The Quick Giving Heart of a Kid

 I have a crush on someone.  Don’t worry, Nels knows. 

This is not my first. That was back in the mid-90’s, when we went to see a then-unknown blues musician named Keb’ Mo’.  Keb was onstage at Second Story, a somewhat small, somewhat dirty, and seemingly unheated venue above the only gay bar in southern Indiana.  He was by himself, on a stool with a battered acoustic guitar, jaunty hat, and smile as wide as the Atlantic Ocean.  Not an ounce of pretension, just telling stories and singing the blues as if they were actually happy songs.  I may have had a couple of beers when I turned to Nels and said, “Honey, I’m leaving you for Keb’ Mo’.”  And he said back to me, “No, hon, I’m leaving YOU for Keb’ Mo’.”   

Fast forward 15 years later to my new crush, Taylor Goldsmith.  I first heard him in the band Middle Brother, which is made up of three guys from different bands:  Taylor is in Dawes, Matt Vasquez is in Delta Spirit, and the local connection is John McCauley of Deer Tick, which is based in Providence.  I fell in love with their CD, and then fell a little more in love when we saw them on a sticky-hot day at the Newport Folk Festival in August.  Seeing these three guys having a blast on stage, with the crowd singing along, gave me goose bumps in the 90 degree heat.  Their sense of fun, musicianship, and songwriting made me want to invite them over to drink beers all night on the deck. 

Seeing Middle Brother live was the impetus for ordering the Dawes CD, which I’ve been listening to ever since.  It’s my album of the year, with Middle Brother a close second.  Some songs sound like Fleetwood Mac, some bring to mind Jackson Browne, and still others remind me of Warren Zevon.  This guy, this KID, Taylor, writes exceptional lyrics full of melancholy, longing, and the tension between helplessness and anger.  I’m a sucker for a good line, and every single song is chock full of ‘em.  He articulates emotions of loss, pain, and loneliness in concrete and visual ways.  Here’s one example from “If I Wanted Someone”:

If I wanted someone to clean me up I’d

Find myself a maid

If I wanted someone to spend my money

I wouldn’t need to get paid

If I wanted someone to understand me

I’d have so much more to say

I want you to make the days move easy

http://youtu.be/qZJWeFU9gA4

Now that’s a love song that isn’t treacle-y or overdone.  He doesn’t want someone to fix him, he wants somebody to just be there. 

He has other words of wisdom that really resonate as I struggle between what I have to do and what I want to do. These are from “Coming Back to a Man”:

You’re still caught somewhere between

The plans and the dreams

So that neither end up turning out right

http://youtu.be/mKgTBId6pF0

   But the very best song is the last one, “A Little Bit of Everything.” Here, he weaves two disparate stories together:  one is a guy who is about to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, and the second is about a young woman planning her wedding.  Taylor brings their experiences together with this final verse:

All these psychics and these doctors

They’re all right and they’re all wrong

It’s like trying to make out every word

When they should simply hum along

It’s not some message written in the dark

Or some truth that no one’s ever seen

It’s a little bit of everything

http://youtu.be/pcaJsUNA_ww

As Nels said, “I’m not a poetry dude, but that dude writes poetry.”  

Yes, indeed. 

The Lousy Competitor

Competition brings out the worst in me.  One of my earliest memories is screaming and crying after my dad beat me at Candyland.  I may have thrown the board across the room in a thwarted four year old rage.  It was MY game, and therefore I should win, was my reasoning.

 Later, I learned craftiness.  After my dad and my brother would beat me in Connect Four, I would steal their methods and use them on my unsuspecting friends.  This carried over to the badminton court, when my brother would send the birdie flying at my face at what seemed 100 mph, and my only  choice was to get hit or duck.  I tried that on my friends too, and it was no wonder they chose not to play with me anymore. 

Due to lack of athletic ability and a preference for books over people, I never played on any teams growing up.   Thus, I never learned that it was possible to win graciously, lose gracefully, and remain friends with your competitors.  Now when I watch elite athletes lose track and field events by hundredths of a second and then hug the winner, I’m in awe on two levels.  First, if I lost anything by less than a second, I would be very upset with myself.   Second, I would not be hugging the sweaty winner.  I’d be saying, “Give me that gold medal, sister, or I’ll rip it off your neck.”

