Ritual Read/Writing into the Day 6/13: Superman (Sherman Alexie), Spiderman (poem)
I never wanted to be a superhero, really. It looks like too much work. Every day it's the same thing: fight the bad guy, save the victim; fight the bad guy, save the city; fight the bad guy, save the world. Sheesh. Do they ever get a break? A day off? A thank you card, or a nice gift basket? Never seems like it. Sure, sometimes they get a hug or even a kiss from someone they just saved, but you know what? I'm married, and I think my husband would get jealous. So, that's that. And what about the costumes? Who decided that spandex would be a good idea? Not flattering, even a little. The colors are all similar, too. You could easily confuse Superman, Spiderman, and Captain America as they sped past you on the way to save someone else. Then the wrong person would get the credit! My son is absolutely convinced that his Superman t-shirt actually says Spiderman. He refuses to believe me when I try to correct him. Superman's been saving the world for, what, like 80 years, and he doesn't even get recognized as the right guy by a three-year-old Dang. No superhero work for me. No way. I would kind of like to be able to fly, though.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Friday, June 27, 2014
Montana Writing Project, Day 4--I am WAY behind in typing these up
[So, today was actually the last day of the class. We've had so much work, I haven't had time to type any of my writing up to post. I'll try to get caught up over the next few days, but I still have a ton of writing to do to finish my portfolio and stuff by July 9.]
Writing Into The Day 6/12: Response to Linda Ellis' "The Dash"
I've seen this particular poem a number of times, but the place and time it takes me to is September 2004, to the memorial service for my maternal grandmother. My dad, her son-in-law, chose the poem (which struck me a little because they often didn't get along). But I spent some time at the service, and since, thinking about my grandmother, and her "dash".
Our relationship was sometimes a rocky one: I felt she was stern and boring--my other grandmother, if she'd seen the kids playing in the dirt, would join us; my mom's mother would tell us to stop getting dirty. It wasn't until she had passed away that I learned some details about her dash.
Born in 1907, she lived through the Great War, the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, World War II. In her teens, she exercised cavalry horses with her sister on the nearby army base. She and my grandfather, both teachers, married in secret in the 1930's and kept it a secret for several years. You see, female teachers back then couldn't be married; married women should be at home starting families. My grandmother loved her job teaching shorthand and typing, and didn't want to give it up. She was stubborn like that. I've been told I inherited some of her stubbornness--I don't see it.
[Funny side note: My grandfather had played baseball in college and was offered a position on a farm team for Philadelphia. He turned it down because he loved teaching, and because you couldn't make any money playing professional baseball.]
My grandmother had my mom at age 36, the same age I had my first child. My mom was a preemie, in an incubator for the first few weeks of her life, and my grandparents did not try again. I often wondered what my mom's childhood was like, living with my un-fun German grandmother. My grandfather was the fun one: he loved jokes, took my mother to Flyers games, and even let her have a pet squirrel. I never heard of my grandmother joining in such antics. She always came across as the killjoy in my mom's stories, not liking the squirrel, not attending the sporting events, not enjoying the practical jokes.
I often felt gypped growing up--my grandfather had passed away at age 63 four years before I was born. I wondered why I was stuck with the boring grandparent and never got to know the fun one. My grandmother always wanted me to be a girl. Now, I AM a girl, but she wanted me to be a girly-girl. Every year for my birthday or Christmas or Easter--holidays for which she was frequently present, since most of her family was gone and my mom was an only child--my grandmother would give me a sweatshirt. Pink or mint green or peach (which is really NOT my color), one had knitting sheep on it, another had ballet-dancing teddy bears, and the third had seashells outlined in glittery puff paint. My God. Had I worn those to school, or even out of the house, I would have been a laughing stock. Gifts from my grandmother were acknowledged with a "thank you" and then tucked away in a drawer or on a shelf in my closet, waiting for an opportunity to put them in a rummage sale at church or give away to a younger associate who was more receptive to glitter paint and knitting sheep.
I don't know if I understand even now the intent of my grandmother's gifts; did she know so little about me that she thought I'd really like a sweatshirt with ballet-dancing teddy bears as a sophomore in high school, or she wanted me to be the kind of girl who would like such a thing, or she viewed me as being girlier than I was, or she wanted me to BE girlier, or she simply didn't know me well enough to know what I'd like, or she didn't know my age group or generation well enough to know what I'd like...and now, I think, was it because I never took the time to LET her get to know me well enough?
There may have been a lot about me that my grandmother didn't know, but there was also a lot about her that I didn't know. I will probably never know those things about her. My mother has passed away as well, and my father doesn't know or doesn't remember a lot of stories from my mother's family. My grandmother's brother and sister are long gone as well, and I haven't stayed in touch with my mother's cousins, the only other living relatives from my mother's side of the family that I know still exist. I should check with my father and see if he has their addresses. I inherited all my mother's family photo albums when she died; I see faces in fading black and white photos that look vaguely familiar, but most of the pictures aren't labeled. I turn the pages in silence, and mourn the loss of family that I never knew I had. I also mourn the family that I did have, but didn't ever take the time to know. I know my grandmother probably had a hell of a dash. I just wish I knew more of the story.
6/12 How might the reading, writing, and discussions that you've experienced here inform your work? What are the implications for your work?
Prior to the institute, I had essentially no training in IEFA. Oh, I had a few handbooks, and I think I might have sat through a conference session or two, but nothing other than that, and those obviously hadn't made much impression on me. I knew we had required IEFA texts at every level, although not in every semester, and the only ones I've taught are The Winter People and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. This institute is giving me far more resources than I knew existed as far as material I can use in my classroom and ways I can relate it to the texts we already discuss, but more importantly it's given me an understanding of WHY it matters to do so. High school is such a marginalizing experience anyway; if I can make it less so, I will.
Writing Into The Day 6/12: Response to Linda Ellis' "The Dash"
I've seen this particular poem a number of times, but the place and time it takes me to is September 2004, to the memorial service for my maternal grandmother. My dad, her son-in-law, chose the poem (which struck me a little because they often didn't get along). But I spent some time at the service, and since, thinking about my grandmother, and her "dash".
Our relationship was sometimes a rocky one: I felt she was stern and boring--my other grandmother, if she'd seen the kids playing in the dirt, would join us; my mom's mother would tell us to stop getting dirty. It wasn't until she had passed away that I learned some details about her dash.
Born in 1907, she lived through the Great War, the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, World War II. In her teens, she exercised cavalry horses with her sister on the nearby army base. She and my grandfather, both teachers, married in secret in the 1930's and kept it a secret for several years. You see, female teachers back then couldn't be married; married women should be at home starting families. My grandmother loved her job teaching shorthand and typing, and didn't want to give it up. She was stubborn like that. I've been told I inherited some of her stubbornness--I don't see it.
