Bonnieux: 12th Century Church

The old, old church is a hearty eighty-six steps up a steep hill from the village.  Even with our daily five miles, I started to feel winded.  This is no gentle slope.  Did there used to be more dwellings that high up in Bonnieux or was that all part of it?  In the 12th century was this just what you did every Sunday?  Or several times a week for that matter?  And just as Gothic cathedrals’ heights help bring their congregations closer to heaven with their arches and steeples, are these steps supposed to signify a journey towards communion with God?

Of course in my state of rapture, in reaching the top, in Provençal July heat, and in Christian ruins, I didn’t bother to take any pictures of the church itself.  There’s hardly enough room at the top of the hill to get far enough away from the wall of the church to capture it all in one shot anyway, and the church itself was locked (though it isn’t used as a church, classical music performances are held there occasionally).

There’s a little bench up there at the top under that big cypress tree that’s obscured by the tree’s shadows.  It’s so quiet up there, and windy too.  In a way it’s soothing to sit on that bench, and in a way it’s very eerie, being so high up, and so dwarfed by everything around you–the church, the trees, the vista, and time itself.

Sitting in the shade and peering through the big dark cypress branches makes you understand Cezanne and the awe he obviously felt a bit better (think Forest 1894 and Landscape Near Aix, the Plain of the Arc River).  I have such a different perspective on Cezanne than I used to.  In college I fought one of my art history professors constantly about him–I just never felt the still lives and thought he was over-credited for his perspective.  Now looking at his landscapes that once seemed so benign to me, I see much more of the turbulence that I feel is the essence of Provence–it isn’t that calm lavender scented-rosé filled country the Brits, or whoever else might think it is–it’s thick and heavy.  Life is really felt here.  As the French say, it’s sauvage–wild.

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Passover: Liberation and Chocolate

Tonight the Jews will celebrate the ancient exodus from Egypt and slavery.  Unfortunately I will not be formally celebrating tonight, but My Kugelhopf quickly transported me to possibly the most pleasurable part of the seder meal (and any meal): dessert!  Kerrin Rousset of Kugelhopf has posted the most mouth-watering delectable matzoh-sweet explosion.  In the vein of many of my chocolate posts of late (here and here; reviewing chocolates such as Fran’s, Poco Dolce, and Barlovento), Rousset mixes her matzoh with “golden butter caramel and creamy dark chocolate” + Maldon salt?  My favorite??!! OY VE!!!

This post is a MUST read and the recipe–a MUST try.  It’s EASY.  I’m running out for some last minute matzoh right now!

Dogwood Devotion

I kind of dropped the ball on lilac season here in Rockridge (everyone seems to have harvested all of their lilac) so I wanted to make sure to get to the dogwood before the season is over.  Just look at this glorious dogwood tree around the corner from my house:

I was spotted by the resident while snapping pictures.  Apparently, there is a trip line just in front of where I was standing, put there to catch dogwood poachers(!)  Apparently several have been caught.  In spite of the apprehension of perpetrators the woman said that she had almost stopped being able to enjoy the tree over the years because of the constant poaching.  Isn’t that awful? On the other hand I don’t know why I was so surprised.  I’ll never forget my first month in Rockridge with all my roses flourishing only to go outside one day to find them all chopped off the top of the bush.  So sad.

Here are two more beautiful examples of dogwood I found in Rockridge:

Green Dogwood

Pink Dogwood

My mother reminded me of the legend of dogwood, which is particularly appropriate for the coming week.  According to legend, the cross of the Crucifixion was made of dogwood.  Ever after, dogwood trees had blossoms in the shape of a cross, two long petals and two short.  The outer edge of the petals are indented and brown due to nail prints and rust, and the center is made to represent a crown of thorns.

For more pictures of dogwood, 

Let Us All Pay Homage

On this day I didn’t do exactly what my soon-to-be President told me to do, I didn’t paint any houses, or make meals for the poor; but I did spend some time rereading the words of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. and consider what he might think of 2009 if he could come visit us here now.  

I studied in particular “A Realistic Look at the Question of Progress in the Area of Race Relations,” an address Delivered at St. Louis Freedom Rally (10 April 1957 St. Louis, Mo.).  The full text is available here. In many ways the Reverend Doctor’s address could be delivered today.  

To paraphrase his message I say: should we spend this day in depression that it is the children of people of color in this country who are systematically denied equitable educational opportunities, still, in 2009?  No.  Should we all rejoice in the election and inauguration of America’s first African American president?  Yes.  Should we let either of these emotional poles (depression, rejoicing) lead us to stagnation and fits of inaction?  Absolutely not.  

Yet, let us use this day to become activated to refuse to accept things as they are.  Let us remind ourselves that just as the Reverend Doctor was appalled by the disparity of salary between blacks and whites in “A Realistic Look” so to should we be appalled with our census bureau data from 2008, which reveals that while the “median usual weekly earnings of [White] full-time wage and salary workers” was $739, the “median usual weekly earnings of [Black or African American] full-time wage and salary workers” was $589.  See source here. 

In King’s time he admonished the audience to support the NAACP and told them that the fight for freedom and equality comes at a cost–one with a dollar sign attached.  So, today, why not give money to the NAACP?

