Michael Jackson

Each Monday, the students who have the privilege to be with me in "enrichment time" (aka "remediation for those who are failing") get to reflect on character education or study skills. This week's character education asked them to consider the differences between reputation and character.

In particular, they were told to consider someone who had a good reputation but inevitably displayed bad character, and write about how their minds changed about that person.

"I don't get it," they said.

I explained that they might want to choose someone famous who once had everyone's respect, and then lost it.

"Like Michael Jackson!" one said.

"Sure. Like Michael Jackson," replied their instructor.

They became suddenly spirited in their conversation, and all was going well until they began to discuss Michael Jackson's skin color.

"He was alright until he started bleaching himself."

"Yeah, no offense, but he totally wants to look like us, right, Miss G?"

One girl looked at me in surprise, then back to the girl who had spoken. "Miss G's not white."

I wasn't quite sure what to say. "I am," I said. What I was thinking was, is there anyone who is more "white"? And more importantly, what difference does it make?

My student could not be convinced; it apparently meant very much to her. "But you're not all the way white. There's definitely some not-white. Where're you from?"

And that is today's commentary on the social creation of race. Thank you.

Shadows, Dust, Peace

Early one morning last week, I was walking Radar just before dawn. The stars were still thick and precise, the moon impossibly bright between the branches of pine.

Something moved just behind me in the grass. I started. My heart shuddered. And I stood perfectly still.

After a moment, I tugged on Radar's leash and kept walking. Again, something moved.

When I looked down at my feet, I could see a darker spot against the night darkness of the grass. It was my shadow being cast by the moon.

Literally, I was afraid of my own shadow.

***

Saturday, up to Washington DC on a school-enforced trip to the National Book Festival ("sponsored by the Library of Congress and Laura Bush"). A block away, a protest for peace was being held. As my fellow teachers and I trudged through the remarkable inches of dust on the National Mall, people walked through with their placards and signs denouncing the administration.

("I wonder if Laura Bush is here," I wondered aloud.
"I doubt it," said my friend.
I looked at the dust on my feet, encrusted on my shoes, lining the threads on my jeans. "No, probably not.")

My fellow teachers, being Virginians, didn't exactly approve of the peace protest. I have been careful not to align myself too closely with my own politics at work, so I don't think it even occurred to them that I might, in my heart, be marching right along with those same protesters that they were belittling.

The odd thing is this: I actually like these people. Obviously, they won't be affecting my beliefs, but it's been a long time since I've been exposed to people whose allegiances were so far away from mine. I was surprised by my response, that I still wanted to be their friends, that I wanted to listen to their opinions, even though I disagreed so strongly. I wanted to understand them.

***

To their credit, they did very much seem to enjoy Donald Hall's new poem, "We Bring Democracy to the Fish." Easily one of the most brilliant things I've heard all year, that poem.

***

Bumper sticker: Imagine whirled peas. It took me three rereadings to understand what it said. I was imagining peas in a circles.

***

For those of you who might potentially be reading my blog for information about others: For my lover, now it's Syria for two months, with credits to be applied to his graduate school. Potentially, I will see him in December, for a day.

I am happy for him. And the timeline of two months is immeasurably better than the two years that it might have been.

Still. The weeks and months have chains on their legs and drag them through my hours.

Forbidden Error

Who knows what happened? Regardless, no one, not even me, can access my old blog.

In case it ever comes back and you can't see how forbidden it is anymore, the message reads:

Forbidden

You don't have permission to access /the_love_project on this server.

Additionally, a 403 Forbidden error was encountered while trying to use an ErrorDocument to handle the request.

Life finds me (forbidden) dealing well with my grandmother's loss, and my family trudging along with equal resilience. You might also find me not vacuuming regularly, eating occasional community dinners with a small group of teachers, grading seventy notebooks over the weekend, cleaning Radar's ears, not washing my dishes regularly, dealing with rude eighth graders. Giving lunch detentions. Writing office referrals.

Call me the Punisher.

You might also find me right on the brink of becoming exceedingly happy. After months of hair twisting and near panic, Lover landed himself a very late admission to a school right here in the States that will occupy him only for a year or so. So, no Egypt or Syria or Jordan for the time being, and we'll actually see each other in the interim.

I wish I weren't so happy about it, though. It's astonishing how much I want this person to be near me. I pride myself on my ability to be patient, but my impatience to be with him borders on being shameful.

At least we're starting to talk about the What Happens Next. Just the thought that I might potentially get to be an old person right next to him makes me feel like I'm a buxom woman on a windy day on the cover of a tattered romance novel, my satin dress falling from my shoulders like impossibility.

Now, back to grading, and away from the forbidden...