Blog originally posted on Facebook Notes 10/30/2010
Due to the ingenious invention of Netflix (and other copycat--ahem Blockbuster--rent-through-mail services), the Hollywood Video at the corner of my street closed down and has temporarily transformed into a Spirit Halloween costume store. Having a Halloween party to attend tonight, and (as of this morning) nothing to wear, I decided to head up the street to see what last-minute costume choices would still be available on the overturned racks.
I have been aware of the slut trend on Halloween for years, but I have grown quite weary of it now that the ONLY choices for female-designated costumes mean simultaneously to reveal every possible millimeter of flesh and yet remain within the realm of "clothing." The traditional slut costumes are well-known and passe these days (and please insert the term "sexy" before all of the following): cat, witch, devil, angel, nurse, bunny, bar wench, school girl, and cheerleader. What I realized this morning is that, for women, Halloween can be reduced to one single solitary concept: hookers in costume. Additionally, the manufacturers of these costumes seem to be unaware that Halloween occurs at the end of October when it can be a little chilly outside.
The Halloween costumes available to prostitutes this year (and again, please insert the word "sexy" beforehand) are as follows. This list is by no means exhaustive, but I did see all of these at the store today:
disco dancer
pirate
Indian (probably offensive in other ways, as well)
gypsy
lioness (any animal, actually, can become "sexy")
lady bug
bee (as can any insect, apparently)
geisha
firewoman
prison inmate (in the orange AND in the stripes)
greek goddess
m & m
crayon
flapper
hippie
swashbuckler
sailor
clown
policewoman
warrior princess
doctor
army soldier
baseball player (the only athlete costume I saw--apart from a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader costume that was remarkably accurate to the real thing)
Wonder Woman (of course)
Little Bo Peep
Red Riding Hood
Dorothy
Alice
Smurfette
Princess (which includes all of the Disney princesses as well)
Betty Boop
Robin Hood
Princess Leah
Freddy Kruger (didn't think it was possible did you??)
Supergirl (or "sexy" Superman--it's hard to tell)
Batman
Robin
SpongeBob Squarepants (which, more logically, should have been titled "Spongebra Miniskirt")
Ghostbuster
Three Amigos!
Olive Oyl
Mrs. Claus (or "sexy" Santa--not sure)
Minnie Mouse
Elvis
Pebbles
Mad Hatter
etc., etc., etc.
The list could go on and on--and please note that nowhere will you find a "prostitute" costume because it would simply be too redundant. I felt the need to shield the eyes of my five-month old daughter as I scanned the "adult" women's section. And I think if I were a thirteen-year-old boy, I would like nothing more than to walk among the women's costumes for a little while. The most interesting discovery was that beside the "sexy" nun costume (perhaps the most glaring paradox of all the costumes), was a traditional nun costume. The picture of the person dressed as the nun on the cover sleeve was, of course, a man. This reminded me of last year when I was in the early weeks of pregnancy--certainly not feeling "sexy," but still wanting to dress up for Halloween. I found myself among the men's costumes and finally settled on The Cat in the Hat. Although I didn't see one at the time, I hope (for the prostitutes' sake) they manufacture a "sexy" Cat in the Hat costume--to be fair.
The MOST disturbing thing about the costume store, however, is that this marketing campaign that singularly targets prostitutes has trickled down to the young girls' costume section as well. Little girls this year will be dressing as mini-versions of sexy Dorothy, sexy Cinderella, and sexy mermaids. So, please do not be too alarmed when a scantily-clad six-year-old girl hops onto your front porch in a Playboy Bunny costume squealing, "Trick or Treat!"--to be honest, it's probably the best the costume store had to offer.
Happy Halloween!
