If I Had it to Do Over...

If I could sit myself down in late July 2016, I would have listened to my very legitimate worries about how to say goodbye, what to pack, and what to do about money. After just listening to all that, December Me would have told July Me the following important information:

1. When it comes to packing, remember, people live there. They either know how to do it or are surviving without doing it. (This apparently does not apply to shoes. Bring ALL your shoes.)

2. Bring a journal from before you left. You were a person quite different then, but still a whole, dignified person. It's good to remember those days when you understood the world around you.

It's also good to see the holes and questions you had before the move. Moving has brought new pain, but it has answered some of your questions, deepened your dreams, changed your life.

3. You don't have to go everywhere and experience everything right away. Reading books is still an acceptable pastime, no matter the continent.

4. You're going to write again. And you're going to love it.

Language Study

My goal for language-learning is a wide-angle kind of goal: I want to feel more at home when I'm in a French-speaking country. I want to be able to ride in a taxi, order food, ask questions, reason with answers. Oh, I want to be able to do everything, but in French. And I just can't be perfect in a second language for a long time.

All the same, class is going well. We use lots of visual cue cards and toys to recreate the language-rich environment of a playing child. I take that very seriously, as you might expect.

Learning is magical

"I forget my passwords."

"I'm just happy to be here."

I don't remember any of the words for any of these images. But, "Oui."

It's just so easy to be misunderstood when you have this card as your chest.

Care Packages

Out of the blue, an old friend of the family offered to send me some soap she makes out of goat's milk.

I said I'd love some, but that it can be expensive to send things across the ocean. She said she didn't care what it cost, it must be nice receiving things from the US.

I have re-read her message so many times, actually getting goosebumps from how special it made me feel for someone to say, "I don't care what it costs." Someone who owes me nothing, she just wants to bless me; and she doesn't care what it costs.

Thanks to those who have sent care packages, and spent time writing to me, or chatting with me. I miss you.

How to Get Over a Crush (And Lose Your Soul)

1. Fixate on the bad instead of the good.

• Think about one word to apply to this person, the worst thing you know about them, and repeat it to yourself like a mantra when you start to slip. Any trait that is negative will do: awkward, judgmental, poorly-dressed, oblivious.
• Think about the annoying things they do. 
• Think about the worst time(s) you've had together. 
• Go so far as to think about your crush's undesirable family members: who needs them around? 

The danger in all of this is that you begin to play tug-of-war with your thoughts, because this person is objectively good, probably; and thinking on bad times together might tempt you to think of the good times; and there's the chance that the crush's family is actually really nice. Don't let your sense of justice interfere: are you here to be just, or to get over the crush? Okay, then, because, when the truth fails you...

2. Make stuff up.

Create a false memory, and think about it until it's real in your mind. Let yourself completely believe that your once-hopeful significant other is a terrible jerk who would kick puppies and mislead the elderly. Let it rankle inside you and fester until the mere thought of the other evokes a sour taste on your tongue, and you despise the mention of their name.

"But, I don't understand. Why can't I just feel nothing?" you ask. 

You poor, sad little baby. You have to feel something. You're in kind-of love with this person. They've gotten to you. They've touched your heart—they can't untouch it. If I could feel anything except rage right now, I'd say sorry, it's a tough break. You don't get to choose indifference at this point: only to love or to hate. I'm telling you, if you don't want to love them, better get started on growing that hatred. It works. I'm not saying you'll be okay. But it works.

"But what if I don't want to lose my soul?" you ask.

I might be able to help you, if certain criteria are met: you and the other person are:

• alive
• eligible
• within conversational possibility

This route is the hardest of all, because it takes the most work, the most courage...

here it is:

the secret that shouldn't be a secret:

You can get to know the person.

Just act like you're... you. Don't be exciting; be a person. Take an interest in the other, and see what happens. I'm telling you: it's the worst. You're definitely going to overthink it. Find your zen place, and stick it out. Don't be too careful to avoid deep subjects, either. Just let those happen, too.

Here we come to the worst part: you have no idea what will happen to you. There are a few obvious options, like you could realize you don't really get along with that person; or you could make a genuine friend. But a million other possibilities await you, too.

The difference between having an actual relationship with a person versus having a crush is that one involves the other person. Relationships are risky, but rewarding. Having a crush avoids both risk and reward.

Christmas in Casa

At my co-workers' house, GWA's expats gathered to eat, sing, and play. 

