I am certainly more relaxed going to the Phans than I was in the beginning. The family is more relaxed as well. Eight o’clock in the morning seems early on a Saturday to have a lesson, but the family is up and ready for me when I come. The first thing May does is spread out the large, woven green and white mat on the carpet as the classroom. We sit in a circle on it and someone retrieves the envelope with all the teaching props I have left over the last few weeks. Tomtom brought me some notices from his school to translate for him. One was inviting mothers to join a walking club. Nawmu, the neighbor, who speaks the most English, asked why the mothers walk. I explained that it is for fun and conversation, and to make friends. Nawmu, May, Jon, his wife Kueh, and Tomtom joined the circle. I noticed the illusive grandmother sitting in a plastic lawn chair in the kitchen. She looked like she was conversing with someone who may have been sitting in the part of the kitchen that I couldn’t see. When those in the circle noticed me looking at her, Jon got up and guided her to a bedroom. They keep her away from sight, which may not bother her because she doesn’t seem to have sight. I got the feeling that she was talking to an imaginary person.
I asked the children if they had homework. They all said they didn’t, which was a relief to me, since most of it is math that is way over their heads. Both Tomtom and Noah have fractions for homework, but to start learning fractions with exercises that are clearly for students who already have a foundation in fractions seems impossible. I have been doing a lot of the homework for them, because there is not enough time to help them understand a problem like this one:
Mark thinks 1/6 is larger than 1/3 but Barbara disagrees. Who is right? Draw it, write it in mathematical terms, explain it in a sentence, and write it in a different way in mathematical terms.
This was one of Tomtom’s fourth grade worksheets, of which he had four to do last Monday. It is way too much for ESL students who come from a completely different system and have not learned the basics of fractions. I drew a circle and divided it into thirds, colored in one third, then drew another circle and divided it into sixths and colored in one sixth. But to complete the homework would have taken hours of paring down words to try to explain. With their limited English and my limited experience teaching English, I don’t think we would have been able to get very far. I feel guilty supplying the answers with my brief explanations, but I hope they will absorb how to do fractions as they are absorbing everything else being in San Diego, California, United States of America, having just recently been uprooted from a Burmese refugee camp in Thailand, which is all these children have known.
Last night I printed out free flashcards from the internet for teaching English. Some of them were actions, like sleeping, washing hands, taking a bath, etc. Others were opposites, like dull/sharp, thin/thick, rich/poor. One of the action flashcards depicted a boy in shorts and shirt with a backpack on. I was going to say he is walking, but when I showed it, they all said “Going to school.” The character certainly didn’t look at all like they do, nor does it look like any of their classmates who go to school. It looks more like an English schoolboy in shorts with a book bag. How did they know this was a boy going to school? It must have been the backpack, or maybe they saw a picture like this in the camp.
When we were going over opposites, I showed the picture of Pretty: a blond girl with big blue eyes. On the other side was Ugly: a picture of a woman who looked like a typical cartoon witch with pointy chin and nose, replete with warts and squinty eyes. I asked everyone if they thought Pretty was pretty. They were reluctant to answer. Kueh squeezed Jon’s arm and laughed. Is blonde and blue eyes pretty to them, when they all have dark hair and brown eyes?
After we went through the two sets of flashcards, Kueh and May wanted to write everything down. It took a while to go through all the flashcards and help them write down all the words. As we were finishing that up, Nawmu said she had to go to pray with her friend. She is Buddhist. I wondered if the Baptist missionaries didn’t make it to her camp.
As she was leaving, the grandfather and his three granddaughters came in. We expanded the circle to include them. The youngest girl played, but the other two girls and the grandfather wanted to write everything down that I had written on the backs of the flashcards. While they were doing this, I passed a stack of the flashcards out to the Phans and had them drill each other. I’m working hard on getting them to speak in full sentences, not just answering with one word. As they were going through the cards, I saw that they were looking at what they had just written down in their notebooks, so I reached across the mat and closed their notebooks. They laughed.
Before I left, May asked her son to speak to me about going to the library, since last time I said that I would take them there. Her English is not as good as the schoolchildren. I explained that the library was too far away to walk and that it didn’t open up until 9:30. Someone mentioned the ocean. Only Tomtom and May had ever seen the ocean. I think Tomtom’s class must have gone on a fieldtrip, and May went along. Jon and Kueh were very excited to go to the ocean. In the end, we arranged that next Saturday, I would come with someone else and two cars, so we could take eight of them to the ocean. It is going to be exciting taking them to the pier, so they can see the surfers, the beach and the endless water. I’m going to have to find a car seat for Kay Lee, who is only four years old. The grandfather is going to come, along with two of his daughters. The oldest, who has always been the most outspoken and assertive, pouted and adamantly held her ground that she was not going to go. She is the one who hits her grandfather with impatience when he says the wrong thing. She bosses her sisters around and seems very self-assured. I was a little surprised to see her almost cry when asked if she wanted to go. Maybe there has been enough change in her life. Getting in a car with me and going away from what is now familiar to her may have been overwhelming.
By the time I got my shoes on and said my goodbyes, I noticed a couple of the boys had gone down to the parking lot and were hanging around near my car. One of them handed me my binder that I had forgotten in the house. The other gave me a bag of bananas and two liters of Coke. I refused at first, but decided that it might be rude to refuse their gifts. They have so little, yet they wanted to give me something. I was honored but felt a little awkward. Next week, I’ll give them the gift of the ocean.
Sunday, February 06, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Food for Thought
As I drove to the Phans’ apartment, I took the time to glance at the colorful neighborhood of City Heights. It certainly is diverse in its population and types of storefronts, with Vietnamese markets, Ethiopian restaurants and Mexican tortilla shops all nestled side by side. Not many restaurant, drugstore or supermarket chains are there, which gives way for smaller enterprises to take root.
I turned onto their street and parked near their building. I entered the apartment and promptly took off my shoes. A young Burmese woman was sitting on the couch. She said she was a neighbor, and was here for English lessons. “Welcome!” I said. Since her English was considerably better than the rest of the family, I could communicate some important things through her. At least I hoped what I said got to the intended person. She explained that she was Karenni, not Karen and that the kids only knew how to speak Karen, not Karenni, or Kaya. The mother, May, could speak both, so when I said something, Nawmu, the neighbor, would translate it into Kaya for the mother, who then translated it into Karen for the boys. I hoped Tomtom understood when I said that I had contacted his school so he did not have to take the assessment. I did not know about Karenni, and now I feel like my world has expanded. The Karenni state was never fully incorporated into British Burma, and has always tried to claim its independence. Not only do I now know about the tribe, I am proud to know someone of the tribe.
I noticed a new, large woven mat on the floor and sat down on it cross-legged. Sonny, the ninth-grader, his older brother, Jon and Jon’s wife, Kueh, joined me, as well as Tomtom. May and Nawmu also sat within the circle. Ser, the father, was at his first day of work.
We started with colors. I had brought colored pieces of cardstock and asked them to name the colors. They knew many of them. They didn’t know gold or silver, so I taught them those. I wear gold rings and a silver watch. Kueh, who exudes the energy of a young woman who is interested in style, was wearing a gold ring and a silver bracelet. A trick is to get them to answer in complete sentences, like “The color of the paper is yellow,” instead of just saying “Yellow.” But we’re getting there. I went around the circle and asked them what color was their shirt, etc. Then I had them ask each other what color someone in the circle was wearing.
Kueh spread some glossy junk mail in the center of the circle. Most were food ads. I asked them to name as many things as they could. I then had them identify the colors. I would say, “What is green?” or “What color is the lettuce?” None of them knew what a pear was, and had never heard of peanut butter. After they seemed to have food down, I asked them what they like to eat for dinner. I started with Sonny and it sounded like he said, “Mink.” He is very enthusiastic and has a smile that involves his whole face, which is wonderful. I asked, “Mink?” and he confirmed it, smiling like he was talking about the best dinner he had ever had. I spelled it out: “M-I-N-K” and he emphatically nodded yes. Well, I thought, maybe they sell mink in Asian markets. But don’t minks live in the north? I then spelled it out on a corner of one of the ads and he exclaimed, “No! M-I-L-K!” “M”s and “L”s and “R”s are hard to distinguish. After we got that cleared up, I asked the next person, Nawmu, the neighbor, what she likes to eat for dinner. She said, “Frog.” I asked, “Frog?” and imitated a frog. She said “Yes!” So maybe they don’t sell mink in Asian markets, but I guess they sell frog. May said she likes to eat mama for dinner. I again was confused and repeated the word. She confirmed that that is what she meant, then got up and went to the kitchen to get a package of ramen that has the brand name “Mama.” The rest of the answers were tame, like fish, rice and noodles.
As we were playing our language games, the two youngest children and Nawmu’s young son were running around, yelling and climbing on all the furniture as if the living room was an outdoor playground. This doesn’t bother me. Children’s energy always makes me happy because they seem so carefree. Who cares that there is an English class going on in the middle of the room? They are so into their playful worlds. It was getting darker in the house as evening approached. Sonny placed a desk lamp on the couch, which kept getting knocked over as the little ones jumped on the couch. Every time this happened, Sonny giggled and laughed, and his face would crinkle into his infectious smile. He was having as much fun as the preschoolers.
Tomtom brought out some homework worksheets. He had to solve word problems such as: The team ordered 12 pizzas and ate 8 slices from each. How many did they eat? Draw it, write it as a numerical sentence, write it as a word sentence, and then write it in a different way as a numerical sentence. There were five problems, each with the same instructions. Tomtom did not know fractions, so I showed him how to draw the problems out and how to figure them out. It was time-consuming. All the others tried to interpret what I was saying and work out the problems with him. I found myself getting mad at the teacher for assigning work that was way over Tomtom’s head. I think he is learning a lot, just being in this country and trying to pick up English, that there is no reason why he should do all these problems. He tries very hard, and is fastidious with his work. I want to ask him if he went to school while he was in the refugee camp. Was he exposed to fractions, and word problems? I doubt it. Couldn’t the teacher give him appropriate homework? The problems might be fine for a fourth grader who has grown up here, but is so blatantly not okay for someone like Tomtom.
The two hours passed quickly on the mat on top of the carpet. We played games until it was time for me leave at 6 p.m. I walked to my car parked on the street, which, in the dark takes on a different feeling. There are more men out on the sidewalk. The women and children have gone inside. Unusual aromas wafted from the apartments, marking dinner time no matter what culture, camp or country the cooks were from.
I turned onto their street and parked near their building. I entered the apartment and promptly took off my shoes. A young Burmese woman was sitting on the couch. She said she was a neighbor, and was here for English lessons. “Welcome!” I said. Since her English was considerably better than the rest of the family, I could communicate some important things through her. At least I hoped what I said got to the intended person. She explained that she was Karenni, not Karen and that the kids only knew how to speak Karen, not Karenni, or Kaya. The mother, May, could speak both, so when I said something, Nawmu, the neighbor, would translate it into Kaya for the mother, who then translated it into Karen for the boys. I hoped Tomtom understood when I said that I had contacted his school so he did not have to take the assessment. I did not know about Karenni, and now I feel like my world has expanded. The Karenni state was never fully incorporated into British Burma, and has always tried to claim its independence. Not only do I now know about the tribe, I am proud to know someone of the tribe.
I noticed a new, large woven mat on the floor and sat down on it cross-legged. Sonny, the ninth-grader, his older brother, Jon and Jon’s wife, Kueh, joined me, as well as Tomtom. May and Nawmu also sat within the circle. Ser, the father, was at his first day of work.
We started with colors. I had brought colored pieces of cardstock and asked them to name the colors. They knew many of them. They didn’t know gold or silver, so I taught them those. I wear gold rings and a silver watch. Kueh, who exudes the energy of a young woman who is interested in style, was wearing a gold ring and a silver bracelet. A trick is to get them to answer in complete sentences, like “The color of the paper is yellow,” instead of just saying “Yellow.” But we’re getting there. I went around the circle and asked them what color was their shirt, etc. Then I had them ask each other what color someone in the circle was wearing.
Kueh spread some glossy junk mail in the center of the circle. Most were food ads. I asked them to name as many things as they could. I then had them identify the colors. I would say, “What is green?” or “What color is the lettuce?” None of them knew what a pear was, and had never heard of peanut butter. After they seemed to have food down, I asked them what they like to eat for dinner. I started with Sonny and it sounded like he said, “Mink.” He is very enthusiastic and has a smile that involves his whole face, which is wonderful. I asked, “Mink?” and he confirmed it, smiling like he was talking about the best dinner he had ever had. I spelled it out: “M-I-N-K” and he emphatically nodded yes. Well, I thought, maybe they sell mink in Asian markets. But don’t minks live in the north? I then spelled it out on a corner of one of the ads and he exclaimed, “No! M-I-L-K!” “M”s and “L”s and “R”s are hard to distinguish. After we got that cleared up, I asked the next person, Nawmu, the neighbor, what she likes to eat for dinner. She said, “Frog.” I asked, “Frog?” and imitated a frog. She said “Yes!” So maybe they don’t sell mink in Asian markets, but I guess they sell frog. May said she likes to eat mama for dinner. I again was confused and repeated the word. She confirmed that that is what she meant, then got up and went to the kitchen to get a package of ramen that has the brand name “Mama.” The rest of the answers were tame, like fish, rice and noodles.
