of the best parts of the day was seeing some familiar faces from home; dear family friends and people I had gone to church with my entire childhood.  Those are the faces you never forget.  One of those people has become the church deacon.  After the mass, this gentleman said to me, “You look so familiar to me.  Do I know you?”  I told him my name and he said, “Wow! You’re all grown up!  How is your wonderful family?” Home. 

You can’t replace that feeling that coursed through me at that moment.  Recognition, belonging, love.  It meant so much that he remembered me.

 

I have lived in North Carolina for 20 years now.  I have not been home in quite some time, so it was natural that some people didn’t recognize me.  Some said, “you had long hair when I last saw you!”  I think they were being nice.  It couldn’t be that I have aged in the 20 years that have elapsed.  How kind they were to spare my feelings.

As we made our way to the luncheon after the memorial, I got a feeling of trepidation; much like when you go to school for the first time.  I wondered who my husband and I would sit with at the luncheon.  I know that’s a crazy thought and I should have been focused on Toni, but I did wonder where were we going to belong?

My fears were not realized as I saw some family friends from the very beginning of the gathering.  They welcomed us with happy, warm smiles, big embraces and pulled up two chairs at their family’s table.  Home.

As we sat and ate lunch, we reminisced, laughed and were smacking the table in delight.  At one moment, I glanced back and saw a picture of Toni on the television in a slideshow prepared for the memorial.  I felt guilty for a quick second for having so much fun, but then Toni’s mom came up behind me and hugged me.  I felt the reassurance that Toni would have loved this celebration.  It was real and genuine.  All of the people she loved from home in one place, smacking the table and laughing like crazy.

I realized.  You can go home again.  And home will welcome you with open arms, a seat at the table and lots of joy.  

For Toni Chestnut

I grew up with Toni Chestnut.  Why was she called Toni "Chestnut"?  Who knows?  My outrageous grandfather gave her that moniker long ago.  It stuck.  My whole family calls her Toni Chestnut to this day.

Toni is my best friend from childhood.  All of my best memories as a child have her in them.  Our families were close friends, so we would have family get-togethers; impromptu barbecues, birthdays, Christmas parties, etc..  Sometimes these family parties would end with Toni and me begging our parents for a sleepover.  Toni and I had lots of sleepovers as our parents were usually delighted to give in to our requests.  Before bed, we were allowed to watch shows like "The Muppets" or "The Facts of Life".  In the morning, I was treated to the most exquisite array of cereals anyone ever had.  I say exquisite because as a kid, my mom would stock our shelves with All-Bran or Total.  If she was feeling kicky, we might have scored some Raisin Bran.  At Toni's house, Cap'n Crunch and Cookie Crisp abound!  I felt like the character Oliver from the musical, Oliver! - "please may I have another bowl?".

We were also the youngest members of our families; the little sisters. My older brother used to hang out with her older brothers and we were the quintessential pains in the necks.  We'd spy on them and tell on them when they were shooting bottle rockets off in the parking lot behind their backyard.  They thought the blanket of evergreens shaded them.  Ha!  Trees were no match for our investigative skills.  In retribution, they would try to trip and tackle us as we ran through the sprinklers in the backyard.  

I think my favorite times with Toni were our covert missions.  Not only would we spy on our brothers, we would sneak into her living room and grab a particular book down from the bookshelf.  This book was entitled, "Where Did I Come From?".  It's a book about how teach your kids about sex.  Toni and I thought this was the funniest book ever.  We would howl in laughter looking at the two hairy cartoon characters doing the deed under a 70's patchwork quilt.  That image still makes me laugh to this day.  In fact, I recently bought this book to explain the facts of life to our kids.  I still have not mustered the courage to read it to them.  I will have to stifle my gaffaws, and I'm sure they will too!

Our friendship drifted a bit through the years because we went to different schools.  However, we still remained in touch.  In seventh grade, I asked her to come with me to a junior high dance.  We applied our blue eye shadow amidst clouds of Aqua-Net hairspray (it was the 80's), while strains of "Sowing the Seeds of Love" by Tears for Fears played in the background on MTV.  We had fun at the dance, but our time was cut short because I dislocated my knee at the dance.  Yes.  If the teenage years were not awkward enough, I had to injure myself at a dance!  The horror!  Toni took it all in stride and took care of me.  She practically carried my hobbled body to her dad's car and he drove us home.  She's always been someone you could count on in a crisis.

Although we went to different high schools, I attended her school's musicals.  Toni was always the star; playing Marian the Librarian from The Music Man and Maria Von Trapp with a voice every bit as sweet as Julie Andrews' famous pipes.

We drifted apart through college; both doing our own thing.  She met her husband in college and I was invited to their wedding.  An epic snowstorm kept me away from their happy day, but I saw pictures.

We had a Christmas card kind of relationship for the next few years until cancer.  That's right.  I said cancer.  Toni has breast cancer and has kept up a valiant fight for years now.  Recently, the disease has journeyed to her lungs.  I have been able to reconnect with her because Toni has kept a blog that has reflected on her odyssey through cancer.  Most of her posts are filled with life, spirit and optimism.  She is one tough cookie.

Last year, she went to Disney World with her family and had a joyous time.  The trip even culminated with extended family hosting a family reunion all tied in.  She looked jubilant in her scarf as she hugged Mickey Mouse and posed for pictures with her whole family.   I sent her a little gift before her trip and one of the essays I wrote to give her some inspiration  In true Toni fashion, she gave ME inspiration.  She called me her lifelong friend and I cried.  She is so special to me.

Her posts have changed tone in the past few weeks.  Her posts began as hope, fight and showcased sheer tenacity.  Now, they have turned into shades of bewilderment and pain.  Her sunny personality still shines through, but you can see the difference.

I want to ask why does this have to happen, but that question is searingly painful to excavate with no answer to be had in the end.