These ornaments say "Morocco" by trying very hard.

New rug, green tea, Shakespeare, sunlight

This is my friend's dog. He chilled with me only long enough to snap this. Busy guy.

Victories

In our first weeks here, my roommate and I talked about our small victories. We were doing things every day that we had never done, or typical things that we hadn't thought about doing for years, but that were suddenly complicated by language and other barriers. We started writing these victories on a calendar, and posted it on the fridge. Here are my highlights from September to present:

9/26: taxied from school

9/27: zumba!

9/28: good hair

9/29: three good lesson plans

9/30: in bed before 10 PM

10/1: enjoyed a late-night party

10/2: 30-minute run

10/3: four hours of schoolwork on a day off

10/5: stayed in line at the butcher

10/6: small group

10/9: judged debate at CAS

10/10: paid electric bill

10/13: French class

10/17: rode on a dromedary

10/18: haggled

10/19: did nothing

10/22: hour-long talk with Mom

10/24: didn't take myself too seriously

10/26: first tutoring session success

10/29: bought a watch

10/30: [watch doesn't work]

10/31: exchanged money

11/1: took taxis from school, to the bank, back to school

11/6: called off work and wrote sub plans between throwing up

11/9: mostly didn't fight on Facebook

11/13: got involved at church

11/15: didn't mention the election to anyone

11/16: 41 parent-teacher conferences

11/18: bought a rug

11/19: successful baking!

11/20: read and prepared to teach Macbeth

11/21: subbed during a prep period and didn't get bitter

11/24: went to Ain Sebaa in the rain

11/25: six hours of Gilmore Girls

11/30: enjoyed the students

12/2: gave four lunch detentions

12/3: won Dutch Blitz

When I Love You

Don't worry, Little Heart. I love you even in the dark.

I love you in the light of day,
safely tucked into the crowd.
I love you in the summer's shade,
when breezes run along the ground.

I love you as the clouds grow big,
brooding and alive with rain.
I love you when the results are rigged,
contempt's cup full, its dregs you drain.

I love you when you're sick and sleeping,
or when you're numb from grief's hard blow.
I love you when you're lost, and it's raining,
surrounded by country not your own.

I love you when you don't remember home.

I love you when the electric's dead,
the bulbs are blown,
the house is cold.

I love you while the stiff wind blows,
when you feel useless and alone:
when you watch too much TV, and make bad decisions about what to eat, and hate yourself for it all day long, dreading the hard work that hangs over your head.

I love you, Little, Feeble Heart.
I love you even in the dark.

Implications

The vision of my workplace is to educate the upper class of Morocco, so that they can make wise choices to bolster Morocco to do good things. The idea is to raise up thinkers and problem-solvers in our entrepreneurial, pluralistic, accepting system, that makes room for genuine interaction with teachers and students.

What good things do Moroccans hope for their country? Well, the place could use better hospitals, and more of them. And if that, then it needs more money and more doctors and nurses. Making a stronger economy is going to take some creative ideas, collaboration, planning, ...literacy. American education can offer those tools.

I thought I was helping. I thought that by being an American teacher, just what they asked for, and fostering relationships with people of another culture, religion, history, this would be spreading the love of God. But right now, I'm afraid all they'll see is that I'm an American. I am an American.

Will my students shut me out because of what my country seems to think of Muslims?

Will their American education be useful to them, after all? Will American universities admit them? Will America give them a student's visa? And if they get into the country, will they be violated because of their skin color or their religion?

I'm asking because for the past week, they've been asking me. And I've come home and cried, planned, graded. I promise I'm being brave and circumspect. I'm not bad-mouthing our president-elect in public; I am only decrying his suggestion to stop Muslims from entering the country, and to keep a tab on all Muslims within the country. That's oppression. I stand against that. I stand beside Muslims, and anyone else who is being oppressed. (Did he miss singling out any minority? Well, today I'm talking about Muslims, who aren't asking for pity, I know, but I don't want them to ever have to.)

Here are some of the things I hope, in regard to international relations:

• I hope my students' very good dreams can still happen. 
• I hope Morocco and other Muslim countries won't give way to fear in the same way my country has, and start lashing out at me, an outsider of a different skin color and religion, whose country appears to hate them. 
• But if they do lash out at me, I hope the US doesn't get madder at them. Because they have plenty of grounds for saying we started it.

People First

1. People here are patient with me. Most people try to understand when I speak English, though they absolutely do not understand when I mispronounce French, which is absolutely every time I try to speak French.