As we were playing our language games, the two youngest children and Nawmu’s young son were running around, yelling and climbing on all the furniture as if the living room was an outdoor playground. This doesn’t bother me. Children’s energy always makes me happy because they seem so carefree. Who cares that there is an English class going on in the middle of the room? They are so into their playful worlds. It was getting darker in the house as evening approached. Sonny placed a desk lamp on the couch, which kept getting knocked over as the little ones jumped on the couch. Every time this happened, Sonny giggled and laughed, and his face would crinkle into his infectious smile. He was having as much fun as the preschoolers.
Tomtom brought out some homework worksheets. He had to solve word problems such as: The team ordered 12 pizzas and ate 8 slices from each. How many did they eat? Draw it, write it as a numerical sentence, write it as a word sentence, and then write it in a different way as a numerical sentence. There were five problems, each with the same instructions. Tomtom did not know fractions, so I showed him how to draw the problems out and how to figure them out. It was time-consuming. All the others tried to interpret what I was saying and work out the problems with him. I found myself getting mad at the teacher for assigning work that was way over Tomtom’s head. I think he is learning a lot, just being in this country and trying to pick up English, that there is no reason why he should do all these problems. He tries very hard, and is fastidious with his work. I want to ask him if he went to school while he was in the refugee camp. Was he exposed to fractions, and word problems? I doubt it. Couldn’t the teacher give him appropriate homework? The problems might be fine for a fourth grader who has grown up here, but is so blatantly not okay for someone like Tomtom.
The two hours passed quickly on the mat on top of the carpet. We played games until it was time for me leave at 6 p.m. I walked to my car parked on the street, which, in the dark takes on a different feeling. There are more men out on the sidewalk. The women and children have gone inside. Unusual aromas wafted from the apartments, marking dinner time no matter what culture, camp or country the cooks were from.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
My name is Teecha
I dreaded going to the Phans to tutor them in English. I felt so unprepared and overwhelmed with the unfamiliar situation I had signed up for, that all night I woke up having stress-dreams of possible bad or embarrassing situations that could happen. When it was finally time to actually get out of bed and face the morning, I was feeling like I was starting a new job and had all the anxiety that goes along with that. I have not tutored anyone other than my own children and at times their friends. Why did I sign up for something that was so hard? If I wanted to do volunteer work, why didn’t I sign up for just serving food in a soup kitchen? At least I would be with others and not have to face a foreign situation on my own. I know I will never sign up for soup kitchen work because I have a hard time dealing with the smell of homeless people. It makes me gag.
Before I left the house, I grabbed a handful of pennies and other coins and a packet of sticky-notes. I thought I could at least label all the furniture with the sticky-notes and get them familiar with American coins. But would this be enough to take up two hours? Probably not. I was worried that the scenarios in my dreams were going to come true.
I knocked on the door and both parents greeted with me with large smiles. They moved the old desk into the middle of the living room and set a white plastic lawn chair at it, then brought in a smaller table and set it next to the desk, with a smaller chair. When they asked me to sit at the big desk, it hit me that they were setting up a classroom. That felt wrong, since I was not really a teacher, I wanted to be more of a friend that has something to offer. May, the mother, placed plastic platters of small bananas, grapes, lichis and apples on the desk, then got out her binder from her ESL class. I looked at it and asked her a few questions from it. Tomtom, who will be 10 years old next week, handed me an envelope that was addressed to “The Parents of Tomtom.” I opened it and read it. It was a notice that Tomtom would be given a questionnaire to collect student data. It would not affect his grade and parents could choose to have their children opt out of it. It took a while, but I explained to Sonny, the fourteen-year old son that I would call the school so he did not have to do it. It would only stress him out and would not affect him in anyway so there was no use in him taking it.
Sonny went off with some friends. Tomtom got out a sheet of homework that he needed help completing. He sat on the floor, so I joined him. The big “teacher desk” was not used as we spent the next hour and 45 minutes on the floor, using a kitchen chair that had the back broken off as a makeshift writing surface. Tomtom’s homework sheet had a handful of questions on it. We started at the top, with “What is your full name?” Somehow, in the few months that he has been here, he has learned how to print letters, but he could not sound out words very well. The next question asked when he was born. That was the last of the sensible questions, because the next question was “When did you finish high school?” followed by “How long have you been married?” and “What major events have affected your life?” I wondered why a fourth grader would get these questions. He put “No” on the high school one and the marriage one. I had him put “I went on an airplane” for the major event question. Moving from the refugee camp to San Diego by airplane was a major event. I want to be able to ask him what it was like, but am stuck behind the language-barrier wall. This alone is incentive to continue to help them with English.
I brought out the sticky-notes and started to write “desk” or “table” or “calendar” and asked them what I wrote. Sometimes they knew, and most of the time they did not. Once it was determined what the word was, I asked them to write the word in their own language on the back. They would write it in Burmese and in Karen. Then I directed them to put the note on the item. After that, I asked them, “Where is the table?” We spent a lot of time on the difference between “The table is here” vs. “The table is there.” They took turns writing on the backs of the sticky-notes and putting them where they belonged. Both parents and Tomtom were engaged. It felt more like a game, than formal teaching and it was fun. We also learned “near” and “far.” The father, Ser, said, “Teecha live far.” At first I didn’t catch his meaning, but then realized that he was referring to me. I am Teacher (Teecha). It is kind of fun that they call me that. They all called me that, and I learned that it is my new name.
While we were learning, Noah, the youngest son, and Kay Lee, the little girl, quietly played with the menagerie of stuffed animals that populated their house. There very well could be a moratorium on producing any more stuffed animals in the world. Rich or poor, children seem to have dozens of them.
When we started feeling tired of the sticky-notes game, I brought out the small sack of coins and we counted the money and named the coins. I would grab a handful and ask them how much money I had. Then I would ask them to give me 56 cents, or 29 cents. May, the mother, had the most difficulty with the money. Ser, had the easiest time. I was glad, since he is going to start working soon, at Ranch 99, an Asian supermarket. I have so many questions: did he have a job in the refugee camp? Is this his first job in 15 years? How will he get there since it is across town? What kind of work will he do?
Ser said that tomorrow they go to church. I asked what kind and was surprised when he said Baptist. I said, “Not Buddhist?” I think he said that they were Buddhist before, but now they are Baptist. More questions popped in my head: Did the Baptists go to the camps and convert the refugees? How does Jesus and a Western religion like Baptist fit with them, who first and foremost identify themselves as being part of the Karen tribe, and second call themselves Burmese. How does it all fit together?
By the time we had finished playing with the money, two hours had gone by and it was time for me to leave. I felt like it was a successful morning because not only had we worked on English, but I had become much more comfortable with the family and with myself as “Teecha.” All my dread had dissipated. All my insecurity at not knowing what to do melted as we played the sticky-note game and the money game. I look forward to going back. I want to get my questions answered. Someday.
Before I left the house, I grabbed a handful of pennies and other coins and a packet of sticky-notes. I thought I could at least label all the furniture with the sticky-notes and get them familiar with American coins. But would this be enough to take up two hours? Probably not. I was worried that the scenarios in my dreams were going to come true.
I knocked on the door and both parents greeted with me with large smiles. They moved the old desk into the middle of the living room and set a white plastic lawn chair at it, then brought in a smaller table and set it next to the desk, with a smaller chair. When they asked me to sit at the big desk, it hit me that they were setting up a classroom. That felt wrong, since I was not really a teacher, I wanted to be more of a friend that has something to offer. May, the mother, placed plastic platters of small bananas, grapes, lichis and apples on the desk, then got out her binder from her ESL class. I looked at it and asked her a few questions from it. Tomtom, who will be 10 years old next week, handed me an envelope that was addressed to “The Parents of Tomtom.” I opened it and read it. It was a notice that Tomtom would be given a questionnaire to collect student data. It would not affect his grade and parents could choose to have their children opt out of it. It took a while, but I explained to Sonny, the fourteen-year old son that I would call the school so he did not have to do it. It would only stress him out and would not affect him in anyway so there was no use in him taking it.
Sonny went off with some friends. Tomtom got out a sheet of homework that he needed help completing. He sat on the floor, so I joined him. The big “teacher desk” was not used as we spent the next hour and 45 minutes on the floor, using a kitchen chair that had the back broken off as a makeshift writing surface. Tomtom’s homework sheet had a handful of questions on it. We started at the top, with “What is your full name?” Somehow, in the few months that he has been here, he has learned how to print letters, but he could not sound out words very well. The next question asked when he was born. That was the last of the sensible questions, because the next question was “When did you finish high school?” followed by “How long have you been married?” and “What major events have affected your life?” I wondered why a fourth grader would get these questions. He put “No” on the high school one and the marriage one. I had him put “I went on an airplane” for the major event question. Moving from the refugee camp to San Diego by airplane was a major event. I want to be able to ask him what it was like, but am stuck behind the language-barrier wall. This alone is incentive to continue to help them with English.
I brought out the sticky-notes and started to write “desk” or “table” or “calendar” and asked them what I wrote. Sometimes they knew, and most of the time they did not. Once it was determined what the word was, I asked them to write the word in their own language on the back. They would write it in Burmese and in Karen. Then I directed them to put the note on the item. After that, I asked them, “Where is the table?” We spent a lot of time on the difference between “The table is here” vs. “The table is there.” They took turns writing on the backs of the sticky-notes and putting them where they belonged. Both parents and Tomtom were engaged. It felt more like a game, than formal teaching and it was fun. We also learned “near” and “far.” The father, Ser, said, “Teecha live far.” At first I didn’t catch his meaning, but then realized that he was referring to me. I am Teacher (Teecha). It is kind of fun that they call me that. They all called me that, and I learned that it is my new name.
While we were learning, Noah, the youngest son, and Kay Lee, the little girl, quietly played with the menagerie of stuffed animals that populated their house. There very well could be a moratorium on producing any more stuffed animals in the world. Rich or poor, children seem to have dozens of them.
When we started feeling tired of the sticky-notes game, I brought out the small sack of coins and we counted the money and named the coins. I would grab a handful and ask them how much money I had. Then I would ask them to give me 56 cents, or 29 cents. May, the mother, had the most difficulty with the money. Ser, had the easiest time. I was glad, since he is going to start working soon, at Ranch 99, an Asian supermarket. I have so many questions: did he have a job in the refugee camp? Is this his first job in 15 years? How will he get there since it is across town? What kind of work will he do?
Ser said that tomorrow they go to church. I asked what kind and was surprised when he said Baptist. I said, “Not Buddhist?” I think he said that they were Buddhist before, but now they are Baptist. More questions popped in my head: Did the Baptists go to the camps and convert the refugees? How does Jesus and a Western religion like Baptist fit with them, who first and foremost identify themselves as being part of the Karen tribe, and second call themselves Burmese. How does it all fit together?
By the time we had finished playing with the money, two hours had gone by and it was time for me to leave. I felt like it was a successful morning because not only had we worked on English, but I had become much more comfortable with the family and with myself as “Teecha.” All my dread had dissipated. All my insecurity at not knowing what to do melted as we played the sticky-note game and the money game. I look forward to going back. I want to get my questions answered. Someday.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Meeting the Family
This afternoon I met the Burmese refugee family that I will be volunteering with, to help them learn English. My appointment was at 4 pm. I arrived a few minutes early so that I could find their apartment. They live in a poorer community of San Diego, where over 90 languages are spoken. The apartment complex that I was looking for, on the odd-numbered side of the street, was full of what looked to me to be African immigrants. Children were playing outside, riding tricycles and small bikes, chasing each other and standing around. Women in bright headscarves sat in chairs or swept the landings. People were coming and going. I could not find the number I was looking for, 3557. I asked some of the kids where the building 3557 was, but we could only find 3553, 3555 and 3559. I knocked on the door of #6, which was the apartment I was looking for, but the neighbor poked her head out the window and said no one lived there. She directed me to another building that had lost the last digit of its number, saying there was an Asian family that lived there. I knocked on their door, and it was the wrong Asian family. I finally met the daughter of the apartment manager, who asked her dad about the family I was looking for and he advised me that they had moved out a month ago.
Getting back to my car, I called Jewish Family Service and they had the translator that I was to meet with at the family’s apartment call me. He had given me the wrong address. The family lived in the primarily Asian-occupied building across the street. It was interesting to me that on one side of the street were primarily Asians, and on the other were primarily African immigrants. I climbed the stairs to #6. There were several boys hanging around the doorway, in amongst a mishmash of shoes that were removed before entering the apartment. I took my shoes off, went inside and sat down on the white plastic lawn chair next to the translator. He was working with another American woman, who was having him give directions to the family on how to prepare one of the children for an upcoming operation. When she was done, the translator introduced me to the family. There are two parents and five children. The oldest son, 17, is married and does not attend school. I was struck by his wife’s beauty. She had a happy face that was delicate but with a strong bone structure. The youngest , four, is the only girl. She is enrolled in a Headstart program. I think she will probably learn English the fastest. The other boys are from ages 8 to 14 and are in school.
