Thrift

I spent a bit of my Saturday combing the racks and shelves at the local big box thrift store. (Is that an oxymoron?) It was kind of fun, but the experience of treasure-hunting through other people's castoffs is also a little conflicting.

I am economically fortunate enough that I thrift-shop for entertainment and also in the spirit of upcycling. The landfills depicted in the Pixar movie Wall-E are among the most haunting of images I've ever seen, and the sheer volume of usable items on the curbsides I pass on trash days turns my stomach. Where's that stuff going to go? Even the long lines and the mountainous jumble of donations at our local Goodwill makes me queasy. When did so many things become disposable?

It seems like there is no bright line between consumption and over-consumption. Heck! we even watch hoarders on TV as entertainment. The days when one man's trash was another man's treasure are quickly disappearing in the rearview.

Except at the thrift shop.

Some of the customers are searching for a genuine treasure at a rock-bottom price. Some are looking to add a bargain buy to their already full closets and drawers. Some are there because it is a greener form of acquisition. Some are there because it's fun and hip.

But many others are shopping there because it is all they can afford. 

Slurp it Up

Friday night dilemma:

Should I cook those pig's feet tonight or tomorrow?

Perhaps I should explain my recent ramen research project: I want to make a decent tonkotsu broth from scratch,

because,

um,

well,

it would be awesome and delicious!

For me? Cooking is a little like [I imagine] mountain climbing. Most of the fun is in the challenge. But the reward is in the view,

or on the plate,

or in the bowl.

Navigation

We are still new to the whole Uber thing, but when a friend invited us downtown for dinner this evening, it seemed that with three of us and parking to consider, that form of transportation was *literally* the way to go. And so when we were ready to head out I fired up my app, and after a few frowns and swipes announced that Muhammed was on his way.

In nine minutes a pristine silver Rav4 pulled up, and Heidi and Susan hopped in the back leaving me to take shotgun. "Do you mind the music?" the driver asked once we were settled. We did not, and soon my fingers were drumming along to the exotic syncopation as we rolled through the neighborhood and toward the city.

It's always a little awkward, if you ask me, to ride right next to your chauffeur in total silence, but I'm not really the type to chat up a total stranger, either, so I stared out the window and tried to identify the language of the lyrics. Finally my curiosity got the best of me. "What country is this music from?" I asked.

"What country do you think it's from?" Muhammed replied.

I laughed at the unexpected turn in our young conversation. "Um..." I hesitated, considering the man and the music. "Afghanistan?"

"No," he said, "but it borders Afghanistan."

"Pakistan?" I guessed next, because I thought that might be where he was from, but the music didn't seem quite right. For one thing, several of the songs were duets with both male and female singers.

"Nope," he said.

"That borders, Afghanistan, right? I'm trying to picture the map," I told him.

He waited patiently.

"Can I get any help?" I said over my shoulder to Heidi and Susan.

"You asked," Susan shrugged. "Sorry."

"Iran?" I said.

"That borders Afghanistan," he agreed, "but no."

I scrunched my face up, embarrassed by my lack of knowledge of that region.

"It does start with an I, though," he gave me a hint.

I listened to the music, it seemed familiar in a complex fusion-y kind of way. "India!" I snapped my fingers.

Muhammed grinned widely. "You did know!" he said, "Very good!"

"Are you a geography teacher by day?" I asked him, "Because if not, you should consider it!"

Solidarity

When at first the prospect of a woman's strike on March 8, International Women's Day, was raised in our 9-teacher team meeting, the only man among us gasped in what we treated as mock alarm. We all laughed because we knew how impossible it would be for him to manage 105 kids all on his own. In the following weeks, I participated in several discussions with colleagues about the call for a day without women.

"But isn't teaching one of the few professions where men and women have equal pay?" asked a fellow teacher. "Even though it is predominately women?" she added.

"Maybe that is why teacher pay is lower compared to other professionals with the same education and licensing credentials," someone else suggested. "Administrators make more," and those jobs are mostly held by men.

"I just wouldn't want to see the kids suffer if there was a strike," another person said.

"But as teachers," I answered, "we are constantly being pressured by that message. Stop complaining and do x or y for the good of the students. Such statements presuppose that we don't care about the welfare of our kids. Maybe it would be good for them to consider the contributions of the women in their lives."

In the end, despite the fact that two nearby school systems closed in response to the call, ours did not, and rather than stay at home, I put on some red, went to school, and refused to spend a penny, as did the majority of my colleagues. Our students demonstrated a mix of levels of awareness, although we had a rare 100% attendance on our team. Some were clueless, some had heard of it, and some wore red in solidarity.

Then there was the kid who interrupted me as I was explaining the day's objective. "Hey!" she said indignantly, "I thought you weren't allowed to teach us today!"

Spellbound

Kids always seem to be excited about writing fiction, and my sixth grade students this year are no exception. They haven't bristled in the least at the mandatory plot chart, conflict type, and character development lessons that compose the prewriting stage of the unit.

In fact, their sheer enthusiasm for studying models, evaluating scenarios, and analyzing characters proves a lesson I have learned many times: 

Engagement is the phoenix feather at the core of the magic wand of education.

If only there were some spell...

Arrestio! 

Encaptivato!

or Abra Relisha!

perhaps, 

that might conjure up that heightened state of interest every day.

Why, school would be a different place indeed!

Defying Expectations

As I've mentioned, my students are also participating in a Slice of Life writing challenge this month. Six days in, I set aside a little time in class today to give them a pep talk, and to encourage (okay, force) those who have not yet started their daily writing to jump on board immediately for at least the 10 days that are required.

"What if I write about how mean my English teacher is?" glowered one student dramatically.

"I would love it!" I told him. "I tell my writing friends all the time how much I love it when other people write about me. It's like I'm the star of tiny play."

Well, he didn't write about me, but a few other kids humored me. And why not? It made an easy topic. Here's one of my favorites:

Since Ms. S. loves it, I guess I will write about her. The first impression she made for me in the beginning of the year was that she had some spunk in her. The way she talked is liked she owned this place. Which she technically did because it is her room. She also seemed like that she been through so many things in her life that anyone could come to her for some wise memes or something like that. All in all I didn't expect her to be so talkative. I thought English teachers are supposed to be boring and quiet.

The Bookbinder

In his later years, my grandfather made his living as a legal bookbinder. Based in Maryland, where my grandmother held a steady job at the Pentagon, he traveled up and down the east coast repairing the libraries of his clients. As a child, I had no conception of what he did; I was always just happy to see him on those nights when our house in New Jersey was a way station for him.

Even now, I don't really know what the job actually entailed. I picture him at a highly polished table in a room lined with dark wooden bookshelves, a stack of broken and tattered books before him. Did he use tape? A needle and thread? How about a bone folder? Were there ever volumes that were too worn too repair? How often did he return to a particular client?

I think of him every time a student brings a damaged trade book, notebook, or binder to my desk. Assessing the extent of the injury, I grab one of the many rolls of duct or packing tape I always seem to have on hand, and mend the volume as best I can.

Although the books are hardly as good as new, in general, the kids are amazed by my deft repairs, and they walk away satisfied customers, which pleases me, too.