2. People in cafes can stay in cafes for as long as they please, drinking only one tiny cup of coffee if they like. No one is shooing you away. No one is asking you for your seat.

3. People walk across the road, sometimes dangerously, and though I'm sure they do get hit, vehicles slow down (almost unreasonably, in my mind) to avoid hitting pedestrians.

4. People driving vehicles tend to use their horns to alert drivers in the right lane that they are passing them in the left. And while we're on the road, if you find that you need to make a right turn, but find that you are three lanes far away, ne t'inquiète pas: merge on over there, nice and steady-like. People will find a way around you.

5. People walking along the street fearlessly approach each other from opposite directions, neither indicating which way they'll move in order to avoid collision. And you find yourselves miraculously passing each other, barely touching elbows.

6. People who are accepting your payment may try to cheat you. If you catch them at it, smile and reclaim the money instead of yelling and getting heartsore. They were just moving into the space they saw, filling in the cracks.

All this to say, things are... negotiable. People are pliable. People are first. People people people.

Conversation Tips

Example #1
Stacey: What's your middle name?
Carolyn: Grey.
Stacey: I have gray sheets.

1. Nice job! You found something you have in common.

----

Example #2
Carolyn: I feel like a cat who needs to be kept in the bathroom for a while.
Stacey: ...

2. This is tricky. You've just said something that your conversational partner will find alarming because it's unusual. First, assume nothing. Don't assume the person is joking just because the thing sounds unfathomable. A smile and an understanding nod go a long way for those in-between moments.

----

Example #3
Carolyn: *&%$!!!
Stacey: Maybe hold back on the cursing until the call to prayer is over.

3. It's okay to be angry. Before spouting off curse words, look around for reasons why cursing might be a bad idea. The reason they're called curse words is because they're not appropriate for most situations, during the call to prayer and in front of a mosque, for instance, would be a bad time to talk about something potentially frustrating.

----

Example #4
Carolyn: Murder really annoys me. 

4. Remember, when you're annoyed, try to imagine if someone else in the situation might be more annoyed than you are.

----

Example #5
Carolyn: I think we're lost.
Stacey: We're not lost, we're just not there, yet!

5. Good work! See how a positive attitude can redirect your anxious thoughts? Keep going!

Riddle Me This...

How do you teach about the separation of church and state without recommending it? I have a certain affinity for it, as a matter of fact.

It becomes necessary to talk about the interference of the church and state when teaching about the Middle Ages. I was an inch away from going off on my usual rant regarding the separation of church and state when I realized... I am living in a Muslim country.

That is to say, this is not a Muslim country in the same way I'm from a "Christian" country, but in a way that has laws that dictate religious observances.

So I stopped abruptly, mid-lecture, and said we'd pick up there tomorrow. Right now it's 8:38 PM, and I'm planning tomorrow. It occurs to me that I spend each school day creating new riddles for myself to work out in the evening.

God, what will you do with cities?

Leave the dirt.
In it grows
our only hope
to live again.

Pavements crack.
Buildings fall.
Rain and wind
shall do their work.

Have no fear
of all we build;
even evil
will have its day—

invasive weed
soon stripped away—
trees shall grow in its place.

---

I walk through this brown city, and think how lovely it could be if only we would leave it alone to grow some green. If only we would leave the dirt to build up on the sidewalks, filling up crevices: little greens would shoot up, and slowly tear the asphalt apart. In a few years, the city would be unidentifiable, and we would have a real place to live. 

Forgive me. I know I can't have it both ways. It's just, we seem to ruin all we touch; instead of guiding and stewarding the earth, we try to conquer it, as if we hate it instead of loving it. 

All cities do not have to be "a paralysis" a la James Joyce. Moroccan designers, builders, craftspeople, rich people, green-loving humans with souls who haven't known peace: BUILD US A PARK IN CASABLANCA.

Teaching New Books

When you're starting new units, especially new books, you sometimes have to give history lessons to provide context for the story.

Both seventh and ninth grade are starting new books next week. So this week was even more academically strenuous than your typical five days, because I had to use my non-strength of teaching history in order to get us off the ground. Not only that, but the books we're reading require extra-special attention to not being a jackass: the Israel-Palestine conflict for seventh grade's book, Habibi; and slavery and racism in the United States for ninth grade's book, To Kill a Mockingbird.