[Funny side note: My grandfather had played baseball in college and was offered a position on a farm team for Philadelphia. He turned it down because he loved teaching, and because you couldn't make any money playing professional baseball.]
My grandmother had my mom at age 36, the same age I had my first child. My mom was a preemie, in an incubator for the first few weeks of her life, and my grandparents did not try again. I often wondered what my mom's childhood was like, living with my un-fun German grandmother. My grandfather was the fun one: he loved jokes, took my mother to Flyers games, and even let her have a pet squirrel. I never heard of my grandmother joining in such antics. She always came across as the killjoy in my mom's stories, not liking the squirrel, not attending the sporting events, not enjoying the practical jokes.
I often felt gypped growing up--my grandfather had passed away at age 63 four years before I was born. I wondered why I was stuck with the boring grandparent and never got to know the fun one. My grandmother always wanted me to be a girl. Now, I AM a girl, but she wanted me to be a girly-girl. Every year for my birthday or Christmas or Easter--holidays for which she was frequently present, since most of her family was gone and my mom was an only child--my grandmother would give me a sweatshirt. Pink or mint green or peach (which is really NOT my color), one had knitting sheep on it, another had ballet-dancing teddy bears, and the third had seashells outlined in glittery puff paint. My God. Had I worn those to school, or even out of the house, I would have been a laughing stock. Gifts from my grandmother were acknowledged with a "thank you" and then tucked away in a drawer or on a shelf in my closet, waiting for an opportunity to put them in a rummage sale at church or give away to a younger associate who was more receptive to glitter paint and knitting sheep.
I don't know if I understand even now the intent of my grandmother's gifts; did she know so little about me that she thought I'd really like a sweatshirt with ballet-dancing teddy bears as a sophomore in high school, or she wanted me to be the kind of girl who would like such a thing, or she viewed me as being girlier than I was, or she wanted me to BE girlier, or she simply didn't know me well enough to know what I'd like, or she didn't know my age group or generation well enough to know what I'd like...and now, I think, was it because I never took the time to LET her get to know me well enough?
There may have been a lot about me that my grandmother didn't know, but there was also a lot about her that I didn't know. I will probably never know those things about her. My mother has passed away as well, and my father doesn't know or doesn't remember a lot of stories from my mother's family. My grandmother's brother and sister are long gone as well, and I haven't stayed in touch with my mother's cousins, the only other living relatives from my mother's side of the family that I know still exist. I should check with my father and see if he has their addresses. I inherited all my mother's family photo albums when she died; I see faces in fading black and white photos that look vaguely familiar, but most of the pictures aren't labeled. I turn the pages in silence, and mourn the loss of family that I never knew I had. I also mourn the family that I did have, but didn't ever take the time to know. I know my grandmother probably had a hell of a dash. I just wish I knew more of the story.
6/12 How might the reading, writing, and discussions that you've experienced here inform your work? What are the implications for your work?
Prior to the institute, I had essentially no training in IEFA. Oh, I had a few handbooks, and I think I might have sat through a conference session or two, but nothing other than that, and those obviously hadn't made much impression on me. I knew we had required IEFA texts at every level, although not in every semester, and the only ones I've taught are The Winter People and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. This institute is giving me far more resources than I knew existed as far as material I can use in my classroom and ways I can relate it to the texts we already discuss, but more importantly it's given me an understanding of WHY it matters to do so. High school is such a marginalizing experience anyway; if I can make it less so, I will.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Montana Writing Project, Day 3 (I'm getting a little behind in getting these pieces typed up)
Writing into the Day 6/11: Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's apology to the aboriginal people of Australia
Why is it so hard to say sorry when it's something big, something important? Why do we wait so long when it matters so much? My dad and I recently discussed the Pope's apologies for some of the darker events in the history of the Catholic Church. I regularly have to remind my 3 1/2 year old son to apologize when he hurts someone (usually his little brother). I shouldn't have to remind him, but I do. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for people to get an apology from the Church. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for the aboriginal people of Australia to receive an apology from the Australian government. Why? Why is it so much easier to say sorry to someone for a minor infraction, like bumping into someone on the sidewalk? Why is that so much easier than saying sorry when we've caused harm or hurt? It is because we view "sorry" and regret and apologies as admissions of guilt? Is recognizing the enormity of our own fault what keeps us silent for so long? Do we hope people will eventually forget our transgressions, if we remain silent long enough? Saying sorry shouldn't be so hard or take so long. But it also shouldn't be tossed out casually and carelessly, because that cheapens the sentiment. We should be able to look the person, or persons, or descendents of those people, in the eye, maybe take their hand, and say, "I am sorry." It shouldn't be hard, but it shouldn't be easy. And it should be followed with "I'll do better next time." And mean it. It's not going to erase the bad things, but it can make things better from that point on. My son sometimes says, "Sorry, Mommy," when he's done something, and I've responded with "No, you aren't. If you were, you wouldn't keep doing it." I'm sure I shouldn't say that to him. I should tell him "Thank you" and "We'll both do better next time."
Response to Marcia Beaumont's TIP Demonstration 6/11--"What's in a Name?" activity
I didn't realize I had so many different names. I kept thinking of more and more, and the funny thing is that I didn't write down any negative ones on the paper plate. I know I've been called some bad things over the years, but none comes to mind. Out of all the names I've been called, the most powerful is "Mrs. McKnight". I guess that's because it means several different things. I married my husband on August 21, 1999, almost fifteen years ago. As soon as I got back to Memphis, I filled out the paperwork to change my name. I didn't keep my original name, as my sister-in-law has since done. I didn't hyphenate my last name, as some of my friends did. I was proud of my new name, glad that my husband loved me enough to change my name to his. It's also what students have called me. I hear it in varying forms: "McKnight," "The Knight", even "McNugget" from a student with a bad memory. But I like it best when I hear it as "Mrs. McKnight, I loved your class." It shows different levels of respect, depending on how it's said, I'm sure, but I've never heard it as anything but me myself.
Why is it so hard to say sorry when it's something big, something important? Why do we wait so long when it matters so much? My dad and I recently discussed the Pope's apologies for some of the darker events in the history of the Catholic Church. I regularly have to remind my 3 1/2 year old son to apologize when he hurts someone (usually his little brother). I shouldn't have to remind him, but I do. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for people to get an apology from the Church. It shouldn't have taken hundreds of years for the aboriginal people of Australia to receive an apology from the Australian government. Why? Why is it so much easier to say sorry to someone for a minor infraction, like bumping into someone on the sidewalk? Why is that so much easier than saying sorry when we've caused harm or hurt? It is because we view "sorry" and regret and apologies as admissions of guilt? Is recognizing the enormity of our own fault what keeps us silent for so long? Do we hope people will eventually forget our transgressions, if we remain silent long enough? Saying sorry shouldn't be so hard or take so long. But it also shouldn't be tossed out casually and carelessly, because that cheapens the sentiment. We should be able to look the person, or persons, or descendents of those people, in the eye, maybe take their hand, and say, "I am sorry." It shouldn't be hard, but it shouldn't be easy. And it should be followed with "I'll do better next time." And mean it. It's not going to erase the bad things, but it can make things better from that point on. My son sometimes says, "Sorry, Mommy," when he's done something, and I've responded with "No, you aren't. If you were, you wouldn't keep doing it." I'm sure I shouldn't say that to him. I should tell him "Thank you" and "We'll both do better next time."