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
On Not Caring As Much About the Death of JD Salinger as I Feel Like I Should
I heard it today in serious, low tones in the faculty room: “JD Salinger died last night.” Three American Lit teachers sat for a moment of respectful silence, then two began ribbing the other about the poem she should write for Café Mots. An “Ode to Salinger.” I chuckled a “maybe,” and returned to the crossword puzzle with which I had been struggling moments before. I scribbled in the margin, “I heard today that JD died” thinking it had a nice ring to it for a first line. Then—in the pitiful way I construct poetry—I ran through some possible rhyming words that would help me with the next line: “tried,” “cried,” “lied,” “denied.” I considered . . . I spied and tried but could not cried. No. I changed the line. “I heard that JD died today.” No, it’s too confusing. He didn’t die today and that’s what the grammatical structure of that line sounds like. Then, I lost interest and returned to my crossword puzzle.
So, let me just be honest for a minute and admit that despite the hours upon days upon weeks upon years I have spent among the intimate frustrations of Holden Caulfield, I am not particularly grieved by the loss of his creator. Salinger was a mess—either because he could not stand the feedback of his literary critics (wimp), or because he could not tolerate society (weak), or because he was messed up to begin with (whatever), he lived a life of famous reclusiveness and estrangement from his closest family members even. I feel as deeply about his passing as I feel about the latest news from the domestic front of whichever Kardashian just had a baby.
Another revelation occurred to me today, however, in the midst of this indifference. I simple cannot write poetry unless I am at least moderately tortured about something. Having spent as much time as I have reading and discussing The Catcher in the Rye with students (8500 minutes to be as close to exact as I can get—which is a little more than 141 hours—which is almost 6 straight days), one might think I could write an ode to someone whose portrayal of teen angst has filled so much of my time for the last seven years. But I just don’t care.
Were Holden Caulfield to pass away, now, that might be another story—I might one day be able to write an “Ode to Holden.” And this is what is fascinating about the phenomena of canonized literature. I know and care ten thousand times more about a fictional protagonist than I ever could about his flesh-and-blood creator. The former is, however, immortalized in language arts classrooms around the world. We will never hold a funeral for Holden Caulfield, or mourn his loss, or sing belated encomiums of his troubled, but brutally honest musings—because it will never be necessary to do so.
Thus I will conclude, in all due respect: the passing of JD Salinger elicits from me merely this: “Sleep tight, ya moron!”
So, let me just be honest for a minute and admit that despite the hours upon days upon weeks upon years I have spent among the intimate frustrations of Holden Caulfield, I am not particularly grieved by the loss of his creator. Salinger was a mess—either because he could not stand the feedback of his literary critics (wimp), or because he could not tolerate society (weak), or because he was messed up to begin with (whatever), he lived a life of famous reclusiveness and estrangement from his closest family members even. I feel as deeply about his passing as I feel about the latest news from the domestic front of whichever Kardashian just had a baby.
Another revelation occurred to me today, however, in the midst of this indifference. I simple cannot write poetry unless I am at least moderately tortured about something. Having spent as much time as I have reading and discussing The Catcher in the Rye with students (8500 minutes to be as close to exact as I can get—which is a little more than 141 hours—which is almost 6 straight days), one might think I could write an ode to someone whose portrayal of teen angst has filled so much of my time for the last seven years. But I just don’t care.
Were Holden Caulfield to pass away, now, that might be another story—I might one day be able to write an “Ode to Holden.” And this is what is fascinating about the phenomena of canonized literature. I know and care ten thousand times more about a fictional protagonist than I ever could about his flesh-and-blood creator. The former is, however, immortalized in language arts classrooms around the world. We will never hold a funeral for Holden Caulfield, or mourn his loss, or sing belated encomiums of his troubled, but brutally honest musings—because it will never be necessary to do so.
Thus I will conclude, in all due respect: the passing of JD Salinger elicits from me merely this: “Sleep tight, ya moron!”
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Allegorical Mess: Deconstructing District 9
Last night, after having consulted the helpful Yahoo! Movie reviews, my husband and I went to see District 9. I am not usually a "sci-fi" person, but I have enjoyed films of this genre in the past (Alien/s, Star Wars, The Matrix (kind of), Spaceballs, and My Cousin Vinny to name a few). The Yahoo! critics gave the movie an "A-" and Yahoo! users a "B+". Past movies to earn an "A" grade from the critics were Doubt, Frost/Nixon, The Departed, and The Queen--GOOD movies that found themselves a place on my Academy Award nominations ballot in March. So, I was excited to see the movie.