Even though I have observed her fight from the cheap seats since we live hundreds of miles apart, Toni Chestnut has given me so much and I wanted to give her something in return.  So, in a very small way, I wanted her to know how much she means to me.  In the immortal words of Jim Croce, "I'll have to say I love you in a song".  Or, in this case, in a blog.

Observing in Disguise

One of my favorite books is Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl.  In the book, Reichl is a New York Times food critic that goes to restaurants in disguise while she reviews the quality of the food/service at a restaurant.  She started to use disguises in her work because chefs would recognize her and up their game accordingly.  She was not getting a true depiction of the caliber of food or usual service at the restaurant.  After using disguises, she found that she could freely experience the restaurant as any other patron would and her readers would receive a more authentic review as a result.

This gave me an idea...

Part of my job requires me to observe part-time instructors in their courses.  I do not schedule these observations ahead of time because it would be a logistical scheduling nightmare.  So, I pop in and watch the instructors work their magic.  I think of it as a very positive process, but the look of sheer terror on the part-time instructors' faces as I walk in the room makes me feel like I am a masked intruder with a gun.  

I know how they feel.  I have a wonderful supervisor.  I love to get her advice and talk with her one-on-one.  However, when she walks into my classroom to observe my teaching, I am a clammy-palmed mess.  I feel like I'm under a microscope and everything I'm doing is not up to par.  Now, I have been teaching for a while.  I have some cred.  But, knowing someone who is an expert is watching my teaching.  BRRRR....sends shivers down my spine.  

Why?  I am not trying to find fault with the instructors in my observations and neither is my boss.  So, what's the problem?

Observation.  Critique.  Knowing you are being evaluated.

I have a solution; inspired by Ruth Reichl.  I want observe part-time instructors in disguise.  YES!  I want to be a real student in their classrooms.  I want to see what these classes are really like when the teacher is at ease in his or her own environment.  And, the costumes would be epic!!!

So, who would I be?  I have a few ideas based on former students I have had in my classes.  Please note:  these names below are completely fictional, but the profiles are not.

I could be Sarah....

Sarah is an 18 year old student.  She is fresh from her high school wounds of teachers telling her she is "not college material".  Sarah sits in the back of the room and does not ask any questions.  She averts her eyes when I make eye contact with her and feels wholly unworthy to be in this course.  Without fail, Sarah apologizes for her work on each assignment she submits.  Yet, she is an A student.

Or, John....

John is a 25 year old veteran who has done two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.  He scans the room and is frustrated by the students with their apathy-tinged breathing exercises; the dramatic sighs coming from the back of the room when they are called out for texting during instruction time.  John thinks to himself, these kids don't know how good they have it.  I have seen people aching to learn, but there is no school in their village.  I was one of these slackers before, but now I know how tough it is out there.  John sits in the front row and although he struggles writing his truth in his essays by reliving his battles, he feels proud when many of his peers and his instructor are moved to tears by his revelations.

Sandy is an interesting choice....

Sandy is a 41 year old mother of two.  She sits in class desperate to see the useful application of what she is learning.  She attends evening courses because she has a full-time job.  Sandy wants to see that her time is not being wasted.  During a lull in the lesson, Sandy gets frustrated and thinks Ok, teacher.  Better get on with this lesson.  I could be doing a million more productive things right now than sitting here listening to you.  How about I start my shopping list?  It will look like I'm taking notes.  Sandy keeps the instructor on his or her toes; waging a subtle challenge for the teacher to "bring it".

However, my favorite choice would have to be Arthur.... 

Arthur is a 90-year old former engineer.  Although he already has a graduate degree and had a very successful career, he wants to take courses just for fun.  Sitting in the classroom makes him feel alive and relevant.  Before class, Arthur thinks, I need to be diligent about doing my back exercises.  It would be so embarrassing if I couldn't get out of my seat after class today because my back seized up.  I would hate to ask one of these youngsters for help.  He is delighted to be in the classroom as he reflects on how grateful he is to learn what is being taught today.

Arthur is my favorite choice for a disguise because he is so positive!  He views going to college as an opportunity to grow and learn- even though his contributions may be short-lived.  I aspire to be that person.  Thank you, Arthur.

Now, if I could just combine my passions and figure out how to be a teacher and a food critic...  That would be the perfect job for me!!!  

Dance Like Nobody's Watching

"MOOOOMMM!!!" John screamed from the playroom.  UGH!  One of them cracked his or her head open.  I knew it!!!  They were wrestling again!  I blame my Irish heritage for my worst case scenario go-to thinking.  As I walked in the room, John was ecstatic.  "Mom, listen to this..."  He played a song from his favorite show, Odd Squad.  The song is called, "Dance Like Nobody's Watchin'"  As I listened, I thought this tune is pretty funky for a PBS joint.  Immediately, a dance party ensued...

As John was showing me his dance moves- a series of impressive jump kicks inspired by karate and simple 9 year old grooving- I remember that his love for music goes way back.

In 2006, my husband and I went to see the movie Walk the Line.   It is a biopic about the life and music of Johnny Cash.  I was about 7 months pregnant at the time and as the opening music commenced, my little man started kicking.  He did not stop.  Throughout the whole movie, this fetus was keeping time with Johnny Cash's brand of railroad track percussion.  I nudged my husband, Mark, and he marveled at how my belly was moving in time to the beat.

After John was born, Johnny Cash did us another solid by placating our fussy baby with his songs.  Whenever John was crying his eyes out, all we had to do was turn on "Get Rhythm" or "Folsom Prison Blues".  The red face and ardent squealing would be replaced by calm and comfort.  We were very grateful to Mr. Cash and his music for providing us with instant serenity.