Response to Marcia Beaumont's TIP Demonstration 6/11--"What's in a Name?" activity
I didn't realize I had so many different names. I kept thinking of more and more, and the funny thing is that I didn't write down any negative ones on the paper plate. I know I've been called some bad things over the years, but none comes to mind. Out of all the names I've been called, the most powerful is "Mrs. McKnight". I guess that's because it means several different things. I married my husband on August 21, 1999, almost fifteen years ago. As soon as I got back to Memphis, I filled out the paperwork to change my name. I didn't keep my original name, as my sister-in-law has since done. I didn't hyphenate my last name, as some of my friends did. I was proud of my new name, glad that my husband loved me enough to change my name to his. It's also what students have called me. I hear it in varying forms: "McKnight," "The Knight", even "McNugget" from a student with a bad memory. But I like it best when I hear it as "Mrs. McKnight, I loved your class." It shows different levels of respect, depending on how it's said, I'm sure, but I've never heard it as anything but me myself.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Montana Writing Project, Day 2
Today passed in somewhat of a fog. I got less sleep than I would have liked last night, due to a rough patch by Ian (woke up and cried a number of times, then pulled off his pajama bottoms and diaper and proceeded to pee all over his bed--Ian had to be changed, the bed had to be stripped, and Ian needed to be rocked back to a calmer state before he'd go back to sleep). As bad as it sounds, I couldn't immediately tell you everything we wrote, read, or discussed this morning. The afternoon was dedicated to a writing on a strong memory, which is something we'll be able to refine and add to our memoirs that are due Monday. We finished with a research-and-share discussion of the Essential Understandings of Indian Education for All and some Indian history. We didn't quite get finished, so we'll have to finish tomorrow. We signed up for our daily duties; I wish I'd brought my schedule home to write on the calendar so I can remember what I'm supposed to be doing. I think I'm responsible for something on Thursday. Not sure. Anyway, here are the two pieces I wrote today.
Writing Into The Day 6/10: "Why I Write" intro to Creating A Life by Donald M. Murray
It's interesting to consider why I write. I love to write; I always have. In school, I churned out plenty of angsty teen poetry. I was an enthusiastic albeit erratic diary writer, at least until I was about to graduate high school, when my mom admitted that she had been reading my diary for years. Bitterly spiteful, I rebuffed her offer of a new diary since my old one was nearly full, and threw the old one in the trash. That didn't stop me from writing in college, though. I wrote lengthy letters to friends, and more questionable poetry for classes and for myself. In this glorious age of technology, I am a blogger (duh)--with a few lean years when parenthood, exhaustion, and depression made it hard to muster enthusiasm for anything. I am also a Facebook addict. I love seeing posts from friends and former students, but I get selfish pleasure from responses to my own posts: "You are so funny! You should compile your statuses into a book!" I think I write for the affirmation, not necessarily that I am clever or funny, but that I am still here. I can look back at my writing and think, wow, I thought/said/did that? How far I've come! Or, do I truly feel that way? How far I have yet to go. I can see the evolution of my style: habitual user of ellipses, dashes, parentheticals; ritual breaker of the fourth wall in asides to my reader. I can hear the "rapids" Donald Murray referred to; I need to start paddling.
Place-Related Memory 6/10: Half Mile of Hell on the Ocoee River, TN
The rapid, although it isn't much of a rapid, just class II "boogie water," is usually referred to as "Half Mile of Hell" by the other paddlers I know, but I don't know if it has an official name. It isn't really half a mile long, either--maybe a quarter or even an eighth? I'm a terrible judge of distance. And it's not that it's "hell" exactly. It just requires some balance, some boat control, and a willingness to play a game I call "Wave, or Rock?" It was my first trip down the Middle Ocoee in a kayak. I'd put on the river at the alternate put-in that missed three of the more difficult rapids. I'd successfully negotiated the first two rapids on that section of the river, a bouncy chute called Moonshoot (because of a butt-shaped rock in the middle), and the "sneak" line at the notorious hydraulic Double Suck. I was feeling pretty confident (although I still felt a healthy dose of apprehension, as I always do), which might be why I got a little sloppy, a little loose, and leaned back a little too much. I was following another boater, either too closely or not closely enough. As it was my first time on the Ocoee, Phil, who was an experienced boater, told me to follow his lines. His exact words were "Follow me, and when I turn my boat, you turn your boat." I have since pondered this advice, wondering how much fault lay with Phil and how much was my own. Were I closer to Phil's boat, turning when he turned might have helped me dodge the rock or hole or wave or whatever it was; were I farther behind, the same move might have missed the obstacle altogether. As it happened, Phil angled his boat to the left, so I did the same. Doing so brought my boat with a "thump" against a barely submerged rock masquerading as a wave (see the aforementioned game "Wave, or Rock?"), and suddenly I was upside down. No matter how many times I've practiced my "eskimo roll"--the move that rights a kayak using the paddler's body and paddle--the sensation of suddenly being surrounded by water instead of air when I don't expect it is disorienting and disconcerting. I'm sure there are other boaters whose immediate response to such an event is to flip themselves back over without a thought; I have never reached that point. My thoughts usually go through the following process: "Oh crap! I'm upside down! I can't breathe! Ow, that was a rock! I should set up to roll. I wonder if anyone else has noticed that I'm upside down. I should set up to roll. I'll try to roll. Well, I'll try after I quit thumping over all these rocks. I wonder if anyone is coming to get me. I haven't heard any thumps on my boat that might be anyone else setting up for a T rescue. I should try to roll. I'm running out of air. Oh crap." Sometimes this process has been followed by "Hey, wow, I did it! I actually rolled!" More often, however, the process was followed by "Tried to roll, didn't make it all the way. Tried to roll again, didn't make it all the way. Guess I'll pop my sprayskirt and swim." That's mostly what happened at this particular point in the river. I did indeed set up to roll--I bent at the waist towards the left side of my boat, thrust both hands skyward with my paddle clutched in my fists, rotated my wrists as though I were revving the throttle on a motorcycle...and punched my left fist really hard against a rock. I know this is what must have happened, although I really don't have a clear recollection of it. I remember realizing that I was only holding my paddle with my right hand. I know some people can roll a boat one-handed (or even without a paddle at all); I am not one of them. I let go of my paddle and pulled the grab loop on my sprayskirt. Once I had popped the skirt off the rim of my cockpit, I pulled myself out of the boat much like pulling off a pair