I got home by 5:15 pm, and slept until 7:15 pm.

And now I'm off to bed at 9:35 pm, because tomorrow is another day with lists and classes.

Tomorrow is also Moroccan dress day, and I'll be sporting a piece given to me today by an extraordinarily kind student.

Update:

I'm on the left, roommate Stacey on the right.

Such a Relief

I wish I enjoyed the intensity of a difficult moment, but I don't. The moment after the tension, that's what I like, when we can have peace again.

1. As soon as D period is over, and my ninth graders are about to leave the room, I celebrate that I've gone through my three different classes, and all that's left of the teaching day is a double reprise of seventh grade. It is such a relief.

2. As soon as I finish the allotted studying I have given myself for the night, and I remember that I need to eat and sleep, it is such a relief.

3. Every time President Bartlet entered a room in the show The West Wing, the lights were already on. And when he left it, they remained burning. In season two, an episode ends with him leaving the oval office at the end of the night. An aid comes into the oval office, and extinguishes each light. It is such a relief.

To the Injured Men Walking Down Yacoub Mansour on Sunday Morning

I left to catch the tram for church at 8 am on Sunday morning. Just before crossing Yacoub Mansour, the busy street nearby, here is what I saw:

One man, then another passing a few meters in front of me, walking up Yacoub toward Ghandi (the next perpendicular main road). These two young men were carrying a heaviness that held my attention. They were solemn, silent, sub-Saharan. Just behind them limped another such man with no shoes, holding a blanket around himself, tattered cape for an exile. But where was he going with no shoes?

I crossed Yacoub, and noticed that in front of these three men walked a long, flimsy line of young men with a similar, slow plod. I followed them with my eyes, and couldn't see the beginning of their sad train: maybe 50, maybe 70 men. And then I began to notice their bandages and dried blood. At least every other person walking had sustained visible injuries. But where were they going, so many?

I was walking faster than they on the other side of the street, and saw several men with no shoes; some carrying blankets, one carrying another man, but most carrying nothing. Not even a bag. Their clothes were in tatters. They looked like they had escaped a battle with only their lives. But where were they going, with nothing?

The men in the cafes I was passing were craning to get a better look. Shopkeepers were standing on their stoops, men cleaning the street were standing with mouths open, brooms suspended in air. I saw two police cars driving slowly, keeping an eye on the strange march. I didn't stop to ask. I don't remember seeing another woman in the whole of the walk, and it feels inappropriate to approach men.

I called a friend who might know what was going on, but she said the situation I described was extremely strange in some ways, and then, rather common in other ways. Sub-Saharan Africans are treated very poorly in this country. I will probably never read why or how these men were wounded on Sunday morning, or was it Saturday evening? And they walked kilometer after kilometer to find a safe place to lie down? Maybe the whole way past Casablanca, to another place? Where will you go?

To those men,

I tried to think of how I might help, and could think of nothing in the moment. But I did see you. I don't think it's worth hardly anything at all. But you are not invisible to me. Where did you go?

Eid al-Adha

This week we had a five-day vacation, including the weekend, to celebrate Eid al-Adha. The holiday celebrates when Abraham was spared killing his son because God stayed his hand and provided a ram instead. People celebrate the holiday by buying and killing a sheep for a big feast with family and guests.

A city full of sheep for a week, all making their sounds and smells, and suddenly, Monday afternoon, things get very quiet. (I have heard people refer to it as the silence of the lambs, but I don’t know if they were joking.) After the slaughter, the streets are littered with sheep remains, next to dumpsters or smoldering in small fires. I walked past a few burning sheep heads, and accidentally kicked a smoking ram’s horn. You know how in the middle of the night, you go downstairs for something, and step on a Lego brick? Well, this was way weirder than that. Bad comparison.

This story of Abraham and Ishmael (Abraham and Isaac in Judeo-Christian tradition) is not an atonement story in Islam. Like most of my life right now, I don't understand. I don't understand how atonement doesn't enter into it. [What I think I understand is that] Islam says the story is about Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice even that which was precious to him*, and how we all should be willing to give what Allah asks, like the sheep gives its own life to God.

To me, the story of Abraham and his son is largely about foreshadowing the coming of Jesus’ sacrifice, the sacrifice of the lamb and Son, who would take away the sins of the world. I got to be reminded of that with every bleating of sheep from over the wall.

*Islam is no closer than Christianity to condoning, let alone promoting child sacrifice, so we agree on that big time.