Later on, John introduced us to The Wiggles. We had them in our house for a long time.  They were fun, but I was not disappointed when he progressed to more "adult" music after watching The School of Rock.  After being mesmerized by Jack Black's performance, John decided I needed to make him a "Mr. Schneebly mix" after Black's character.  I was excited because now my boy was listening to real music- Led Zeppelin, Van Halen.  The good stuff.  Whew.  No more "Fruit Salad" on repeat.

Our daughter, Colleen, has very different tastes.

Colleen fell in love with the movie, Mary Poppins,  at birth.  She was just as entranced with Julie Andrews singing "Feed the Birds" as I always was.  Still, to this day, she asks me to sing her that song at night after her bedtime stories.  I love that she is so connected with my musical tastes.  Colleen has also progressed through a number of genres in her 5 years on this earth, but her favorite songs of late seem to be feminist anthems; "Girl on Fire", "Let It Go" and "All About That Bass" are both on ad nauseam in this house.  Secretly, I couldn't be prouder.

As for song lyric recall, Colleen's aptitude is impressive.  She can learn a song after the first or second time after hearing it.  However, she alters the words.  For example, in "All About That Bass", Colleen will sing "all about that bass, 'bout that bass, no trouble" instead of the word "treble".  In fact, after listening to Duran Duran's "View to a Kill" song for the first time, she demanded I sing the lyric, "a fatal kiss is all we need" as "a big ol' kiss is all we need".  I still sing that song her way.  She cracks me up as I used to do the same thing when I was a kid.

I always loved music as a child.  When I was very young, I would hold concerts in the family room of our house.  I would sing along with an 8-track of Elvis Presley tunes.  "All Shook Up" was enthusiastically sung as "Marsha Poke".  Colleen does not take after anyone strange...

When I was a pre-teenager, Madonna was all the rage.  I would dress up in my slips and put on every Jelly bracelet and necklace I owned.  The show would go on only when my hair was higher than the Empire State thanks to Aqua-Net and my make-up of blue and purple eyeliner and shadow was set.  This show was only put on for an exclusive audience.  ME!  Just me. I would lock the door to my bedroom and crank up "Dress You Up" as loud as I could.  My parents would come to the door and say, "What are you doing?  Moving furniture?"  I would reply, "Nope!  Just dancing."

Dancing with myself....as if nobody was watching. Nobody better have been watching!!!!  Oooh, I shudder at the thought...

Parallels of Tenacious Youth

I have a deep, dark secret that very few people know.  This secret has grown stronger this week since the secret came to an end.  I will share my secret with you now, but please know it is difficult to do so.  Are you ready?

I love the show "Glee".

Whew, there is freedom in saying that declaration out loud!  It's funny.  I have always loved this show because it blended my love of musical theatre with hysterical satire.  Jane Lynch, as Coach Sue Sylvester, is a masterful comedian and always delivered her droll lines perfectly.  The first season was the best.

There is another character to which I was drawn while watching this show;  Rachel Berry.  If you are not in the know, Rachel was the head geek of the Glee club.  She was a fantastically driven, yet extremely talented member of the Glee club and later in the series emerged to be the head of the Glee club and a Broadway star.  But, why did I like her so much?  I always wondered until this week.  Then, it came to me.....I was Rachel Berry in high school.

Now, before my high school friends say I wasn't, I will reflect on ways I was completely Berry-esque.  

I was not the singing giant Rachel Berry is in the show.  My Berry qualities revolved around journalism.  I was the Editor-in-Chief of our high school newspaper, the CHS Voice.  I loved to write satirical columns as well as hard-hitting articles focusing on social injustice.  For instance, while other students were skipping school to get high, I skipped school one time to interview New York State Governor, Mario Cuomo.  Did I have an appointment with him?  No.  Did I even have any credentials to do such a thing?  No.  But, like Rachel Berry, I was tenacious as hell at 17 years old.  I was going to get that interview.

Governor Cuomo was in town to propose to put a nuclear waste dump in my home county.  As you can imagine, there were protests.  So, I made my own credentials (a press card I made in the art classroom after school one day and laminated it myself).  I masqueraded as one of the protesters, showed my "credentials" to the officials and got into the press conference.  I got a few quotes and asked a question.  I was a full-fledged journalist (in my own mind).

In college, the tenacity to get an interview followed me and I was happy to get access to a number of famous people who came to my college and surrounding colleges to do concerts or speaking engagements.  I dated a fellow "journalist" for a while because I really liked the way he wrote.  He said our relationship was like the movie Reds.  Even my dating life revolved around my quest to be a journalist.  So funny, now that I think back about it....

My Rachel Berry sensibilities followed me on my term abroad in college.  I was not content enough to just take classes while I was in London, but felt that I had to stretch my journalistic skills.  I muscled the director of our program into getting me an internship with the university's public relations department.  This internship served to be a huge disappointment as all the director wanted me to do was get him coffee and fawn over his accomplishments.  I was bored and deflated until I got the offer of a lifetime one night at a dance production.

My friends and I went to a Twyla Tharp dance recital one night.  I happened to be sitting in front of a nice couple from New York (I could tell by their accents).  I struck up a conversation with them as I was from New York as well.  It was a great conversation because I was a little homesick at the time, but when the gentleman offered that he worked for Bloomberg Business communications, my Rachel Berry tenacity went into overdrive.  I immediately started listing my credentials and gave him my contact information.  While his wife was focusing on inviting me to their house for a nice meal, the husband realized I was serious and told me he would be in touch.  I could not focus on the dance!  All I could think about was working as a professional journalist in London!!!

He did call a couple days later and invited me to an interview.  I really thought, "this is it!  I have arrived!!".  I did well in the interview and was offered an apprenticeship.  I would have to fly back home to get my visa organized before taking the position, but I was hired.  I rushed home to call my parents.  On the ride home, I felt like Tom Cruise in the movie Jerry Maguire when he was singing "Free Fallin" in his car.  I was beyond excited.