of pants. I didn't do much to "self-rescue"--I let my paddle and boat float downriver without me, and swam towards the bank. It wasn't a great place to swim--lots of rocks, obviously--and it wasn't a great place to try to get out of the water, either. I had ended up on the inside curve of the rapid, right at the bend in the river before the rapid Double Trouble, a big wave train. The road that followed the river was perhaps 20 feet above me, up a steep rocky embankment. I scrambled to the top without any problems (not slowing down enough to consider the possibility that there could be snakes sunning themselves on the rocks as they do along much of the river). It wasn't until I got to the top and reached for the road's guardrail to pull myself up and over that I noticed my left hand. Specifically, my index finger. The section between the two lower knuckles had already swollen to twice its usual size, and the skin was stretched and shiny, like the casing of a sausage. That section of the finger had gone almost white, while the rest of the finger was starting to turn purple. My first thought was, I've broken my finger. Then I noticed my Timex digital watch. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking, the ads said. Well, this Timex was licked. Period. I had broken the face; it would not tick anymore (not that it ticked anyway; it was digital). I walked along the roadside, careful to hug the guardrail as cars and large trucks could come barreling around the curve quickly and potentially swinging wide. About 50 yards, maybe as much as 100 yards (remember, bad at distances), I climbed back over the guardrail and worked my way down the path the river outfitter photographers used. As I clambered back down over rocks and tree roots, I thought two things: "I hope they got my paddle and my boat" and "I can't believe I only made it two rapids before I swam." You see, in kayaking, swimming is portrayed as something to be ashamed of. It means you screwed up, probably twice: once when you didn't successfully negotiate an obstacle, and once when you failed to roll. On a lot of paddling trips, at the end of the day, the swimmers must "drink from the boot." Someone will take a neoprene bootie, like a thick rubber sock with a sole, and fill it with beer. The offending swimmer or swimmers must then drain the boot. Other times, the swimmer is expected to buy the beer for that night's campfire. Either way, it's a moment of shaming, even if relatively good-natured. I wasn't concerned with drinking from the boot or buying the beer at that moment, however; I was overwhelmed with the feeling of failure, the feeling that I'd let my friends, and more importantly my husband, down. While kayakers are generally a community who look out for each other, a "newbie" on a trip puts other more experienced boaters in an instructional or support role. They must guide the newbie down the river and be responsible for helping that person out if he or she gets in a jam. A newbie on a trip means the other paddlers aren't as free to paddle in their own way, at their own speed, or stop and play as they might usually do. A newbie, in return, is expected to listen, follow instructions, and try not to screw up too badly. I had screwed up, big time. I felt like I had let my paddling buddies down. When I got to the bottom of the trail, I found one of our friends, Drew, sitting in the eddy with my boat. I pulled it up on the bank. I looked downstream, and there was my husband, sitting behind a rock with my paddle across his boat. My gear had been recovered without too much effort, thankfully. Attention then turned to my hand. Drew turned to a photographer and asked if he had a first aid kit. He didn't, but a raft guide who was sitting in the eddy waiting for the rest of his trip to pass by did. He got out one of those cold packs, the kind you twist to break open the chemical pouches and then shake to activate the cold. He told me I should keep it on my hand for about fifteen minutes. The rest of the boaters in my group had to decide what to do--should someone stay with me? I assured them I was fine. I said that after I'd iced my hand for a little while, I could hitchhike down to the takeout, get our truck, come back up and get my boat, and then meet them at the takeout when they were done. I didn't want to take any of them away from the river, away from the fun of paddling. I sat on the bank with my legs in the water, watching my friends and my husband paddle away. While I sat there, a few boaters who came through asked me if I was ok; others asked what had happened. And I noticed a few who came through didn't ask me anything because they were preoccupied with their own problems. Some had rolled; some even came through swimming. One's companions had to chase his boat through three rapids before they were able to catch it and get it to an eddy. I started to realize that I was not the only one who wasn't having a good day on the river. I also realized that my finger probably wasn't broken; although my hand was swelling alarmingly, I could move all my fingers--I had just popped the blood vessel on the top of that finger (the bruise that developed after the initial swelling subsided gradually worked its way across most of my hand, making me look super tough and causing some dismay for my mother, which is a story for another day). My paddling day, and in fact weekend, was done for sure, though, because I couldn't grip my paddle with that hand very well because of the swelling. I hitched down to the takeout, river karma granting me a quick pickup from a nice fellow boater, got the truck, went back up and picked up my gear, and met my friends at the bottom. They'd had a great time, which I couldn't help but be a little jealous of. But that night, in the campsite, I was not made to drink from the boot, nor was I expected to provide the alcohol for the group. Instead, various people oohed and aahed over my injury, we all shared our own perspectives of the event, and other boaters shared stories of their own swims, many of which made mine pale in comparison (especially the newbies from Mississippi who had tried to tackle the river with no ability to roll and no one to guide them; again, a story for another day). Ultimately, what I took away from the experience was an adage that several of the boaters repeated to me: "Everybody is just between swims." There are no boaters who ever do it perfectly, there are no boaters who can make it through their entire paddling career without an occasional mistake. Sometimes those swims result in nothing but slightly hurt pride and a drink from the boot; sometimes those swims create great stories to tell back at camp; sometimes those swims end in catastrophe. But swims are always learning opportunities for everyone in the group--what mistake was made, what could have been done to avoid it, how it was handled when it happened--and everyone takes something away from the experience. I must admit, I've never swum in exactly the same place on a river twice. And I guess that's life, really. We have all those sayings about making mistakes, about how you have to try and try again, about how you have to get back up on that horse that bucked you off. For me, it meant learning that I could make mistakes, that I would make mistakes, and that the best I could do would be to learn from the experience and try to avoid making that same mistake again. In boating, that meant leaning forward, keeping an active blade in the water, reading the water better, trusting my instinct when playing "Wave, or Rock?" and knowing that my instinct might occasionally let me down. And practicing my roll.
