No More Explosions, Please

After a summer of blockbuster movies attended, for the most part, with teenaged boys, it was a not unwelcome change to find myself among a sedate, older crowd (we were by far the youngest patrons in the theater) at the local multiplex. The film? Midnight in Paris by Woody Allen, and friends? It did not disappoint.

Jitters

My nephew, who lives in Atlanta, started kindergarten today. For us northern folk, who reported to our classrooms nearly to the end of June, it seems a little early; school for our students is still four weeks away, but it's close enough for us to be mindful that the beginning of the year is a transition, and starting at a new school can be especially rough.

I was lucky enough to teach both of my older nephews when they were in sixth grade-- having them in my classroom made me much more empathetic to the students' experiences, and I'm a much better teacher because of that. My heart clenched a bit today when I heard that Richard cried a little on his first day of school. Even though the teacher in me recognizes that it's perfectly normal for some kids to feel anxious and emotional in a new situation, especially one as important as school, I was still sorry that any child, especially one I really really love, had to feel that way, and so I resolved to make this year the smoothest transition ever from elementary to middle school for the kids who are coming my way in just a few short weeks.

Read All About It

It's Sunday, and I spent my morning in a traditional way-- drinking coffee and reading the paper. Early on in the morning, I read the most compelling piece, certainly of the day, but probably of the last six months. In his New York Times op/ed piece, Drew Westen, an Emory University professor of psychology, dissects what he sees as the primary weakness of the Obama presidency so far, starting with inauguration day. It's a fascinating read that rang a lot of bells for me personally.

I like his analysis of the importance of story-telling in the human experience (although I anticipate objections of readers who will complain that he is arguing that our leaders must treat us as children who cannot comprehend facts and thus must be fed parables), and I also appreciate his take on how bullies behave. His "bending the arc of history" metaphor, borrowed from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., was right on, as was his point that "After a great technological revolution or a major economic transition, as when America changed from a nation of farmers to an urban industrial one, there is often a period of great concentration of wealth, and with it, a concentration of power in the wealthy." In times such as those, Teddy Roosevelt worked to bust the monopolies, and Franklin Roosevelt set in motion the great society.

To emphasize the relevance of these historic cycles, Westen reminds us that in the US today, 400 people control more of the wealth than 150 million of their fellow Americans.

Now that's some story.

Momento Mori

"It was kind of gruesome, with all the skeletons and stuff..." I was telling my mom about one of the exhibits I saw the other day on my big museum trip.

"I would think that was right up your alley," she replied, and I shrugged, but because she couldn't see me do that through the phone line, I elaborated:

"Well, there were a lot of skeletons! Even a baby and a fetus..." I trailed off, and she agreed that such things might be difficult to see.

Our conversation moved on, but I'm still thinking about that part of it. She's right, not so long ago I was fascinated by forensic science. I was one of the legion who lined Patricia Cornwell's deep pockets, anxiously awaiting the next Scarpetta novel. One of my Christmas presents in 1990 was a workshop at the Smithsonian on forensic anthropology. Back in those days, nothing was too gorey or gross for me.

Twenty years on, my tolerance for such things has definitely diminished. I suspected as much (it started with the movies-- there were just some violent scenes that I found disturbing), but I noticed it for sure a few weeks ago when Josh and I were watching a NatGeo Explorer episode about the severed feet that keep washing up in Seattle and Vancouver. As riveting as it was, the graphic footage of the Body Farm, the time-elapsed shots of an underwater pig carcass, and even scientists shopping Home Depot for the perfect amputation tool and then testing it out on a cadaver all caused me to flinch a little.

Why?

Sad Sack

How come we never hear about the happy sacks?

I've mentioned how enamored I am of those little nylon drawstring bags. Ever since I turned my Spiderman one over to Richard, I have been on the hunt for another. It's not that they are hard to come by, but rather that I really wanted a "good" one, so even though it had been over a month, I still didn't have one yesterday when I went downtown to visit a couple of museums. (I know, I know, when I first saw the middle school kids with them, I thought they were silly, but if you haven't tried one, you'll have to take my word as a convert about how handy they are.)