Having no information about the movie, other than what the minimal teaser provided, I was not sure what to expect from the plot. I quickly deduced that there was an allegorical connection to South African apartheid. After all, the movie is set in Johannesburg, South Africa and begins with a journalistic reporting of the relationship between humans (multi-racial) and aliens (crustacean-like beings depicted as semi-violent, scavenging victims of segregation and disenfranchisement). The aliens are called by the "duragatory" nickname "prawns," because, as one character says, "that's what they look like." I think this political backdrop and the execution of the documentary-style content was actually quite clever.
Where the movie fails, however, is in the perplexing and awkward inconsistencies of narrative style and character development. The majority of the film proceeds as if it is a retrospective on the tragic circumstances of a government offical (Werkis) charged with clearing out a shantytown called District 9. While on duty, the Werkis becomes contaminated with an alien substance that causes his transformation into a hybrid cross between the human and alien species (akin slightly to another great sci-fi classic: David Cronenberg's The Fly). At about this time in the movie, the narrative shifts out of the "faux documentary" style into a more traditional narrative frame that centers its focus on the hopes and anxieties of one alien "family" (led by an alien named Christopher Johnson). There is then a constant shifting between the satirical documentary and the sober narrative of the alien escape that it hindered my suspension of disbelief to an annoying degree. I do not understand how the producers allowed for this inconsistency of narrative technique.
Moreover, there is no real depth to the emotional upheaval of either Werkis or the subversive aliens. The marital commotion and betrayal, as well as the bi-galaxial friendship that forms between the two main characters is so awkwardly superficial, it defeats the potentially profound effects of the allegory to apartheid brutality and the real compassion that did exist therein.
So, I will bear with the glowing encomiums of what the movie was trying to do, while remaining confused about the stylistic decisions. In truth, I think the film is overly ambitious in all of its goals. While admirable in its endeavor, the combination of science fiction, action thriller, political satire, historical allusion, and dramatic storytelling remains in its execution clumsy at best.
Having no information about the movie, other than what the minimal teaser provided, I was not sure what to expect from the plot. I quickly deduced that there was an allegorical connection to South African apartheid. After all, the movie is set in Johannesburg, South Africa and begins with a journalistic reporting of the relationship between humans (multi-racial) and aliens (crustacean-like beings depicted as semi-violent, scavenging victims of segregation and disenfranchisement). The aliens are called by the "duragatory" nickname "prawns," because, as one character says, "that's what they look like." I think this political backdrop and the execution of the documentary-style content was actually quite clever.
Where the movie fails, however, is in the perplexing and awkward inconsistencies of narrative style and character development. The majority of the film proceeds as if it is a retrospective on the tragic circumstances of a government offical (Werkis) charged with clearing out a shantytown called District 9. While on duty, the Werkis becomes contaminated with an alien substance that causes his transformation into a hybrid cross between the human and alien species (akin slightly to another great sci-fi classic: David Cronenberg's The Fly). At about this time in the movie, the narrative shifts out of the "faux documentary" style into a more traditional narrative frame that centers its focus on the hopes and anxieties of one alien "family" (led by an alien named Christopher Johnson). There is then a constant shifting between the satirical documentary and the sober narrative of the alien escape that it hindered my suspension of disbelief to an annoying degree. I do not understand how the producers allowed for this inconsistency of narrative technique.
Moreover, there is no real depth to the emotional upheaval of either Werkis or the subversive aliens. The marital commotion and betrayal, as well as the bi-galaxial friendship that forms between the two main characters is so awkwardly superficial, it defeats the potentially profound effects of the allegory to apartheid brutality and the real compassion that did exist therein.
So, I will bear with the glowing encomiums of what the movie was trying to do, while remaining confused about the stylistic decisions. In truth, I think the film is overly ambitious in all of its goals. While admirable in its endeavor, the combination of science fiction, action thriller, political satire, historical allusion, and dramatic storytelling remains in its execution clumsy at best.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Cover
In Starbucks
a cover of Duke Ellington’s “Caravan”
plays over the speakers
in a way that cannot be ignored.