The family has lived in a Thai refugee camp for 15 years. All the children except the oldest were born in the camp. They have been in San Diego since the beginning of September, so they are four and a half months into their eight-month resettlement program. They are given eight months of welfare, and after that they have support themselves. How difficult it would be to move to a foreign country with my family and get assimilated in a short eight months.
Their apartment was full of used furniture that looked more like Goodwill castoffs. Their clothes were old and ill-fitting. The mother, a very petite woman, was wearing a surfer t-shirt that would have been more appropriate for her hefty husband.
The translator helped us arrange a schedule between us. After the translator left, I stayed and asked some simple questions, like what grades the children were in, how old were they, etc. Towards the end of the hour, the oldest son, Jon, led a very old and sick-looking woman, who didn’t look like she could hear or see into the living room. The mother, May, said, “Grandmother.” She was led outside and down the stairs.
I left at this time, as the family all seemed to be going in different directions. Driving home, I thought of how I could help them with their English. Where do I start? How can four hours a week make much difference?
Getting back to my car, I called Jewish Family Service and they had the translator that I was to meet with at the family’s apartment call me. He had given me the wrong address. The family lived in the primarily Asian-occupied building across the street. It was interesting to me that on one side of the street were primarily Asians, and on the other were primarily African immigrants. I climbed the stairs to #6. There were several boys hanging around the doorway, in amongst a mishmash of shoes that were removed before entering the apartment. I took my shoes off, went inside and sat down on the white plastic lawn chair next to the translator. He was working with another American woman, who was having him give directions to the family on how to prepare one of the children for an upcoming operation. When she was done, the translator introduced me to the family. There are two parents and five children. The oldest son, 17, is married and does not attend school. I was struck by his wife’s beauty. She had a happy face that was delicate but with a strong bone structure. The youngest , four, is the only girl. She is enrolled in a Headstart program. I think she will probably learn English the fastest. The other boys are from ages 8 to 14 and are in school.
The family has lived in a Thai refugee camp for 15 years. All the children except the oldest were born in the camp. They have been in San Diego since the beginning of September, so they are four and a half months into their eight-month resettlement program. They are given eight months of welfare, and after that they have support themselves. How difficult it would be to move to a foreign country with my family and get assimilated in a short eight months.
Their apartment was full of used furniture that looked more like Goodwill castoffs. Their clothes were old and ill-fitting. The mother, a very petite woman, was wearing a surfer t-shirt that would have been more appropriate for her hefty husband.
The translator helped us arrange a schedule between us. After the translator left, I stayed and asked some simple questions, like what grades the children were in, how old were they, etc. Towards the end of the hour, the oldest son, Jon, led a very old and sick-looking woman, who didn’t look like she could hear or see into the living room. The mother, May, said, “Grandmother.” She was led outside and down the stairs.
I left at this time, as the family all seemed to be going in different directions. Driving home, I thought of how I could help them with their English. Where do I start? How can four hours a week make much difference?
Monday, February 15, 2010
Take In
Today was a take-in sort of day. Not the take-in-the-beautiful-weather kind of day; it was a take-in-broken-stuff-to-get-fixed sort of day. I took in the vacuum cleaner, the car and the desktop computer. I also took in three stuffed bags of plastic bags to be recycled, and a couple of bags of old clothes to a charity. My vacuum cleaners have never broken on their own; they catch the mechanical virus that goes around and breaks when at least a couple of other things break. I think the vacuum cleaner likes to have the reputation of being “The Last Straw.” It just wouldn’t be as dramatic if it broke when nothing else was broken. It doesn’t like to be the lone broken thing; it needs company.
When I took in my vacuum cleaner, the salesman showed me three other vacuum cleaners of the same make and model as mine that were brought in today. There is definitely a Eureka vacuum virus going around, if not a general mechanical virus.
Today was a take-it-or-leave-it sort of day. It was a holiday, but wasn’t anything special, since errands ate up the hours. It was not memorable, but it was nice to have the day to do the errands, instead of trying to figure out how to squeeze them around my nine or ten-hour work days.
Today was also a take-care-of-myself sort of day. I went for a run before I took all my broken things in to get fixed. It would have been so easy to put my run off, but I really wanted to take in the beauty of the day and enjoyed running in short sleeves under a cloudless beachy, blue sky. I took into consideration that if I didn’t do my run first, I would not get around to it at the end of all the errands.
That was my day. This is my blog post. Take it or leave it.
When I took in my vacuum cleaner, the salesman showed me three other vacuum cleaners of the same make and model as mine that were brought in today. There is definitely a Eureka vacuum virus going around, if not a general mechanical virus.
Today was a take-it-or-leave-it sort of day. It was a holiday, but wasn’t anything special, since errands ate up the hours. It was not memorable, but it was nice to have the day to do the errands, instead of trying to figure out how to squeeze them around my nine or ten-hour work days.
Today was also a take-care-of-myself sort of day. I went for a run before I took all my broken things in to get fixed. It would have been so easy to put my run off, but I really wanted to take in the beauty of the day and enjoyed running in short sleeves under a cloudless beachy, blue sky. I took into consideration that if I didn’t do my run first, I would not get around to it at the end of all the errands.
That was my day. This is my blog post. Take it or leave it.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Bridging
Lately, I’ve been in a funk for a whole laundry basket-full of reasons, and needed to take action to pull myself out. Last week, I had planned on canceling my membership to the gym that is across the street from where I work because every day I walk out of my office building, the last thing I want to do is walk into another building, even if it is a gym. San Diego’s nice weather waits for me to be done with work, and invites me to enjoy the outside. Problem is, I intend to go for a walk after I get home, but once I go inside, there is the newspaper to read, dinner to start and email to check. I turn my back on the nice weather again, but its love for me is unconditional. It waits for me almost every day.
Today, I joined the nice weather and went on an exploratory walk with Scott through a part of town I do not know. I had heard that there are foot bridges that cross canyons in the Balboa Park/Banker’s Hill area. Looking it up on the Internet, I found that there are four pedestrian bridges of various lengths and made from a variety of materials. We mapped out our route and headed to the north end of Balboa Park. As we pulled onto a side road, we noticed a sign that said, “Marston House.” We could see a huge craftsman mansion lounging lady-like with skirts of green lawn encircling it. The path to the footbridge offered glimpses of the property that dipped down into the valley where Hwy. 163 cuts through. The footbridge, built in 1946, spans the freeway, whose relentless whooshing noise diminished the beauty of the neighboring hills. Crossing the bridge, we followed a well-cared-for trail that winds up the hill to a street set with squatting mansions. We walked around, admiring the huge houses and found another path that led back down to the trail. The homes were beautiful, but the residents probably don’t take advantage of their expansive yards and gardens because of the relentless noise coming from the freeway. They must be completely indoor-type of people. The bridge itself was the only bridge of the four we visited that did not have anyone on it. It seemed somewhat lonely. The website that I got the information on it said, “It is advised to avoid crossing this bridge at night due to its isolation.”
We crossed back over the solitary bridge and made a detour to get a closer look at the Marston house. Its carriage house had been turned into a gift shop where some overstuffed chairs invited guests to rest. Tables displayed typical gifts one would find in a museum gift shop: fancy stationery, expensive chocolates, handmade tiles, embroidered tea towels and books on the history of San Diego. We found out that we could pay to take a tour of the Marston House, or wander the grounds for free. We chose the latter. The lady who worked there volunteered some history on the place. It was built by Mr. Marston, who was very influential in shaping San Diego. He bought the land for Presidio and created a public park out of it. He was instrumental in the birth of Balboa Park, Borrego Springs and Torrey Pines Park. He created the San Diego Historical Society. His last daughter living bequeathed the family home to the city, and now it is a museum. I will tour the inside another day.
The Quince Street Footbridge spans beautiful Maple Canyon. It was a wooden trestle bridge built in 1905 for $805.00 to allow pedestrians easier access to the Fourth Street Electric Railway Line. As we parked, I noticed that there were no signs of a railway line left. The bridge has become a relic of the past. It sustained a lot of wood rot and was scheduled for demolition but was saved by being named a city landmark. Mr. Marston would have been proud. With the new designation came $250,000 to restore it. Now it is a solid structure, sure to last another hundred years. Approaching it, I noticed a couple sitting in the center, talking. They had a view of the verdant canyon 60 feet below.
A path meandered past thick-trunked palm trees. The canyon sucked up the recent downpours and pushed out long, green stalks of delicate grass.
I assumed the couple sitting in the center of the solid bridge was enjoying a romantic closeness, in the space between two city hills, and enjoying their relative privacy. Walking closer, I could hear that their words were not soft, and the look on the man’s face was hard. They were trying to work something out or end it. They came to the bridge to argue or to break up. They were suspended between being in a relationship and not. Would they part each going in a separate direction on the bridge? Would they each reach a different side, a different conclusion? Would the bridge forever symbolize the split, instead of what it was intended to do, and that is to join? I was filled with these questions as we walked a few blocks to the next bridge, the most spectacular or all.
The Spruce Street Suspension Bridge is hidden away and cannot be seen from the street. It sways as you walk across it, being that there is no support underneath and is suspended from a couple of thick, braided cables. An engineer named Edwin Capps designed it in 1912, almost a hundred years ago. Its grandness looks a little out of place now, since its purpose of helping pedestrians reach the rail line easier is obsolete. Here it is, like a princess choosing to settle in a village of commoners. Just stepping onto it brings gaiety, as it sways and bounces with every step. Another couple was on the bridge. They were standing in the center, embracing and enjoying the view of Kate Sessions Canyon, surrounded by lush hills and topped with interesting homes. The couple looked into each other’s eyes, smiling. It felt like he was going to pull a ring from his pocket and offer it to her right there. We scooted past them, not wanting to invade on their special moment. As we turned around to cross back, they were heading off the bridge, arm in arm, and smiled as Scott and I jumped on the bridge to make it bounce more.
The last bridge on our tour was the Vermont Street Footbridge that takes people from the Trader Joe’s shopping plaza in Hillcrest to the University Heights neighborhood. It didn’t look all that interesting, spanning busy Washington Avenue, yet several people were crossing it. The steel structure was built in 1995 to replace the rotted wooden one that was built in 1916. We walked across it, and as we did, we noticed that the bridge walls were embedded with quotes on panels of blue glass. The cement had definitions of “bridge” imprinted in it. There is bridge, like what we were walking on, the bridge of a ship, the bridge of a musical instrument, the bridge of the nose, the bridge of glasses. In the center of this bridge, right over the noisy street, sat a woman, surrounded by her bags. At first I thought she was resting from shopping, but as we got closer to her, I saw that her bags contained empty recyclables. Her face was buried in her arms. I don’t think she was crying because her breathing did not shake her body. Her solitary figure in that pose was a statue of sadness. Whether or not she was sad was unclear, since I could not see her face, but looking at her made me sad. Was there nowhere else more comfortable to rest than in the middle of a busy pedestrian bridge over a loud four-lane street? Maybe in some way, it made her feel connected. She could feel the vibration of the traffic, she could hear the conversations of the passer-by, she was seen by many. In her mind, this may have made her feel a part of people. I know I am conjecturing a lot. Maybe her load got too heavy at the apex of the bridge and she just stopped to rest. It is possible that if she had been on the isolated Upas Street bridge, the sound of her loneliness would have drowned out the sounds of the freeway and been too much to bear.
We concluded our bridge tour by going into Trader Joe’s and buying some sushi for lunch. My mood had lifted. The walk had bridged the gap between my funk and feeling fine. It was good therapy to be seduced by the nice weather and enjoy the outside air.
Today, I joined the nice weather and went on an exploratory walk with Scott through a part of town I do not know. I had heard that there are foot bridges that cross canyons in the Balboa Park/Banker’s Hill area. Looking it up on the Internet, I found that there are four pedestrian bridges of various lengths and made from a variety of materials. We mapped out our route and headed to the north end of Balboa Park. As we pulled onto a side road, we noticed a sign that said, “Marston House.” We could see a huge craftsman mansion lounging lady-like with skirts of green lawn encircling it. The path to the footbridge offered glimpses of the property that dipped down into the valley where Hwy. 163 cuts through. The footbridge, built in 1946, spans the freeway, whose relentless whooshing noise diminished the beauty of the neighboring hills. Crossing the bridge, we followed a well-cared-for trail that winds up the hill to a street set with squatting mansions. We walked around, admiring the huge houses and found another path that led back down to the trail. The homes were beautiful, but the residents probably don’t take advantage of their expansive yards and gardens because of the relentless noise coming from the freeway. They must be completely indoor-type of people. The bridge itself was the only bridge of the four we visited that did not have anyone on it. It seemed somewhat lonely. The website that I got the information on it said, “It is advised to avoid crossing this bridge at night due to its isolation.”
We crossed back over the solitary bridge and made a detour to get a closer look at the Marston house. Its carriage house had been turned into a gift shop where some overstuffed chairs invited guests to rest. Tables displayed typical gifts one would find in a museum gift shop: fancy stationery, expensive chocolates, handmade tiles, embroidered tea towels and books on the history of San Diego. We found out that we could pay to take a tour of the Marston House, or wander the grounds for free. We chose the latter. The lady who worked there volunteered some history on the place. It was built by Mr. Marston, who was very influential in shaping San Diego. He bought the land for Presidio and created a public park out of it. He was instrumental in the birth of Balboa Park, Borrego Springs and Torrey Pines Park. He created the San Diego Historical Society. His last daughter living bequeathed the family home to the city, and now it is a museum. I will tour the inside another day.
