away

Spring break. My daughter is away on a school trip, and I am away too, visiting an old friend who moved away to Portland, Oregon. I have never been to Oregon before. It's beautiful. It's wonderful to be away.

Being away always makes me think. Things happen, things are noticed. My luggage is lost and I notice that it's not my books or my favorite sweaters that I am REALLY worried about--what I really regret not putting in my carry-on bag is . . . my cell phone charger. Seriously. My cell phone has become this amazing little nexus of communication and information, and the threat of having it die on me is making me notice how much I rely on it, but also how much fun I have with it.

[Please repeat after me: Text messaging is NOT going to result in the death of the English language. Texting is FUN, it's writing play, and this is a GOOD thing.]

Loving my cell phone does not seem like a bad thing. I just need to make a few adjustments to take into account how much I depend on it.

Another thing I have noticed is that I am in a more-than-ever different life stage from my friend. She is younger than I am, has no children, and is still young enough that she could. She is in a serious relationship with a smart young boyfriend who seems like he might actually be worthy of her (she's really special, ok, and she deserves someone who realizes this). But they don't have forever to figure this out. If they want to get married, get pregnant, and raise kids before they are too old to survive the sleep deprivation, they have to get on it pretty quick. I think they realize this. I wish them luck. Timing is important, but there is never a good time for either a wedding or a childbirth. Sometimes you just have to take your fear in hand and let the universe take over.

Seeing my friend in this situation reminds me again, more clearly than even, that I have nothing but time. I have only a few years left of full-time parenting, my life is comfortable but not at all boring, and I am in no rush to make any dramatic changes. I feel lucky to have this luxury of no rush. Maybe this is the gift of being middle-aged. My daughter still needs me but needs me much less, and much differently. I do what I want, be who I want, a lot of the time. It's been years since I had such freedom. When I see women with younger children, I can still feel their compression in my own body as well as the open relief of the freedom I am growing into now.

As I imagine my friend having children and going through this compression herself, I shake my head--why does any woman put herself through this voluntarily--and yet we do. Perhaps some old part of our souls is creating the future moment of freedom that we couldn't feel if we didn't experience the sheer imprisonment of being a mother. (As I write this, I realize how melodramatic it sounds, but it seems true, at the moment anyway.)

precocious

My daughter got an assignment from her 8th grade Language Arts teacher to write a new final chapter for Steinbeck's The Pearl. She wrote this chapter in only a couple of hours and showed it to me. I was pretty much stunned--it was elegantly written, true to the character and voice of the novel, thematically unified. How can a 14-year-old pull this off, I ask myself. She always writes so smoothly, effortlessly beautifully. She weaves dialogue, description, commentary. She makes the rarest of obscure errors in syntax, punctuation, diction.

She won a prize from her teacher for this writing, not surprisingly, and she read it to an audience of students and parents at an 8th grade symposium the following week. Sitting on the edge of her bed in the shadows later that night, I asked her if she felt a little as though the writing had written itelf, almost as though she herself as a conscious creator had little to do with it. I think she was relieved that I described it that way--I think she feels almost guilty that she could create a text like that without even trying very hard. She must compare herself with her peers at school. She has seen lots of my students' papers. She must know that what she can do is so different that there is almost no comparing. If she didn't know it before she channeled this chapter for Steinbeck, she knows it now.

I didn't help her write her chapter, and I almost never do anything directly related to her writing at all. I stay out of her way, let her find her own moments. If she gives me something to read, I give her a little praise and and a little criticism, but I feel that it would be a mistake for me to impose any kind of agenda on her artistic expressions or even to use my suggestions / approval / disapproval to try to shape her efforts more subtly. I have seen parents do damage this way. But I also wonder if I am missing opportunities that I could offer her.

I was relieved recently when she asked me if she could do a pottery camp this summer, because I have been feeling guilty for not working harder to get her into art classes and that sort of thing. Here, at least, was something SHE asked for to develop her art. But I don't know what to do about the writing. For now I am doing nothing. I think it is too easy to hastily do the wrong thing, and the matter seems delicate for some reason.

why

I didn't set out to write this blog about my work, but I notice that's what the last three posts are all about. I also have been noticing what topics I don't write about here. Some things are just plain off limits for public consumption (like, for example, my ex-husband). Others, I guess I am kind of watching myself to see what risks I will take. I am still keeping a private journal, which is safely tucked into my private purse, but I don't write in it as much as I used to. I am not at all sure what this blog is for. A friend asked me why I started it, and all I could really say was, I just have too many words, and I needed another place to put some. But I'm not too sure why anyone would or should care about reading them.