Touchstone

There was a moment last week when I looked around and could not believe how beautiful were the people in my classroom. They were their best selves, and it was stunning. I thought, "This is love."

It was not naiveté; it was one reality. They are lovely and loveable.

I will see them in far worse times, and they'll see me there, too. In fact, I already have. They're capable of being rather unpleasant. But I will keep coming back to that moment, because they are also full of wonder, affection, and so many many more days.

Brain Imploding in 5, 4, 3, ...

For the last two and a half weeks, I've been learning about all the systems that make up both life in Morocco and work at the Academy. We, the new recruits, have sat in on sessions explaining vision for the school, and the personal vision of the administration. We've eaten a lot of food together, and formed those unique, tentative bonds that result from shared fear. I think it's time for a list of things I've had to learn in the past three weeks:

how to get a taxi
how to navigate this city at all
my address
how to tell a taxi to get to my address
how to order food at a restaurant
and pay for it
and pay for anything, without overpaying or insulting anyone
how to lock doors, wash clothes, dry clothes, close windows, repel roaches and mosquitoes, sleep through the morning call to prayer,
how to say a few words in Darija and in French,
how to buy and use a VPN,
how to video call (don't use your phone, do use a VPN),
how to clean a floor... oh, everything.

And then there are the school systems for which we've had sessions, but you just have to figure them out at some point:

the school's grading scale and grading software,
attendance policies and online tracking,
purchase orders,
TimeOffManager,
helpdesk,
disciplinary referrals,
curriculum mapping,
Google Classroom,
and the school's email system.
It's gmail, so no change for me... except... have I mentioned that four or five of these systems need their own PASSWORDS?

... and now, to do all of this on a Mac. Nothing makes me feel less competent than having to Google every time I need to know a shortcut on a Mac. How do I open a new tab? Save a bookmark? Command key!

My students know so much more about the world they live in than I do right now. I'll offer them what I have, ask for what I need, and go to sleep now.

Time Isn't Money

You can't pay time back.
It's over.
But you can give it as a gift.

No one can take it from you.
Not really.
You have all of it,
whether you want it or not.
To try to forget
is sorrow untold.

Maybe time is a river.
Flowing forward,
moving molecule-lives along.

Maybe time is a suitcase.
Try to fit everything in.
Then you check the bag,
the airline loses it,
and you forget what you packed.

"You're Still Young"

"You're still young. You have plenty of time."

It's a disconcerting thing to hear at the end of a conversation where you've been talking about being single versus being married.

Plenty of time for what? To bear children? To find love and marry? To grow up? Please don't tell me I'm a kid. Even if you think it's true, I'm not having it. Biologically, I'm well into my adulthood, and anthropologically, I'm already elderly.

It doesn't feel like there's plenty of time. Minutes slip by, and some things are no longer an option. There's not plenty of time to become a ballet dancer. That ship had sailed, and I'm literally too old for it.

I'm living my life, and glad I've made the choices I have. My life has been about a lot of things: fear and understanding, estrangement and belonging. There's a list that could go on.

It's clear that my life has not been about getting married and having children. Maybe it will be someday, and maybe not. But I don't see it as my endgame, that's all. I still need love and family, and I'm so serious about this when I say I have found my eternal love, and I have an eternal family. It's Jesus Christ, and his church. 

More Steps In Each Process

Nothing is ever simple. I want to be clear about this, and make no mistake: I don't resent the long processes I've had to go through for things I have heretofore taken for granted. I'm just noticing, that's all. I'm noticing the many many steps it takes when you have to do it for the first time in a new place. Cooking vegetables, washing clothes, putting up curtains. Each a strange and separate victory.

I wanted to eat some vegetables, so Stacey and I found the market. I wrongfully accused the vendor of not returning enough change; we bought the vegetables and left. Walked home, chopped vegetables. Got out a pan. The stove didn't work. So we learned how to turn on the gas for the stove, and how to light the pilot light. This was a complicated process, since the pilot light wasn't in its usual place for me, and I don't know anything about stoves to begin with. I was able to accomplish my goal of eating cooked vegetables, it just took all evening, a few tools, and a few risks.

Next, I wanted to wash clothes. I examined the washer, and thought I figured out the settings. But the water still had to be turned on manually. When it did start, it took three hours. I guess I chose the you'll-be-elderly-when-this-is-over setting.