Writing Into The Day 6/10: "Why I Write" intro to Creating A Life by Donald M. Murray
It's interesting to consider why I write. I love to write; I always have. In school, I churned out plenty of angsty teen poetry. I was an enthusiastic albeit erratic diary writer, at least until I was about to graduate high school, when my mom admitted that she had been reading my diary for years. Bitterly spiteful, I rebuffed her offer of a new diary since my old one was nearly full, and threw the old one in the trash. That didn't stop me from writing in college, though. I wrote lengthy letters to friends, and more questionable poetry for classes and for myself. In this glorious age of technology, I am a blogger (duh)--with a few lean years when parenthood, exhaustion, and depression made it hard to muster enthusiasm for anything. I am also a Facebook addict. I love seeing posts from friends and former students, but I get selfish pleasure from responses to my own posts: "You are so funny! You should compile your statuses into a book!" I think I write for the affirmation, not necessarily that I am clever or funny, but that I am still here. I can look back at my writing and think, wow, I thought/said/did that? How far I've come! Or, do I truly feel that way? How far I have yet to go. I can see the evolution of my style: habitual user of ellipses, dashes, parentheticals; ritual breaker of the fourth wall in asides to my reader. I can hear the "rapids" Donald Murray referred to; I need to start paddling.
Place-Related Memory 6/10: Half Mile of Hell on the Ocoee River, TN
The rapid, although it isn't much of a rapid, just class II "boogie water," is usually referred to as "Half Mile of Hell" by the other paddlers I know, but I don't know if it has an official name. It isn't really half a mile long, either--maybe a quarter or even an eighth? I'm a terrible judge of distance. And it's not that it's "hell" exactly. It just requires some balance, some boat control, and a willingness to play a game I call "Wave, or Rock?" It was my first trip down the Middle Ocoee in a kayak. I'd put on the river at the alternate put-in that missed three of the more difficult rapids. I'd successfully negotiated the first two rapids on that section of the river, a bouncy chute called Moonshoot (because of a butt-shaped rock in the middle), and the "sneak" line at the notorious hydraulic Double Suck. I was feeling pretty confident (although I still felt a healthy dose of apprehension, as I always do), which might be why I got a little sloppy, a little loose, and leaned back a little too much. I was following another boater, either too closely or not closely enough. As it was my first time on the Ocoee, Phil, who was an experienced boater, told me to follow his lines. His exact words were "Follow me, and when I turn my boat, you turn your boat." I have since pondered this advice, wondering how much fault lay with Phil and how much was my own. Were I closer to Phil's boat, turning when he turned might have helped me dodge the rock or hole or wave or whatever it was; were I farther behind, the same move might have missed the obstacle altogether. As it happened, Phil angled his boat to the left, so I did the same. Doing so brought my boat with a "thump" against a barely submerged rock masquerading as a wave (see the aforementioned game "Wave, or Rock?"), and suddenly I was upside down. No matter how many times I've practiced my "eskimo roll"--the move that rights a kayak using the paddler's body and paddle--the sensation of suddenly being surrounded by water instead of air when I don't expect it is disorienting and disconcerting. I'm sure there are other boaters whose immediate response to such an event is to flip themselves back over without a thought; I have never reached that point. My thoughts usually go through the following process: "Oh crap! I'm upside down! I can't breathe! Ow, that was a rock! I should set up to roll. I wonder if anyone else has noticed that I'm upside down. I should set up to roll. I'll try to roll. Well, I'll try after I quit thumping over all these rocks. I wonder if anyone is coming to get me. I haven't heard any thumps on my boat that might be anyone else setting up for a T rescue. I should try to roll. I'm running out of air. Oh crap." Sometimes this process has been followed by "Hey, wow, I did it! I actually rolled!" More often, however, the process was followed by "Tried to roll, didn't make it all the way. Tried to roll again, didn't make it all the way. Guess I'll pop my sprayskirt and swim." That's mostly what happened at this particular point in the river. I did indeed set up to roll--I bent at the waist towards the left side of my boat, thrust both hands skyward with my paddle clutched in my fists, rotated my wrists as though I were revving the throttle on a motorcycle...and punched my left fist really hard against a rock. I know this is what must have happened, although I really don't have a clear recollection of it. I remember realizing that I was only holding my paddle with my right hand. I know some people can roll a boat one-handed (or even without a paddle at all); I am not one of them. I let go of my paddle and pulled the grab loop on my sprayskirt. Once I had popped the skirt off the rim of my cockpit, I pulled myself out of the boat much like pulling off a pair of pants. I didn't do much to "self-rescue"--I let my paddle and boat float downriver without me, and swam towards the bank. It wasn't a great place to swim--lots of rocks, obviously--and it wasn't a great place to try to get out of the water, either. I had ended up on the inside curve of the rapid, right at the bend in the river before the rapid Double Trouble, a big wave train. The road that followed the river was perhaps 20 feet above me, up a steep rocky embankment. I scrambled to the top without any problems (not slowing down enough to consider the possibility that there could be snakes sunning themselves on the rocks as they do along much of the river). It wasn't until I got to the top and reached for the road's guardrail to pull myself up and over that I noticed my left hand. Specifically, my index finger. The section between the two lower knuckles had already swollen to twice its usual size, and the skin was stretched and shiny, like the casing of a sausage. That section of the finger had gone almost white, while the rest of the finger was starting to turn purple. My first thought was, I've broken my finger. Then I noticed my Timex digital watch. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking, the ads said. Well, this Timex was licked. Period. I had broken the face; it would not tick anymore (not that it ticked anyway; it was digital). I walked along the roadside, careful to hug the guardrail as cars and large trucks could come barreling around the curve quickly and potentially swinging wide. About 50 yards, maybe as much as 100 yards (remember, bad at distances), I climbed back over the guardrail and worked my way down the path the river outfitter photographers used. As I clambered back down over rocks and tree roots, I thought two things: "I hope they got my paddle and my boat" and "I can't believe I only made it two rapids before I swam." You see, in kayaking, swimming is portrayed as something to be ashamed of. It means you screwed up, probably twice: once when you didn't successfully negotiate an obstacle, and once when you failed to roll. On a lot of paddling trips, at the end of the day, the swimmers must "drink from the boot." Someone will take a neoprene bootie, like a thick rubber sock with a sole, and fill it with beer. The offending swimmer or swimmers must then drain the boot. Other times, the swimmer is expected to buy the beer for that night's campfire. Either way, it's a moment of shaming, even if relatively good-natured. I wasn't concerned with drinking from the boot or buying the beer at that moment, however; I was overwhelmed with the feeling of failure, the feeling that I'd let my friends, and more importantly my husband, down. While kayakers are generally a community who look out for each other, a "newbie" on a trip puts other more experienced boaters in an instructional or support role. They must guide the newbie down the river and be responsible for helping that person out if he or she gets in a jam. A newbie on a trip means the other paddlers aren't as free to paddle in their own way, at their own speed, or stop and play as they might usually do. A newbie, in return, is expected to listen, follow instructions, and try not to screw up too badly. I had screwed up, big time. I felt like I had let my paddling buddies down. When I got to the bottom of the trail, I found one of our friends, Drew, sitting in the eddy with my boat. I pulled it up on the bank. I looked downstream, and there was my husband, sitting behind a rock with my paddle across his boat. My gear had been recovered without too much effort, thankfully. Attention