The Quince Street Footbridge spans beautiful Maple Canyon. It was a wooden trestle bridge built in 1905 for $805.00 to allow pedestrians easier access to the Fourth Street Electric Railway Line. As we parked, I noticed that there were no signs of a railway line left. The bridge has become a relic of the past. It sustained a lot of wood rot and was scheduled for demolition but was saved by being named a city landmark. Mr. Marston would have been proud. With the new designation came $250,000 to restore it. Now it is a solid structure, sure to last another hundred years. Approaching it, I noticed a couple sitting in the center, talking. They had a view of the verdant canyon 60 feet below.
A path meandered past thick-trunked palm trees. The canyon sucked up the recent downpours and pushed out long, green stalks of delicate grass.
I assumed the couple sitting in the center of the solid bridge was enjoying a romantic closeness, in the space between two city hills, and enjoying their relative privacy. Walking closer, I could hear that their words were not soft, and the look on the man’s face was hard. They were trying to work something out or end it. They came to the bridge to argue or to break up. They were suspended between being in a relationship and not. Would they part each going in a separate direction on the bridge? Would they each reach a different side, a different conclusion? Would the bridge forever symbolize the split, instead of what it was intended to do, and that is to join? I was filled with these questions as we walked a few blocks to the next bridge, the most spectacular or all.
The Spruce Street Suspension Bridge is hidden away and cannot be seen from the street. It sways as you walk across it, being that there is no support underneath and is suspended from a couple of thick, braided cables. An engineer named Edwin Capps designed it in 1912, almost a hundred years ago. Its grandness looks a little out of place now, since its purpose of helping pedestrians reach the rail line easier is obsolete. Here it is, like a princess choosing to settle in a village of commoners. Just stepping onto it brings gaiety, as it sways and bounces with every step. Another couple was on the bridge. They were standing in the center, embracing and enjoying the view of Kate Sessions Canyon, surrounded by lush hills and topped with interesting homes. The couple looked into each other’s eyes, smiling. It felt like he was going to pull a ring from his pocket and offer it to her right there. We scooted past them, not wanting to invade on their special moment. As we turned around to cross back, they were heading off the bridge, arm in arm, and smiled as Scott and I jumped on the bridge to make it bounce more.
The last bridge on our tour was the Vermont Street Footbridge that takes people from the Trader Joe’s shopping plaza in Hillcrest to the University Heights neighborhood. It didn’t look all that interesting, spanning busy Washington Avenue, yet several people were crossing it. The steel structure was built in 1995 to replace the rotted wooden one that was built in 1916. We walked across it, and as we did, we noticed that the bridge walls were embedded with quotes on panels of blue glass. The cement had definitions of “bridge” imprinted in it. There is bridge, like what we were walking on, the bridge of a ship, the bridge of a musical instrument, the bridge of the nose, the bridge of glasses. In the center of this bridge, right over the noisy street, sat a woman, surrounded by her bags. At first I thought she was resting from shopping, but as we got closer to her, I saw that her bags contained empty recyclables. Her face was buried in her arms. I don’t think she was crying because her breathing did not shake her body. Her solitary figure in that pose was a statue of sadness. Whether or not she was sad was unclear, since I could not see her face, but looking at her made me sad. Was there nowhere else more comfortable to rest than in the middle of a busy pedestrian bridge over a loud four-lane street? Maybe in some way, it made her feel connected. She could feel the vibration of the traffic, she could hear the conversations of the passer-by, she was seen by many. In her mind, this may have made her feel a part of people. I know I am conjecturing a lot. Maybe her load got too heavy at the apex of the bridge and she just stopped to rest. It is possible that if she had been on the isolated Upas Street bridge, the sound of her loneliness would have drowned out the sounds of the freeway and been too much to bear.
We concluded our bridge tour by going into Trader Joe’s and buying some sushi for lunch. My mood had lifted. The walk had bridged the gap between my funk and feeling fine. It was good therapy to be seduced by the nice weather and enjoy the outside air.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
It is the Holiday Season
It is the holiday season; at least that is what the woman in the restroom of The Corner Bakery confirmed to me this morning. After meeting friends for breakfast, I went into the women’s restroom. As I closed the door of my stall a voice from the handicapped stall called out that there was no toilet paper in mine. I thanked her out loud and silently thanked god that I hadn’t sat down yet. The woman went on to say that she was only using the stall to fix her skirt, so when I opened my door, we almost ran into each other. Somehow, by lifting her blouse to adjust a tablecloth-looking Christmas-colored plaid skirt, she exposed her black bra. While in the stall, she told me that she had put red and green food coloring in her hair to look more festive, and that she stands outside and waves to people just to get them to smile. She went on to say that she hoped she didn’t look dirty, because people wouldn’t smile at a dirty person. I tried to remember if she looked dirty, but all I could remember from our brief encounter was her skirt and one of those Maidenform-type bras that look more like armor.
Just then, another woman walked into the restroom, and must have bumped into her, because I heard some apologies spoken. The festive woman again explained that she was just fixing her skirt, and that it was giving her trouble. By this time I was done, and exited the stall. The other woman did not get the warning of no toilet paper, so it was just the seasonally decorated woman and me by the sink. As I washed my hands, she asked me if she looked forty. I turned around and had a good look at her face. I could see that it was streaked with faded red and green food coloring that actually did look more like dirt than anything else. She was a real amateur when it came to sprucing up her hair with food coloring. She was looking at me so intently, that I realized I had not answered her question, which is rude. If someone asks you if they look their age, it is much more polite to say, “No, not at all” right away, then to scrutinize the face for several seconds before answering. So I blurted out “No!” and turned to dry my hands. She then pulled up her blouse again and asked me if she looked pregnant. It looked like she was nine months pregnant, and I could not lie, so I mumbled, “yes, kind of.” She said she had diabetes and that is why her belly looked that way. As I swung open the door, she confided in me that she doesn’t have her period anymore, so it would be embarrassing for people to think she was pregnant. I smiled sympathetically and we wished each other happy holidays.
This evening Scott and I joined some friends at the Ocean Beach Holiday Parade. Ocean Beach has a unique personality and it is all put on display at the annual holiday parade. One of the first groups to march down the main drag was a cluster of people with huge banners that read, "Jesus Lives.” Right behind them was another group of people with a banner that read “Rosie’s Bail Bonds.” It is this kind of juxtaposition of businesses that make the parade, and Ocean Beach, unique. There were the “Race for Dreams Not Drugs” hot-rodders, followed by an unorganized group of girl scouts with their moms, the Drool Team, which is a veterinarian hospital that gets its clients to walk dogs of all sizes, the traditional line of well-cared-for Woodies decked out in Christmas lights, the mayor waving from a convertible while pretty girls flung candy canes to the kids, a gaggle of VWs grid-locking the parade route and the neighborhood health food store clerks pushing shopping carts full of organic oranges that they gave away to the crowd. The local high school showed up with a marching band in full uniform, and a rock and roll band on a flatbed truck, and a huge float that looked like they forgot they were doing a float and threw something together with butcher paper and paint. A church tried to create a live crèche with a baby, three kings, a Jesus, a Joseph, a Mary, a couple of sheep and a real live camel. The camel was not into the Christmas spirit and bucked and pulled at its tether, not caring to walk in a straight line at all. There was the robot giraffe that was almost as tall as the two story buildings, and a group of very creative stilt walkers stumping down the street. They didn’t carry a banner, so I don’t know who they represented. A local elementary school proudly displayed their unicycle team, which literally did circles around their chaperons.
The crowd was almost as colorful as the parade. There was the homeless-looking skateboarder going against the parade traffic, the guy in a full reindeer costume walking with a group of friends, the dogs in Santa hats and reindeer horns, teenagers trying to sell mistletoe, and lots of families and old folks bundled up in bunches on the three blocks that make up the business section of OB and dead-end at the beach. There was barely room to move on the sidewalks, as they were so full of people, lawn chairs and strollers. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, sipping cups of hot chocolate or coffee, cheering and clapping, and relaxed in the local atmosphere that makes Ocean Beach so colorful.
I always look forward to the O.B. Holiday Parade because it marks the beginning of the holiday season.
Just then, another woman walked into the restroom, and must have bumped into her, because I heard some apologies spoken. The festive woman again explained that she was just fixing her skirt, and that it was giving her trouble. By this time I was done, and exited the stall. The other woman did not get the warning of no toilet paper, so it was just the seasonally decorated woman and me by the sink. As I washed my hands, she asked me if she looked forty. I turned around and had a good look at her face. I could see that it was streaked with faded red and green food coloring that actually did look more like dirt than anything else. She was a real amateur when it came to sprucing up her hair with food coloring. She was looking at me so intently, that I realized I had not answered her question, which is rude. If someone asks you if they look their age, it is much more polite to say, “No, not at all” right away, then to scrutinize the face for several seconds before answering. So I blurted out “No!” and turned to dry my hands. She then pulled up her blouse again and asked me if she looked pregnant. It looked like she was nine months pregnant, and I could not lie, so I mumbled, “yes, kind of.” She said she had diabetes and that is why her belly looked that way. As I swung open the door, she confided in me that she doesn’t have her period anymore, so it would be embarrassing for people to think she was pregnant. I smiled sympathetically and we wished each other happy holidays.
This evening Scott and I joined some friends at the Ocean Beach Holiday Parade. Ocean Beach has a unique personality and it is all put on display at the annual holiday parade. One of the first groups to march down the main drag was a cluster of people with huge banners that read, "Jesus Lives.” Right behind them was another group of people with a banner that read “Rosie’s Bail Bonds.” It is this kind of juxtaposition of businesses that make the parade, and Ocean Beach, unique. There were the “Race for Dreams Not Drugs” hot-rodders, followed by an unorganized group of girl scouts with their moms, the Drool Team, which is a veterinarian hospital that gets its clients to walk dogs of all sizes, the traditional line of well-cared-for Woodies decked out in Christmas lights, the mayor waving from a convertible while pretty girls flung candy canes to the kids, a gaggle of VWs grid-locking the parade route and the neighborhood health food store clerks pushing shopping carts full of organic oranges that they gave away to the crowd. The local high school showed up with a marching band in full uniform, and a rock and roll band on a flatbed truck, and a huge float that looked like they forgot they were doing a float and threw something together with butcher paper and paint. A church tried to create a live crèche with a baby, three kings, a Jesus, a Joseph, a Mary, a couple of sheep and a real live camel. The camel was not into the Christmas spirit and bucked and pulled at its tether, not caring to walk in a straight line at all. There was the robot giraffe that was almost as tall as the two story buildings, and a group of very creative stilt walkers stumping down the street. They didn’t carry a banner, so I don’t know who they represented. A local elementary school proudly displayed their unicycle team, which literally did circles around their chaperons.
The crowd was almost as colorful as the parade. There was the homeless-looking skateboarder going against the parade traffic, the guy in a full reindeer costume walking with a group of friends, the dogs in Santa hats and reindeer horns, teenagers trying to sell mistletoe, and lots of families and old folks bundled up in bunches on the three blocks that make up the business section of OB and dead-end at the beach. There was barely room to move on the sidewalks, as they were so full of people, lawn chairs and strollers. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, sipping cups of hot chocolate or coffee, cheering and clapping, and relaxed in the local atmosphere that makes Ocean Beach so colorful.
I always look forward to the O.B. Holiday Parade because it marks the beginning of the holiday season.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Crossed the Finish Line
It is 11:30 p.m. and I just submitted my final assignment (a 12 page paper on Creativity in the Workplace)! The invisible Homework Reminder Raven is no longer sitting on my shoulder, reminding me through every waking hour that I have something due. After perching there for over a year, it has finally taken flight to haunt someone else.
I am not yet relieved, because I can still feel the raven's claws, like phantom pain. I have been sitting at the computer all day and evening, writing that paper. It was almost like being a little kid on a long road trip: with each paragraph that I typed, I would say to myself, "Are we there yet?" Then I would look at the page number and see five or seven, and say to myself, "Not yet. Just a few more pages."
Now I am there, wherever there is. I think it is bed.
I am not yet relieved, because I can still feel the raven's claws, like phantom pain. I have been sitting at the computer all day and evening, writing that paper. It was almost like being a little kid on a long road trip: with each paragraph that I typed, I would say to myself, "Are we there yet?" Then I would look at the page number and see five or seven, and say to myself, "Not yet. Just a few more pages."
Now I am there, wherever there is. I think it is bed.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Arrggghhh!!!
It is 9:00 at night and I have a paper due by midnight. It is the draft of my thesis paper, the 12 page paper due by the last day, which is only 25 days away. My computer is freezing on me and when it decides to unfreeze, it has as much energy to get going as an arthritic dog who is told to go outside.
Being an observer of my life, I step outside myself and tell myself that there are much worse things going on in the world than a lethargic computer. Two major earthquakes have hit Indonesia in the last couple of days and tsunamis have devastated parts of the Samoas.
Yet, my paper is still due. And my computer is limping along. I pray it will last me for another 25 days. Oh, and I also pray for the people in Indonesia and the Samoas.