My room has been in desperate need of curtains. One day this week, I found a store with some possibilities, but I realized I had to measure the windows first. Today I went to Ikea with some other teachers, and bought curtains that are somewhat too long, I found. But the real problem was how to put them up. The ceiling is eight feet high, and the rod is at the top. What's more, in order to put curtains directly on the rod, presumably one has to remove the fixture from the wall. Nope. I solved that problem by employing shower curtain rings. 

I solved the height problem by moving the coffee table to my bedroom, placing a chair on the coffee table (all sturdier than it sounds), realizing I didn't have enough shower curtain rings, going to two stores for shower curtain rings, coming home and finishing the job, then eating leftover cooked vegetables. One feat at a time, please.

Market

Stacey and I went out today to explore our neighborhood. It was a multi-dimensional trip, filled with optimism. We wanted to learn the neighborhood, buy an outrageously long list that included a doormat and a particular type of water filter, and to end the trip with smoothies. All of this sounded feasible in our minds.

We found the shops, and entered one with lots of shampoo in the window. Many men were rushing in and out. Inside, to the right were shampoos of all sorts, and to the left, wine of all sorts. Maybe liquor, too? We got caught up in a tide of leaving men, and saw no more. Shampoo is stupid, anyway, and we didn't need it that badly.

Next, a hardware store, in the front of which were stacked plastic containers of all shapes and sizes. Atop one pile snoozed a black and white cat that Stacey told me we could not have.

Then to the market where they sell vegetables, meat, olives, and fresh and dried fruit. Olives have appeared rather often in the last 24 hours, and I'm pleased with that. I admit to feeling rather daunted by the market stands, because they were soon to close, and we had their full attention. I find that annoying in places where I do speak the language. It was here that I realized I didn't even remember French numbers. We left for a supermarket where we could see the numbers, and maybe overpay, but at least avoid the staring.

On our way home, we remembered our desire for smoothies: It's hot, and smoothies are good! And look, there seems to be a place that sells beer... but probably other things, like maybe smoothies?

Here is where we found out that we didn't know the French word for smoothie, and we didn't have our phones with us to translate it. So we got beers, and they served us olives and peanuts, and one Moroccan bought us a second round. I'll leave it to you to Google what "smoothie" is in French. And I'll leave it to you to surmise whether we got a little lost on our way home.

Oh, never mind: it's "smoothie," and yes.

That's a Wrap

The experience of leaving began this February. I remember, because I told myself over and over that it wasn't time yet; it wasn't time to grieve; it wasn't time to prepare or pack; it wasn't even time to say I was leaving to anyone else. But I knew. February is six months away from August, and six months is a quarter of the time I've committed to this new endeavor. That's so ridiculous! I should not spend a quarter of my time in Morocco preparing to leave for here again!

Two weeks from now will find me in a very different setting from today, and I've made it no secret—I'm sad to say goodbye. I was listening to radio guest Norman Lear on "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me" a few days ago, and he said that his 94 years have equipped him to give the following advice, and I'll paraphrase it: 

Just two words, "over" and "next." When something's over, you gotta leave it. It's over. What's next? And if you could also imagine a hammock in between the two words, you've got it just about right. 

So many things are over. Where is that damn hammock? 

Reasons Why I'm Going

To learn to teach.

To live near the desert

To live near the ocean.

To escape the crush of scheduling, for which I take full responsibility.

To ask God how to stop being so angry.

To produce nothing, be known for nothing, be right about nothing, defend nothing.

To confront my loneliness, and befriend it.

To be out of the country during the 2016 presidential election.

To know Muslims.

... and there are many more reasons, some I haven't even allowed myself to think of. It seems to me that no one lives without an agenda. I just want to have a good one.

Your Good Gifts. You're Good Gifts.

Sometimes gifts come at exactly the right time, and make the deepest impression. I usually don't choose the right gifts to bring to parties, and sometimes I give up. I can think of two weddings where I just FORGOT to bring a gift. But I don't want to do without gifts. I need them, and so do you. In celebration of gifts, here's a list of some of the most important ones I've received.

I listened to the Pocahontas soundtrack, and discovered that I loved to sing. Who thought that would be a good gift? An aunt and uncle I haven't seen in 20 years.

I take up this notebook, and realize it, too, was a gift to me. I am so grateful for it. Blank sheets for my pulsing heart to glide along; blue lines to bring its rhythm true. Slow alignment.

An argyle t-shirt dress I wore with tights for two years. I had very few growth spurts. And as ugly as the garment sounds, I can assure you it was totally in style mid-nineties.