then turned to my hand. Drew turned to a photographer and asked if he had a first aid kit. He didn't, but a raft guide who was sitting in the eddy waiting for the rest of his trip to pass by did. He got out one of those cold packs, the kind you twist to break open the chemical pouches and then shake to activate the cold. He told me I should keep it on my hand for about fifteen minutes. The rest of the boaters in my group had to decide what to do--should someone stay with me? I assured them I was fine. I said that after I'd iced my hand for a little while, I could hitchhike down to the takeout, get our truck, come back up and get my boat, and then meet them at the takeout when they were done. I didn't want to take any of them away from the river, away from the fun of paddling. I sat on the bank with my legs in the water, watching my friends and my husband paddle away. While I sat there, a few boaters who came through asked me if I was ok; others asked what had happened. And I noticed a few who came through didn't ask me anything because they were preoccupied with their own problems. Some had rolled; some even came through swimming. One's companions had to chase his boat through three rapids before they were able to catch it and get it to an eddy. I started to realize that I was not the only one who wasn't having a good day on the river. I also realized that my finger probably wasn't broken; although my hand was swelling alarmingly, I could move all my fingers--I had just popped the blood vessel on the top of that finger (the bruise that developed after the initial swelling subsided gradually worked its way across most of my hand, making me look super tough and causing some dismay for my mother, which is a story for another day). My paddling day, and in fact weekend, was done for sure, though, because I couldn't grip my paddle with that hand very well because of the swelling. I hitched down to the takeout, river karma granting me a quick pickup from a nice fellow boater, got the truck, went back up and picked up my gear, and met my friends at the bottom. They'd had a great time, which I couldn't help but be a little jealous of. But that night, in the campsite, I was not made to drink from the boot, nor was I expected to provide the alcohol for the group. Instead, various people oohed and aahed over my injury, we all shared our own perspectives of the event, and other boaters shared stories of their own swims, many of which made mine pale in comparison (especially the newbies from Mississippi who had tried to tackle the river with no ability to roll and no one to guide them; again, a story for another day). Ultimately, what I took away from the experience was an adage that several of the boaters repeated to me: "Everybody is just between swims." There are no boaters who ever do it perfectly, there are no boaters who can make it through their entire paddling career without an occasional mistake. Sometimes those swims result in nothing but slightly hurt pride and a drink from the boot; sometimes those swims create great stories to tell back at camp; sometimes those swims end in catastrophe. But swims are always learning opportunities for everyone in the group--what mistake was made, what could have been done to avoid it, how it was handled when it happened--and everyone takes something away from the experience. I must admit, I've never swum in exactly the same place on a river twice. And I guess that's life, really. We have all those sayings about making mistakes, about how you have to try and try again, about how you have to get back up on that horse that bucked you off. For me, it meant learning that I could make mistakes, that I would make mistakes, and that the best I could do would be to learn from the experience and try to avoid making that same mistake again. In boating, that meant leaning forward, keeping an active blade in the water, reading the water better, trusting my instinct when playing "Wave, or Rock?" and knowing that my instinct might occasionally let me down. And practicing my roll.
Montana Writing Project: Day One (Monday, June 9)
For the next three weeks, I will be participating in the Montana Writing Project, an intensive college course on writing instruction. I have always enjoyed writing (hence the blogs), but I have never felt all that great about writing on command in particular genres. I know we have several big projects we'll be doing, and that I have to perform well on them in order to get a good grade in the class. I need these credits to renew my teaching license, so it's really important that I do well. I want to keep a record of my writing, so I will be adding at least some of my writing pieces to this blog. That will also help me when I have to assemble my portfolio at the end of the class.
Writing Into The Day (a ritual free-write at the beginning of each class) 6/9:
"Love in the Classroom" by Al Zolynas
"A sudden, sweet, almost painful love for my students." Last Monday I sat down at my desk when the bell for first period rang. I don't really know why; I didn't have any students. All I taught this semester was SciFi and Fantasy Lit, a senior English class. All 137 of the students I had started the semester with were gone. Most had graduated the morning before, not even 24 hours before. A few had given up at some point in the semester, either in my class or another, and did not graduate--I don't know if I'll see them in the fall when they try again, or if they'll finish during summer school, or if they'll simply move on. A couple dropped out during the semester. I wonder, do my students all know how much I, how much we, care and how much we love them? Do they know how oddly lonely I was, sitting at my desk in an empty room on Monday? Do they know? And will they remember?
10 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Rocket Wraps
So, here we are, full of burritos and chips. Looking around the room, I notice all different kinds of people: young people, businessmen, families, workers. But, at closer inspection, are they really different? All seem well-dressed, well-behaved Caucasians. Place-based learning. Place-based writing. What can I learn about Billings from this place? What can I learn about writing in this place? What makes this place special? I must begin with what I see--it reminds me of that line from Silence of the Lambs: "How do we begin to covet?" "We covet what we see every day." I see people like these every day at school, on my street, in my mirror. What makes them Billings? I seek the identity of this place. So many other places I've lived have had strong personalities, shouted them, rubbed your face in them. What do I find here? A small town? A city? A cow town? A place of culture? Of cultures? Reveal yourself to me, Billings. Show your cards. What have you got? Let's see your hand.
15 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Outside Trailhead (across from the Rex)
I am woefully ignorant about Billings for someone who has lived here almost five years. Sitting across from The Rex (never eaten there) and the Rainbow Bar (know nothing about it), sitting in front of the Trailhead (don't know what kind of brewery or distillery it might be, but a beer would be nice on this warm summer day). This is supposed to be a sketchier part of downtown where homeless people wander, I think. I don't see anyone wandering now. But it makes me feel guilty, and a little ashamed. Why don't I know more about Billings? I guess I've never made much of an effort to get out and meet people. I don't know why. I met a few teachers when I subbed the first year we were here who seemed friendly, but I felt like an outsider because I was just a sub. Then I spent a lonely summer, pregnant and tired, and only subbed a few times that fall. I didn't meet anyone. Once I had Brendan, our first child, I was home with him and no one else. I loved bonding with the little guy, but I missed my friends from Memphis, going kayaking every weekend or so, and just getting out. When I was an LTA that spring at Skyview, I didn't get out of my classroom much to meet people because I had to pump (I don't miss those days). Then home in the evenings and back to the baby and Ross. Didn't get a sitter to go out, just stayed in. We went out a few times as a family to eat, but mostly we just stayed home. That summer, I had Brendan in swimming lessons (mom and tot); I could have befriended a fellow parent, perhaps, but they all seemed so much younger than me. I guess that's the downside to having your first child at age 36. I just stayed home with Brendan, otherwise. Then that fall I started as an LTA for the full year. Why didn't I go out with any of my fellow teachers? I think I still felt like an outsider. By that time, I was pregnant again. Hard to go clubbing or bar-hopping when you are pregnant and have a 1-year-old at home, I guess. But I'm ashamed at not making more of an effort.