That’s an exaggeration of course.  My mother would never allow that kind of behavior.  And my running career is not exactly about winning anything, much less by seconds.  No, instead my husband, who is a terrific cheerleader, urges me on with “You’ll finish in the top half of the race!” and “You’ll be in the top third of your age group!” 

Naturally, I want to get faster, and I have over the years.  I have cut 20 minutes off my half-marathon time and 8 minutes off my 5K pace (another nugget from my partner, “Your top speed is very close to your bottom speed”).  Now, though, as I rack up the miles in anticipation of our second marathon in October, I’m faced with only two choices to get faster:  I can run more miles or I can eat less.  In theory, I would like to run more miles, but I already run between 40-50 a week, and that takes up a significant amount of time.  The losing weight part is even less attractive.  While the experts say that for every pound lost, a runner gains two seconds per mile, it just doesn’t seem worth it.  I like to eat with frequency and gusto, which is partly why I started running in the first place. 

So, on the eve of my fifth half-marathon, let us hope that I PR (set a personal record).  If not, it’s possible that I might cry and throw things. 

I Ain't No Musician

I’m not a musician, but I’ve lived with them all my life.   My mother, a church choir director and piano teacher, exposed me to hymns, spirituals, and various kinds of classical music.  My sister, an opera singer who teaches singing at Indiana-Purdue Fort Wayne, taught me to appreciate musical theatre (sorry, sis, never got the opera).  My brother, a drummer, exposed me to the Doobie Brothers and Jackson Browne.  Various boyfriends led me to a diverse range of music ranging from Motley Crue to Led Zeppelin.  No wonder those relationships didn’t work out.  My husband, a trombonist and singer, introduced me to the Grateful Dead, Jimmy Buffett, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, along with countless others in the singer-songwriter category. 

Aside from a one-year experiment with the viola in middle school (can you imagine middle school orchestra concerts?), I have never been a musician.  But I was a deejay in clubs when I was 18.  Back in the 80’s, you had to be 21 to get into bars in Indiana, but if you were a performer, you could be 18.  Being a deejay taught me to find themes and patterns in music and put them together.  Keeping people on the dance floor was the sign of success.  On a personal level, I always reached beyond the dance hits to the songs that told stories or had some wisdom to offer.  I’m a sucker for a good line.

Music has the power to help us name experiences, speak back to injustice, and unite. On the tenth anniversary of Sept. 11, 2001, I look back on some of the music that offered—and still provides-- connection, understanding, and healing.

Jackson Browne’s rendition of Little Steven’s “I Am a Patriot” is an anthem about refusing to be categorized (I ain’t no Democrat/I sure ain’t no Republican) and yet feel a sense of pride and belonging to the United States.   http://youtu.be/saYvWAVmT_s

There is no doubt that New York suffered the largest loss—not just on a human scale, but on an identity scale.  Those two iconic, seemingly permanent buildings represented so much of the swagger of that city.  To have them vanish in the space of an hour created a gap that will never be filled.

Bruce Springsteen’s “The Rising” is a triumphant homage to the American spirit, writ large. It’s a perfect adrenalin rush that addresses the need to do something:  http://youtu.be/eNnB4dkVRJI

On the other end of the spectrum, you have Loudon Wainwright III’s quiet song, “No Sure Way.”  He was on the subway when the attacks began, and tells the story of that eerie experience.  As the train went under the WTC, he writes: The lights were on/it somehow seemed obscene. http://youtu.be/q3EIVKnyLCQ

And then you have those who use their songwriting and harmonies to describe what it felt like afterward:  a fear that things will never get better, and a profound hope and sincere belief that yes, they indeed will.  The Eagles’ “Hole in the World” asks us to not let the hole get bigger and deeper, but to heal the wound by understanding the bigger picture: Anger/is just love disappointed. http://youtu.be/haNpuHZam40

And then you have Girlyman’s “Amaze Me” which asks us to appreciate all the beautiful parts of where we have the privilege to live: http://youtu.be/UdXAXJ21AIY

When I think about how these songs still have the power to enrich my understanding of what happened on Sept. 11, 2001, I wonder if music can also heal us in this extended dark period when people are losing what they own, not to mention a sense of identity and belonging—that they have an important place in this world.  There is no giant catastrophe, no one event where we can all share the same sorrow and subsequent unity.  But the songs above demonstrate that we know how to heal, we know how to connect, and we know how to make sense of experience.  You do not have to be a musician to appreciate all the different ways music serves us. 