King summoned the crowd to Washington to march to persuade the government to enforce civil rights laws.  So, this year, why not organize a march?

As King said, to do so is not to fight for African Americans alone, it is to fight for this nation. 

There is something about America that we like, but we are making it clear in the U.N. and in the other diplomatic circles around the world that beautiful words and extensive handouts cannot be substitutes for the basic simple responsibility of giving freedom and justice to our colored brothers all over the United States. [applause] That is what they are saying around the world. And I say to you my friends, because of our love for America we cannot slow up. (Yes, Yes)

 The final point the Reverend Doctor makes is our need for leaders, leaders who cry out “Love your enemy.  Bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you.”

And we can’t solve the problem [of race relations] with misguided emotionalism. (No, no, no) This is a period for sane, sound, rational leadership. (Yes) We must be calm and yet positive at the same time. We must avoid the extremes of hot-headedness and Uncle-Tomism. (Yes, That’s right) Oh, this is a period for leaders. Leaders not in love with publicity, but in love with humanity. (Yes sir) Leaders not in love with money, but in love with justice. (Yes) Leaders who can subject their particular egos to the greatness of the cause. (Yes, yes, yes) Oh,

God give us leaders. (Yes) 
A time like this demands great leaders. (Yes sir) 
Leaders whom the lust of office does not kill; 
Leaders whom the spoils of life cannot buy (Yes); 
Leaders who possess opinions and will (Yes); 
Leaders who will not lie (Yes); 
Leaders who can stand before a demagogue and damn his treacherous flatteries without winking. (Yes) 
Tall leaders (Yes), sun-crowned, who live above the fog in public duty and in private thinking.

And this is the need, my friends, of the hour. This is the need all over the nation. In every community there is a dire need for leaders (Yes) who will lead the people, who stand today amid the wilderness toward the promised land of freedom and justice. God grant that ministers, and lay leaders, and civic leaders, and businessmen, and professional people all over the nation will rise up and use the talent and the finances that God has given them (Yes), and lead the people on toward the promised land of freedom with rational, calm, nonviolent means. This is the great challenge (Yes) of the hour. (Yes) 

[emphasis added]

 

As I sit in the wilderness poised between my depression and rejoicing I know one thing: we have a leader.

Merry Christmas from A Rockridge Life

We awoke this morning to snow falling dreamily from the sky onto our wooden surroundings.  

Christ the Lord is Born Today.

Last Minute Christmas Shopping

I was so relieved that my family finally decided to do Secret Santa this year.  I’m not a fan of Christmas shopping, and although I was blessed with a lot of toys and fabulous gifts as a child, I come from a religious Christian family where the focus actually was more on the Advent Wreath than counting down the shopping days.  

For the third year in a row I’ve considered banning myself from buying ANY Christmas presents, sort of in an anti-materialist protest.  But there’s a catch: I have a large family of in-laws who get me tons of gifts.  I haven’t figured out how to navigate this yet, all I know is that not getting them anything makes me feel like a giant schmuck. 

Ergo, last minute Christmas shopping.  Oy ve.  

Determined not to be oppressed by big box stores and the like, I’m grabbing some reusable bags and heading up to College Avenue (I know, I sound so effing Oaklandish right now).  I’ll be finding little trinkets from my local businesses and business owners.  We Rockridgers just can’t get enough of mom and pop and small business.  Call us crazy.  

If you’re interested in following suit, I recommend checking this website if you are unfamiliar with the area.

I’ll be checking out: Market Hall and Pasta Shop, Maison D’etre, Bloomies Flowers, Bella Vita, Pendragon Books, Rockridge Home, The Alta Bates Showcase Thrift Shop, Diesel Books, Atomic Garden, Pretty Penny, Body Time, Crossroads Vintage, and Recapture.  Find more info on these shops here.

I might also cruise Telegraph (the “Temescal” district) for Scout Home Hardware and Sagrada Sacred Arts.

Ho ho ho.

Diesel Books really soothes me. 

THIS PAST WEEK

Written December 5, 20008.  Published December 9, 2008.

This post is in regards to November 28-December 5

Note to my readers:

I have been reticent up to this point on the blog to 1) say I am married 2) say I have a husband 3) explicitly identify with a gender. It is time to come out of the closet on points 1) and 2). I am happily married to a man. 3) will be left to your imagination, unless you know me personally, as many (most?) of my readers do.

Also, as the foregoing information suggests, this post is uncharacteristically(?) intimate in nature. But I think justifiably so.

THIS PAST WEEK:

The Constants:

Monday marked my first wedding anniversary to my husband. It is a sacred day. I have been overwhelmed with my emotion of love for my husband, remembrances of these days and weeks as we lived them one year before when we were marrying each other, committing for life in front of all our loved ones, and I take that so seriously. And it isn’t easy. Marriage is damn hard and I love that man so much. And I take that commitment incredibly seriously. And it is overwhelming to think about the fact that this is my life, this is OUR life, and we WILL be together for the rest of our lives because we promised each other and everyone else in that church and GOD. It is NOT easy AND I LOVE that man. These thoughts, feelings, and emotions infused my everyday experience this week.

