The View from River Market

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June 21^st at the River Market

It’s the first day of summer, warm, about 90 degrees, but nice in the shade of the River Market awnings. The birds are having a lovely time singing and occasionally foraging for nesting materials from their perches in the support beams. They are a natural backdrop to the oddly concrete venue of the farmer’s market. Maybe once upon, people walked or rode their horses or drove their wagons to the farmer’s market to sell what they had, buy what they couldn’t raise and talk with their neighboring farmers. Now we drive our SUVs and luxury sedans across town so we can experience the same things our great-grandpas and grandmas took for granted.

Leaning low over a bin of loose spices, I inhale the densely packed granules of garam masla and admire the tight coils of cinnamon stick. Words are not an adequate expression of the information my nose gives me. Could it really be comfort, love, excitement, mystery? Yes and more and more until my nose shorts out and my brain says, “Move on, remember, move on.”

There aren’t many people here of a Friday afternoon. After all, it’s just turned summer and most vacations are still a dim red “x” on the calendar—longed for but not close enough to be real yet. Older couples, college students, some stay-at-home-moms with their kids. And vendors. They watch the shoppers with that finely tuned sense that shopkeepers all seem to possess. That person can be trusted, but THAT person, I need to watch her. Some of them try to advertise their wares and some just confirm what you already know from reading the signs. “Yes, the grapes are 1.99 a pound. No there aren’t any purple ones, just green.”

There is an expectation here—fresh, farm grown produce sold at very little profit to the farmer. When I look at the lemons, I wonder where the lemon tree is, here in Kansas, that produced such lovely little yellow fruit? It seems strange to offer grocery story produce here when you can find it in any industrialized cinder-block building flooded with fluorescent lights and drowning in musak. Oh, that’s why.

The birds are getting braver now, coming down near my table to peck at crumbs left from beignets, or cinnamon rolls or whatever it is they are selling at the store with the Sanskrit. I cannot read it but I feel as if I should be able to. Above the flowing script, in small letters, it says helpfully “Middle Eastern Cuisine.”

A couple about 10 years older than me holds hands as they put their purchases in their car. They stand apart from each other so that their hands are the only point of connection between them. With packages stowed, they walk away, the man with his hand placed gently on the woman’s back as if guiding her, again just the one point of tenuous connection. You can tell they are a couple because they seem to exist simultaneously apart and together. I wonder how my husband and I look to other people? Is it possible to tell how two people feel about each other looking at them from outside their relationship? Things always look different from the outside.

The arrival of a UPS truck stops the birds for a second. Or maybe I can’t hear them because the noise of the truck engine drowns them out. As soon as he shuts off the engines, they are there again, their lives uninterrupted by the intrusion of something they cannot possibly understand. They have no schedule, unlike the UPS man, their only imperative is to follow their natural instincts; to fly, to perch, to eat, to mate, to nest. If interrupted in their course, they simply resume. They are not and cannot be bothered.

Tomorrow, none of the cars will be in this central area—it will be filled with booths and people and things grown or made. But today it is a strange mixture of organic and inorganic, natural and man-made. Yet the music made by people is no less natural than that made by the birds still singing in the awnings. They, like us, are communicating in the only way they know—by being present in the moment, by making those small connections, by singing out what we feel compelled to sing out.  How seldom it is that we truly employ our five senses to be present in the world. What could be gained if we could stop our self-manufactured busy-ness and just listen, look, smell, taste, feel? This is my lesson to myself today—be like the birds. Follow your own biological, natural imperative. And don’t forget to sing.