Quasi-artistic,
semi-bohemian,
mockably mediocre.
Were I living the life I should,
I would be sitting
in a coffee house in San Francisco—
a real one—
like the ones Hemingway
and Kerouac haunt,
but not the ones they actually
haunt, because those are
popular tourist stops.
A coffee house, though,
that has no corporate office
with men in suits
around a conference table
lamenting stock indexes,
market bottoms,
and underproducing store locations.
A coffee house, perhaps,
that would pour whisky into your mug
if you asked
because it does not cater
to stay-at-home moms
in tennis skirts and visors
who have no plans
to swing a racquet today.
If I were serious
about art and music,
I would have earphones playing
the real Duke Ellington,
and maybe Dizzy Gillespie,
or even Stan Getz.
Instead, I hear a woman’s call
to “Uncle Matt”:
‘Mom’s getting home from vacation. She called me from the boat today. Just calling to see if you all wanted to come over for dinner. I don’t know what I’m making yet. So call me later.’
Her son comes to Starbucks so often
he thinks the toys in the corner are his.
She snaps her cell phone closed
and asks her bored son,
‘Wanna go to the grocery store?’
At this moment
the only song title I can recall
from my personal knowledge of these giants
is “Caravan.”
“Desafinado” from Getz’s
Girl from Ipanema
will come on later,
but I only know that
because the 32-inch flatscreen
tells me so.
And instead of writing
my American Masterpiece,
or, at least my own scholarly interpretation
of an American Masterpiece,
I am reading teenage attempts
to complete an assignment
they don’t understand.
The undeniable truth,
as I sit here
among the step-children of genius,
is that Starbucks is my life.
It’s safe; it’s close; it’s familiar.
It’s a place to sit in judgment
and feel superior
to the cult of soccer moms
I’m a year away from joining.
At Starbucks,
I can pretend I adhere
to the Emersonian calling
of ‘greatness,’
and in the midst of the crowd
keep with perfect sweetness
the independence of solitude.
But this is not true,
and the bland cover design
of Tuesdays with Morrie
that sits beside my
grande
nonfat
sugarfree
vanilla
latte
tells me so.
a cover of Duke Ellington’s “Caravan”
plays over the speakers
in a way that cannot be ignored.
Quasi-artistic,
semi-bohemian,
mockably mediocre.
Were I living the life I should,
I would be sitting
in a coffee house in San Francisco—
a real one—
like the ones Hemingway
and Kerouac haunt,
but not the ones they actually
haunt, because those are
popular tourist stops.
A coffee house, though,
that has no corporate office
with men in suits
around a conference table
lamenting stock indexes,
market bottoms,
and underproducing store locations.
A coffee house, perhaps,
that would pour whisky into your mug
if you asked
because it does not cater
to stay-at-home moms
in tennis skirts and visors
who have no plans
to swing a racquet today.
If I were serious
about art and music,
I would have earphones playing
the real Duke Ellington,
and maybe Dizzy Gillespie,
or even Stan Getz.
Instead, I hear a woman’s call
to “Uncle Matt”:
‘Mom’s getting home from vacation. She called me from the boat today. Just calling to see if you all wanted to come over for dinner. I don’t know what I’m making yet. So call me later.’
Her son comes to Starbucks so often
he thinks the toys in the corner are his.
She snaps her cell phone closed
and asks her bored son,
‘Wanna go to the grocery store?’
At this moment
the only song title I can recall
from my personal knowledge of these giants
is “Caravan.”
“Desafinado” from Getz’s
Girl from Ipanema
will come on later,
but I only know that
because the 32-inch flatscreen
tells me so.
And instead of writing
my American Masterpiece,
or, at least my own scholarly interpretation
of an American Masterpiece,
I am reading teenage attempts
to complete an assignment
they don’t understand.
The undeniable truth,
as I sit here
among the step-children of genius,
is that Starbucks is my life.
It’s safe; it’s close; it’s familiar.
