Don't Forget to Floss

We were invited to a birthday party for one of our neighbor's three-year-old daughter today. The party was at the home of a friend of theirs from church, "Grandma Lois," and the guests seemed to be a mixture of friends, neighbors, church friends, and preschool friends. It was an amiable group who gathered in the backyard, but as in most cases, the sub-groups sort of stuck to themselves. At one point, the birthday girl, in an impressive show of social skills, made her way through the guests with her mom.

The five of us 30- or 40-something women who made up the neighbor group found our attention drawn to a conversation with a couple of people from the church group. It seems that the assistant pastor was telling the Sunday school kids that every time they brushed their teeth they should say a little prayer-- why not kill two birds with one stone? Clean teeth, clean soul, right? The neighbor to my left raised her hand to her mouth, exhaled sharply, sniffed, and grimaced. "Damn!" she muttered. "It's the devil again." She met my eye and shook her head. "That's what he does, you know. He sneaks up on you like tartar."

Staycation

I sat on my stoop this evening grilling a couple of steaks for our dinner. How quiet it was for a Saturday night. None of the neighbors were around; no cars drove by. My unit is at the far end of the complex, and there is a small copse of woods just across the parking lot. Sometimes it offers the illusion of a much less populated residence. I looked up through the crab apple boughs that shade my front porch at the much taller trees in the woods and then beyond them to the sky. A chickadee buzzed twice in the branches over my head and then flew away fast, like he was late for dinner.

I'm a little out of sorts the last couple of days, because my annual summer trip to Maine ain't gonna happen. There are a number of reasons, but they're not really important. As I sat there tonight, I was focused on my dissatisfaction. I considered and rejected the logistics of an improbable October trip Down East to see it in its fall glory. I sighed and imagined myself on the back porch of the house we usually rent, looking out over the Eastern Narrows to Sargent Mountain in the distance. A breeze stirred in the trees and brought me back to this place, my home. I flipped the steaks and took a sip of wine. I adjusted my position on the top step, and realized my bum was a little sore from the eighteen mile bike ride we took this afternoon. August continues to astound us with its lovely weather; today was 83 with very low humidity. The evening, too, was perfectly pleasant... Truly? It wanted for nothing but my appreciation, and so I vowed to oblige.

Slow News Day

For the second time this summer, I had a showdown with a toaster, and this time, the toaster beat me. My problem has to do with thin slices of toast slipping down under the slot, but not far enough to come out with the crumb tray. What is one supposed to do in such a situation? Toaster tongs are ineffective in removing the errant slice, as is a fork or a knife. Trying to pull it back up is like hitting reverse once you're in the rental car return lot-- damage will occur, and you'll never make it out anyway.

The first time, I ended up literally shredding the piece of toast with a steak knife until the pieces were finally small enough to shake out the top or to slide out the bottom. They and several years worth of crumbs from the toaster at the beach rental house scattered all over the kitchen one morning during our vacation. That was a treat to clean up. This morning, it was my own toaster that turned on me: a little piece of toasted rosemary bread twisted just wrong when it popped up and then slid irretrievably into the nether regions of the toaster, where it remains despite my best efforts, a victim of poor design. I demand a rematch.

How 'bout it toaster? Best two out of three?

No Adult Left Behind

I had a meeting at school today. Two and a half weeks out from our report day, this was just me, the other sixth grade team leader, and our director of guidance. At 11 AM, there were probably 4 other people working full time in all the building, and that summer ghost town vibe was still going strong. We decided to sit at a table in the library, and it took a few minutes to actually locate a few chairs to pull up to one of the tables. With only half of the lights turned on and a dozen or more overhead projectors staring at us from in between the stacks like so many cyclops, it still felt good to look decisively forward to next year. Kids names, test scores, and placements felt real and immediate. Information about the master schedule, pre-service week and colleagues? All very relevant.

Our conversation wandered a bit, as summer talks have the luxury of doing, and we touched a little on the challenges of building a cohesive staff with a common vision from 85 disparate individuals and the subsequent impact such attempts have on overall morale. It has long been my opinion that, as educators, we must expect no more and no less of the adults we try to reach than we do of our own students. It is hypocrisy to criticize teachers for giving up on hard-to-engage students, when we dismiss them as burnouts in the next breath. "High expectations for all" is a credo that might best be extended to colleagues as well as kids, and don't even get me started on parents.

Crisis Identified

I finally finished my piece of the adolescent development project. Yay. After all is said and done, I'm more pleased than displeased with my work, but that could just be a loss of perspective. One unexpected outcome of this project is that it is forcing our central office to at least consider sexual minority students. As I compiled my research on identity formation, it was my job to look at the impact that ethnicity, race and gender had on identity, but sexuality was an issue as well.

I sensed a little surprise and a little pushback when I got the first feedback on the draft of my powerpoint. In the last three years, our school system has committed to "courageous conversations" about "cultural competency," primarily in order to address the achievement gap. Sexual minorty is usually a neglected component of these conversations.

I teach in a middle school, and many people feel that kids who are only 11-14 years old are too young to be concerned about, much less engaged in any conversations about, sexuality. But the truth is, at that age, most kids who are gay, know it, and refusing to talk about it only reinforces their feeling of isolation. Unlike other minorities, gay kids don't usually come from gay families, and often they are afraid that not only will their families not understand and/or support them, but may even reject them because they're gay. Their peers use "gay" as a derogatory term, and in a time when fitting in is vital, their feelings about being gay are nothing they want to share with their friends. In many cases, gay middle school kids have no support at all during this crucial developmental period.

I think our school system should acknowledge that and do something about it.

Cat Walk

There is a guy in my neighborhood who walks his cat. I'm not sure why this is so odd to me, but it is. The cat doesn't have a leash or anything; he just skulks along behind her like the secret service or something as she sniffs her way through the parking lot. Honestly? It could be the Hawaiian shirt and flip flops that he wears well into December, but more likely it is the suspicious look he gives me when I step out my own front door with my... gasp... dog! (Hey-- she's gotta go out sometimes. I'm sorry-- I didn't expect you and your cat to be hanging out on my stoop.) That look is nothing compared to the alarm and downright horror on his face should I drive my car through the complex at cat-walkin time. Buddy! Relax-- I see your cat.

Listen, I'm all for keeping your pets safe. I would never allow my dog to roam about unleashed, and after witnessing a beloved cat of mine struck by a car, I will never have an outdoor cat again. I believe that the needs of a cat can be met indoors with love and proper attention. It's too dangerous for them outside-- no matter the setting. One of my best friend's cats was killed by coyotes on their property in Maine. Maybe that's why the catwalker bugs me so much. Dude-- you can't keep her safe outside, and I don't want to share your anxiety.

Is That You?

We went over to the National Portrait Gallery today. I'm beginning to love these hot August days in D.C.-- nobody's around, so not only did we get a parking spot right in front, but we had the whole third floor to ourselves, just us and the 20th Century Americans. I've decided that I like a good bust. (Minds out of the gutter, people-- I mean a marble or bronze head.) In fact, if anyone should ever choose to immortalize my visage for any reason, I want it to be a bust. (That sounds kind of amusing, too. Ha ha. Let's just get it all out... Bust, bust! bust, bust. Ready to continue? OK.) Here's why: my features will be, by definition, chiseled, and my hair? Why, my hair will look great! Marble and bronze hair always looks fabulous. For that hair, I could put up with those creepy blank eyes. So make it a bust, friends, unless I live to be over 80, and then I'd like a nude portrait like Alice Neel's. (I especially love the toes on her right foot.)