Being an observer of my life, I step outside myself and tell myself that there are much worse things going on in the world than a lethargic computer. Two major earthquakes have hit Indonesia in the last couple of days and tsunamis have devastated parts of the Samoas.
Yet, my paper is still due. And my computer is limping along. I pray it will last me for another 25 days. Oh, and I also pray for the people in Indonesia and the Samoas.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
One Month To Go
It is September 26th which means I have exactly one month before I graduate. It is getting exciting, like knowing I have just turned the corner of a marathon race and can now see the finish line, faint, in the future.
Last weekend I had hit a wall and had to muster all my energy (psychic, mental and emotional) to write the final paper of my second to last class. I sat at the computer for hours not writing. The words just would not come; my thoughts would not congeal into sentences. It was so draining. The paper was due at 11:59 p.m. Monday night and I submitted it at 11:50 p.m. The next day I started my final class, Leadership Priorities and Practice. When I am done, it will signify a chapter of my life closed.
A week ago, Michelle moved out and went to live in the dorms of UCSC. As scared as she was to make such a huge change on her own, she is doing well. Scott and I are kid-less, at least in the day-to-day sense. And if feels good. One more chapter in my life closed, and that is the day-to-day parenting. It is not so much that I am glad to have the house to ourselves. Michelle was often out with friends, so when she is not here, it is much the same. The difference is I don’t have to worry about her anymore like I did. I don’t have to worry about her making curfew, I don’t have to think about what she eats, if she does her chores, who she is hanging out with, if she is spending too much time on the computer or anything else. It feels less like having more space in the house and more like having more space inside my own head.
Maybe now when I sit to write my final papers there will be more space to think and I can write them quicker.
Last weekend I had hit a wall and had to muster all my energy (psychic, mental and emotional) to write the final paper of my second to last class. I sat at the computer for hours not writing. The words just would not come; my thoughts would not congeal into sentences. It was so draining. The paper was due at 11:59 p.m. Monday night and I submitted it at 11:50 p.m. The next day I started my final class, Leadership Priorities and Practice. When I am done, it will signify a chapter of my life closed.
A week ago, Michelle moved out and went to live in the dorms of UCSC. As scared as she was to make such a huge change on her own, she is doing well. Scott and I are kid-less, at least in the day-to-day sense. And if feels good. One more chapter in my life closed, and that is the day-to-day parenting. It is not so much that I am glad to have the house to ourselves. Michelle was often out with friends, so when she is not here, it is much the same. The difference is I don’t have to worry about her anymore like I did. I don’t have to worry about her making curfew, I don’t have to think about what she eats, if she does her chores, who she is hanging out with, if she is spending too much time on the computer or anything else. It feels less like having more space in the house and more like having more space inside my own head.
Maybe now when I sit to write my final papers there will be more space to think and I can write them quicker.
Friday, September 04, 2009
The End of Summer
Hi and welcome back to my blog. I should welcome myself back. It has been a long absence, full of work, school and some fun spliced in. Since I wrote last May, I have completed 14 units. It feels like a race, but I can’t blame anyone for the hectic schedule except myself. It just seemed that if I had taken a break, or gone at a slower, more reasonable pace, or only attended one school at a time, the end would have never come. It is kind of like getting into a pool of cold water. I can torture myself by going in slowly one body part at a time, or I can take the plunge, feel the shock for a few seconds, and then it is over. Granted, the school thing is not a few seconds; it is a year.
I am in the second to last class and have finished taking two classes at once; doing my electives online at the community college, while concurrently enrolled at Ashford University, which claims their schedule is full time. Even now that I only have to take one class at a time, I can see that it is harder to motivate myself when I have a couple of evenings free. When I know that I have to do homework every night, and there is no choice, then it is easier in a way.
Summer was crazy-busy. There is one thing I can point to that demonstrates how busy I was. It was the travels my 1,000 page Strategic Management text book had to do. I dragged it and others all over the country so that I could study at night after working. It came with me for a week in Sacramento, 4 days in Dallas, 8 days in Chicago, a few nights in South Lake Tahoe and a few days in Tacoma, WA. All this in five weeks! During the summer, my company puts on large institutes. I was an event lead and had to be on the ground in Sacramento, Dallas and Chicago. I also spent 8 days in Orlando, but with a different set of textbooks. It is fun to be out of the office and in a new city, but it requires 12 hour work days. I would finish up, take the elevator to my room, order room service and do homework for 3-6 hours a night.
Scott, Ben, Mikayla and I spent a few nights in South Lake Tahoe together for a short vacation. It was the first time that the four of us had gone somewhere together in a long time, and as Mikayla has pointed out, it is going to be a long time until we can do that again. Mikayla is leaving for Spain for her semester abroad in January, and Ben will be heading off to do his stint in the Peace Corps probably while she is gone. We cherished the time we had together, hiking to a waterfall, parasailing, gambling, and renting a speed boat on the lake so some of us could wakeboard or water ski. Not me…I could not fathom submersing myself in the glacier-fed lake. Give me a year of working full time and going to two different schools full time at the same time and I’ll plunge right in, but when it comes to cold water, I am the one-toe-at-a-time type of person.
There are only 7 more weeks until I am done. So many people ask what I will do when I don’t have homework. The list is long: sleep, catch up on movies I’ve missed, read some good books, get exercise, reconnect with friends and family, check out some volunteer opportunities, and pay attention to some of the paperwork that has grown like weeds on almost all the flat surfaces of our home. Oh...did I mention that I am going to sleep? I also want to go through my pictures (my camera has been full for months and I haven’t had time to upload the pictures), and get back to writing creatively, not just research papers that have to fit into an APA format, have at least 5 references, a title page and thesis statement. Stay tuned…
I am in the second to last class and have finished taking two classes at once; doing my electives online at the community college, while concurrently enrolled at Ashford University, which claims their schedule is full time. Even now that I only have to take one class at a time, I can see that it is harder to motivate myself when I have a couple of evenings free. When I know that I have to do homework every night, and there is no choice, then it is easier in a way.
Summer was crazy-busy. There is one thing I can point to that demonstrates how busy I was. It was the travels my 1,000 page Strategic Management text book had to do. I dragged it and others all over the country so that I could study at night after working. It came with me for a week in Sacramento, 4 days in Dallas, 8 days in Chicago, a few nights in South Lake Tahoe and a few days in Tacoma, WA. All this in five weeks! During the summer, my company puts on large institutes. I was an event lead and had to be on the ground in Sacramento, Dallas and Chicago. I also spent 8 days in Orlando, but with a different set of textbooks. It is fun to be out of the office and in a new city, but it requires 12 hour work days. I would finish up, take the elevator to my room, order room service and do homework for 3-6 hours a night.
Scott, Ben, Mikayla and I spent a few nights in South Lake Tahoe together for a short vacation. It was the first time that the four of us had gone somewhere together in a long time, and as Mikayla has pointed out, it is going to be a long time until we can do that again. Mikayla is leaving for Spain for her semester abroad in January, and Ben will be heading off to do his stint in the Peace Corps probably while she is gone. We cherished the time we had together, hiking to a waterfall, parasailing, gambling, and renting a speed boat on the lake so some of us could wakeboard or water ski. Not me…I could not fathom submersing myself in the glacier-fed lake. Give me a year of working full time and going to two different schools full time at the same time and I’ll plunge right in, but when it comes to cold water, I am the one-toe-at-a-time type of person.
There are only 7 more weeks until I am done. So many people ask what I will do when I don’t have homework. The list is long: sleep, catch up on movies I’ve missed, read some good books, get exercise, reconnect with friends and family, check out some volunteer opportunities, and pay attention to some of the paperwork that has grown like weeds on almost all the flat surfaces of our home. Oh...did I mention that I am going to sleep? I also want to go through my pictures (my camera has been full for months and I haven’t had time to upload the pictures), and get back to writing creatively, not just research papers that have to fit into an APA format, have at least 5 references, a title page and thesis statement. Stay tuned…
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Hike in Mount Laguna
Today Scott, Mikayla and I drove up to Mount Laguna to go for a hike. I planned it because I was feeling suffocated by the city and needed to smell some fresh air that wasn’t tainted with exhaust fumes; I needed to hear some silence that wasn’t ripped apart by cars and dogs; I needed to walk on a path that was unpredictable, and give my feet a break from the endless, flat, planned-out cement.
As soon as I got out of the car at the little Mount Laguna market, it felt like the country air was waiting for me, and embraced me like an old friend. I breathed in deeply to let the scent of plants – or whatever makes up the unique smell of country air – fill my lungs like a medicinal inhaler. After swinging open the old screen door and stepping inside, we all slowed our pace as we could hear our own footsteps on the plywood floor. We browsed the trinkets, snacks and camping supplies until we found the map section. The store was lined with windows, but it was still pleasantly dark inside, protected from too much sunlight by the large overhanging awning that shaded the porch and the dream weavers and other crafts hanging in the window or dustily squatting on the window ledge. The clerk recommended a couple of different hikes for us. We got back in the car and drove a few more miles down a road that ended at a campground.
After putting on sunscreen and each taking a large swig of water, we walked into the campground and found the Big Laguna trail. The meadows were full of purple, white, yellow and red flowers. The grass was still green. Big Laguna had a little water in it that sustained some floating, flowering plants. The vista of the huge meadow was breathtaking. Without shade, the air was hot, which was a welcome relief from the marine layer that has blanketed the city.
Each turn in the path offered a patch of wild white Alyssum, a butterscotch-smelling Jeffrey pine, or a new angle on the flower-filled meadow. The only noise was our loud footsteps, the wind in the trees, or mountain bikers peddling past us. There was an overlying sense of non-noise that, to my city ears, was loud in its own way.
The only part of the hike that made me sad was all the dead mature oak trees. A beetle is killing them all, taking them out execution style, one by one. Their once up-reaching branches looked like they were hanging upside down. Their majestic trunks had turned grey-white from death. Many had fallen, and lay broken along the path.
The hike was longer than we had expected, and being novices, we had not brought water or snacks with us. Mikayla kept us going the last couple of miles by relating to us the best parts of the sixth and seventh Harry Potter books. Scott and I both read them when they came out, but we do not remember the details like Mikayla does.
When we came back to the campground, we found a water pump that had cool water to drink. We rinsed our faces to cool off and returned to the car. All three of us felt tired and rejuvenated from the hike.
I must plan getaways like this more often. Mount Laguna is only an hour east of us.
As soon as I got out of the car at the little Mount Laguna market, it felt like the country air was waiting for me, and embraced me like an old friend. I breathed in deeply to let the scent of plants – or whatever makes up the unique smell of country air – fill my lungs like a medicinal inhaler. After swinging open the old screen door and stepping inside, we all slowed our pace as we could hear our own footsteps on the plywood floor. We browsed the trinkets, snacks and camping supplies until we found the map section. The store was lined with windows, but it was still pleasantly dark inside, protected from too much sunlight by the large overhanging awning that shaded the porch and the dream weavers and other crafts hanging in the window or dustily squatting on the window ledge. The clerk recommended a couple of different hikes for us. We got back in the car and drove a few more miles down a road that ended at a campground.
After putting on sunscreen and each taking a large swig of water, we walked into the campground and found the Big Laguna trail. The meadows were full of purple, white, yellow and red flowers. The grass was still green. Big Laguna had a little water in it that sustained some floating, flowering plants. The vista of the huge meadow was breathtaking. Without shade, the air was hot, which was a welcome relief from the marine layer that has blanketed the city.
Each turn in the path offered a patch of wild white Alyssum, a butterscotch-smelling Jeffrey pine, or a new angle on the flower-filled meadow. The only noise was our loud footsteps, the wind in the trees, or mountain bikers peddling past us. There was an overlying sense of non-noise that, to my city ears, was loud in its own way.
The only part of the hike that made me sad was all the dead mature oak trees. A beetle is killing them all, taking them out execution style, one by one. Their once up-reaching branches looked like they were hanging upside down. Their majestic trunks had turned grey-white from death. Many had fallen, and lay broken along the path.
The hike was longer than we had expected, and being novices, we had not brought water or snacks with us. Mikayla kept us going the last couple of miles by relating to us the best parts of the sixth and seventh Harry Potter books. Scott and I both read them when they came out, but we do not remember the details like Mikayla does.
When we came back to the campground, we found a water pump that had cool water to drink. We rinsed our faces to cool off and returned to the car. All three of us felt tired and rejuvenated from the hike.
I must plan getaways like this more often. Mount Laguna is only an hour east of us.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
My annoying, terrifying, terrifying, annoying day
Last Wednesday was annoying and terrifying squared. It started out first thing in the morning with an MRI on my head and eyeballs to try to detect the illusive reason for migraines. It was an annoying procedure. Going into the MRI tunnel head first is not as bad as feet first because at least it wasn’t as claustrophobic, but the incessant hammering noise, the jackhammer pounding is enough to cause a migraine. It lasted 45 minutes, with the usual pull-me-out-after-half-an-hour and inject me with dye before sliding me back in. It is just one of those medical procedures, that is more annoying than anything. I didn’t even have to get into a humiliating gown. Just put my purse down and slide on in.