Symbiosis by Cameron Michel and Vashti Windish

Other factors that affected daily life this week:

-We currently have no heat in our house and somehow it is most of the time colder inside than it is outside. We have two space heaters that are somewhat effective but by nature of being space heaters don’t heat evenly and often leave you too hot in the smaller rooms because no matter where you put them they are blowing on you in some way. Alternately they leave you too cold in the large open living and dining areas because the space is far to big to heat with space heaters.

-I am THRILLED to be flying to NYC on Friday 12/5 to celebrate two of my best friends’ thirtieth birthdays at a 500 person bash in lower Manhattan AND visit all my other loved ones there. Thoughts of my weekend in NYC, the impending party, and my two best friends for whom it is thrown hung over me all week.

Party Flier

-I have been sick since Friday, 11/28

-I teach three periods of 6th grade Monday-Friday and attend Mills College in the afternoons/evenings Tuesday-Thursday.

Friday-Sunday: sick to the point of constant need for horizontalness

Saturday: So sick I flaked on working at the flower shop and felt like such a douche bag about it.

Sunday: My laptop became non-operational. Reasons unknown.

Monday:

I had a wedding anniversary.

Had a family emergency in the afternoon.

Had a draft of a paper due Tuesday that I had only vaguely outlined on Sunday (very not my style, I always do my work in advance, it’s the only way I stay sane. I’m not one of those people who regularly waits till the night before something is due to write it–that would make me crazy and compromise the quality of my work. Just speaking personally…).

I had to create and prepare to teach a lesson for Tuesday of my own curriculum (I most often teach a scripted curriculum that I am required by my district to teach due to an agreement between Alameda USD and the University of Kansas. Alameda USD has adopted this curriculum and is providing data for research being conducted on the effectiveness of a curriculum KU designed called “Fusion” to remediate reading for struggling, under-performing urban students. While creating my own curriculum is in fact ideal, doing so the night before is not, but I simply could not move I was so sick over the weekend).

I had a hard time planning/writing my lesson and my paper because my laptop was broken. I had to use my husband’s computer, which has some kind of fucked up version of Word that corrupts the files and is not connected to a printer so when I would email the files to myself to print elsewhere they would not open. His computer is new, snazzy, and has a 30″ monitor. He does big important arty shit on it and has a million external hard drives. But you know what, the copy of Word is fucked. Word is my life. My husband (and many other people) constantly make fun of my 2005 12″ PowerBook G4, but the machine has never died on me before and is perfectly suited to my Internet-obsessed life and word processing habits.

Went out to dinner for my anniversary (to Oliveto obviously) and was spoiled by my husband. It was so lovely, SO many flowers. Honestly.

Tuesday

Taught in the morning, went to class in the afternoon, having managed to get everything word-processed and printed. Submitted draft of aforementioned paper.

Ran to the Apple store after class, couldn’t get help because I didn’t have a Genius Bar appointment because when I checked they didn’t have any and usually when that happens I just go there and wait and someone doesn’t show up for their appointment and I get helped. Not so this time. Some asshole was trying to blow me off. So I just bought a new power cord thinking that the fact that my machine wouldn’t power on had to be either the power cord of the need for a new battery.

Went home, the power cord made it all better!!! I had a working computer again!!!

I cooked a big dinner (something I don’t do every weeknight especially when I’m stressed with schoolwork, but it was part of…

Anniversary week month celebration. (Monday night was a lot about my husband celebrating me, and Tuesday night it was my turn to celebrate him). He loved it, I even got his favorite scotch-mallows and molasses crisps at See’s across the street from the Apple store at Bay Street. It was great.

Wednesday

Woke up amazed that I was still sick, so I committed to flushing my system. Within the course of the day I drank approximately 5 liters of water, a carton of tangerine juice, and a bottle of 100% Pomegranate juice. And multiple cups of Yogi brand Ginger tea and Honey Lemon Throat coat tea. My stomach managed the whole thing incredibly well.

Taught in the morning…

Was in class at Mills from 1-5:45PM straight. Wednesdays are a bitch for me. Had a paper due Thursday (again that I hadn’t started due to my sickness) and a second draft of the paper I wrote for Tuesday. I also had to write a lesson plan and prepare to teach it on Thursday (again, similarly to above). And I had to prepare for an important meeting with a professor on Thursday.

When I got home I had a family emergency that had to be dealt with before starting my papers. It was a long night.

Thursday

I woke up in the morning to the electricity we paid 12K to get entirely redone in August on the fritz. I went outside in the cold to the box on the side of the house (it’s 6AM) and I switched the fuses on and off, but only half the power went back on.

On my way to work I called the electrician and left a voice mail, a kind, urgent voice mail.

Along with my early morning realization about the electricity I was still ridden with mucous and remained intent on my flushing mission. Again I drank 4 or so liters of water over the course of the day, a lot of Yogi tea, and a “magnum” size bottle of Cran-Apple juice from Trader Joe’s. My urinary tract should be extraordinarily healthy this week.

Got to school.