It’s a place to sit in judgment
and feel superior
to the cult of soccer moms
I’m a year away from joining.
At Starbucks,
I can pretend I adhere
to the Emersonian calling
of ‘greatness,’
and in the midst of the crowd
keep with perfect sweetness
the independence of solitude.
But this is not true,
and the bland cover design
of Tuesdays with Morrie
that sits beside my
grande
nonfat
sugarfree
vanilla
latte
tells me so.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
On Having Never Taught You
A Cafe Mots Front Row Perspective
It’s a shame I never had you in class.
You would have made me laugh,
probably on a daily basis.
I’ll mourn the loss of all those laughs and smiles
until something distracts me, and I forget to.
You probably would have been a good student too—
not the kind of good student who always has his work,
studies for tests, takes notes, sits in the front,
and answers all of my questions—
but the kind of good student who thinks for himself
and reads all he can.
There have been others like you—
other creative, comedic clowns—
off to their graduated lives
of being funny for other people.
I have admired you
from the Little Theatre front row.
And I’ll probably remember you,
until something distracts me, and I forget to.
It’s a shame I never had you in class.
You would have made me laugh,
probably on a daily basis.
I’ll mourn the loss of all those laughs and smiles
until something distracts me, and I forget to.
You probably would have been a good student too—
not the kind of good student who always has his work,
studies for tests, takes notes, sits in the front,
and answers all of my questions—
but the kind of good student who thinks for himself
and reads all he can.
There have been others like you—
other creative, comedic clowns—
off to their graduated lives
of being funny for other people.
I have admired you
from the Little Theatre front row.
And I’ll probably remember you,
until something distracts me, and I forget to.
The Art of Genocide
(I wrote the following after contending with ants in the kitchen. . .)
First there were three.
A trio of black vagrants
on a plain of white linoleum.
Mash—mash—mash—
unspotted white again
with a threat of more to come.
Then there were many.
A steady march
toward strategically laid bait.
An invasion of black bodies moving
purposefully in search of something sweet,
something fulfilling.
They splash in a deadly pool,
gulping the poisonous nectar.
If they do not drown themselves
in the paradisiacal font,
they stagger away,
drunk with syrupy bliss.
Toward home they carry
an infectious plan—
a hope of future death.
Mash—mash—mash—
mashmashmashmashmashmashmash
Then there were hordes.
An undaunted mass,
filled with the faith of their number,
and conspiring with the communication
of devout industry.
The noxious well drained dry
only to increase their power,
firm their resolve,
improve their approach.
Spray—spray—spray—
A chemical shower to halt the arrogance,
to assert authority,
to flush improvements.
Black bodies writhe in silent pain,
paralyzed with asphyxiation.
One survivor drags another
across the white plain—
spraysprayspraysprayspraysprayspray
Then there were few.
Alive to wander
confused, intoxicated, undetermined,
with a faint memory of egg-filled nests.
Sweep—sweep—sweep—
First there were three.
A trio of black vagrants
on a plain of white linoleum.
Mash—mash—mash—
unspotted white again
with a threat of more to come.
Then there were many.
A steady march
toward strategically laid bait.
An invasion of black bodies moving
purposefully in search of something sweet,
something fulfilling.
They splash in a deadly pool,
gulping the poisonous nectar.
If they do not drown themselves
in the paradisiacal font,
they stagger away,
drunk with syrupy bliss.
Toward home they carry
an infectious plan—
a hope of future death.
Mash—mash—mash—
mashmashmashmashmashmashmash
Then there were hordes.
An undaunted mass,
filled with the faith of their number,
and conspiring with the communication
of devout industry.
The noxious well drained dry
only to increase their power,
firm their resolve,
improve their approach.
Spray—spray—spray—
A chemical shower to halt the arrogance,
to assert authority,
to flush improvements.
Black bodies writhe in silent pain,
paralyzed with asphyxiation.
One survivor drags another
across the white plain—
spraysprayspraysprayspraysprayspray
Then there were few.
Alive to wander
confused, intoxicated, undetermined,
with a faint memory of egg-filled nests.