I often tell my students to let the writing do the thinking for them, that it's often enough just to let the words come through and then you find out something you didn't know you knew. So right now I am trying to let the words come so I can find out what my purpose might be here, in this weirdly private/public place. No one reads this, who am I kidding. It's private, in that sense. But it's out there, so it's public in that sense, and I can't write it without thinking that someone might read it.

I guess I think maybe if I do this for a while I will develop a sense of purpose, a theme, a reason to tell people, read my blog, I'm writing about this and it will be interesting to you.

calm

"Least said, soonest mended," said Ma. This is my favorite folk proverb from the Little House on the Prairie books. It's interesting how the popular wisdom of my early life, the too-simple idea that it's important to talk things out, to speak your mind, to verbalize the garbage that the hamster spins round and round on the wheel in your head, is fading from popularity. Lately one thing I particularly like about myself is that I usually know when to shut up.

My angry student calmed down and so did I. I trust that he realized his anger was out of proportion or at least that it was not constructive and would not get him what he wanted. I tend to assume this kind of reflective capacity in others, since I have cultivated it in myself. This might be naive of me... but I hope not in this case. This particular students is in his late 30s, and he is a parent, and smart enough to have put himself in college. He is also a coach. If he doesn't have this kind of reflective capacity, then his problems go way beyond his developmental English class.

So we had a very constructive mid-term conference. Neither of us mentioned the previous episode, and we moved forward. Had either of us brought it up, we would have remained stuck in it, one or both of us either aggressive or defensive or both. By getting over it, and by not mentioning it, we were both grownups. And what a relief not to have to discuss it... leave that stupid hamster alone.

Thanks, Ma Ingalls. Off the hook, and all for the best.

drama

Come to think of it, bold and audacious moves always backfire for me in the classroom. Maybe I'm just not good at gauging the level of drama I can handle.

My yield from throwing most of my students out of class last week was mainly my own anxiety over one particularly angry student who felt that I had not been fair. It's not that I was afraid of him. It's just that it's not worth the angst -- his or mine. And maybe I wasn't fair. Of course, he was still late to class today. And he handed in his make-up assignment when he got there -- I suppose he was daring me not to take it because he was late. I took it, though. It's just not worth the extra energy. I'm too tired today. I'm too tired most days. I'm not gonna do this again.

This aftermath situation is not an atmosphere that's productive for me, or for him. I hate playing the enforcer, which is one of the reasons I teach college and not high school. (Not that I ever taught high school; the difference may be something I just invented to explain myself to myself.) But I hate having the focus on whether students follow rules. I want the focus to be on what they learn, what they are curious about, what they can write, what they can do -- not what they can't do or won't do or don't do.

Every few years I have to learn this lesson over again. My friend Bob, a beloved fellow teacher at my college, whom I called this morning to whine to, remembers a time when I walked out on a class. I learned far more from that incident than those students did, as well, and I swore I would never do that again either.

I suspect that some dim archetypal image of teachers in the back of my mind tempts me to do these things. Maybe I'm trying out ideas about the kind of grandstanding teacher whose drama at the front of the room impresses everyone so much that we all think, oh, what a great teacher he (he?) is. But where is there gonna be room for the students and their drama if the teacher's drama takes up all that airtime? And aren't the students and their needs supposed to be front and center? I don't wanna be needy in my own classroom. I'm the calm one, the balanced one, the teacher who takes the long view. Patience. Not drama.

homework

I teach a lot of "developmental" students at the two-year college where I work. This word, developmental, is a euphemism for what used to be called "remedial." It doesn't much matter what you call it. Teaching English to college students who can't read and write at the college level is a labor of love, an act of service, a leap of faith, a hopeless cause, casting pearls before swine... (I think I'll just keep adding to this list as I think of other cliches that fit the shoe).

So, along with a number of devoted and caring colleagues, I agonize over how best to teach these students who do not have the behaviors, habits of mind, or history of success that characterize their more academically savvy peers. They don't do their homework, and then they don't bother to lie or suck up. There's a kind of endearing honesty about this. They don't study or read, but they think they could most likely pass the test at the end of the semester anyway, which is kind of endearingly optimistic as well.

The central problem, though, is that in order for them to be more successful as students, they really have to conduct themselves differently than they have in their past school experiences. This is a very hard thing to teach, and a task that I'm not really well equipped for -- I'm not a motivational speaker or a psychologist, and I'm not licensed to prescribe any drugs. But sometimes I feel like my classes are kind of like group therapy!