I taught a great lesson–a great fucking lesson. I wish I had videotaped it. I was on fire, the kids were on fire, they were teaching each other. It was so fucking beautiful. YES! That’s my art baby.

I left school, picked up my prescription that I had to have for Friday. While I was waiting for my prescription to fill I made a to do list for the rest of the day and made a packing list for NYC that was very thoughtful so as not to look like a Bay Area schlumpy bumpkin in NYC.

During all this, there was a man that I had hired cleaning my gutters at the house. He’s a great guy and I had told him about the electricity issue. He figured out the problem–the switch of one essential fuse was stuck and wasn’t really switching on and off–it was stuck in the middle (I didn’t notice this in the dawn’s barely light after my sleepless night), we just had to push it harder, then the electricity went back on. Problem was fixed by noon. And I got to call my husband and tell him and he was proud of me, even though I didn’t solve the problem at least I found someone to solve it for us. He calls me his frontier wife. My skills are akin to using EVERY part of the bison–wasting nothing.

My meeting with my professor was at 1PM.

At 12:15PM I arrived at Bloomies and made a flower arrangement for my professor because she has admired my designs before and I thought it would be good to soften the blow of what I was about to tell her: that the faculty’s and her program to prepare “teachers for tomorrow’s schools” with a clearly articulated heavy social justice mission is in my view falling incredibly short of accomplishing that mission and I’m not going to sit around and be quiet about it. Do you know how much this shit costs??? And do you know how much teachers get paid??? I ain’t going get a buck twenty five like fucking associates out of law school you know? So if I’m paying this money you better bring it. And even if I wasn’t, this is my education at stake and I’m supposed to be a fucking educator! MAN, sorry guys, I get heated about this shit. Someone made the mistake of giving me a T-shirt in high school with an Adrienne Rich quote that said “we will not live to settle for less” and I never looked back. Then my fucking husband goes and gives me a necklace that says “I’m Worth It” in diamonds so yeah, this is it, and it’s never going to be any other way. Some wise people told me “do you” and I’m doin it.

The night before I had managed to revise the paper from Tuesday to turn into my professor (not the one I was meeting with) in his box prior to my 1PM meeting.

By 1PM I arrived at Mills. There was ABSOLUTELY no effing parking because everyone gets there around that time. Risked it and parked in the 10 minute zone in front of the School of Ed. building.

I had an hour and a half long meeting in which I described to my professor the various and major issues that I see as compromising my graduate program. The constructive criticism was very well received. It was a major triumph. I’ll be partnering with my colleagues and the faculty to continue a dialog about improving the teacher preparation program at Mills.

I didn’t eat a damn thing the entire day. I forgot.

I went to the library after my meeting and finished my paper for my 4:15PM class. I went to class thinking that I hadn’t done the reading and found out when I got there that I had done it–two weeks ago when I was working ahead. Blessed. What a day. I was a bit high on me and the way everything was going so well.

Class ended at 6:45PM and I raced home–but stopped to pick up a bottle of wine at Paul Marcus. I had to celebrate surviving the week. I got one bottle for me for the night, a more expensive bottle of Nero D’Avola than I usually buy, to treat myself, and a bottle of Txakoli to bring as a gift for my dear Basque friend who I am staying with in NYC.

I got home and having memorized the list I made earlier in the day, I laid my clothes out on my bed and carefully folded them (I love being a good packer) ready to put in the suitcase. I readied hors d’oeuvres for my friends and family who were coming over to see me off. I lit candles.

I had my weekly Thursday night meeting with The Triumvirate: EPK, MDM, and RCR. We are a group of Mills students who enjoy each other’s company, respect each other as intellectuals, are committed to supporting each other as we embark on exceedingly challenging careers in public education, and have a damn good time.

I rehashed my meeting with my professor for RCR and MDM, who are equally invested in improving the condition of our graduate program, and heard their stories of the day. As usual we yelled, screamed, laughed, and gestured. Hands flying, interrupting, taking turns.

Rimpletide and Alice came to witness it.

My husband didn’t get home until almost 10PM.

He injured himself fairly badly on the film set–it involved a finger and either a drill or screwdriver and a loose flap of skin and that’s all I’ll say. I got him hot salt water baths in finger bowls so he could soak his finger. I fed him food. He went to lie down and read.

Rimpletide and Alic borrowed my car for the weekend and took off, subdued by hangovers from the night before and pleasantly tired by the spectacle of The Triumvirate in action. Thursday night is our night and we never hold back. Once RCR and MDM come to Rockridge all hell breaks loose in the most glorious way. Usually my husband likes to watch and throw something in here and there but the injury and set construction exhaustion had him down for the night.

I fucking baked my husband, RCR, and MDM chocolate chip cookies. Yes I ripped that shit up whipped that shit out! I was on fire yesterday. I could do anything. I could write papers, argue my points, say things I was scared to say to people who are above me, laugh with my friends. I could do it all. AND I knew exactly what I was taking to NYC and remembered to get the wine as a hostess gift dammit.

I loaded the dishwasher, I cleaned up the kitchen, I left minimal mess. I hate to leave for a trip with a messy house. It’s just not right.

My guests trickled out but the last didn’t leave till midnight.

Off to bed.