A down comforter I slept on before I even reached home.

My current cell phone.

Yesterday's pancakes.

A pair of heart-shaped earrings.

Spontaneously plugging my tire, filling it with air, and telling me it would be alright.

A plastic to-go mug filled with hot coffee when I left your house for a long drive home. I still use that mug.

After moving into the apartment, with far less help that I needed (read, just my mom - her moving help was one of those gifts that you can never repay), the two of you bounded up the stairs with smoothies for my mom and me.

When we were in Vegas over my birthday, you gave me a card with a cat on the front. I'm bound to say no more in public, but I still laugh when I see it on my dresser.

You gave me your bed when you moved out, and it is far superior to my old one.

You, grandma, trusted me with a responsibility recently. It was so small, setting up something decorative. I could have forgotten about it. I have only since realized that you entrusted me with a piece of your happiness.

You took me seriously when I sounded crazy, more than once, and became indignant for my sake.

You gave me some headbands I use all the time.

You trusted me with a secret. I have kept it.

You gave me frankincense, my favorite scent in all the world. Always available to me now.

This list... it's killing me. It's hard to tell where it ends. It doesn't end. I meant to focus this on the material gifts you've given me, friends, acquaintances, strangers! But I cannot separate them from the immaterial that have been so dear to me. Thank you.

8 minutes 30 seconds

I'm listening to a song worth writing to.

I've listened to this song so many times. I just today saw a video of the band playing it. They are such as I, mere mortals. Though the only decipherable thing we have in common besides our humanity is the fact that we occasionally can be found wearing t-shirts.

If you listen to "The Only Moment We Were Alone," you'll see that everything that happens before 8 minutes 30 seconds is good. You get lost thinking about everyone you've ever met, even imagining that high school and your worst fights had meaning. Yeah, it's a good song until 8 minutes 30 seconds.

Then, at 8 minutes 30 seconds, you realize you've been waiting for this. This is the purpose of the song. When the rifts swell into a wall, a roar, wave after wave of built tension finally breaking on land from on high. The absence of vocals makes me believe the tidal wave crashed on an uninhabited shore. Yet I am there.

I wonder if I'll be 80 when I hit my 8 minutes 30 seconds.

Who Teaches Us Not to Cry?

When we were at Grandma and Grandpa's house, there was to be no crying.  I was a highly sensitive child (now I am a highly sensitive adult), and cried when I felt insecure or angry, which was much of the time.

When I was four or five, we went on a family vacation together to the beach: my mom, brother, grandparents. We stayed in their camper. For reasons I don't remember, I was crying one night. Grandma towered over me and said in an almost-growl, "Now stop crying!"

You, reader, understand how, as a human, this approach is bound to backfire, and instead of quieting and assuring the child's soul, it will only ruffle it further. My mother was wisely unwilling to get in the way of my grandmother. Later, though, I asked my mother what had happened. Why had my grandmother told me not to cry when I was feeling upset? And why had she, my mom, not rescued me?

My mom's response was a brief history: my grandmother had told her own children all their lives not to cry. This had wounded my mother, who is also quite sensitive, but she had learned to bear the pain more quietly, or at least not in the presence of my grandmother. From my grandmother, I later learned that her mother had always told her own children not to cry. "And she never said, 'I love you,' your Great Grandmother Mae," explained Mom, "You just had to know it." And so my grandmother had also lived her life, not saying, "I love you." You just had to know it somehow.

-----

I visited my grandmother today. A few minutes into our visit, I said, "I have news to tell you." Her face lightened. I know she was expecting me to tell her that I had found a wonderful boyfriend, that I thought he was the one, and that we'd be getting married in six months, would she be free on October the 10th to play "Here Comes the Bride"?

Instead, I told her the actual news, "I'm going back into teaching this year. I'm moving to Morocco at the end of this July, and I'm staying there for two years."

She stared for just a moment, her face fallen, "I could just cry right now."

But she didn't cry right then.

We talked about Morocco for a little while. Then we spent all afternoon avoiding the subjects of the heart. She is often somewhat belligerent about my opinions and annoyed when I make jokes. And it was all completely worse because I knew she was despondent over my pending departure in July, though she didn't say so. It wears on a person not to speak out their fears and hopes. I felt totally spent when 2 o'clock came.