Today I practiced a little "tough love." When I discovered that only four out of my eighteen students were prepared with their homework assignment at the start of today's class, I sent fourteen students away, telling them to get caught up and come back tomorrow. The four who were left did a pretty fine job with the in-class activity I had planned, and I think they learned something. Tomorrow maybe I'll find out a bit about what the others learned, but I'm a little afraid of what that might turn out to be. These students just don't process things the way I expect them to -- not just some of the time, probably not even just half the time. Really, honestly, most of the time, they just don't process things the way I expect them to. At least I know what not to expect. When I figure out what I should expect, by then I'm sure it will be time to retire.

snow

I didn't think it was possible for me to get this tired of snow. I grew up in Knoxville, Tennessee, where snow was a rare and exotic treat, experienced a few times a year if we were lucky, usually with snow days and complete disruption of routine. I've always loved the landscape of fresh snow. Even as a tired and jaded grown-up, I'll go for a long walk in new snow, just to breathe in its brief and delicate loveliness.

But this year I am really, really, really tired of snow.

I learned to drive in a family with a VW bus, boats stacked on the roof, heavily loaded with camping equipment, gear galore. Bring on the stick shift, the mountain roads, the hard spring rains. But not the snow. Hey, we used chains in those days. My dad would put them on when we went to the Smokies, and he would drive us on gorgeous unplowed roads in the national parks at high elevations.

So I had never learned to drive in snow, knew nothing of potholes, black ice, any of that. And for many years I was married to a nice man who grew up in Chicago and really liked to drive, and since I could take a train to work in those years, I didn't have to drive much. However, when our marriage ended, he was naturally absolved of any responsibility to take me around in bad weather. And when I landed a great job that required car-commuting, it wasn't like I could turn it down, being a single mother all of a sudden.

Fast-forward five years. It's now the winter of 2007-08, with record-breaking snowfalls, and I don't have to tell you if you live here, you know all about it. It has been hard, but I am unfazed. I am tired, and cold, like all of you, but I am also triumphant. Me and my little red Saturn have made it through.

The capstone experience of my winter was this: I got a guy's car unstuck in my alley. He was a young guy with a Japanese accent, said he was from Oklahoma... anyway, for sure he was not from around here. His car was blocking the main route through the alley so I was stuck behind him. I watched him try to move it, but he didn't know how. In my own body, I could feel what to do. So I bullied him into letting me drive his car. In a matter of moments I had his car in his parking space, and he said, "Wow, how long have you lived here? How did you learn to do that?"

For just a moment, I felt like Wonder Woman.

reckless

I am a cyclist. Not very experienced, not competitive, but definitely enthusiastic. I belong to a club, I lead rides sometimes, I know some cycling routes and have created a few of my own. When I'm in shape, I can ride 50 miles and still walk normally when I get off the bike. I pay my dues to the Chicagoland Bicycle Federation, and I feel like part of something as a cyclist.

However, the thing that on a good day I might call "the cycling community" is a little rattled right now because on Sunday morning a guy died. Matt was 29 years old and he was at the front of a pack of experienced riders in a sort of unofficial, unsponsored, underground bike race called Tour Da Chicago. The race course was on Chicago streets. Matt ran a red light at a complicated intersection. He got hit by a large vehicle, and he died.

Today Matt's family and friends are having to confront the recklessness that played such an enormous role in his death. Today the driver of that large vehicle is having to come to terms with her role in his death. Maybe she can avoid thinking "I killed that guy" -- and I honestly hope she can. Looks to me like he got himself killed, based on the accounts I have read so far.

The cycling community always has to take some heat from annoyed drivers who complain about the cyclists who run in front of them thru red lights, who ignore stop signs, who act like the rules of the road don't apply. And the truth is that many cyclists ARE casual about the rules of the road. I will, let's say, run a red light on my bike if there is no traffic coming the other way, when I wouldn't do that in my car. These are usually fairly well-considered moments. I usually don't have to make split-second, life-and-death decisions on my bike, although I acknowledge here and now that at any time I could make a mistake and take my life in my hands.

What distinguishes Matt's death in my mind is that Tour Da Chicago seems like a set-up to press cyclists into making numerous split-second critical judgment calls -- on city streets and in city traffic, where the lives in their hands are more than their own. It seems like this outcome was nearly inevitable, the proverbial accident waiting to happen, like how could it not happen eventually. It seems to me that Tour Da Chicago's organizers should be called to account for that. Calls for that accountability will probably cause rifts in "the cycling community" -- but as far as I'm concerned, the increase in safety for everyone and the reduction of friction between cyclists and disturbed drivers would be worth it.