Friday

I woke up at 5AM with a splitting headache from the Hendricks (the Triumvirate drinks Hendricks exclusively) and wine and so much excitement the night before—unbelievable excitement anticipating my time in NYC.  NYC is like home to me.  It’s going home dammit.

So I got in my Weleda Rosemary Milk Bath (so fucking great it deserves its own post and will get one) and took some headache medicine and downed some water and read Perez Hilton in the bath on my iPhone and emailed my people telling them how I couldn’t wait (to be even more intimate and detailed I will tell you that a bath like that with the concurrent Internet browsing is quite habitual in A Rockridge Life) I finished all my packing, I set my hair.  I made coffee for my husband and me and I let him sleep as long as I could.  I was all ready.  I forgot nothing.  I got it all.  I just had to get on the Bart and get on the plane.

My husband told me he would drive me to West Oakland to make my trip shorter.  It was great.  I love him so much and I was excited to spend more time with him before I left.  I am not sad he’s not coming.  It will be the good kind of separation.  I will have a chance to experience my NYC loved ones as I should from time to time, just them and me, and husband has art to do.  Some serious art and “making things” as he calls it and that’s what it is and he loves it.  And I love it that he loves it.  And I love IT too—the “making things” that he makes.  It’s all really fucking great.  So we’ll miss each other but it’s cool. 

So, I’m the type of bitch who never carries cash because I never have two seconds to take it out of a machine because my life is crazy hectic and it just isn’t what’s going on, trips to the ATM, I can barely get around to filling my car with gas and that is something I HAVE to do because my ass is driving all the fuck around to schools teaching and to a college learning and home again repeat.

SO I get to Bart, I’m on time, it’s COOL.  And I’m on the escalator up to the platform and I realize I left my fucking purse in my husband’s car with my cell phone.

This nice lady on the platform let me use her phone to call my husband but he didn’t pick up because my man is always on the phone with important people in LA and Paris and shit and he’s not so down with unknown numbers so basically I’m fucked

I run down to the station level and get on the pay phone.  Still no pick up

Repeat that 4 or 5 times.  Finally as I’m about to call again he calls the pay phone, says he was trying to pick up but there were some issues who knows?

He comes back.

I get my purse.

I get on Bart.

I make it to South San Francisco but I’m on a fucking Millbrae train so I have to get off and wait for an SFO train.  It works, it comes, but I’m dizzy, nauseous, gassy, and think I might throw up.  I had pain pills and coffee and water and no food and I feel fucked.  I’ve got nothing on me to imbibe or consume in any way.  I was looking at this kid like 20’s listening to an iPod and snacking and I thought about Literally ASKING that motherfucker for some food that’s how much I was dying.  Like hello crazy!  Like my privileged-ass Rockridge-living self begging for food in my nice clothes jewelry and ticket to NYC on Virgin America.  Goddam.

So I get to the airport and I think I’m fucking made.  Because I’d been scared I wouldn’t make it–but I did make it.  I’m like fucking Joe Pesci in Goodfellas going to get made–all puffed up with my good suit on just so ignorant that right now shit’s really hitting the fan and my ass is going to get knocked off!!!

I make it through security and I’m just like OK all I need is some fucking yogurt you know? All I need is some yogurt.  Those live cultures are going to settle my stomach.  So  I grab some Yoplait, it’s cool, I indulge in some BS fashion mags, and get on that PLANE!!!

And I’m putting my shit in the overhead and I realize I fucking left my computer in the bin at security.

I’m sweating.

I tell the flight attendant.

He said to tell the women at the desk at the gate.

I run up there.

They tell me to run to security and get it.

I do.

I run.

I’m panting.

I tell the TSA guys, it’s cool, early morning at the International Terminal and not too busy.

I know it’s going to be cool,

But the running made my stomach crazy and I’m worried I’m going to throw up on the TSA guy’s shoes.  They get my comp, make me sign something and I’m off.

I get on the plane.

I eat a yogurt.

I feel better.

I start reading the December issue of Bazaar (Lindsay Lohan really randomly soothes me).  It’s the best issue of a fashion magazine I feel like I’ve read in about 5 years.  Amazing shit.

I’m starting to chill and I see a jacket that makes me think about my best friend Mrs. Jubbison.  And ooooooooooh shit Jebbison’s birthday was yesterday and I fucking forgot.

 

 

 

 

 

Jubbison is a seriously tough lady and the most loving person I know.  She’s a third year law student at one of the highest ranking law schools in the country.  She’s a star there.  She already has her high paying job all lined up and this girl is a SUPERSTAR.  She is just so hardworking and smart it’s out of this world.  AND she is the most loving Christian I know.  This girl is dil-I-gent.  I mean for REAL.  You just don’t know.  And I LOVE the fuck out of her.  And she is the most thoughtful person, you know she emailed and called ME on MY wedding anniversary.  Because she is in love with me and my husband and our love that she wanted to celebrate us and make sure we knew it.  And she doesn’t give a fuck about her birthday or presents.  She thinks it’s silly at the age we are to have to have some big deal about your birthday every year.   All she cares about is the people she loves, taking care of them, working really unbelievably fucking hard, and praising the Lord.  And if someone she really cared about cared about his or her birthday she’d care about it.  But she doesn’t care about her own birthday.  But I forgot her birthday.  I couldn’t believe myself.  I knew it was coming too, I planned it out, I knew I would write, would call, would do it all.  And I didn’t even stop long enough yesterday to realize it was December 4^th.  We’ve been close since we were 12 YEARS OLD.  Man, I felt dumb. 