My excitement dwindled when I called my parents.  My parents are the most supportive people on earth and as they were trying to figure out what I was breathlessly saying about visa status, they asked me if I would finish college.  I hadn't even thought of that.  Really?  Not finish college?  The thought had not occurred to me.  If I took this job, I would have been leaving college in my junior year.  And, talking with my family made me miss them like a pain.  After our conversation, I made the decision to go home and finish my degree. This decision was a pivotal moment in my life at the time.

For years, I would second guess and regret my decision to come home.  I thought of the Frost poem, "The Road Not Taken" and I thought I chose the wrong road.  After moving to Charlotte and meeting my husband, I began to realize I made the right decision.  However, professionally there was something wanting.  My inner Rachel Berry was screaming to be noticed.  I didn't realize until after I quit my job in university admissions that teaching would be the realization of my dreams; to share my passion for writing.

There's nothing like the feeling of knowing where you belong.  I never quite felt that feeling in high school, college or in my early 20s.  I was always regretting and reaching for something beyond my scope.  But, teaching writing and conveying my deep love for writing to students was all I ever needed to quell my inner doubts and feelings of regret.  Teaching is where I needed to be all along.

Do I still push myself?  Absolutely!  In fact, this blog is the manifestation of pushing myself to write.  This blog is for me; dedicated to my former journalist self. my inner Rachel Berry.

The Art of Being Human

I read a wonderful article in the Chronicle of Higher Education the other day entitled, "To Help Students Succeed Professionally and Personally, Teach the Art of Being Human" by Lisa Dolling.  In her article, Dolling pointed out that you cannot separate the personal vs. professional in higher education.  She remarked, "Either you believe the purpose of going to college is to be able to secure a (preferably high paying job), or you think there is something more intrinsically valuable to be gained from the years spent earning a degree...developing the intellectual capacities needed to succeed as professionals and  human beings" (Dolling).

Teaching the art of being human...

So, I began to think about how I teach students to be more human.  What do I do to model humanity in my classroom?  So, began the quest to be more intentional about teaching this supposed lost art.

I thought about how I write with my students.  We do writing prompts in class and I ask them to reflect on a subject. We write together and I share my product with them.  Sometimes, I am on it.  I did what I intended to do in my writing and I am proud of it.  Other times, I laugh at myself because when I read something I have written out loud to them, sometimes it just doesn't make any sense.  So, I laugh at myself...with them.  I thought this was showing them I was human, but there is more to achieve than just laughing at my foibles.

Human.  Teaching the art of being human.  Hmm....compassion, maybe?

In my class, I ask students to dedicate 2 hours per semester on a service learning project.  This project is where they go out into our community and volunteer their time at a local food bank, animal shelter, homeless shelter...whatever they choose.  Then, they write about their experience as part of our final project for the course.  My intention is to teach students that they are not only part of our writing community in class, but part of a greater community out there in the world.  I want them to know how fortunate they are to be pursuing a higher education.  Through service, I am able to reflect on how grateful I am for my family and how I lucky I am to be teaching.  Service learning is a reminder of how human we are.

Compassion, humility...what else is there?  I think that teaching the art of being human starts in your class when you are given the opportunity to share your feelings and opinions through writing.  I encourage students to draw from their experiences to learn from one another.  Some of my veterans choose to process their thoughts about what they observed in war.  These observations are the most haunting, yet revealing cathartic exercises.  I am honored to have them share these reflections with me.  Other students reflect on difficult decisions they have made in the past; whether it is to move to another area or leave a marriage in which they are being physically or emotionally abused.  It is humbling that students trust me, or their fellow students in our classroom, enough to share these all too human situations.

Writing allows us the opportunity to explore the art of being human because it invites the author to draw from personal experiences and reflect on their choices.  Writing in a college course is more than just regurgitating facts or structures of writing.  It is the invitation to the human experience.  Write about it.  Express how you feel.  Tell us your thoughts...

As a result of Lisa Dolling's fine article, I am going to be more aware of how I teach students, not only how to be good writers, but how to be human.  I will need to do some self-reflection on this topic as I am still a work in progress as well.

Here is a link to her article. I hope you enjoy it!  http://chronicle.com/article/To-Help-Students-Succeed/228281

Transferable Experiences

I was at a writing conference this past weekend and the keynote speaker spoke to us about knowledge transfer.  Knowledge transfer is basically when students utilize skills from a previous learning experience to help them perform a present task in our classrooms.  It was a very interesting discussion that led my mind to drift wondering about transfer...

Transfer in our own lives...

What experiences transfer from childhood into our adult lives?  How do they transfer?  After this speaker's address, I found myself spending a lot of time thinking about my kids.  What days/experiences would transfer as they get older? What will they remember?

My mind thought in horror...oh!  Will they remember those snow days when we all were getting on each other's nerves.  You know...those "Mom of the Year" moments where I was yelling at them to just "calm down".  And Colleen proclaiming, "Mommy is a mean mommy".  Oooh!  I shudder just thinking of it.

Or, will they remember our dance parties in the kitchen; twirling around to the sounds of music while laughing our heads off?  Perhaps they will recall story time before bed where Mommy and Daddy do all of the silly voices while laying with our precious ones snuggled in their beds.

The mind reels.

So, I brought this topic up at a dinner with our friends.  We were talking about going to Disney World and I asked one of them what he remembered about Disney World as a kid?  He said, "Space Mountain, It's a Small World...that's pretty much it.".  Huh!  That's what I remembered too, except with a little "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride" and "Snow White" thrown in for good measure.  But, it got me thinking.  How long had our parents planned, scrimped, ruminated, and saved to make this magical vacation for their children---only to have us remember 3 things?  Why doesn't every magical moment transfer?