Rest in peace, Matt, and may good come from your sad demise.

condos

I am looking for a new home, and my current condo is for sale. This means I get a lot of mail from people who want to be my new friend. Thanks, but I already have a realtor, a mortgage broker, insurance, a mover, an attorney... and lots of stress. What I don't have is a cleaning lady, but I've decided it would just add more stress for me to figure out how and when to get her into our tiny place, so we (me and my daughter, almost 14) had better just suck it up and clean it ourselves. (My daughter still does not fully understand that cleaning actually involves effort. Apparently she thinks that holding a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other for a few seconds, making wiping motions at random, is cleaning.)

Earlier this week I made an offer on Pricey Condo, an elegant place that was really way out of my price range, but I loved the location. I didn't think I could find anything cheaper in such an ideal spot. Somewhat to my amazement, in this slow month in a slow market, I was outbid by someone else who offered for the same property on the same day. I felt strangely relieved by this. I really liked the apartment, and I could have afforded it if I made some changes, not really terribly painful ones, but as I said to my realtor, "I love having disposable income." And I do. I am not extravagant, but I buy any CD I happen to want. If I find something nice at the consignment shop or the J.Jill outlet, I don't think twice. I buy organic food, good coffee, brown eggs fortified with omega-3's, and environmentally friendly dishwasher detergent that actually works as well as Cascade. These things satisfy me, they are not cheap, and I don't want to give them up.

So yesterday I went to see Thrifty Condo. Afterwards I told my daughter that this condo is sort of like going to the art supply store and buying the blank canvas. Aesthetically it offers nothing -- other than potential. Ironically, it's in the same neighborhood as Pricey Condo. Walk to everything, including the train station I most need access to in order to make real improvements in my heavily car-dependent commuting habits. Surrounded by historic homes on quiet blocks. Enough one-way streets and dead ends nearby to really keep the traffic down. But seriously, it's the homeliest damn condo... crummy wall-to-wall carpeting, original bathroom fixtures from the late 60's, a cheap kitchen update that's now 20 years old including the ugliest microwave oven I have ever seen. Even the air conditioners are ugly (but there's one in every room!).

On the other hand, the building has both a management company and a maintenance man. Living as I currently do in a self-managed building with no on-call repair services, this sounds like heaven to me. In fact, I can honestly report that when I heard the magic words "maintenance man," my heart leapt for joy.

So I am looking into estimates for wood flooring, and I'm going to take my daughter, who's an aspiring chef, to consult with me on what might be done about the kitchen. I suspect we will put our money in those two spots for now and live with the bathrooms as they are. In another 20 years perhaps those plumbing fixtures will be vintage... or even chic.

doxology

I grew up in a Unitarian church in Knoxville, Tennessee, in the 1960s and 70s. That church made me who I am, along with my prep school and my oddly displaced, partly-mixed-in, non-southern family, and my friend Bettina. Last week my brother, who still belongs to that church, sent me a notice of someone who died, someone I knew in my teens, but someone who died an old man. This seems strange to me. I know it has been 30 years since I left Knoxville, but I often do not remember that everyone else is 30 years older too.

In those days the doxology we sang started with the words, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." I'm not sure of the rest of the words anymore, just that first line. Today I am a member of Unity Temple Unitarian Universalist Congregation, and the doxology we sing now begins "From all that dwell below the skies, let songs of love and peace arise." Even as I write this, I struggle to remember the right set of words. On Sunday mornings at Unity Temple I have to look in the order of service to find the right words to get me started, even though I know the new doxology all the way through once I get going.

For the past few weeks, sitting in services at Unity Temple, I have had the urge to get up to the microphone during "Joys and Sorrows" and say something about this, this problem of not remembering the words to the new doxology, the problem of having the old words stuck in my head, the problem of not knowing why this is a problem. The problem is I don't really know what I want to say. Maybe I am nostalgic for my childhood, the aching gorgeousness of my teen years, my old church (the building I knew in childhood was sold to the Baptists quite a while ago, and there is a beautiful new church). I know that I miss my mother deeply, but she has been dead for 20 years, and there is nothing new to say about that, and sometimes it seems like I can connect anything to missing my mother, and that's just too easy.

It must have something to do with the singing, I am thinking now. I love to sing, I love to know the words, to make up some harmony, to feel my heart lift along with my voice. I felt that as a young person in that church in Knoxville and it was probably one of the things that kept me alive when the aching was more miserable than gorgeous. I want the doxology to connect me to myself through the singing... and I suppose I have been feeling the different words as something that disconnects my present and my past.