So there you go.

Onwards and Upwards.

Thank you.

And

You’re welcome.

Signed,

Saddleshoos

Solid Rock Baptist Church Turns 65 Years Old

I got up early, ironed my suit, picked up Mrs. B’s wrist corsage I ordered for her from Bloomies, picked up some sheer “buff” hose at Walgreens, and set my hair.

I attended the Solid Rock Baptist Church 65th Anniversary brunch at a banquet hall near the Oakland Airport with Mrs. B.  It was an unprecedented experience for me, in every way.  I am pretty sure it is the first time that I have been the racial minority in a room of people.  Out of approximately 80 attendees, I was one of 3 whites.  In addition to the pastor of Solid Rock, there were at least five other Baptist preachers in attendance who were visiting to express their support for Solid Rock.  Many of Mrs. B’s amazing family were in attendance including her two surviving children, and several grandchildren.  None of her great-grandchildren or great-great-grandchildren were able to come, perhaps a combination of the high price of tickets and distance.  I know Mrs. B’s children fairly well, since they are often at her house, but I’d never met her grandchildren.  They were all so kind to me, as was every single person there.  Mrs. B’s grandchildren, who are all significantly my senior, all greeted me with open arms–literally–thanking me for looking out for their grandmother.  They insisted on hugging me at first sight.  The members of the congregation were equally as welcoming and went out of their way to make me feel comfortable.  

The program was amazing and included a lot of preaching.  The pastors were all phenomenal.  I absolutely loved it.  As much as it was something I’d never experienced before, I felt oddly at home, and as if these people’s faith were as much theirs as mine.  We gave thanks, we prayed, and we said Amen, a lot.  They did something I loved called “Words of Encouragement.”  These presentations were made by two different visiting pastors who gave encouragement to the church as a whole, and Solid Rock’s pastor, respectively.  What they each said was different, but I just loved the concept of Encouragement.  One of the pastors told us: “we ALL need encouragement.”  Nothing could be more true.

The praise team sang, and there was even a band.  The keynote speaker was Pastor John Waiters from Mount Olive Baptist Church in Palo Alto.  His words were powerful, but what was even deeper was just looking into his burning eyes as he spoke to all of us, each and every one of us, and demanded that we recognize Jesus as our Savior.

Mrs. B was honored by the church.  She has served Solid Rock for sixty-four of its sixty-five years.  She was the choir director for fifty of those years.  And she looks just as good as she did almost the whole time.  Two other nonagenarians were honored for their service along with her.  According to the pastor, each had their individual quirks that distinguished them: one of the sisters was known for saying not to cross her, lest she…well you know, the other sister was the fashion queen, best dressed at church, and Mrs. B has always been known to be the first in church every Sunday all these sixty-four years, and strutting up the steps quick with a switch in her hips.  When Mrs. B heard the pastor say so she stood up and shook it.  It was beautiful.

By the end of the marathon four hour event I felt like I was friends with everyone in the room.  Solid Rock’s pastor, Michael Wright, told me I was welcome anytime at his church.  All the Sisters on the anniversary committee hugged me and told me to come back soon.

I told them all it was a privilege and honor to be there, and that I appreciated their invitation.

The afternoon ended with a hundred hugs, lots of pictures, and lots of happiness.  

I took Mrs. B to get the Colonel on the way home so she wouldn’t have to cook for herself, as she does most nights, in spite of her ninety-three years.   It was a beautiful day.

T.G.I.F. Part I

Last week was a long, hard one for me, so when I was done teaching on Friday I felt less exuberant than worn down, worn out, and worn left and right.  I thought I had to do something for me.  

I got home and remembered I had to go next door to Mrs. B’s to pick up my ticket for her big church event on Saturday: the church’s 65th anniversary celebration.  Mrs. B is my ninety-three year old next door neighbor.  

When I got over to Mrs. B’s I found her in quite a state.  She is highly functional, both physically and mentally, for her age but she was in a state.  She has been REALLY worried about the event on Saturday.  There had been some confusion regarding the tickets and the seating arrangement at her table, and though it’s illogical, Mrs. B was so stressed out she hadn’t barely slept all week.  

I had promised Mrs. B that I would bring over the dress I planned to wear so that she could approve it.  She wanted someone to talk to about clothing since her daughter who would usually come up from Stockton and spend the night before an event like this had to stay home for an event in Stockton on Friday.  I was planning on wearing a vintage Carolina Herrera dress: black with a white upper bodice and big collar.  Very Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s kind of a vibe.  A nice column design, with the collar for flare and a hem that hits below the knee–how could I go wrong?  I had originally bought the dress to become a godmother, and I thought it was perfect.  