The memories that transfer most from my childhood are happy, everyday events.  I remember those in detail.  For example, I used to hang out on the front porch of our house and pretend to be sauteing up some greenery from our front lawn.  I was preparing dinner for my husband, Han Solo, while fighting off bad guys from our kitchen.  I remember the pungent scent of the lilac bushes in our side lawn and using the leaves as currency to buy my groceries.  I also converted a stinky, moldy shed into a home for my dolls and Han.  I spray painted it silver and didn't worry that while I was fixing up the shed, the boys from our neighborhood borrowed my spray paint to spray slugs.  Ah, youth!

I know that as my parents read this blog, they will be thinking....what about this vacation or that special treat/event we shared?  I would be asking those questions as well, if I were them.  But, what I have realized is that it is the everyday, run of the mill days that transfer into my memory.  The good stuff is in the small stuff.

So, for my children, I really hope that the memories they transfer into adulthood and reminisce about in their older years will reflect the warm and happy feelings in the song "These are Days" by 10,000 Maniacs and not the dreary, filled-with-regret tune "Holding Back the Years" by Simply Red.

Plagued with an Overactive Brain

I was going to call this blog post, "Sleepless in Waxhaw", but I thought it sounded a little trite.  So, I am having a little trouble sleeping as of late.  I just keeping thinking... Do you know what that feels like?  I can't stop my brain at night.  I keep a notepad on my nightstand because I hope that if I can just purge these lists, thoughts, ideas, etc., then I will fall asleep. 

I call it the "Plague of the Overactive Brain".  

Now, I am all about choosing to look at the positive side of life.  So, perhaps these sleepless times during the night could be opportunities.  Let's see...

Obviously, with everyone sleeping contently and quietly, I find myself alone for the only time in quite a while.  Alone can be good.  I am alone with my thoughts and can actually think about what I need to do the next day, for class, for kids and on and on...  

Not only alone, but alone and quiet is good as well.  I never get to experience quiet in my life.  We have two of the greatest, but loudest kids known to man.  The cacophonous bustle of our everyday lives sometimes leaves me a little breathless.  All too often we are inundated with technology, noise, sensory inputs.  I found myself last night actually relishing the quiet solitude of my bedroom during these hours of slumber stolen from me.  

I always loved the title of the song Silent Lucidity by Queensyrche and I think that term best encapsulates my thinking at night.  I am clear headed and focused in the silence.  I noticed a steady humming of our home that I hadn't heard before.  I let this steady humming envelope me and provide solace in an otherwise busy life.  I realized when you allow yourself to be silent, you are aware of the white noises you have never heard before in your home.

I am big fan of white noise.  My kids and I are white noise junkies.  I slept with a vaporizer in my room every night when I was a kid; chest cold or not, that thing was always humming me to sleep.  The white noise enveloped me with comfort. My son and daughter are the same way.  In fact, my husband made our son a CD of white noise when he was a baby.  He would not go to sleep without the din of fans, dryer noises, blowdryers, etc..  Now, both of my kids and I have sleep machines and we take them whenever we go out of town.  Junkies.

I am also a reading junkie.  I love uninterrupted reading where I can really get into the story.  I am reading the greatest book right now.  It is called BonAppetempt by Amelia Morris.  It is an insightful and incendiary memoir with recipes.  Just my kind of book.  So last night, I settled in and let Amelia tell me a story. 

Don't get me wrong. I call it a plague, but I love my overactive brain.  I think it makes me highly productive and gives me the ability to think very deeply through situations in my life. So, during this sleepless time at night I have figured out the world's ills and made the it a better place.  Well, let's be honest.  I did the grocery list, came up with a few teaching ideas and decided on this subject for my blog.  I didn't save the world, but I did accomplish a few things.

Sure, I like my overactive mind - not at 2:00am. I talk a good game, but in the midst of my deep thoughts at night, all I am thinking is, could I please get some *^*^*^%$# sleep, already!?!?   At least I can say I am not "old and gray and full of sleep" like my favorite poet, William Butler Yeats, once wrote.  

See?  Silver lining.

Practicality- a Half Life

Being practical.  What does that mean?  I know several individuals are in favor of practicality as it leads to conducting a sensible life full of logical decisions.  However, how does creativity survive in a world that pressures us to "just be practical"?

My mother is an artist.  She would never describe herself as one, but she is.  She spent 40 years of her life being a Dental Hygienist.  She had a very distinguished career in Dental Hygiene and was well respected by all of her peers and employers.  However, I will always contend that something was missing in those 40 years of caring for her dental patients as her passion has always been art.  She paints beautifully.  I have some of her signature work in my house and I always wonder where to hang it because I want to put it in a place of honor.  She is by far a more creative mother than I will ever be.  She made clothes for my dolls and me, she made fabric books to teach me how to read and the list goes on and on.  She is just like Martha Stewart- adept at everything creative.

Yet, she would not consider herself an artist.  Why?

I believe that she was told as a young person that she needed to find a job that would be practical.  Art was never going to be a practical profession in the eyes of her parents, so she had to pursue a job that would earn her money.  It was a practical path for sure, but not authentic.

Her daughter took a similar path in life...

My sister is in insurance.  She holds a very practical position and she is extremely successful at what she does.  However, my sister was not forced into practicality by her mom and dad.  My parents never imposed their opinions concerning our choice of professions.  Paradoxically, I believe that my siblings and I forced ourselves to be practical.  

Like my mother, my sister is an artist.  Her artistry is in the form of photographs. We always knew photography flowed through her creative veins as she has always been our official family photographer; snapping numerous pics at every family gathering.  And, she receives a new camera EVERY Christmas.  Seriously.  She does.

For Christmas this year, she gave everyone in our family some of her work.  The photos were brilliant and she has a keen eye.  She even sold a picture she took of the Christmas cookies I make for our family every December.  I am particularly proud of that shot she took and it hangs with pride in my home.