5 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: On the steps of the Western Heritage Museum
Hey there, horse (haha, see what I did there?). I try to make sense of your design: yellow body, blue head, lavender nose, elephant toes? I catch glimpses of familiarity--a tipi, a crow, a lizard. But is that...seaweed growing up your legs? A poisonous lionfish on your side? Do you have, uh, crabs? I'm confused. I'm sure there's a story to you, some magic lines that will weave your images together. But the museum is closed on Mondays, so your story goes unheard. I hope it's a good one. To my untrained eye, it looks like Sergeant Pepper exploded all over you. (Note to self: museums are apparently closed on Mondays in Billings.)
20 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: the lobby of the Northern Hotel
Sitting in a fancy cowhide (I think) chair in the lovely lobby of the Northern. It's not exactly quiet, as I can hear plenty of talking by the employees and the groovy soft jazz over the speakers, but it does not seem to be very "busy". I've heard that the Northern is struggling, having put a lot of money into the renovation without much return so far. It's very pretty--large railroad ties framing a gas fireplace, beautiful prints recessed into the walls, have bronze pieces by Remington on the table. Beautiful, and "western" in its own way. But I don't know if this is Billings either.--I'm having trouble writing; I'm not comfy in this chair. There's nowhere to put my notebook to write comfortably. It's like Will Smith in Men In Black when he's trying to take the aptitude test...But back to Billings. As we've walked the streets downtown, I've enjoyed the green leaves on the trees, the beautiful flowers in the pots outside businesses, the smiles of people walking around town, either with purpose or without. Perhaps this IS Billings after all, fine dining, antique shops, and galleries rubbing elbows with bars, dives, and shelters. I need to see more. There is personality here. I can feel it. I'm looking forward to this place-based learning more than ever. I've already seen more of Billings than I had before, even though all the museums we've tried to visit have been closed. I wonder what other places we'll visit? I know we're going to Pryor. I've only been there once, and we spent most of our time in the play area rather than the museum. Little kids are just not helpers when it comes to cultural activities. At least, mine aren't.--I must admit, this write is more difficult. I want to stop, to rest my hand, doing so much writing. My thoughts become scattered, disconnected, fragmented. Variations on a theme, within a theme. And I'm listening to the conversation of the hotel employees and being distracted by it. No wonder some of my students SNARL at their classmates who try to talk, even whisper, during writing assignments. I must be better about shushing them.
15 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Yellowstone County Veterans Memorial
Trees, grass, breeze,
The rattle of the cables on the flagpole
Names etched in somber stone
Sacrifice and stillness.
Purple hearts and purple flowers
Timeless memory from otherwise forgotten past
Paying homage to the call of duty
Calling out the names in the muteness, their permanence,
These lists of those who gave some or all.
The sentinel of a bell that does not ring
Watching the names of the dead.
Homeless men lying in the shade, or where shade was before
Are they forgotten veterans of a forgotten war?
Do they come here to remember or forget?
Perhaps here to pay respect to the fallen, even as they are falling themselves.
I want to run my hands down the lists of names
Feel their depth, their void
Although they are not mine.
Part of me wonders if there are more, from recent wars, that have not yet been honored.
Part of me is horrified that there might be more.
A state with a relatively small population--
How many names?
Too many. More than I am willing to count.
Someone has come to help one of the homeless men.
She is talking to him, rubbing his shoulders.
For a moment I am panicked--have I watched while someone has struggled to live?
He pops up and walks easily to another spot, then lies down again briefly.
While he may not be struggling to live, he surely is struggling with life.
And I am ashamed to document his shame.
Will he someday have his name carved in a stone slab somewhere?
I do not know.
Writing Into The Day (a ritual free-write at the beginning of each class) 6/9:
"Love in the Classroom" by Al Zolynas
"A sudden, sweet, almost painful love for my students." Last Monday I sat down at my desk when the bell for first period rang. I don't really know why; I didn't have any students. All I taught this semester was SciFi and Fantasy Lit, a senior English class. All 137 of the students I had started the semester with were gone. Most had graduated the morning before, not even 24 hours before. A few had given up at some point in the semester, either in my class or another, and did not graduate--I don't know if I'll see them in the fall when they try again, or if they'll finish during summer school, or if they'll simply move on. A couple dropped out during the semester. I wonder, do my students all know how much I, how much we, care and how much we love them? Do they know how oddly lonely I was, sitting at my desk in an empty room on Monday? Do they know? And will they remember?
10 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Rocket Wraps
So, here we are, full of burritos and chips. Looking around the room, I notice all different kinds of people: young people, businessmen, families, workers. But, at closer inspection, are they really different? All seem well-dressed, well-behaved Caucasians. Place-based learning. Place-based writing. What can I learn about Billings from this place? What can I learn about writing in this place? What makes this place special? I must begin with what I see--it reminds me of that line from Silence of the Lambs: "How do we begin to covet?" "We covet what we see every day." I see people like these every day at school, on my street, in my mirror. What makes them Billings? I seek the identity of this place. So many other places I've lived have had strong personalities, shouted them, rubbed your face in them. What do I find here? A small town? A city? A cow town? A place of culture? Of cultures? Reveal yourself to me, Billings. Show your cards. What have you got? Let's see your hand.
15 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Outside Trailhead (across from the Rex)
I am woefully ignorant about Billings for someone who has lived here almost five years. Sitting across from The Rex (never eaten there) and the Rainbow Bar (know nothing about it), sitting in front of the Trailhead (don't know what kind of brewery or distillery it might be, but a beer would be nice on this warm summer day). This is supposed to be a sketchier part of downtown where homeless people wander, I think. I don't see anyone wandering now. But it makes me feel guilty, and a little ashamed. Why don't I know more about Billings? I guess I've never made much of an effort to get out and meet people. I don't know why. I met a few teachers when I subbed the first year we were here who seemed friendly, but I felt like an outsider because I was just a sub. Then I spent a lonely summer, pregnant and tired, and only subbed a few times that fall. I didn't meet anyone. Once I had Brendan, our first child, I was home with him and no one else. I loved bonding with the little guy, but I missed my friends from Memphis, going kayaking every weekend or so, and just getting out. When I was an LTA that spring at Skyview, I didn't get out of my classroom much to meet people because I had to pump (I don't miss those days). Then home in the evenings and back to the baby and Ross. Didn't get a sitter to go out, just stayed in. We went out a few times as a family to eat, but mostly we just stayed home. That summer, I had Brendan in swimming lessons (mom and tot); I could have befriended a fellow parent, perhaps, but they all seemed so much younger than me. I guess that's the downside to having your first child at age 36. I just stayed home with Brendan, otherwise. Then that fall I started as an LTA for the full year. Why didn't I go out with any of my fellow teachers? I think I still felt like an outsider. By that time, I was pregnant again. Hard to go clubbing or bar-hopping when you are pregnant and have a 1-year-old at home, I guess. But I'm ashamed at not making more of an effort.