When I brought it to Mrs. B she said “do you have anything with longer sleeves?  It’s semi-formal, but you don’t have to dress that fancy.”  I told her no problem and ran home to get something else.  Thank goodness I had the sense seek her approval.

I brought over a cream colored long-sleeved silk blouse and a black skirt.  She said, “do you have anything…[long pause] with more color?”  Mrs. B was planning to wear a red suit.  Now, being the faux-New Yorker that I am, my wardrobe is mostly made up of black, with a splash of gray, navy blue, and cream thrown in for good measure.  I own a pair of hot pink Fendi flats but that’s about it.  So I said, “maybe I could wear a suit?”  This seemed to meet with approval.  I told Mrs. B that the only skirt suit (knowing that pants were NOT OK) I owned was cotton, and therefore less formal.  She said that was OK and told me to go get the suit.

The navy blue cotton suit it was.  Mrs. B approved, and reminded me to wear hose.  (I hate hose, don’t own “hose” and only ever occasionally wear opaque black tights).  

Wardrobe: check.

Note to self: channelling a high-class hooker character when making wardrobe choices may fly in the Episcopal church but has no place, however iconic, in a Southern Baptist church’s 65th anniversary celebration.  As Mrs. B’s granddaughter (who is a good decade older than me) would tell me the following day, “it’s a cultural thing.” 

This was more the look of the day:

Education ### Assignment 1

In this course equity is viewed as setting high expectations, providing accessible opportunities to learn and ushering each student through meaningful outcomes. The purpose of this laboratory is to explore personal, interpersonal, and institutional issues involved in becoming a teacher leader for educational equity.  This course will have you examine the personal and institutional impact of the intersection of oppressions surrounding race, ethnicity, language, gender, and class.  

Alliances and Trust

 

How did school experiences affect your ability to trust others?  What was helpful and what was harmful?

 

I became very distrustful of adults and teachers through high school.  There were the concrete reasons, and the vague, emotional reasons.  I can’t think of any “helpful” experiences, only harmful ones.  One incident had a huge impact on me and my ability to trust others when I was in 10^th grade.  In my school, Lower School was 7-9 and Upper School was 10-12.  One of my friends was taking her finals early due to a family vacation.  She was given a test to take in the classroom of one of the English faculty, who at the time also served as the Dean of Students.  This friend of mine, “Leslie,” was one of the smartest girls in the school, and also one of the most troubled.  Leslie was quite the kleptomaniac actually.  That day Leslie finished her exam early.  Due to the honor code in place at the school and the fact that she was the only individual taking the test, she was left to work on her own without a proctor.  When she finished the exam she did what any other super-smart, super-troubled kleptomaniac would do and started looking through the Dean’s files.

 

What she found of interest was a hand-written list.  It was written in the exaggerated curlicue cursive of our 9^th grade science teacher. 

 

I remember it so clearly.  It was written on yellow lined legal paper, the kind that you tear off a pad at the top.  The writing was in red rolling ball liquid pen—NOT ballpoint.  Down the left side of each of the four or so pages was the name of each of the 86 young women in our class (it was an all-women preparatory school). 

 

Next to each of the names were notes.  A small number of the names were left blank.  Most contained words, phrases, and occasionally small paragraphs.   (Even though I laugh when I think about this usually, to write it all down actually still makes my blood boil).  I can photographically recall them almost in alphabetical order:

 

Nn. parents are friends of [Johnny] Cochran…

Nn. father molested her as a child…current stepfather…

Nn. sexuality: ?

Nn. sleeps where ever…

Nn. Dad came out of the closet, mom flipped out…

Nn. works hard for her B’s, trustee kid

Nn. Mt. St. Helen’s kid, dad’s a charmer…not

Nn. nice girl, nutty parents

 

And the list went on.  Leslie naturally showed the list to me and two of our best friends.  At the time several of us were on the editorial board of the school newspaper.  We thought, “This is IT! We’ll ruin them!  We’ll show them!”

 

Leslie took a copy (we made hundreds at Kinko’s) to the Headmistress, along with threats of not just the school newspaper, but the Los Angeles Times.  We had readied the attack.

 

What she got in the headmistress’ office was a flat, nonplussed response.  The list, she said, was simply confidential notes from a meeting that takes place every year between the 9^th and 10^th grade faculty to discuss any special concerns or needs regarding individual students.  She saw no problem with its contents and wasn’t compelled to explain any of it in any other way.  No further explanation or apology was given.

 

The headmistress told Leslie that she could be expelled for stealing according to the honor code.  But since Leslie was a National Merit Finalist and a third generation legacy at the school, she was given a slap on the wrist.  She wrote a research paper on the history of the honor code at our school, or something else equally lenient and ridiculous.

 

What I learned as a teenager/assumptions I made: 

 

1. Adults are evil, judgmental, classist, racist, and sexist.  (So if you’re Black and you’re friends with Johnny Cochran you…are smart? Are not? Are someone to be feared?…or wait…remind me of how that is supposed to impact a child’s learning?  So your teachers are judging you for sexual experimentation?  So your teachers got together to decide whether or not your dad is cool?  Or maybe you’re not allowed to get B’s if your dad’s a trustee member, or you’re only getting B’s because you’re doing C work but you’re dad is powerful???)