What happens to people when the practical side of life overrides their creative needs?  I believe that when practical goals take over and you allow them to squelch your creative self, you are living half of a life.  It takes doing things that you love to provide enthusiasm and zest for living.  I know.  I have been there.  That's why I'm writing this blog :)

So, be like my friend at work.  She is a math instructor by day, and a roller derby queen by night.  She is fierce at both pursuits because both of them allow her to enjoy living with her whole self represented.  Athletes, writers, artists, poets... the time is now.  Enjoy and share those hidden talents with the world.  Practicality is only half of your life.  The other half that is waiting for you is pure joy.  

The Other Woman

My husband invited another woman to come live with us.  He cleared it with me, so I was cool with it.  She arrived last weekend and immediately took over our household.  Our lives will never be the same.

Alexa is her name.  Otherwise known as the Amazon Echo.

Have you heard of Echo (Alexa)?  She is Amazon's answer to Apple's handmaiden, Siri.  Alexa is a small, cylindrical speaker that lives in our kitchen and is our "personal assistant".  Here is a clip of what Alexa is all about:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkOCeAtKHIc

We immediately started trying her out.  Alexa was inundated from requests from our kids.  "Alexa, what is the weather?", "Alexa, how much is 2+2?", "Alexa, do you speak Japanese?" were the first questions she received.  We found other ways for Alexa to help us by adding to our shopping list, "Alexa, add ice cream to the shopping list" and adding timers for dinner.  What a helper!

Then, Alexa became our DJ, which totally changed my relationship with Alexa.  I finally welcomed Alexa into our home with open arms when she became musical.  We had dance parties in the kitchen.  I preferred Duran Duran and other 80's hits, while my son and daughter requested "YMCA" and Pitbull's "Pause". I was able to play classical music during dinner time and school our children on the intellectual benefits of listing to Bach.  Yep, it was all pretty perfect. Until I started thinking, Is Alexa good for us?

The dark side of Alexa....

I may be reading too much into it, but Alexa may be bad for society and feminism in particular.  I have noticed our household becoming a cacophony of directives as we barrage Alexa with orders.  It got me thinking, "Why does Alexa have to be female?"  Like Siri, Alexa has a smooth, yet competent voice.  It is pleasing and well-controlled.  However, it can be irritating because you almost feel that Alexa is saying "your wish is my command", "anything you need, I can do for you".  That's fine, but what kind of precedent is this setting for the wife/mother in this house?  Is a woman subservient to her family?  Worse yet, am I being replaced?  

Mothers and wives are used to taking care of details for families.  I am lucky that my husband does a great job and is a true partner in managing our household.  Now, I don't mind one bit that Alexa is shouldering the burden, but the barking of orders to a female voice has me a bit concerned. I think we have lost some decorum in this household when I hear "Alexa, do this", "Alexa, play this".  This week, I even mentioned the fact that we're losing our manners concerning our request because of Alexa.  Now, my husband and kids actually thank Alexa for her assistance.  Our son even said "I love you, Alexa" the other day.  Awww.  Appreciation for Alexa and women in general!

I am planning on writing Amazon as I feel that Alexa could very easily have a male voice and be just as effective.  My vote would be for the Echo to sound like Colin Firth.  I could totally be down with that.  "Colin, what time is it?"...answer "12:00 noon, Elizabeth, and you look smashing today".  Yeah, that would be MY kind of Echo.

Teaching Like a Writer

I have been teaching English at our local community college for 8 years.  I have taught students about writing for so long, but in that time, I have not written anything substantial on my own.  Now, writing on a regular basis has brought a rejuvenation of my teaching practices.  It has informed my teaching; bringing a spirit and substance to what was just becoming a rote process.

Process.  Process matters.  Being in the moment with my students matters.

Writing has given me the gift of empathizing with my students about how hard writing can be sometimes.  I was doing a lecture on the impact of conclusions---how do you end a story?  And, I was able to commiserate with them on a deeper level.  I told them about how I agonize about the endings of my stories I write or even these blog posts.  I was able to demonstrate to my students that I am part of their community.

Every semester, I tell the students in my classes that "we are a community of writers".  I tell them I want to show them how to love writing--not just the "eat your vegetables" kind of writing where it's good for you to do it, but the kind of writing that invigorates the soul.  I talked a good game, but did I feel it?  Not really.  Not authentically.  

By writing often, I actually joined the writing community in my classes this semester.  I am writing with my students- right along with them- as we do in-class writing prompts.  I share what I write. I get nervous. I laugh at the jokes I attempt to make.  I have fun.

My colleague and dear friend always encourages me to "show, not tell".  It's kind of a mantra for us as teachers.  So, you will see an assignment I have written with my students below.  The assignment is to write a story surrounding your favorite song.  Now, every semester, students complain, "But, I don't have a favorite song".  Yet, they come up with magic for their final work.

Here's my attempt at our favorite song story assignment.  I hope you'll find the magic in it.

"Autumn Awakening on a Thunder Road"

"Why did they leave me?" I said to myself in the backseat of our car.  We were driving home on a winding upstate New York country road after having just left my sister and brother at college for the first time.  It was a beautiful day and the autumn leaves were in full abundance.  I didn't care.  I was an only child now.  Don't get me wrong. I loved my parents, but I wasn't used to going it alone.  Who would I get in trouble now?  My brother was gone and he gave me so much material for my brand of little sister tattling hijinks!  I was inconsolable.

As I was wallowing in my tears, a song came on the radio.  This was a different song than any other I had heard in this car.  You have to understand, Dad was the Lord of the Radio.  There was no way I was listening to MY music on a road trip.  It was 50's music or maybe some Neil Diamond/Barbra Streisand/Neil Sedaka cassettes.  Absolutely no Duran Duran.