Lives Lost

This has been an extraordinarily difficult weekend. On Thursday night  (March 7, 2013) as we were all getting ready for bed, my daughter came to me in distress and asked for help with her pet rabbit, Thumper. He was in the corner under her bed and wouldn't come out to go to his cage for bed time. I moved the bed and found him lying unresponsive. His eyes were open and he was panting shallowly but did not move as I lifted him to the bed. We've had the rabbit for about 10 years and he was several years old when we took him home so we knew this was coming. I had hoped that he would go quietly while my daughter was at school. However, in death as in life, he commanded attention until the end. He was petted, adored and exclaimed over until he began to convulse and to scream and then my son and I just held him down while my daughter and husband left the room. Life and death are both very messy affairs.

On Saturday evening (March 9, 2013) I was downstairs doing the laundry when my daughter came down and asked me to hurry to her father. He was in tears when I got there. His sister had just discovered the body of their brother. She called 911 and then she called us. He was cold when she arrived so there was nothing she could have done. My husband and I drove to his apartment to offer moral support while the police investigator took pictures and talked to my sister-in-law and to their brother's soon-to-be-ex-wife. We were not allowed into the apartment during the investigation (thankfully) and instead stood outside and explored the should-haves that all survivors do.

As we were standing there, the neighbor who had been "helping" my brother-in-law came to talk to us. She described how she fed him, emptied his trash, got his mail and generally acted like his maid. That was strange enough, but she seemed to want our validation, or forgiveness or comfort and hugged all of us several times though we had never met her before. She offered (several times) to let us use her bathroom or get a drink or use the phone. Then she continued to talk  . . . and talk . . . and talk. The picture she painted of my brother-in-law was not a flattering one but reflected more of herself than of him. Clearly, we were all too polite for our own good.

When the police were finally through and the coroner had retrieved his body, we were allowed into the apartment where we found the TV still on, a great quantity of empty liquor bottles and not much else. He'd recently moved out of the home he had shared with his wife and four children and he had accumulated very little.

Parent/Teacher Conferences

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NOTE: I wrote this during our district training the week following parent/teacher conferences (what we call Family Advocacy Day). Our job was to use a mentor text to duplicate style, tone or content. The mentor text I used was "Why Daddy Can't Write" from the Sports Illustrated archive. 

Family Advocacy Day was last week, so I took my laptop and my student work samples to school. Because who doesn’t want to stay at school until 7:00pm?

Maybe I thought that parents would be lined up at my door, desperate to talk to me about how to improve little Johnny’s grade.

Uh, nope.

It was a lot of conversations like this:

JOHNNY’S MOM: My son is failing your class.

ME: Yes, he is.

JOHNNY’S MOM: My little sugar-bear tells me that he never has homework, so when he’s playing his X-Box I check on his School Loop and see all the zeros and I’m so confused.

ME: I only give homework when a student doesn’t finish their work in class.

JOHNNY’S MOM; So you never give homework? I always had homework when I was a kid! I don’t understand why you wouldn’t give him homework!

ME: We generally complete assignments in class, but when a child doesn’t do the assignment, they must complete it at home.

JOHNNY’S MOM: So you don’t give homework? Then why is my angel failing your class? You should give more homework!

ME: Mrs. Johnny, your son does not complete his work in class, so his job is to finish it at home. This is homework.

JOHNNY’S MOM: I thought you said you didn't give homework?

ME: I said students may have to finish assignments at home if they don’t complete it in class.

JOHNNY’S MOM: Is that the same as homework?

ME: Yes

JOHNNY’S MOM: So you do give homework?

ME: Yes ma’am.

JOHNNY’S MOM; So why is my darling dumpling failing your class?

Thinking About My Dad

I've been thinking about my relationship with my father. He is one of the most influential people in my life and has taught me so much but I miss hearing those three little words from him. I worked on this poem yesterday about how I felt.

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Three Little Words: Dedicated to my Father

by: Amelia Grissom

2/7/2013

Three little words,

You share them with

that big, slobbery Basset hound,

wiping her chin gently with the

handkerchief you always have

in your back pocket.

Three little words,

I see them in the way

you dig out each individual dandelion,

on your hands and knees

in the Navy pants you’ve been wearing

for 27 years.

