I made the school lunches today. The food was so-so (sandwich, Cheez-Its®, apple), but I also added a treat: little notes.
My mother occasionally packed one of these in my sack lunch when I was in elementary school. Finding the note, which I kept to myself, made the afternoon at school glow.
Where was the scrap of paper on which I had written down the date and time for a long overdue haircut? I remembered inserting that scrap between some others I’ve accumulated in my school bag.
I couldn’t find it. I took my wallet, notebook, pencil case, and glucose monitor kit out of my bag, and I peered into the morass. I stirred the papers and other items resting on the bottom. The scrap I had in mind did not float up.
I dumped out the bag onto the floor in the hall. Although I didn’t find what I was looking for, I did find all this: the evidence of an autumn that has flown by.
the things she carried, 12.9.2008
Yes, I did style the pile a bit to make the contents distinctly visible and composed.
Here’s the list. Make of it what you will.
Not junk, not junk at all. Really, artifacts.
And now I’m going to start something from this. Let’s call it the School Bag Meme. I tag my blogging and college teaching friends Alex, Dr. Poppy, James, Jan, and Rosemary. What’s in yours, at this very moment? And how or why did it get there?
I wasn’t intending to buy baby bok choy. In fact, I had never bought the leafy green before.
But it caught my eye as I strolled the produce display, looking for a red pepper, in my recently re-arranged supermarket. I saw it and my brain leaped to the idea of “Soup!”
Attention-getting label on baby bok choy
When I got home and unloaded the bags, I realized that some other shopper, or maybe even a produce clerk, had put back the bok choy and mistakenly turned the recipe-labeled side of the package so that it was facing the shoppers. On the other side, there is a small label on the big product window, as is normal for packaged greens. I wouldn’t have bought it (or all the other soup ingredients, which I did), probably, if all I had seen was the usual view.
Perhaps words or information about the leaf persuaded me more than the leaf itself.
In any event, keep reading for my version of the recipe for the soup, which was easy and good. My variations are in purple. Continue reading
My colleagues and I teach undergraduates the fine arts of writing, speaking, and presenting. In this work, we talk explicitly to students about readers and audiences. Much of our work, in fact, involves making students aware of those people to whom they “transmit” their messages, reports, essays, and research. I doubt, however, that I’ve ever taught my students how to be good readers and audiences themselves, even though I hope I model the habits of a good reader and listener.
Today, at our neighborhood school, 670 students gathered in the big gym for the annual Thanksgiving assembly. Mr. Cavanagh, the principal and master of ceremonies, communicated a simple message to this young audience: “Be silent and attentive, and if you can’t be silent and attentive, at least be silent.”
School-age audience, 11.26.2008
Not in fear, but out of respect for Mr. Cavanagh’s words, they did sit still, and most were attentive. Some children were as young as 5 and some as old as 14. (It’s a K-8 school.) No blurting, no elbowing, no yanking at teachers’ sleeves.
After an hour, Mr. Cavanagh — an experienced educator who probably realized the energy that goes into being a good audience — called for a “one minute wiggle break.” Everyone stood up, stretched, turned to friends and talked, shifted in their places, and sat down again at the signal. The musical and theatrical numbers continued for another 30 minutes or so. The singers and players were wonderful; the audience performed beautifully, too.
Catching up on the news, 11.22.2008.
These children of ours are not quite old enough (or “fallen” enough) yet to realize that there’s a category for their indulgence: the guilty pleasure.
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iPhone photograph by Jimmy Guterman.
On Saturday afternoon, emerging from the cramped hell of the Government Center MBTA stop into spacious City Hall plaza, I was greeted by a leafletter and activist. He caught me off guard.
Activist: I’m with the American Communist party. Are you here for the demonstration?
Jane: (silently double-takes at “communist”) Er, yeah.
Activist: We believe that the Prop 8 marriage ban is one of a number of equal rights atrocities in this country. There are workers’ rights, health care rights–
Jane: (warming up to and interrupting him) I’m with you.
By the way, he looks like a young Jackson Browne. Remember him?
Activist: Are you here because… (long sizing-up pause) of reproductive rights?
Jane: (what? huh?) Well, I’m for reproductive rights — yes, definitely — but I’m here to oppose the ban on gay marriage.
Activist: Great. Are you willing to make a donation? Here’s our newspaper.
Jane: (hands over five dollars) Yes.
Activist: Thanks. So, basically we believe more and more people must become combative on these issues of rights. We need to step it up, put more pressure on the system.
Jane: (alarmed) Oh, well, I’m basically against violence, so —
Activist: I’m nonviolent, too. I don’t meant violence. I mean we have to organize and fight.
Jane: Okay, yes.
Since Saturday, I’ve been ruminating over that conversation, and the subtle yet important differences between violent and combative. He’s right. And although I went to the demonstration and was counted, is it enough to stand there peacefully on the sidelines, as I did? Silence, after all, does not speak volumes.
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*Regarding my choice of title for this post: One year in high school I was a cheerleader for the basketball team. Kind of a social experiment that didn’t take. Anyway, one of our cheers went like this: “We’re gonna F-I-G-H-T; we’re gonna M-I-G-H-T; we’re gonna W-I-N. [pause] We’re gonna fight with all our might to win!” And while I do NOT equate protesting with mere cheerleading, the word “fight” always fires this connection in my memory.
I am not obsessed with knitting, as the character in this short video is. (Keep track of her hair as you watch.)
I may be obsessed, however, with writing. Still, my work on any one thing is woefully slow compared to this lady’s progress on that scarf. Oh, if only I were able to produce with such speed!
Yes, Brian.
This afternoon, 4 o’clock. Our kitchen. Outside, raining. Inside, Lydia and I, the afterschool chat.
Lydia: Mrs. M. is giving up coffee. (Mrs. M. is a teacher.)
Jane: Really??? (voice rising, incredulous) Why?
Lydia: Yeah. Because it’s bad for you.
Jane: No, it’s not.
Lydia: IT’S ADDICTING.
Jane: Right. But it’s not bad for you.
Lydia: Mom, it’s addicting.
Jane: Lydia, I couldn’t get through my life if I couldn’t drink coffee.
Lydia giggles. It opens up into laughter. I’ve surprised her! This is a wonderful thing, when serious Lydia laughs. Her voice is a bell, a pretty one.
Lydia: Do you hear what you’re saying?
Jane: Yes.
Lydia: I’m not going to drink coffee until I’ve reached my full height and stopped growing.
Jane: Really? Okay, let’s have this conversation again when you’re sixteen.
Which is when I started depending on, er, I mean, drinking it.
(But I didn’t have any this afternoon. I didn’t.)
Patriotic party beads
This morning, before our 8am departure time for work, we were running around and picking up the house in advance of the housecleaners’ arrival. On the kitchen counter, I found the detritus (in photo) from last week’s Election Eve party at my sister Sally’s house. It hasn’t taken long for my mood to sober up since that day, and the jubilant day after, because the country is, to quote the lyrics of one of my favorite Talking Heads songs, “Same as it ever was.”
And how is almost-President Obama feeling? I pictured him waking up on Thursday, the day after the day after, turning to Michelle and saying, “Oh, shit.”
There is a lot to do.
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iPhone image of beads credited to local cameraperson Jimmy Guterman. That is, however, my hand.
leaf stitch word 