Preparation Metaphors

Preparing for a new year of teaching reminds me of painting.  There is a ton of prep work before you get to dip your roller into the paint and smooth it onto the wall, watching the character of the place change, knowing that this is something you will make your own.  Teaching and painting can be divided into three parts:  pre-preparation, which is all about the gathering of resources and wits; preparation, which involves concrete moves to get ready, and then the act itself: when everything comes together.  Or not.

Pre-preparation for teaching

-In the spring, I observe student teachers’ strengths, weaknesses, and levels of preparation, and take mental notes about what needs to be added to practicum.  It all seems so obvious with the clarity of hindsight.

-I submit a list of teachers to the OPP for practicum.  I email the department heads, they talk to their faculty, and then I submit a list of high school and middle school teachers, knowing that this will change in the fall.   

-I start to keep notes about what books I want to keep or discard, read other possible articles to include, attempt to learn new technologies (this year I have been exposed to Prezi, TRWorkbench, Capzles, and wikibooks, to name a few), and add ideas based on conversations with colleagues, teachers, and students as well as from attending conferences and visiting professional websites.  I order books and cringe at how much I’m asking my candidates to spend.

Pre-preparation for painting

-First I talk to anybody who will listen (friends, neighbors, the mailman) about how much I hate the existing color in the master bedroom (lavender paint with flowered wallpaper, if you must ask).  I obsess about color, considering the light (not much), the bathroom color (apple-green), and the shape of the room (slanted ceiling on one side).  I buy a comforter and decided to match the color to that, but the comforter is mainly green and I’m pretty sure it violates all kinds of laws to have a green bathroom and a green bedroom in close proximity. 

-I finally decide on colors (dark yellow and lighter yellow with white trim for the chair rail) and then choose carpet to match.  I thought it would be simple.  Give me a Berber whose color will conceal cat hairball stains.  However, it is far more complicated. There are many colors and qualities to Berber, and then I found out it’s the pad that matters, not the carpet.  So I went with a brownish shag in honor of my 70’s childhood.   

Preparation for Teaching

-I write the syllabus and make agonizing decisions about what to keep and what to cut.  I move the fieldwork schedule around testing.  Then I realize I don’t have a classroom.  So I exchange emails with Dennis McGovern, who is none too happy about this. 

-I create a survey in Survey Monkey (http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/D8QCMYB) and also provide an optional personality test (http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp).  This will help me make suitable placements, not turn into Godzilla when someone is absent (perhaps she has a health or family issue), and maybe, just maybe, someone will take the personality test and realize they are not cut out for teaching English before April (this happened last year. Not kidding). 

-Then Irene visits.  Not only do I lose two days of teaching, I also realize, after I sent the syllabus to my candidates, that I had us going to school on Labor Day.  I condense three days of teaching into two.

Preparation for Painting

-In my house, I am the Wallpaper Remover.  I attempt to take down the wallpaper by rubbing some fabric softener on it and scraping away.  However, someone must have used Gorilla Glue to apply this paper, and thus I make little headway.  Luckily, I am able to borrow a wallpaper steamer, which makes the work slightly faster, but also very sweaty.  I track wallpaper strips all over the house.  I do love the satisfying feeling of big sheets of paper coming off, kind of like peeling your own sunburned skin. 

-And then it becomes clear why people put up wallpaper in the first place.  There are holes, nicks, and bumps in the walls.  At least the walls were finished, which was not the case with the bathrooms.  And that is why there is still one bathroom with wallpaper in this house.  I have yet to summon the courage to take down wallpaper again.

Teaching

-Once class begins, I relax.  I realize the students are just as anxious as I am, and on the first day we enjoy muffins from LaSalle Bakery (something I do every year to lull them into thinking that maybe this year won’t be so hard after all—insert evil laugh here).  We start building our community, and I realize that oh yeah, I really do know and like my job. 

Painting

-I watch the large swoops of the roller, as well as the painstaking edging process along corners, chair rails, and doors.  Just like in teaching, there are places of expansion and sloppy joy, and also places of precision and detail.  And then, after awhile, I grow comfortable in this new place, just like I grow comfortable with my new students.  The choices have been made.  There is no going back.  This is where we are.