5 minute Writing Marathon 6/9: On the steps of the Western Heritage Museum
Hey there, horse (haha, see what I did there?). I try to make sense of your design: yellow body, blue head, lavender nose, elephant toes? I catch glimpses of familiarity--a tipi, a crow, a lizard. But is that...seaweed growing up your legs? A poisonous lionfish on your side? Do you have, uh, crabs? I'm confused. I'm sure there's a story to you, some magic lines that will weave your images together. But the museum is closed on Mondays, so your story goes unheard. I hope it's a good one. To my untrained eye, it looks like Sergeant Pepper exploded all over you. (Note to self: museums are apparently closed on Mondays in Billings.)
20 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: the lobby of the Northern Hotel
Sitting in a fancy cowhide (I think) chair in the lovely lobby of the Northern. It's not exactly quiet, as I can hear plenty of talking by the employees and the groovy soft jazz over the speakers, but it does not seem to be very "busy". I've heard that the Northern is struggling, having put a lot of money into the renovation without much return so far. It's very pretty--large railroad ties framing a gas fireplace, beautiful prints recessed into the walls, have bronze pieces by Remington on the table. Beautiful, and "western" in its own way. But I don't know if this is Billings either.--I'm having trouble writing; I'm not comfy in this chair. There's nowhere to put my notebook to write comfortably. It's like Will Smith in Men In Black when he's trying to take the aptitude test...But back to Billings. As we've walked the streets downtown, I've enjoyed the green leaves on the trees, the beautiful flowers in the pots outside businesses, the smiles of people walking around town, either with purpose or without. Perhaps this IS Billings after all, fine dining, antique shops, and galleries rubbing elbows with bars, dives, and shelters. I need to see more. There is personality here. I can feel it. I'm looking forward to this place-based learning more than ever. I've already seen more of Billings than I had before, even though all the museums we've tried to visit have been closed. I wonder what other places we'll visit? I know we're going to Pryor. I've only been there once, and we spent most of our time in the play area rather than the museum. Little kids are just not helpers when it comes to cultural activities. At least, mine aren't.--I must admit, this write is more difficult. I want to stop, to rest my hand, doing so much writing. My thoughts become scattered, disconnected, fragmented. Variations on a theme, within a theme. And I'm listening to the conversation of the hotel employees and being distracted by it. No wonder some of my students SNARL at their classmates who try to talk, even whisper, during writing assignments. I must be better about shushing them.
15 Minute Writing Marathon 6/9: Yellowstone County Veterans Memorial
Trees, grass, breeze,
The rattle of the cables on the flagpole
Names etched in somber stone
Sacrifice and stillness.
Purple hearts and purple flowers
Timeless memory from otherwise forgotten past
Paying homage to the call of duty
Calling out the names in the muteness, their permanence,
These lists of those who gave some or all.
The sentinel of a bell that does not ring
Watching the names of the dead.
Homeless men lying in the shade, or where shade was before
Are they forgotten veterans of a forgotten war?
Do they come here to remember or forget?
Perhaps here to pay respect to the fallen, even as they are falling themselves.
I want to run my hands down the lists of names
Feel their depth, their void
Although they are not mine.
Part of me wonders if there are more, from recent wars, that have not yet been honored.
Part of me is horrified that there might be more.
A state with a relatively small population--
How many names?
Too many. More than I am willing to count.
Someone has come to help one of the homeless men.
She is talking to him, rubbing his shoulders.
For a moment I am panicked--have I watched while someone has struggled to live?
He pops up and walks easily to another spot, then lies down again briefly.
While he may not be struggling to live, he surely is struggling with life.
And I am ashamed to document his shame.
Will he someday have his name carved in a stone slab somewhere?
I do not know.
Saturday, June 07, 2014
Same sh*t, different day
Wow, so it's been almost a year since my last post. Some things have changed: my sons are older, I'm a little fatter and a lot slower. Also, looking back at my last post was pretty hard, since we no longer have Maerlyn. He made it until November (almost fourteen years to the day since we had brought him home from the breeder), but his sight and hearing were almost gone, he'd started to have major problems with peeing and pooping in the house, and he was losing weight. It was incredibly hard to have him put to sleep. Ross and I both went to the vet, but Ross was coming from work and meeting me there, so I made the final trip in the truck alone with Maerlyn. I sobbed the whole way. We petted him and held his paws and told him what a good boy he was, and then it was over. It still hurts. I know he was in pain, but I also know the last few years of his life weren't the best, which makes me sad. I miss him terribly. I'm sure we'll get another dog at some point (probably next summer or the summer after, when the boys are a little older and more likely to treat a puppy carefully--also, Ian is afraid of dogs right now for some reason, so he probably wouldn't be happy if we brought a dog home), but that dog won't be Maerlyn. Sigh.
Anyway, on to my other subject:
Today's weigh-in (after breakfast): 239.0
So, I did absolutely nothing on the weight-loss front all year. I'm still in the same place I was last summer. Today is the first official day of summer, since yesterday was the last day of school, and although I plan some "bad" eating this weekend (my younger son's second birthday is tomorrow, so I'm working on birthday cake, and we're grilling steaks tonight because my dad is in town) and really don't plan to do anything super healthy this weekend, I figured I'd go ahead and post about my summer goals.
We have to report on Monday, August 25 for the opening of the school year (which starts Wednesday the 27th), which gives me 11 weeks to work with. I am taking a writing course for the next three weeks, which means I won't have a lot of time to work out, but I will try to go in the mornings before it starts at 9 each day--I'm still taking the boys to the sitter's at 7 each morning, so I can head to the gym and get maybe an hour workout in before needing to get dressed for my class. The class shouldn't be horrible for my health; although there will be snacks each day, I probably won't eat as much because people will be "watching" and I'll be occupied in the writing assignments, and also, we will be doing some walking around here and there for the class, so I'll get a little exercise in as well. I've also committed to walking a 5k with my mother-in-law over the 4th of July weekend, so I need to get some walking in.
My goal for the summer is to lose 15 lbs. If I can lose 1.5 lbs each week, I'll lose 16.5 lbs. If I can manage 2 lbs each week, I'll lose more than 20 for the summer. I've got to at least lose 10 lbs; I can't bear to be so close to 240 lbs. It's horrible. I feel like crap every morning: my feet hurt, my back hurts, my knees have started to bother me a bit (although the squats challenge I did in the month of May might have contributed).
I'm just sick and tired of being sick and tired. And fat. I'm sick and tired of being fat.
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