I left the MRI center and headed up the 163 North freeway to go to work. A couple of miles before my exit, I noticed that I was following a large truck that was pulling a single-wide mobile home on a flatbed trailer. For some strange reason I noticed the tires on the back of the trailer. They seemed very thin, more like car tires. I kept thinking of them and wondered if there was even a double axle or if the cops would notice something like this and pull the driver over to give him a fixit ticket. I thought about passing the vehicle, but knew my exit was coming up soon, so decided to stay behind. Just as I was wondering about the tires, the one on the back right side broke off and was rolling very fast towards me! I had seconds or less to react, since the tire and my car were approaching a head-on collision. Fortunately my exit was right there and I swerved into it. I was too shaken to notice if the wayward tire hit anyone behind me, but I did notice that the truck kept on hauling fast up the freeway. It was divine intervention that I was drawn to look at – and think about – the tires for so long. I know that if I wasn’t paying attention, the tire and I would have collided.
After work I had an acupuncture appointment. I look forward to the nap I take during the session. This time I happened to share the room with a boy about 12 years old who sat in the recliner, and a young woman who lay on the table next to me. Before I lay down, I put my cell phone on vibrate and slung my purse on a rack next to the bed. The doctor came in and poked me in about 20 different spots, including my head, hands, legs and feet. I settled into a deep, motionless sleep. Acupuncture can hurt. It can hurt when the needles go in, and it usually does hurt if you move the body part that has the needles. Twenty minutes into my hour appointment I was awakened by my phone vibrating. It then vibrated again, and again and again. Someone was trying to reach me and I was lying here immobilized, virtually pinned to the table. Someone called me at least 8 separate times, one right after the other. It had to be an emergency. Something terrible must be wrong. Was it Ben or Mikayla? Scott? Michelle? Did someone have an accident? Did someone die? I was terrified. These nightmarish thoughts hounded me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t call for the doctor. She would never hear me and it would disturb the two other patients. Why was someone calling me over and over? I finally decided to take action. As painful as it was, I reached my left hand over to my right and pulled out all the needles so that my right hand would be free to reach into my purse. I grabbed my phone and looked at the missed calls. They were from Scott. I checked my voicemail and there were no messages. This was puzzling. It must not be an emergency if Scott didn’t leave any messages for me after calling me so many times. I put the phone down and impatiently waited for my appointment to be over. When the doctor came in, she was surprised to see that I had pulled out my own needles from my hand. As soon as I paid, I rushed to the car to call Scott. He said that his phone wasn’t working and every time he dialed, he could not hear it ring, so he thought it must not have gone through. It had, and it had terrified me.
I drove away from the acupuncture clinic jangled. My internet connection had broken at home and I had assignments due for my City College online class. So I decided to go to City College’s computer lab to use the computer there so that I could finish my assignments and submit them. By the time I parked and walked across campus to the lab, it was 7:00. Tired, but determined, I tried the door. It was locked. I could see a couple of people in the room, but got the feeling that the lab was closed. Posted on the door were the hours. The lab closed at 7 p.m. I had just missed it. Hungry and tired, I went home. How can a college computer lab close so early? Just another annoying experience.
I left the MRI center and headed up the 163 North freeway to go to work. A couple of miles before my exit, I noticed that I was following a large truck that was pulling a single-wide mobile home on a flatbed trailer. For some strange reason I noticed the tires on the back of the trailer. They seemed very thin, more like car tires. I kept thinking of them and wondered if there was even a double axle or if the cops would notice something like this and pull the driver over to give him a fixit ticket. I thought about passing the vehicle, but knew my exit was coming up soon, so decided to stay behind. Just as I was wondering about the tires, the one on the back right side broke off and was rolling very fast towards me! I had seconds or less to react, since the tire and my car were approaching a head-on collision. Fortunately my exit was right there and I swerved into it. I was too shaken to notice if the wayward tire hit anyone behind me, but I did notice that the truck kept on hauling fast up the freeway. It was divine intervention that I was drawn to look at – and think about – the tires for so long. I know that if I wasn’t paying attention, the tire and I would have collided.
After work I had an acupuncture appointment. I look forward to the nap I take during the session. This time I happened to share the room with a boy about 12 years old who sat in the recliner, and a young woman who lay on the table next to me. Before I lay down, I put my cell phone on vibrate and slung my purse on a rack next to the bed. The doctor came in and poked me in about 20 different spots, including my head, hands, legs and feet. I settled into a deep, motionless sleep. Acupuncture can hurt. It can hurt when the needles go in, and it usually does hurt if you move the body part that has the needles. Twenty minutes into my hour appointment I was awakened by my phone vibrating. It then vibrated again, and again and again. Someone was trying to reach me and I was lying here immobilized, virtually pinned to the table. Someone called me at least 8 separate times, one right after the other. It had to be an emergency. Something terrible must be wrong. Was it Ben or Mikayla? Scott? Michelle? Did someone have an accident? Did someone die? I was terrified. These nightmarish thoughts hounded me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t call for the doctor. She would never hear me and it would disturb the two other patients. Why was someone calling me over and over? I finally decided to take action. As painful as it was, I reached my left hand over to my right and pulled out all the needles so that my right hand would be free to reach into my purse. I grabbed my phone and looked at the missed calls. They were from Scott. I checked my voicemail and there were no messages. This was puzzling. It must not be an emergency if Scott didn’t leave any messages for me after calling me so many times. I put the phone down and impatiently waited for my appointment to be over. When the doctor came in, she was surprised to see that I had pulled out my own needles from my hand. As soon as I paid, I rushed to the car to call Scott. He said that his phone wasn’t working and every time he dialed, he could not hear it ring, so he thought it must not have gone through. It had, and it had terrified me.
I drove away from the acupuncture clinic jangled. My internet connection had broken at home and I had assignments due for my City College online class. So I decided to go to City College’s computer lab to use the computer there so that I could finish my assignments and submit them. By the time I parked and walked across campus to the lab, it was 7:00. Tired, but determined, I tried the door. It was locked. I could see a couple of people in the room, but got the feeling that the lab was closed. Posted on the door were the hours. The lab closed at 7 p.m. I had just missed it. Hungry and tired, I went home. How can a college computer lab close so early? Just another annoying experience.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
My life as it is now
I appreciate all of you who have checked on my blog and reminded me to write. I realize it's been a long time. My excuse...online classes have kidnapped all of my free time. I am taking 15 units and working full time. I take one five-week class at a time, back-to-back. Each class is worth 3 units. To complicate my schedule even more, I decided to double up classes, so I am taking 2 eight-week classes from the community college. It is complicated to keep track of where I'm at. Next week I will be in week 1 of an 8 week class and week 4 of a 5 week class. Since there is no professor or classroom setting to remind me of what assignments are due, it is completely up to me to keep it all straight.
I just finished an 8 week class on the history of graphic design. Fascinating, because it incorporated history, literature, and music all from a design perspective. The problem was I did not know that I would have to actually do graphic design work. I had to produce 32 different "spreads," each one depicting a particular design style from the past, including characteristics of the style and the main artists. Each spread took me at least 2 hours to do. Since I don't have a graphic design program, I had to do it in Microsoft Word. Anyone who has ever tried to manipulate images and text boxes in Word will sympathize with me. There were also 2 essays due a week, plus the midterm and final. I am so glad that class is done, although it is the only textbook that I plan on keeping so far. It learned so much from an unusual perspective.
The rest of my classes are business classes. There is a lot of work to do for them, but nothing like that graphic design class, which, by the way, was a 100 level class at a community college.
Everyone tells me I am crazy to be taking on so much. I don't doubt it, these people cannot see the light I see at the end of this tunnel full of speed bumps. Every week the light gets brighter. I have a goal to finish my degree by the end of the year and that is what I am going to do. If I had to do this for another semester next spring, I don't know if I could get through it. I figure I can just cram it all in now to get it done faster. It is doable, although it has consumed my life. I have made a decision for 2009 to be the year that all I do, practically, is work and school. And then I will have my life back.
One thing that I am happy about is that I think I found a solution for my migraines. I am seeing a world-renowned acupuncturist. He has assured me that my migraines are going to be less frequent, less intense, and the recovery will be shorter. All of those things have been happening. I had a migraine a couple of weeks ago and took Ibuprofen for it, which took it away. That is amazing! The acupuncturist said I need to sleep more, and not over schedule myself. Well, I am trying to get more sleep and I just have to put the over schedule part on hold, until all my classes are over. He says I have years of sleep to catch up on. That part is fun. I like to sleep, and now I can give myself permission to not do so many things that used to keep me up.
Acupuncture can hurt. I feel like I am Gulliver when I lie there. I feel like the needles are pinning me to the bed. If I dare to move a finger with needles in my hand, pain (or some kind of sensation, not quite pain) jumps up my arm. I have had 14 to 25 needles in me at once. He leaves me for an hour to rest, with the lights off. I usually sleep for 40 minutes and then spend the next 20 minutes trying to relax. I get needles in my ears, forehead, hands, elbows, knees and feet.
I really feel like it is helping. So, in that sense, I feel like I already have my life back.
I just finished an 8 week class on the history of graphic design. Fascinating, because it incorporated history, literature, and music all from a design perspective. The problem was I did not know that I would have to actually do graphic design work. I had to produce 32 different "spreads," each one depicting a particular design style from the past, including characteristics of the style and the main artists. Each spread took me at least 2 hours to do. Since I don't have a graphic design program, I had to do it in Microsoft Word. Anyone who has ever tried to manipulate images and text boxes in Word will sympathize with me. There were also 2 essays due a week, plus the midterm and final. I am so glad that class is done, although it is the only textbook that I plan on keeping so far. It learned so much from an unusual perspective.
The rest of my classes are business classes. There is a lot of work to do for them, but nothing like that graphic design class, which, by the way, was a 100 level class at a community college.
Everyone tells me I am crazy to be taking on so much. I don't doubt it, these people cannot see the light I see at the end of this tunnel full of speed bumps. Every week the light gets brighter. I have a goal to finish my degree by the end of the year and that is what I am going to do. If I had to do this for another semester next spring, I don't know if I could get through it. I figure I can just cram it all in now to get it done faster. It is doable, although it has consumed my life. I have made a decision for 2009 to be the year that all I do, practically, is work and school. And then I will have my life back.
One thing that I am happy about is that I think I found a solution for my migraines. I am seeing a world-renowned acupuncturist. He has assured me that my migraines are going to be less frequent, less intense, and the recovery will be shorter. All of those things have been happening. I had a migraine a couple of weeks ago and took Ibuprofen for it, which took it away. That is amazing! The acupuncturist said I need to sleep more, and not over schedule myself. Well, I am trying to get more sleep and I just have to put the over schedule part on hold, until all my classes are over. He says I have years of sleep to catch up on. That part is fun. I like to sleep, and now I can give myself permission to not do so many things that used to keep me up.
Acupuncture can hurt. I feel like I am Gulliver when I lie there. I feel like the needles are pinning me to the bed. If I dare to move a finger with needles in my hand, pain (or some kind of sensation, not quite pain) jumps up my arm. I have had 14 to 25 needles in me at once. He leaves me for an hour to rest, with the lights off. I usually sleep for 40 minutes and then spend the next 20 minutes trying to relax. I get needles in my ears, forehead, hands, elbows, knees and feet.
I really feel like it is helping. So, in that sense, I feel like I already have my life back.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Ben's Graduation and Letting Go
Ben’s Graduation
Ben graduated December 13, 2008 from UC Davis. He received a degree in International Relations with an Emphasis in Peace and Security in the Middle East and a Minor in Religious Studies. These last four years at college has changed him from a boy with black and white ideas of the way the way the world works to a man with a deep knowledge of the history of the world that has lead to a clearer understanding of how people have created the challenges and complications that we face today.
I had arranged for out-of-town family and friends to stay in the same hotel in Davis for the celebratory weekend. It was a wonderful weekend, a fun reunion with most of the important people in Ben’s life getting together to honor him.
Some of us came in Friday night and we all had a delicious dinner at a Thai restaurant. I really like being out of town with family and friends. Everyone is relaxed and in vacation mode/mood.
The graduation ceremony was at 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. Since it was a winter ceremony, there were not that many people graduating, which made the ceremony shorter and much more pleasant than when thousands of people graduate in the spring. Ben’s house mate and good friend Bob graduated with him. Bob was right behind Ben to receive his diploma. When they crossed the stage, Ben turned around and they gave each other a big high five. We cheered.
Bob’s mother and I planned a luncheon for the families and friends at a local brewery. We reserved a private room. Everything turned out very well. Celebrating two graduates together who have mutual friends, worked out great. I think the graduates liked sharing this special luncheon, so that they did not have to be the sole center of attention and they could both have all their friends there.
Later that afternoon we went back to Ben and Bob’s house and had cake and coffee. That evening, Ben and Bob partied with their friends and the family went out for dinner in Davis.
Letting Go
I lost my cell phone at the mall the night before we flew up to Davis. This was vitally important since everyone was counting on reaching me as they came into town. I have never lost my cell phone before. It was very disconcerting. Scott drove back to the mall to look for it in the parking lot. He asked the security guard about it and I called the store I had shopped in. We scoured the car, and called my number to see if we could hear it ring. No luck. This was just the first of many things that I lost that weekend.