2. Our teachers cared more about gossiping about students and their families than our education (priced, in 1995 at 15K/year).

3.  There is no justice for teenagers.

4. If you’re smart enough/rich enough/upper class enough you can get away with anything.

 

How do these experiences affect you now?

 

Most of the time they don’t affect me at all.  I don’t walk around with a chip on my shoulder.  When I see faculty and staff from my alma mater I smile and make small talk without engaging in fantasies of public hangings and the like.  I actively dislike my alma mater, and take issue with many facets of it, but this experience isn’t totally paramount.  I take the experience as a whole, rather than a laundry list of transgressions and offenses.

 

Since I’ve been a teacher I’ve found myself in SOMEWHAT similar situations and conversations to the one the headmistress claimed those faculty were having.  Teaching is personal business, and to do it you get pretty caught up and involved in your students’ personal lives. 

 

Keeping all this in mind, I’ve tried hard to make sure that any time I’m talking about something as sensitive as molestation, grades, sexuality, and parents, that I keep the conversation constructively focused on how this information impacts learning and how we can help the student.

 

What still confuses me about my experience as a student is 1) why the conversation my teachers had focused so much on the parents’ social and class standing/affiliation and 2) why in the world anyone would write it all down, and in such and obviously insensitive and sarcastic tone.  Or rather, I’m not confused.  I know.  And I’m disappointed.  

 

One of my cardinal rules of teaching is NO SARCASM.  I’ve worked largely with 6^th-8^th graders, and the fact is, you can’t rely on all students of that age to understand sarcasm.  Now, even if I end up only working with 9^th-12^th graders, or college or graduate students for that matter I still argue: NO SARCASM. 

 

Sarcasm can be funny between friends, in the Coen brothers’ films, and on a Friday night at a bar.  Maybe it has something to do with the traditional Eastern/Southern American (as in Pennsylvania and Tennessee) families I come from, but in spite of the comic possibilities, sarcasm is very frowned upon.  When there is a standard like that set in my family, it can sound arbitrary and puritanical, but usually there are good reasons behind it. 

 

Besides what many elders in my family would say (sarcasm is un-Christian), sarcasm is harsh, bitter, and usually involves derision.  Sarcasm is often cutting and often comes in the form of a taunt. 

 

If you employ sarcasm (bitterness, taunting, derision) towards or around your students, how can they trust you?  How do they know that they will not be the next targets?  It follows to ask then, how will they learn, if they fear, hate, or distrust you?  Why would they want to?

 

What in your current situation affects your ability to trust other and others abilities to trust you?

 

I still have difficulty trusting others until they have shown me DIRECTLY that they have respect for me.  I try to engender trust by showing others DIRECTLY that I respect them.

 

What has helped or been a hindrance to forming alliances across racial lines?

 

As a white person, it has helped me to study and inform myself of the history and ongoing conditions that lead people of non-white backgrounds to distrust whites.  Along the way, I have had the opportunity to learn from, work with, and have a good time with people who come from different racial backgrounds than me.  Being aware of my own issues of trust and concurrent fear that I feel in different situations has led me to be more aware of how others, particularly people of other races, might experience different kinds of fear and distrust AND how the bases for their fears and distrust DIFFER from mine in that they are HISTORICALLY-, CULTURALLY-, AND INSTITUTIONALLY-BASED.

 

To be explicit and honest: I treat people of other races differently than I treat other white people.  For example, when a Black parent comes for a parent-teacher conference with me about their ADHD diagnosed, 12-year-old son who drives every teacher nuts, I make SURE that that parent knows that I am not going to give up on their son.  I make SURE they know that I am not going to put him away in the difficult-young-black-boy category and close the door.  I make SURE that they know that I value their son’s mind, and don’t discount it because of how he looks, how he acts, and the stereotypes that are perpetuated in our society on our TV’s, in newspapers, and in Hollywood movies. 

 

Similarly, if I go into a graduate class that looks to be all white, save one dark-skinned woman, I might try to engage her.  I would want to let her know that I value her presence and that I’m glad she’s there.  Because I imagine it can be scary to be in a room of people where no one looks like you.  At least I know it would be scary for me.  Then again, it might also be angering, frustrating, annoying, uncomfortable, or unpleasant.  I don’t profess to understand what it feels like to be the only not white person in the room.  And I don’t treat non-white people differently than I would treat any white person on whom I would like to make a good impression, but I might make a little more effort to let that person know that their opinion of me matters to me just as much as any white person’s. 

 

Then, in both cases, as a closer and more intimate relationship with the Black parent or the dark-skinned classmate has formed, I let have them know in subtle or explicit ways that I acknowledge the existence of institutionalized racism: that I believe that the U.S. built its power by oppressing people of color, that I know whites are guaranteed privileges that people of other races might never have access to, and that I too see this as a problem and that I too would like to work to change it.

 

Is this correct?  Am I perfect?  Please. 

 

I know that it’s helped me form alliances across racial lines.  I know it’s a starting point.  I know that I have a lot to learn.  I know that all I’m doing really is treating every other person the way I would like and expect to be treated. 

 

It’s the Christian way.