Sweep—sweep—sweep—
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Love (for Summer)'s Real--Not Fade Away
Compared to last, this has been a deliciously industrious summer for me, but with a perfect amount of downtime. As I am staring down the last week of summer vacation, I do not sense the racking anxiety of back-to-school preparations that incurred my "Teacher's Perspective" blog roughly 365 days ago. So, the top five golden highlights:
5. Wedding Planning in the Mond: Any occasion that brings me to my hometown of Richmond, VA is a worthwhile one. I arranged the church, reception, band, photographer, guest hotel rooms, and invitations. It was stressful at times for a couple of reasons. For one, you would think the Catholic church doesn't want people to get married considering the difficulty it takes to book a day with them. Secondly, I am NOT an enthusiastic decision maker (refer to "A Teacher's Perspective" blog for more about this personal anxiety of mine), and thus I am eternally indebted to God for providing me with a mother and a fiancee who lust for calling the shots.
Anyway--it's clear to me now why people say, "F--k it" and jet off for Vegas to be married by a man in an Elvis costume--it may be ugly as hell, but it sure is easy!
4. Teaching Summer School: Five years ago I distinctly remember uttering "Never again" upon completing my first 6-weeks Freshman English repeater course. I met with students for four hours a day, M-F. These were kids who did not like reading and writing enough during the school year to pass. Now we were locked in a classroom during their summer break to somehow magically ignite the same desire for language arts. It will suffice to say that I remember watching a lot of movies that summer.
With house payments and children on the near horizon, suddently the money from summer school is more attractive to me than being able to lounge by a pool or take off to Vegas on a moment's notice. So, for two weeks this summer I taught roughly 45 middle school kids which, among other things, solidified my previous suspicion that I am not a middle school teacher. 7th and 8th graders retain a heartwarming innocence that completely vanishes a quarter of the way through 10th grade. But they do not understand my humor (read: sarcasm) very well and they are paralyzed with self-consciousness. This latter point is particularly painful for someone who remembers the terror of "freakishness" when she was that age. The mantra of our class thus became "We are all uncool." If middle schoolers think that part of the course objective is to "be cool" we would NEVER have gotten anything done. And we did read some great stories.
3. The Dark Knight: Hands down, best movie of the summer--BUT several things bothered me. For one, (and I'm partially stealing this from a review I read online) someone in the sound mixing department thought it would be a good idea to make Christian Bale's Batman sound like a cross between Clint Eastwood and a grizzly bear. It's a bizarre decision and one that distracted me throughout the film. I also detest Maggie Gyllenhaal--and it pains me to say it, but Katie Holmes was a MUCH better Rachel Dawes. I also get confused sometimes when superhero movies go to this many editions with sequels mixed in: Are we supposed to erase the first Batman's portrayal and backstory of the Joker completely or somehow mix the two movies together, because I'm not sure the latter is possible. On a positive note, the makeup job for Two Face was exciting (and nauseating!).
2. Waterskiing and Wine Tasting: I worked in some great recreational activities this summer, among them this alliterative pair. I executed the former at my grandparents' house on the Eastern Shore of VA. The water was warm and nettle-free (always an excellent combination), and I tested the old "it's like riding a bike" cliche. After not skiing for a few years, I shot out of the water with ease.
The latter activity is one I have not indulged in for some time, having completely quit drinking for a 16-month period in August of 2006 and then occasionally sipped red wine since. We rented a limo, hit five wineries, grabbed a pizza for dinner, and played Catchphrase into the night. It was a good day :D
1. El Salvador: What to say. . . In truth, this trip deserves its own separate blog space, but I've been too busy (read: lazy) to write the piece it deserves. Without contest, this trip tops the list of highlights for summer and is certainly a contender for best lifetime experiences. On Friday the 13th of June, twelve rising seniors and two teachers (myself included) departed from the San Jose airport for San Salvador. Upon arrival, I considered the setting similar to Cabo (a recent trip I took in February). After a lovely dockside breakfast, we took a long drive to the small village of Guarjila. I don't think the panic set in until Sal (the director of the immersion trip) and I arrived to our "hotelito" and I observed the stark reality of poverty that revealed itself to me through our toilet and bath accomodations. The "bathroom" was a little shack divided into two "rooms" with a well between them. On the right side, a porceline-like toilet sat over a hole in the ground. The "shower" in the adjacent room provided a bucket for dipping and pouring water over my head. To put it mildly, I was terrified.