I think the reason I like them so much is because I really do not like carrying a purse. The sensory issues involved with holding it, wearing it, watching out for it, etc. are too much for me. Nor do I like carrying anything in my hands. That leaves my pockets, and even pared down, my essential possessions, ID, debit card, 2 keys, money,and phone, that's a lot of stuff to cram in the pockets of my shorts. The beauty of the string bag is that all of that can go in there, and then the bag itself floats, nearly weightlessly, from your shoulders. Or it would have, if I happened to own one.

Luckily for me, at our first stop, my friend Mary accurately predicted that the museum gift shop might sell them. In no time, I was sporting a slick little purple bag with a cool caption, CREATIVITY TAKES COURAGE, by Matisse, and boy oh boy, I was a happy tourist after that. Until...

At the next museum we visited, I cheerfully presented my bag to the guard for inspection. "I don't need to see that," he told me, "but all bags must be worn in front of your body or held in your hand to the side."

My first reaction is almost always compliance, and since the bag was already in my hand, I let it drop to my side, and entered the gallery. I did slip it on frontways as we made our way to the exhibit we had come to see, but that just felt funny and looked silly. With a sigh, I carried my bag, until I was out of sight of any guards and then I slung it on my back defiantly. I did not want to be scolded by any museum personnel, but I did not understand the reasoning behind the rule, and so I was not motivated to follow it.

Eventually, another guard called me out for wearing the bag, and I dragged it along beside me the rest of the way through the museum, supremely disgruntled, the whole triumph of its acquisition nearly ruined. Fortunately, at our next stop, bags were allowed to be worn as they were intended, and being the owner of a cool purple nylon string bag became a good thing again.

As I chafed under the draconian bag rules of the other museum, though, my thoughts naturally turned to the students in our school. So often it is when they don't understand or buy into the rationale behind our rules and policies that they do not honor them.

I get that.

Don't Forget to Write

I've been checking in with the summer blog I set up for any students who were interested in continuing to write once school was out. Participation has definitely dwindled, but I'm not disappointed; there is still a handful of kids who blog regularly-- in fact just a few minutes ago I was commenting back and forth with a kid in Okinawa, where they are eating breakfast and weathering a major typhoon, and another kid in Bolivia, where they are enjoying a mild winter day in the tropics. I also wrote to another kid who is lucky enough to be on vacation in Paris.

It's easy to take technology for granted, but that's pretty cool, right? To me, it's nearly miraculous, especially considering that when I was in middle school, my family moved to Saudi Arabia, and staying in touch with my friends meant mailing a letter, knowing it would take at least 10 days to get there and then waiting another couple of weeks for a reply.

Screen Time

There's a restaurant near my home that is, shall we say, a little leftist in its leanings. They have a very progressive bookstore on the premises and they sponsor quite liberal lectures, readings, etc. Not surprisingly, the decor is pretty hip, and in one section, they run a continuous slide show with interesting illustrations that sport provocative captions.

If you're me, eating there and facing the screen, the slides, although undeniably cool at first, can become a borderline detraction from your dining experience-- especially the ones that are a little disturbing or have too much text to read before they switch. It's probably because I am obsessively drawn to the screen; I can't ignore it, and so I read the messages over and over.

I've recognized that screen time has become a bit of an issue with me lately, so much so, that I have begun deliberately limiting my exposure to the computer, iPad, and iPhone. Just today, I realized that movies have to be included, too.

TV is not as big a problem for me-- I must have overdosed long ago, and like a drinker who stays away from gin, I know my limits for television. There is family legend about me craning over the railing of my crib toward the TV, and as soon as I could read, I memorized the weekly TV Guide. (Of course, back then, it was just three networks and UHF.)

But all of that aside, there is much of value to be gleaned from the constant bombardment of images and text that we both choose and are subjected to. In the slideshow, for example there was one caption I found compelling every time: I just want to hear one person say that it wouldn't be the same without me.

It's not what you might think... I don't need to hear those words; I think I need to learn to say them.