I began to gather my things, make my way to the door. She hugged me, and with tears in her eyes she held me close to her, "I know you have to go [to Morocco], and I won't stand in your way. But I love you."

-----

When we're born, our very first thing to do is to cry. It means we're alive.

Serial for Breakfast

I sometimes ask friends if they are fans of the "Serial" podcast. It's a risk, let me tell you, because I usually end up saying it like this, "Do you listen to 'Serial'?" And of course, if they don't know the show, they're hearing, "Do you listen to cereal?" So far no one has inadvertently confessed to listening to the breakfast food, but to the uninitiated conversation partner, it can make for a tense 30 seconds in which I try to explain that, no, in fact, I understand that breakfast cereal doesn't talk. You know?

If you know, then...

Can I just talk a little about my perception of Bowe Bergdahl right now?

He breaks my heart. He's the trapped idealist. He wants to protect people. And the military had (has?) this idea of counter insurgency that can sometimes come close to peacemaking. And how great would it be if we were making peace? So great! But what could possibly go wrong is that if you're using soldiers as peacemakers, the soldiers aren't being soldiers, and they may resent you for it. The soldiers are ill-trained and ill-suited to the job of humanitarian. They are trained to follow orders, not be adaptable. They are trained to kill a person, not to smile politely on the street, not to hand out watercolors to children. Mixed messages.

So, I'm listening to Bergdahl pose intense questions that eventually move him to action. (Arguably the dumbest action, desertion, but whatever.) At one point, he asks how a person could lead a platoon when he appeared to be more concerned about the army's equipment than the lives of his soldiers. Bergdahl was shocked that a soldier's life was not prioritized over equipment. (It's a calculation... it costs between half a million and $1 million to get a soldier to Afghanistan. It costs roughly that to buy a counter-IED vehicle.)

He is trying to learn the language and customs of the people, trying to win them over in small ways, as a thinking person might who is attempting to be counter-insurgent the way he understands it, which comes off as someone trying to be creatively likable.

I'm just thinking about how this guy trained with the wrong people. Join the Peace Corps, dude. Better yet, stop trying to find the ones to blame and kill; leave that to those in your platoon who could. You, Bergdahl, you become a creative peacemaker. You learn history, territory, hierarchy of the new place, and explain their fears to us, explain our fears to them. Help nations decide on a best course of action. Even after listening to the last episode on this, I wonder what he'll become.

Groundhog Mother

Groundhog mother
I'm sorry about your baby
I'm ashamed and sorry
You fled at the sound of the engine;
I remember my relief.
But your baby was stuck in a crevice above the wheel well.

Minutes later, a thud under my tire, and a baby animal
striping a parking space and dying.

I'm so sorry.

I think it is best that you remain afraid of me and all my kind.
We - I - won't slow down. I'm not even sure I could, now, if I wished to.

You are a soft-bellied earth citizen - I am a war machine.
I will tell you your son died doing his service.
But I know it is because I would only make myself bigger, better, bigger, better, endlessly marching on.

You will do well to stay simple,
digging holes, not speaking the language of death - knowing by heart the language of suffering.
I am the war machine.

Best Texts of the Week, January 2016

Week of January 29
K.L.: Pizza and beer and movies?

Week of January 22
Me: Good morning, mom! Thanks for getting me vaccinated. :)
Mom: You are welcome.

Week of January 15
A.S.: Ok, ladies today's goal is fewer tears and less sadness. We won't say no tears and no sadness because that's unrealistic. Just fewer and less. Deal?

Week of January 8
B.R.: Ok, on my way with 2 pieces of leftover shoo fly.

Week of January 1
Jacob: Random question: Where in Lancaster is a great place to get tacos? I feel like this is a thing you'd have an opinion on.

Dear Keats

You say touch has a memory.
How to exorcise it?
You think on a good many things.
Sit and think. Sit and think.
How, do tell me, do I move on on on
On on on
And still think myself capable of loving ever?

Love was not a game to me,
Or was it? Of course not, my mouth tells me:
nothing tastes sweet.
Only the bitter things draw me,
and people not at all.

Beer, and shoveling this unbelievable mass of
snow that has graciously transported me
from my home planet to one resembling Hoth.
And all its beasts are in my head
as I shovel on on on on on
the pile topples.

I miss you, dear. And the idea of you, and
your hand on my back, your shoulders
such a sweet place to rest my head.
Your slow kiss on top of my hair, the
kind of kiss reserved for babies,
whose heads need kissing, you know.