So, this song was different.  I didn't comment or even make any sudden moves.  My parents were in deep conversation, so my dad didn't realize what had come on the radio during his reign.  I sat back and listened Bruce Springsteen for the first time sing "Thunder Road".  If you haven't heard the song, it is about a young man encouraging a woman to set out on the road for new adventures and break from the past.  A few lyrics stood out to me as I heard this song:

"You ain't a beauty, but hey, you're alright.  And, that's alright with me."

You have to understand.  I was 13 years old when I first heard this song.  I was a brace-face with majorly big hair.  There was no way I felt pretty, so this lyric gave me hope that I might have a boyfriend someday....

"There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away....they scream your name at night in the street.  Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet."

Wait!  Not only was I going to be pretty, but boys would be screaming my name in the streets and wailing?  And, I would ignore their pleas because I was going to be so smart?  This is the kind of future I wanted.  My soul soared at the thought!

"It's a town full of losers and I'm pullin' out of here to win"

OK, this line must be what all teenagers sing at one point or another in those years of angst.  I used to chant these lyrics when things did not go my way or I had a bad break-up in high school.  However, I feel very differently about my hometown now and count myself very lucky to have grown up in such a great place.

The song was over.  I was having very warm and happy feelings about Springsteen and all he had to say.  After catching the last bit of the song, my father had another impression.  "That's music for the tone deaf," he announced.  "That guy couldn't carry a tune if his life depended on it."  I reminded my dad of that quote the other day and he said, "I never said that.  Springsteen is an artist.  He's the Tony Bennett of his generation."  I don't know about Tony Bennett, but my dad did have a change of heart.

Springsteen put into words all of those fervent and fierce feelings I couldn't explain.  His artistry made my life tenable during those tumultuous teenage years.  I interpret the meanings differently as I grow older, but sentiments of his songs are indelible---kind of like looking at old pictures in a photo album.

I know it is very difficult to pick a favorite song. I have several.  But, this song had such a strong impact that I knew I had to include it on my all-time favorite list.   

(This is not the best conclusion.  See!  Endings are hard!!!)

Compartments

I was thinking of the movie, Dirty Dancing the other day.  My favorite line from that movie is when Johnny Castle says, "Nobody puts Baby in the corner".  OK, so no one puts Baby in the corner, but does he put her in a compartment?

Before you think I am some weird person who advocates for putting women in boxes, let me clarify.  Compartmentalization has been on my mind as of late.  More specifically, how do we compartmentalize our lives?  I think that most of us share information with each other using compartmentalized thinking.

For example, I have a friend I like to consider my aggression-friendly zone.  With her, I can rant and rave and call her every name in the book.  And, get this... it's OK.  More than OK, she gives it right back to me.  We laugh like crazy when we make these remarks because they are just so downright evil.  However, neither one of us is offended.  Interesting!

My brother has a similar compartment.  He is the one with which I can share a perverse sense of humor.  Again, I call him the most vicious of monikers and he does the same to me.  We share a love for slapstick and bawdy humor.  I almost blew a gasket laughing when I watched Superbad with him for the first time.  We also talk music and share a deep love of Bruce Springsteen.

With my sister, it is fine to talk about motherhood and career ventures.  She is a great listener and provides solid advice when it comes to workplace issues and work/family balance.  However, discussing Horrible Bosses or another crazy movie would not be in her wheel house.  She is pretty proper and would shun those hilarious, yet disgusting jokes.

I usually play within my boundaries.  I have unconsciously assigned compartments to pretty much everyone in my life.  I am very open, yet I stick to safe topics with people just to make my life easier.  However, sometimes I like to break free of these conventions and go out of my comfort zone.

As I said before, I am an open person---perhaps to a fault sometimes.  Now, I am not the TMI (too much information) person that shares uncomfortable and inappropriate information with people.  I am more of the unguarded sort who will tell you things that guarded folks would call "private".  I share this information at times to gather more research and get perspectives on life concerning issues I find perplexing.

So, I went out of my comfort zone the other day and talked to someone outside of the compartment in which I put them.  I shared information about my son that I do not usually share with people who are not close to me.  Here was the situation:  I had a terrible day with my son.  Days off of school are usually pretty difficult for my little guy because he has autism.  He is far more comfortable and relieved when he has a rigid schedule to follow.  So, without a schedule, life can be a little chaotic.  Ironic, huh?  Most people are tearing their hair out because of their busy schedules.

Anyway, on that day, I headed to a meeting for work and my nerves were raw from some epic meltdowns my son had earlier in the morning.  I was not my normal, cheery self.  I arrived as a tattered soul to that meeting.  One of my colleagues looked at me and said, "Are you OK?".

My response was not typical.  Usually, I would say "Oh, I'm just fine" and go about my masquerade.  But that day, I talked.  Compartments, be damned!  Or, maybe I was just too tired to put up the walls.  I said exactly what was on my mind to someone I don't know very well.  I replied, "My son has autism and we had a really tough morning.  I am just so tired".  The meeting began quickly after I unpacked that statement.  There was no time for my colleague to respond to such a declaration.

All through the meeting, I was ruminating---why did I say that to her?  What the hell was I thinking?  I don't need to share that much.  My TMI was pretty much all I could think about throughout the meeting.

After the meeting, my colleague said to me, "Let's go to lunch".  My first reaction was, I don't want pity.  However, she grabbed my hands and said "My son has autism, too.  I have some resources that you might find helpful and I'd love the opportunity to talk with you."  WOW!  I couldn't believe my ears.  No pity, no judgment,  Just complete understanding.

So, with that story I leave you this thought.  Break out of that compartmentalized thinking.  Share information you think might be private or not interesting to the person.

I agree that sharing is a risk.  You may find that you share outside of the compartment and get smacked in the face with some sort of unpleasantness. However, I think that the benefits far outweigh the risks and it may give people a chance to surprise you, or even better, help you.

A Sunday Kind of Love

I was watching a movie the other day and Etta James' classic song "A Sunday Kind of Love" was featured.  I have always loved this song.  However, it made me think...what is a Sunday kind of love?