Within a day, the people of the village (especially the youth minister, John Guiliano), with their warm smiles and eager enthusiasm to be amused by the silly "gringos," put me at ease. At our core, we are human (most of us are Catholics)--we care about our families, have a need to communicate, and believe in the goodness of others. In short, faith in something greater than ourselves brought us together more quickly than I would have guessed.
Throughout the week, we explored the people, the land, and the history of a recent war in El Salvador. Two events most impressed me (in that they brought me to the floor in irrepressible sobs). While visiting "the UCA" (Universidad Centroamericana) and hearing about the massacre of several Jesuit priests, their housekeeper and her daughter, we were led into a stark room with a few pictures on the wall. John produced two full albums of pictures of these people who had been dragged from their peaceful beds (in their pajamas!) by Salvadoran National Guardsmen and shot point-blank in the face or head or chest. I looked at the photos until something inside me cracked wide open and I could not contain myself (even in front of a room of students who were probably terrified at my tears).
The other event that continues to give me goosebumps when my brain calls the memory to mind was a visit to the small town of Mozote where roughly 1200 people were killed by the same National Guard brigade that later invaded the UCA. 85% of those massacred were under the age of 12 years old. The screams and cries of children for their mothers are still there--embedded into the thick humid air you breathe as you walk through the town (which is all but completely abandoned still).
El Salvador is a beautiful country with amazing beaches and excellent food. I would definitely "vacation" there--but that kind of reflection seems nearly perverse when there is another, palpable force that makes the place remarkable: a people who have witnessed and endured more pain and suffering than any other on earth (at the hands of their own government, no less--and ours, sadly). They looked at us (the Americans they have every God-given right to condemn to hell for their losses) with warmth. I don't think I will ever be able to fully understand that level of acceptance and that degree of compassion.
This latter portion of the blog teaches me that some things may be too precious to write about justly.
5. Wedding Planning in the Mond: Any occasion that brings me to my hometown of Richmond, VA is a worthwhile one. I arranged the church, reception, band, photographer, guest hotel rooms, and invitations. It was stressful at times for a couple of reasons. For one, you would think the Catholic church doesn't want people to get married considering the difficulty it takes to book a day with them. Secondly, I am NOT an enthusiastic decision maker (refer to "A Teacher's Perspective" blog for more about this personal anxiety of mine), and thus I am eternally indebted to God for providing me with a mother and a fiancee who lust for calling the shots.
Anyway--it's clear to me now why people say, "F--k it" and jet off for Vegas to be married by a man in an Elvis costume--it may be ugly as hell, but it sure is easy!
4. Teaching Summer School: Five years ago I distinctly remember uttering "Never again" upon completing my first 6-weeks Freshman English repeater course. I met with students for four hours a day, M-F. These were kids who did not like reading and writing enough during the school year to pass. Now we were locked in a classroom during their summer break to somehow magically ignite the same desire for language arts. It will suffice to say that I remember watching a lot of movies that summer.
With house payments and children on the near horizon, suddently the money from summer school is more attractive to me than being able to lounge by a pool or take off to Vegas on a moment's notice. So, for two weeks this summer I taught roughly 45 middle school kids which, among other things, solidified my previous suspicion that I am not a middle school teacher. 7th and 8th graders retain a heartwarming innocence that completely vanishes a quarter of the way through 10th grade. But they do not understand my humor (read: sarcasm) very well and they are paralyzed with self-consciousness. This latter point is particularly painful for someone who remembers the terror of "freakishness" when she was that age. The mantra of our class thus became "We are all uncool." If middle schoolers think that part of the course objective is to "be cool" we would NEVER have gotten anything done. And we did read some great stories.