While in the cab going to the airport with Scott, my goddaughter Michelle, and our friend Mary, I called Verizon on Scott’s phone to have all my incoming calls transferred to him. I thought they set this up for me the night before, when I called them to report my phone was missing, but it was not done correctly. Verizon had disconnected my phone service altogether. By the time we got to the airport, I was still on the phone with Verizon. Scott paid the cab driver after he had unloaded all of our suitcases onto the curb. When we reached the check-in kiosk, I was still on the phone. Scott asked me where my suitcase was, and I had no idea. I thought maybe it got left at home, which would have been a problem, since we did not have time to go back and get it. Scott went out to the curb, and there it was, looking very suspicious in an abandoned way. A security guard was standing over it, angry that it was unclaimed and relieved that it was subsequently claimed. I had not thought of my suitcase while on the phone. All I could concentrate on was staying civil with the inept customer service representative. I erroneously assumed that since someone had carried my suitcase down our front steps for me and put it in the cab, that they would also carry it into the airport. I was still recovering from my operation and could not lift anything heavy, so I wasn’t thinking at all about my suitcase. It was a great relief to get it back.
The next thing I lost was my warm winter coat, which I needed in Davis, as the temperature was in the low 40s. Scott and I remember seeing it at the car rental place, but somehow it did not end up in the car. Like my cell phone, it just disappeared. I had to borrow a jacket to stay warm.
Sunday morning we were all getting ready to check out of the hotel and have breakfast in town with Ben. We left our cars in the parking lot of the hotel after checking out and were walking to a breakfast of crepes and coffee when I reached up to my ear and discovered that I had lost an earring. This was a brand new pair I was wearing for the first time. I couldn’t believe I had lost another thing! There was definitely a theme developing here.
When we went back to the hotel to get our cars, I asked the receptionist if I could get a key for the room to look for my earring. In the bedroom, I dropped the remaining earring on the carpet so I could see what the lost one would look like if it was snuggled in the rug somewhere. I said out loud that I wanted my earring back and had a feeling it was there. Sure enough, when I pulled the curtain back and moved the chair, there it was! I was 2 for 4, with having my suitcase and the earring, but not the cell phone or the coat.
On Monday morning, when Michelle and I got in the car to take her to school, I said aloud, “I really want my cell phone to be here.” Just as I was saying it, I slipped my hand between the seat and the console and felt something fist sized, pulled it out, and it was my cell phone!
Three out of four things I had lost had been found: the cell phone, the suitcase and the earring. The only thing that never came back was my coat, which was okay because it was one I had put in the give-away pile a few times, but had taken back because it was a “good” coat.
The theme of loss seemed to play out in an almost absurdly vivid way this weekend. It reflected the feelings I was having about Ben. He is fully grown. His graduation from college signifies that he is on his own now, or as I like to joke, off the payroll. I feel a vague sense of loss. With us being financially involved in his college, I felt like we still had some control, some influence, that he had some accountability to us. Now his life is completely in his control. This is all as it should be. I am so proud of him and know full well that he is going to go on to live a very fulfilling life. He told Scott and me that our obligations to him are over, that we helped him through college, and now he needs to take full responsibility for his life. He is aware that we gave him all we can to launch him into as successful a life as we can. He now has the reigns. I appreciate that he understands this and could verbalize it.
Yet, as proud as I am of him, as much as I know that this is the way it should be, there is still a letting go for me. If the weekend is any reflection on how things will be, I will have to let go, but know that it will all come back, except what I don’t really want. Ben will make his own way, create his life as he desires, but will never be lost from me.
Ben graduated December 13, 2008 from UC Davis. He received a degree in International Relations with an Emphasis in Peace and Security in the Middle East and a Minor in Religious Studies. These last four years at college has changed him from a boy with black and white ideas of the way the way the world works to a man with a deep knowledge of the history of the world that has lead to a clearer understanding of how people have created the challenges and complications that we face today.
I had arranged for out-of-town family and friends to stay in the same hotel in Davis for the celebratory weekend. It was a wonderful weekend, a fun reunion with most of the important people in Ben’s life getting together to honor him.
Some of us came in Friday night and we all had a delicious dinner at a Thai restaurant. I really like being out of town with family and friends. Everyone is relaxed and in vacation mode/mood.
The graduation ceremony was at 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. Since it was a winter ceremony, there were not that many people graduating, which made the ceremony shorter and much more pleasant than when thousands of people graduate in the spring. Ben’s house mate and good friend Bob graduated with him. Bob was right behind Ben to receive his diploma. When they crossed the stage, Ben turned around and they gave each other a big high five. We cheered.
Bob’s mother and I planned a luncheon for the families and friends at a local brewery. We reserved a private room. Everything turned out very well. Celebrating two graduates together who have mutual friends, worked out great. I think the graduates liked sharing this special luncheon, so that they did not have to be the sole center of attention and they could both have all their friends there.
Later that afternoon we went back to Ben and Bob’s house and had cake and coffee. That evening, Ben and Bob partied with their friends and the family went out for dinner in Davis.
Letting Go
I lost my cell phone at the mall the night before we flew up to Davis. This was vitally important since everyone was counting on reaching me as they came into town. I have never lost my cell phone before. It was very disconcerting. Scott drove back to the mall to look for it in the parking lot. He asked the security guard about it and I called the store I had shopped in. We scoured the car, and called my number to see if we could hear it ring. No luck. This was just the first of many things that I lost that weekend.
While in the cab going to the airport with Scott, my goddaughter Michelle, and our friend Mary, I called Verizon on Scott’s phone to have all my incoming calls transferred to him. I thought they set this up for me the night before, when I called them to report my phone was missing, but it was not done correctly. Verizon had disconnected my phone service altogether. By the time we got to the airport, I was still on the phone with Verizon. Scott paid the cab driver after he had unloaded all of our suitcases onto the curb. When we reached the check-in kiosk, I was still on the phone. Scott asked me where my suitcase was, and I had no idea. I thought maybe it got left at home, which would have been a problem, since we did not have time to go back and get it. Scott went out to the curb, and there it was, looking very suspicious in an abandoned way. A security guard was standing over it, angry that it was unclaimed and relieved that it was subsequently claimed. I had not thought of my suitcase while on the phone. All I could concentrate on was staying civil with the inept customer service representative. I erroneously assumed that since someone had carried my suitcase down our front steps for me and put it in the cab, that they would also carry it into the airport. I was still recovering from my operation and could not lift anything heavy, so I wasn’t thinking at all about my suitcase. It was a great relief to get it back.
The next thing I lost was my warm winter coat, which I needed in Davis, as the temperature was in the low 40s. Scott and I remember seeing it at the car rental place, but somehow it did not end up in the car. Like my cell phone, it just disappeared. I had to borrow a jacket to stay warm.
Sunday morning we were all getting ready to check out of the hotel and have breakfast in town with Ben. We left our cars in the parking lot of the hotel after checking out and were walking to a breakfast of crepes and coffee when I reached up to my ear and discovered that I had lost an earring. This was a brand new pair I was wearing for the first time. I couldn’t believe I had lost another thing! There was definitely a theme developing here.
When we went back to the hotel to get our cars, I asked the receptionist if I could get a key for the room to look for my earring. In the bedroom, I dropped the remaining earring on the carpet so I could see what the lost one would look like if it was snuggled in the rug somewhere. I said out loud that I wanted my earring back and had a feeling it was there. Sure enough, when I pulled the curtain back and moved the chair, there it was! I was 2 for 4, with having my suitcase and the earring, but not the cell phone or the coat.
On Monday morning, when Michelle and I got in the car to take her to school, I said aloud, “I really want my cell phone to be here.” Just as I was saying it, I slipped my hand between the seat and the console and felt something fist sized, pulled it out, and it was my cell phone!
Three out of four things I had lost had been found: the cell phone, the suitcase and the earring. The only thing that never came back was my coat, which was okay because it was one I had put in the give-away pile a few times, but had taken back because it was a “good” coat.
The theme of loss seemed to play out in an almost absurdly vivid way this weekend. It reflected the feelings I was having about Ben. He is fully grown. His graduation from college signifies that he is on his own now, or as I like to joke, off the payroll. I feel a vague sense of loss. With us being financially involved in his college, I felt like we still had some control, some influence, that he had some accountability to us. Now his life is completely in his control. This is all as it should be. I am so proud of him and know full well that he is going to go on to live a very fulfilling life. He told Scott and me that our obligations to him are over, that we helped him through college, and now he needs to take full responsibility for his life. He is aware that we gave him all we can to launch him into as successful a life as we can. He now has the reigns. I appreciate that he understands this and could verbalize it.
Yet, as proud as I am of him, as much as I know that this is the way it should be, there is still a letting go for me. If the weekend is any reflection on how things will be, I will have to let go, but know that it will all come back, except what I don’t really want. Ben will make his own way, create his life as he desires, but will never be lost from me.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Holiday Letter 2008 - On the Theme of College
I have lived almost 52 years, which means one year is only 1/52 of my life. That is why a year goes by so quickly. I remember being in grade school and counting the weeks to summer vacation. It seemed to last interminably. I am back in school now, working towards a B.A. in Organizational Management, and even though time goes a lot faster for me now, I am counting the months and weeks until I am done. I am slogging through this process because I need a degree to be competitive in the job market. All the courses are online, which could be compared to correspondence classes from the old days. There is no professor, only a proctor who monitors the discussion boards and grades the assignments. We must post essays to an online discussion board and read the essays of other students. Some of the students write college-level papers but most do not. This is an example of what one student in my class wrote: “People are humans and should be treated accordingly.” What??
Ben graduated December 13 from UC Davis with a degree in International Relations with an emphasis in Peace and Security in the Middle East and a minor in Religious Studies. I am so excited for him and so proud of his accomplishments. His college experience and mine are vastly different. I see his graduation as a real accomplishment. Having read some of his in-depth papers, scanned some of his assigned books and discussed what he has learned in his classes, I know he has received a deep education, one that has helped to shape his beliefs and set the trajectory of his life, whereas my “higher” education is just a mundane task that should have been finished decades ago. It is like returning an overdue library book, and paying the fine.
Mikayla is thriving at the University of Puget Sound. Among other things, she volunteers her time tutoring Somali refugee children. I would love to be a fly on the wall and watch her command the attention of her kids. They are rowdy, tired and hungry in the evenings yet Mikayla and her friends manage to form meaningful relationships with them while helping them with their homework.
Last May, Scott and I took in a sweet teenage girl who needed a home. We had been neighbors with her for years and we knew each other well. Michelle is a senior in high school now, and will be with us until she goes off to college. I took her on a college trip last summer, where we toured five different campuses throughout California. It was motivating for her to picture herself where she may be next year and it gave her a tangible goal.
It is challenging to work full time and go to school full time in the evenings. My free time now has shackles around it. I am allowed out once a day for exercise. My release date is within sight.
Scott completed his degree years ago. Aside from working two jobs, he is a free man.
Happy New Year! May next year be full of interesting learning!
Love and best wishes,
Rozzi
Ben graduated December 13 from UC Davis with a degree in International Relations with an emphasis in Peace and Security in the Middle East and a minor in Religious Studies. I am so excited for him and so proud of his accomplishments. His college experience and mine are vastly different. I see his graduation as a real accomplishment. Having read some of his in-depth papers, scanned some of his assigned books and discussed what he has learned in his classes, I know he has received a deep education, one that has helped to shape his beliefs and set the trajectory of his life, whereas my “higher” education is just a mundane task that should have been finished decades ago. It is like returning an overdue library book, and paying the fine.
Mikayla is thriving at the University of Puget Sound. Among other things, she volunteers her time tutoring Somali refugee children. I would love to be a fly on the wall and watch her command the attention of her kids. They are rowdy, tired and hungry in the evenings yet Mikayla and her friends manage to form meaningful relationships with them while helping them with their homework.
Last May, Scott and I took in a sweet teenage girl who needed a home. We had been neighbors with her for years and we knew each other well. Michelle is a senior in high school now, and will be with us until she goes off to college. I took her on a college trip last summer, where we toured five different campuses throughout California. It was motivating for her to picture herself where she may be next year and it gave her a tangible goal.
It is challenging to work full time and go to school full time in the evenings. My free time now has shackles around it. I am allowed out once a day for exercise. My release date is within sight.
Scott completed his degree years ago. Aside from working two jobs, he is a free man.
Happy New Year! May next year be full of interesting learning!
Love and best wishes,
Rozzi
Friday, December 05, 2008
More than you ever wanted to know about my insides
Today is the third day of my recovery. I had an oophorectomy on Tuesday. That means they went in and took out my ovary. While in there, they cleaned out a lot of scar tissue that, we hope, was the cause of my constant abdominal pain that I have had since May. I have had a half dozen tests to determine what the pain could be over the last several months. By the process of elimination, the cause of the pain was narrowed down to possible scar tissue and my troubling ovary. So good riddance, ovary, I am ova you! At least mostly. It is still a part of me that is now gone. What will happen to my femininity? The balance in my body? Asking these questions is probably too esoteric, since I know lots of women without ovaries who are not changed, but I still wonder about the subtle affects.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Week after the Great Election
On November 4th, I wanted to feel the results of the election, not just hear them through the TV. It most likely was going to be historic and I wanted to be with a crowd. My friend Cheryl and I took the trolley downtown to go to Election Central in Golden Hall. Having watched returns reported from Golden Hall for years, I thought it would be exciting to be right in the middle of it.