Sundays are sacred in our house.  I have always loved them and they are probably my favorite day of the week.  Even as a child, Sundays meant peace, no schedule, freedom and comfort.  And, they always ended with a lovely meal- mostly pasta and meatballs.  Hey, we are Italian!

Anyway, a Sunday kind of love got me thinking- what characterizes the other kinds of love on the other days of the week?  Etta never addresses this question in her timeless tune.  Etta, what is a Monday kind of love?  I wish I could ask her.  It looks like I am left to my own devices, so here they are- my interpretations of the types of love representing each day of the week:

Monday:  "A Dreary Kind of Love"

Mondays are the worst.  I mean, really?  Does anyone look forward to Mondays?  I would lay in my bed on Sunday nights and think what kind of major disease can I think up to get me out of school tomorrow?  So, a Monday kind of love???  I think it's dreadful.  The kind of love that is forboding- the one that no one in their right mind looks forward to.  Some optimists might think a Monday kind of love could signify a beginning; a hopeful kind of love.  Nope.  Like the Carpenters song, a Monday kind of love will "always get me down".

Tuesday:  "A Meatloaf and Potatoes Kind of Love"

Now, don't get me wrong.  I love meatloaf and potatoes.  And yes, they are comfort foods.  But, meatloaf and potatoes are well known for being a mundane sort of dish.  Everyday fare.  So, a Meatloaf and Potatoes Kind of Love would be just OK- no spark, no life.  Ordinary.

Wednesday:  "A It's Half Over Kind of Love"

What do you think of when you hear Wednesday?  I think of the week is half over!!  Wednesdays are the day when you breath a sign of half-relief; I got through something to get to something better.  We're almost through with the week.  On Wednesday, you are always looking ahead- looking beyond the week at hand.  So, a Wednesday kind of love is one of waiting.  You are waiting for something better to come along.

Thursday:  "An Almost Blissful Kind of Love"

It's Thursday.  You're almost there!  The week is almost over, but bliss eludes you.  It is still two days away!  I think a Thursday kind of love is one of reaching and hoping for that perfect bliss.

Friday:  "A Fleeting Kind of Love"

Fridays are fleeting.  You are so excited it's Friday that the day just kind of flies by.  Friday is a pausing point for Saturday's joy.  A Friday kind of love is fun, and certainly a relief.  But, it's still a rushed version of love.  Let's get this over with for Saturday to arrive.

Saturday: "An Impetus Kind of Love"

Saturday night's alright for a fight, so says Elton John.  Saturdays are wild and full of abandon.  However, they often leave you with bags under your eyes wondering just what the hell happened.  A Saturday kind of love is a flash of light, then bewilderment.  Saturdays are thrilling, but leave you lonely.

Ah, but Sunday...

A Sunday kind of love is different from all of the rest.  It is comfortable, fun, and easy with a sense of deep belonging.  Sundays are filled with warmth, no obligations and a rejuvenation of your spirit.  It is the day where you sink into that warm pool of good prose; enveloped in words you wish you had written.  Sunday is home.  

If you have lived a long time, you have probably experienced one or more of these types of love.  In fact, relationships that last a long time can certainly fluctuate between types.  There are days where you definitely have that Tuesday kind of love and you wish for the days when you had that Saturday kind of love from the past.  However, if your days of Sunday kind of love outnumber the rest, you are a lucky person.

On a side note- I want to thank my husband, Mark, for our Sunday kind of love.  I love you!

Fearless

There was a time when I was a fearless writer.  It's funny because it seems so long ago.  In high school, I was the editor of my high school newspaper.  I took my job so seriously.  One of the editorials I wrote in my local newspaper at the time was so controversial, we had a brick thrown at our beautiful picture window.  It smashed the window and made almost a Spiderman imprint on it.  At the time, I remember thinking, "Wow, I'm so edgy.  I've arrived."  My parents did not have the same opinion.  They were extremely mad.  I was amazed because I thought I even soft-pedaled the piece.

When I was senior in high school, Governor Mario Cuomo came to town.  I muscled my way into a press conference to interview him for my high school newspaper.  Who did I think I was?  I didn't care.  I was on such a high in that press conference room.  I was standing side by side by major journalists in our area.  One even asked me to go for a drink after the press conference.  I said "no" in a very demure fashion.  There was no way I was going to out myself as a 17 year old.

In college, I was more of a Barbara Walters type of journalist.  Again, I was the editor of our college newspaper.  I stayed up all night editing our newspaper.  I would even drive through the night to bring the paper to our printer; which was close to an hour away from campus.  I was the one who interviewed the famous people that came to campus.  I had such a blast interviewing these celebrities.  Again, no fear.  I pushed and pushed to get close to them, get the credentials and get the interviews, I was the first in line and always got the interview.  It was a thrill to introduce my parents to Chubby Checker.  And, even though I was appalled at some of the invitations I got while interviewing certain 'gentleman', I remember fondly how I reminded them that they had wives, girlfriends or children back home.  I did my homework ahead of time.  No one was fooling me.  Fearless.

Fast forward to the present.  It took me 3 months to start this blog. Why? Because I have not written in a long time.  I was, quite frankly, scared to put words on the page.  It amazes me because I identified myself as a writer for so long.  It is my passion and I tell that to my students.  But, why the stage fright?

I think it may be because I teach writing now.  I have gotten far too technical and am afraid to expose myself so much to the public.  Before, I had nothing to lose.  Now, I am older and fear that I have everything to lose.  Ah, such is life, right?

I have to write.  It is my goal to reclaim part of myself that I have kept silent for so long.  So, here we go.  I have just purchased a book that includes over 800 prompts.  I am going to let this book lead me into writing again.  I am very excited, yet scared at the same time. I am channeling my 17 year old self.  She never let fear stop her, and neither will I.

Here we go....