Three little words,

I feel them in your eyes

when you talk about helping those

who can’t help themselves

as a pastor, as a social worker, as a mentor

for as long as I’ve known you.

Three little words

Three powerful words,

Your father never said to you,

But meant.

Your mother never said to you,

But didn’t.

Three little words,

They surround everything

You say and do,

Why, when I say

Those three little words,

Can’t you?

 

Thinking about Poetry

Can't. Lesson. Plan. Any. More.

So, I'm thinking about poetry--specifically the Third Thursday coming up at the YMCA  (sponsored by Youth City Network). Just today I had two different (former) students come by to read me poetry that they had composed. I'm encouraging them to read it at the Third Thursday event. I attended last time and it was wonderful to see local teenagers so excited about sharing their talents with each other.

Poetry is an intensely personal art form, which is why it's so perfect for teenagers who feel that everything is happening to them for the first time ever and in the most extreme way ever. Poetry allows them to share those strong emotions and to connect with others who are feeling the same. I'm really looking forward to seeing our school represented and to hearing what others have to say.

In related news, I just received "Louder Than a Bomb" from Netflix. Recommended by fellow English teachers and poetry buffs, it's an account of a poetry slam/competition and follows a Chicago team as they prepare. I'm hoping to screen it for the club during the February Third Thursday. The truly exciting thing is that it's coming to Kansas City in 2014. How great is that?

Novels and other distractions

Love Christmas break for the chance to really dig into some good books! I just recently finished "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn and couldn't put it down. It was very twisty--in a good way--and even though there was  a dearth of sympathetic characters, I still cared enough to find out what happened to all of them. I'd highly recommend it if you enjoy murder mysteries with a serious twist!

We purchased a refurbished (new to us!) computer just around Thanksgiving time, so the kids have really enjoyed the faster, easier interface and the ability to use their game Skyrim. It has great graphics, but is not something I could get into--the storyline requires you to kill people and other beings and steal their things. Not my kind of thing. I have enjoyed using it for my games and for sending e-mail, which I can't seem to do on the Apple when using Yahoo. A bit frustrating. My work e-mail functions, of course. Yay.

I also got around to cleaning out the basement (donating a bunch of toys that hadn't been played with in some years, but that the kids weren't ready to let go of), getting family pictures taken and getting several doctor's visits out of the way. Also been thinking about lesson planning and have devoted several hours to that as well. I think for teachers that every holiday is a busman's holiday--everything we run across is fodder for teaching at some point. That's probably a good thing but sometimes it feels a little too busy.

Supreme Court Considers Gay Marriage

We recently left a church we'd attended for over a year. The issue was two-fold--both the pastor and several of the congregants had made public statements against gay marriage and the pastor had sermonized about disciplining children with a belt. When I mentioned these concerns to the pastor's wife, stating that the anti-gay message particularly disturbed my daughter, she asked, "is she gay?" I said no, but what I SHOULD have said was, "Why do you ask?" In a Christian church, we believe that God is the God of all. If all means all, that should include gay and straight, black and white, sinners and saints.

So, in the same vein, the Supreme court is considering the Defense of Marriage Act and Proposition 8 which both concern blocking benefits for married same-sex couples. The essential question being considered is "whether the Constitution's promise of equality for all persons applies to gay men and lesbians when it comes to marriage." (According to a recent article in the Kansas City Star, "Gay Marriage on Docket")

The question I'd like to ask is, haven't we already determined that the Constitution applies to all person? Not just white persons, not just male persons, but all persons. Seems we keep having to make the distinction about what being a person means. I think that each time this decision comes up to vote, we (humankind) are facing our fear of the unknown. Can women really be smart enough and capable enough to have an opinion and to vote? Are they really PEOPLE? Same question for African-Americans, American Indians or other "foreigners." At root, people who have a different sexual orientation are different than the majority and that is scary! I can only hope that at some point we will evolve to where different more often means interesting than fearful.