3. The Dark Knight: Hands down, best movie of the summer--BUT several things bothered me. For one, (and I'm partially stealing this from a review I read online) someone in the sound mixing department thought it would be a good idea to make Christian Bale's Batman sound like a cross between Clint Eastwood and a grizzly bear. It's a bizarre decision and one that distracted me throughout the film. I also detest Maggie Gyllenhaal--and it pains me to say it, but Katie Holmes was a MUCH better Rachel Dawes. I also get confused sometimes when superhero movies go to this many editions with sequels mixed in: Are we supposed to erase the first Batman's portrayal and backstory of the Joker completely or somehow mix the two movies together, because I'm not sure the latter is possible. On a positive note, the makeup job for Two Face was exciting (and nauseating!).
2. Waterskiing and Wine Tasting: I worked in some great recreational activities this summer, among them this alliterative pair. I executed the former at my grandparents' house on the Eastern Shore of VA. The water was warm and nettle-free (always an excellent combination), and I tested the old "it's like riding a bike" cliche. After not skiing for a few years, I shot out of the water with ease.
The latter activity is one I have not indulged in for some time, having completely quit drinking for a 16-month period in August of 2006 and then occasionally sipped red wine since. We rented a limo, hit five wineries, grabbed a pizza for dinner, and played Catchphrase into the night. It was a good day :D
1. El Salvador: What to say. . . In truth, this trip deserves its own separate blog space, but I've been too busy (read: lazy) to write the piece it deserves. Without contest, this trip tops the list of highlights for summer and is certainly a contender for best lifetime experiences. On Friday the 13th of June, twelve rising seniors and two teachers (myself included) departed from the San Jose airport for San Salvador. Upon arrival, I considered the setting similar to Cabo (a recent trip I took in February). After a lovely dockside breakfast, we took a long drive to the small village of Guarjila. I don't think the panic set in until Sal (the director of the immersion trip) and I arrived to our "hotelito" and I observed the stark reality of poverty that revealed itself to me through our toilet and bath accomodations. The "bathroom" was a little shack divided into two "rooms" with a well between them. On the right side, a porceline-like toilet sat over a hole in the ground. The "shower" in the adjacent room provided a bucket for dipping and pouring water over my head. To put it mildly, I was terrified.
Within a day, the people of the village (especially the youth minister, John Guiliano), with their warm smiles and eager enthusiasm to be amused by the silly "gringos," put me at ease. At our core, we are human (most of us are Catholics)--we care about our families, have a need to communicate, and believe in the goodness of others. In short, faith in something greater than ourselves brought us together more quickly than I would have guessed.
Throughout the week, we explored the people, the land, and the history of a recent war in El Salvador. Two events most impressed me (in that they brought me to the floor in irrepressible sobs). While visiting "the UCA" (Universidad Centroamericana) and hearing about the massacre of several Jesuit priests, their housekeeper and her daughter, we were led into a stark room with a few pictures on the wall. John produced two full albums of pictures of these people who had been dragged from their peaceful beds (in their pajamas!) by Salvadoran National Guardsmen and shot point-blank in the face or head or chest. I looked at the photos until something inside me cracked wide open and I could not contain myself (even in front of a room of students who were probably terrified at my tears).
The other event that continues to give me goosebumps when my brain calls the memory to mind was a visit to the small town of Mozote where roughly 1200 people were killed by the same National Guard brigade that later invaded the UCA. 85% of those massacred were under the age of 12 years old. The screams and cries of children for their mothers are still there--embedded into the thick humid air you breathe as you walk through the town (which is all but completely abandoned still).
El Salvador is a beautiful country with amazing beaches and excellent food. I would definitely "vacation" there--but that kind of reflection seems nearly perverse when there is another, palpable force that makes the place remarkable: a people who have witnessed and endured more pain and suffering than any other on earth (at the hands of their own government, no less--and ours, sadly). They looked at us (the Americans they have every God-given right to condemn to hell for their losses) with warmth. I don't think I will ever be able to fully understand that level of acceptance and that degree of compassion.
This latter portion of the blog teaches me that some things may be too precious to write about justly.
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