After realizing we had boarded the wrong trolley, we got off and hurried up several blocks of not-quiet downtown to get to Election Central. When we walked in, I thought I was in the wrong room. All I saw was Fox News and Yes on Prop 8 signs, Naively, I asked a security guard if there was another (democratic) room. He said that this was the only room. Cheryl and I took a more careful look around and did see some balance: No on Prop 8 signs, No on Prop 4, etc. We stood in the center and got our bearings.
All the local news channels had set up on risers around the perimeter of the largish room. The newscasters of each station sat with their backs to the crowd, so that when they were on camera, the crowd was behind them. This made them seem unwelcoming and disinterested. Each station broadcasted live onto a large flat screen TV in front of their platforms. Cheryl and I walked around to try to find a TV to watch. It was 7:50 and we knew the West Coast polls were about to close. Unbelievably, KUSI was broadcasting Judge Judy. I wanted to shout out, "Hey, KUSI, it is November 4th, 2008, and there is a presidential election of huge magnitude going on right now, the polls are about to close, the race is about to be called, and you are showing Judge Judy???? What the..."
Cheryl and I moved to the next station. It was Telemundo. We could see they were showing something relevant but could not understand it. We moved over to another station, Channel 10. They did not have the sound up loud enough for the crowd that had gathered to hear. It was now just a couple of minutes after 8:00. A friend from work said he saw us on Channel 10 and heard that the election was called for Obama. Knowing that Cheryl and I both voted for him, he was surprised that we did not react when it was announced that Barack Obama was the next President of the United States. That was because we didn't know! We couldn't hear! A few minutes after that, someone shouted it and the whole crowd screamed. It was very exciting, albeit somewhat delayed.
Cheryl and I decided to leave this place and headed down to the House of Blues where we knew the Democrats were holding a party. When we got there, we saw that the line stretched down the block, around the corner and down the next block. It was an excited crowd that waited to get in. The couple in front of us, who were also walking to the end of the line, had just seen on their iPhone that John McCain conceded. They told everyone as they walked down the line. Cheers erupted in domino fashion all down the line. It was very exciting.
When we got to the end of the line, we waited for a little while before realizing that we were not going to get in. The line was not moving. I really wanted to hear McCain's concession speech, so we left and ducked into a bar that had two large flat screen TVs. We ordered drinks and sat at a high table to watch. The TVs didn't have any sound on, so I asked the bartender if she could turn them up. She said no. As we downed our drinks, we could see McCain giving his speech, but could not hear it. None of the other customers were interested. Amazing!
Neither Cheryl nor I wanted to miss Obama's acceptance speech, so we headed back to Golden Hall, hoping Judge Judy wouldn't usurp President-elect Barack Obama. We crowded around the Channel 10 TV, which was only about two feet off the ground. This meant that those who were standing right in front of it blocked the view for everyone else. But that didn't matter. At that celebratory moment we were all friends. We stood very close, stood in unity, as we watched this truly historic speech. We cheered, some cried, I received hugs from absolute strangers. It was momentous.
I am not that old, yet I remember when I lived in Houston as a child seeing separate bathrooms and separate drinking fountains. My mother was made to feel very uncomfortable when she boarded a bus once and she sat in the back, in the "colored section". (We had just moved from Iowa and she did not know the unspoken rules.) So, to see in my lifetime, a man of color take the highest office is truly amazing. I feel like Americans have been vindicated to some extent. What other country that has been historically elected white presidents has elected a black man? By the way, Obama is as white as he is black. As he said, he is a mutt. We are all evolving to mutt status.
Now that the election is over, I feel like the whole world has been granted a two month rest. President-elect Obama can not make any changes yet, nor can he be tested. So much of the world celebrated on November 4th. They celebrated the chance to feel hopeful. This global feeling of hope has raised the consciousness of all of us. We can relax and enjoy it for two whole months. We can all remain hopeful, hopeful for a brighter future.
After realizing we had boarded the wrong trolley, we got off and hurried up several blocks of not-quiet downtown to get to Election Central. When we walked in, I thought I was in the wrong room. All I saw was Fox News and Yes on Prop 8 signs, Naively, I asked a security guard if there was another (democratic) room. He said that this was the only room. Cheryl and I took a more careful look around and did see some balance: No on Prop 8 signs, No on Prop 4, etc. We stood in the center and got our bearings.
All the local news channels had set up on risers around the perimeter of the largish room. The newscasters of each station sat with their backs to the crowd, so that when they were on camera, the crowd was behind them. This made them seem unwelcoming and disinterested. Each station broadcasted live onto a large flat screen TV in front of their platforms. Cheryl and I walked around to try to find a TV to watch. It was 7:50 and we knew the West Coast polls were about to close. Unbelievably, KUSI was broadcasting Judge Judy. I wanted to shout out, "Hey, KUSI, it is November 4th, 2008, and there is a presidential election of huge magnitude going on right now, the polls are about to close, the race is about to be called, and you are showing Judge Judy???? What the..."
Cheryl and I moved to the next station. It was Telemundo. We could see they were showing something relevant but could not understand it. We moved over to another station, Channel 10. They did not have the sound up loud enough for the crowd that had gathered to hear. It was now just a couple of minutes after 8:00. A friend from work said he saw us on Channel 10 and heard that the election was called for Obama. Knowing that Cheryl and I both voted for him, he was surprised that we did not react when it was announced that Barack Obama was the next President of the United States. That was because we didn't know! We couldn't hear! A few minutes after that, someone shouted it and the whole crowd screamed. It was very exciting, albeit somewhat delayed.
Cheryl and I decided to leave this place and headed down to the House of Blues where we knew the Democrats were holding a party. When we got there, we saw that the line stretched down the block, around the corner and down the next block. It was an excited crowd that waited to get in. The couple in front of us, who were also walking to the end of the line, had just seen on their iPhone that John McCain conceded. They told everyone as they walked down the line. Cheers erupted in domino fashion all down the line. It was very exciting.
When we got to the end of the line, we waited for a little while before realizing that we were not going to get in. The line was not moving. I really wanted to hear McCain's concession speech, so we left and ducked into a bar that had two large flat screen TVs. We ordered drinks and sat at a high table to watch. The TVs didn't have any sound on, so I asked the bartender if she could turn them up. She said no. As we downed our drinks, we could see McCain giving his speech, but could not hear it. None of the other customers were interested. Amazing!
Neither Cheryl nor I wanted to miss Obama's acceptance speech, so we headed back to Golden Hall, hoping Judge Judy wouldn't usurp President-elect Barack Obama. We crowded around the Channel 10 TV, which was only about two feet off the ground. This meant that those who were standing right in front of it blocked the view for everyone else. But that didn't matter. At that celebratory moment we were all friends. We stood very close, stood in unity, as we watched this truly historic speech. We cheered, some cried, I received hugs from absolute strangers. It was momentous.
I am not that old, yet I remember when I lived in Houston as a child seeing separate bathrooms and separate drinking fountains. My mother was made to feel very uncomfortable when she boarded a bus once and she sat in the back, in the "colored section". (We had just moved from Iowa and she did not know the unspoken rules.) So, to see in my lifetime, a man of color take the highest office is truly amazing. I feel like Americans have been vindicated to some extent. What other country that has been historically elected white presidents has elected a black man? By the way, Obama is as white as he is black. As he said, he is a mutt. We are all evolving to mutt status.
Now that the election is over, I feel like the whole world has been granted a two month rest. President-elect Obama can not make any changes yet, nor can he be tested. So much of the world celebrated on November 4th. They celebrated the chance to feel hopeful. This global feeling of hope has raised the consciousness of all of us. We can relax and enjoy it for two whole months. We can all remain hopeful, hopeful for a brighter future.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A Penny for his thoughts
This afternoon I went to the Waldorf School of San Diego to hear Greg Mortenson, of Three Cups of Tea speak to the students. Greg Mortenson, an American with a passion, builds schools mostly for girls in Pakistan and Afghanistan. His mission was sparked when he got lost in the Himalayas after failing to summit K2, the second highest peak in the world. A tribal chief made him welcome and he recuperated in the small village for three months. During his stay, he noticed that the students had no school, but still tried to learn. They had no school, and the teacher only came three days a week because, even though the cost for a teacher was $1.00 a day, that was all the village council could afford. The students used sticks in the dirt to write out their lessons. Mortenson's mission in life was sealed right then: he promised his caretakers that he would build them a school. After many hardships, failures, wasted efforts, and time, he was able to raise the money to build their school. It became the first of over 70 schools that Mortenson has built in the mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan.
When Mortenson came onto the stage in the small, not auditorium, a slide projected:
To educate a boy is to educate an individual.
To educate a girl is to educate a community.
African Proverb
Mortensen started out by asking the children to think of something they thought they had that children in countries like Pakistan and Afghanistan don't have. The children raised their hands and listed TV, cars, video games, books, etc. Then he asked them to think of something the children in those countries may have that they don't have. This was harder for them to answer.
Mortensen talked a lot about the benefit of Pennies for Peace, where someone, or a group of people ask their community to save and collect pennies for a charity or some other cause. Thousands of dollars have been raised this way and many of the efforts are by young students. The students at the Waldorf School used this event to kick off their Pennies for Peace program.
Picture this: a large, lumbering American man is raising the funds to build schools for children in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He has learned the customs and the language to bridge as many barriers as possible. He pays for all the materials, works with the tribal chiefs, hires drivers, contractors, etc. and builds a school to suit the needs of each small community he visits. He hires teachers and provides school supplies. He asks for nothing in return. This individual is not only building schools, he is building a legacy of peaceful relations between these people and Americans. His good work stretches so much further than the classrooms.
Mortensen started out by asking the children to think of something they thought they had that children in countries like Pakistan and Afghanistan don't have. The children raised their hands and listed TV, cars, video games, books, etc. Then he asked them to think of something the children in those countries may have that they don't have. This was harder for them to answer.
Mortensen talked a lot about the benefit of Pennies for Peace, where someone, or a group of people ask their community to save and collect pennies for a charity or some other cause. Thousands of dollars have been raised this way and many of the efforts are by young students. The students at the Waldorf School used this event to kick off their Pennies for Peace program.
Picture this: a large, lumbering American man is raising the funds to build schools for children in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He has learned the customs and the language to bridge as many barriers as possible. He pays for all the materials, works with the tribal chiefs, hires drivers, contractors, etc. and builds a school to suit the needs of each small community he visits. He hires teachers and provides school supplies. He asks for nothing in return. This individual is not only building schools, he is building a legacy of peaceful relations between these people and Americans. His good work stretches so much further than the classrooms.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Comfort Food
I have been missing my mom a lot lately. I think it is because my close friend, Mary G. just passed away and she was a mom to me. I went to a memorial service last weekend for Scott's aunt. We went up to the mountains and spread the ashes of Val. It was a beautiful service, with lots of sweet tears, and warm family. After the singing and stories recalling how Val touched everyone in different but strong ways, we walked to the top of a small hill and family released her ashes on the same rock that her mother's ashes were spread years ago. Some cried as the ashes slipped through their fingertips, and floated to the ground. Some tossed the ashes to the heavens where the sudden breeze swirled them back into the mourners. It felt like Val was giving us all one last hug goodbye.
All this dealing with death has made me think of my mom a lot. I needed a way to get close to her. The other day I took Michelle to the bookstore and browsed around to find something for myself. One of my mom's favorite things to do was to read, and she read a variety of genres and authors. Years ago, she had given me a couple of Danielle Steel books. I gave them away before I read them, thinking they were just not my type, that there was way too much good literature to read to waste my time on that. As I was scanning the shelves, I came across the whole bookcase of Danielle Steel books and picked one up to see what it was about. I couldn't remember which of the 50 titles my mom has read, but I bought one that looked interesting. Michelle said that Steel's books were like Nancy Drew: similar plots and predictable, therefore somewhat disappointing.
A couple of nights ago I started to read Special Delivery. It couldn't be more predictable. The sentence structure is faulty and unoriginal. There are no unique descriptions, but easy dialog. There is certainly no depth in the characters or plot. It is a love story, nothing more. It is like white rice: a type of comfort food that is easy to digest. Right now, I need comfort food, and Steel is providing it.
All this dealing with death has made me think of my mom a lot. I needed a way to get close to her. The other day I took Michelle to the bookstore and browsed around to find something for myself. One of my mom's favorite things to do was to read, and she read a variety of genres and authors. Years ago, she had given me a couple of Danielle Steel books. I gave them away before I read them, thinking they were just not my type, that there was way too much good literature to read to waste my time on that. As I was scanning the shelves, I came across the whole bookcase of Danielle Steel books and picked one up to see what it was about. I couldn't remember which of the 50 titles my mom has read, but I bought one that looked interesting. Michelle said that Steel's books were like Nancy Drew: similar plots and predictable, therefore somewhat disappointing.
A couple of nights ago I started to read Special Delivery. It couldn't be more predictable. The sentence structure is faulty and unoriginal. There are no unique descriptions, but easy dialog. There is certainly no depth in the characters or plot. It is a love story, nothing more. It is like white rice: a type of comfort food that is easy to digest. Right now, I need comfort food, and Steel is providing it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)