Cemetery Wisdom

While I am not particularly comfortable with the dying, I get along okay with the dead.  I grew up across the street from Covington Memorial Gardens (“Gardens” being a nice euphemism, kind of like “passed away” for died), and spent my childhood climbing on monuments, kissing statues, visiting geese at the pond, and running the mile loop of cracked pavement.  Once, I was sure I saw a guy wearing monk’s robes in the adjacent woods where the cement vaults were stored.

It seems I can’t stay away from burial grounds, as we now live within a mile of two cemeteries.  Within one block, right across from the high school, is St. Mary’s, where the graves are laid out in orderly fashion with mostly gray headstones, some considerably weathered, others shiny, grief newly etched in painstaking lettering.  Flags sprout up in the veterans’ section for Memorial Day and July 4^th.  There is a sense of order and dignity in the luscious green lawn and uniformly shaped markers. 

The second cemetery, Juniper Hill, is about half a mile down our street the other way.  There is a short drive to a wrought iron gate surrounded by a 19^th century stone wall.  The grounds feel, and are, historical.  Stately. But then you see that many of the gravestones are haphazardly strewn about, like boulders in a field.  Large tree roots from junipers and weeping birches compete with markers for space, wood shifting stone. 

When we first moved to Bristol, I was appalled at the condition of the gravestones, many of which were listing sideways, sinking into marshy ground, or crumbling.  Some stone caskets are above ground, and curiosity warred with fear as I investigated inch-wide cracks across the top.  No rotting wood or powdery remains revealed themselves.  I am not sure whether I was more disappointed or relieved.    

This weekend, though, as I walked through the burial ground, alone except for the teenage couple in skinny jeans and punk hair (his was red, hers was green), I appreciated the symmetry of the place.  Instead of graves laid out in solemn rows on flat land as if a farmer or accountant had arranged them, the place felt organic, and—irony aside--alive.  The dogwoods glowed with bright white flowers even on this cloudy April afternoon.  Bouquets of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinth cheered up some gravestones, and shoots of lilies and hostas promised new life for others. 

I came here to visit the magnolias and mourn the weeping birch who lost its best feature in the February blizzard—a long, well-muscled arm of a branch reaching horizontally across the ground.  The branch had been sliced into stacks of fireplace logs next to the caretaker’s home.  I once heard him say this was his favorite tree. 

I wandered among the graves, pausing at some of the inscriptions.  My favorite was for Susanne Robbins DeWolf, 1930-1983.  A sturdy stone bench had been erected in her honor, with the following words:

AN INQUIRING HEART

COURAGE TO WILL AND

SPIRIT TO LOVE

This seemed like the perfect place to pause.  The birds got louder as I got quieter, and the beauty of the place sank in as I contemplated the many souls around me.  The small graves with initials only, the impressive bench on which I sat, the large monuments dedicated to the important people of Bristol, including various Colts (related to Samuel Colt, who invented the Colt .45), DeWolfs (a seafaring family, some of whose wealth came from the triangle trade) and Bradfords (a Rhode Island governor  is in that lineage).  The beauty of this place, though, is not in the shape of the monuments or names and dates faded into stone, but in the allowing of nature and the dead to co-exist with a minimum of interference. 

Does this make Juniper Hill spooky?  Lonely?  Quiet?  Yes, yes, and yes.  But maybe death is a little spooky, lonely, and quiet, for the person being mourned and for the mourners.  I have become reconciled to what I originally saw as carelessness and disrespect for the dead here, the allowing of stone markers to melt into the earth.  Now I see the process of nature unfolding and cracking the human sense of permanence.  If we have what Susanne brought to the world, “an inquiring heart, courage to will, and spirit to love,” then we do not need even a fine stone bench to memorialize our lives and our passing.  It is enough to have lived. 

Heartbreak Hill

We had just arrived home after a glorious day watching the Boston Marathon when I received two texts from a friend who lives in Virginia.  At 3:17 p.m., she wrote, “CNN is saying stay away from garbage cans…” and then “Text or call when you can!”  At first I was going to reply with something cheeky like, “I rarely paw around in garbage” but then thought somebody may have stolen her phone number, similar to what has happened to other friends’ email accounts.  I went upstairs to send a message via Facebook, when Nels told me what he had just found out:  somebody had bombed the finish line, and they thought there might be more bombs stashed in garbage cans.

The initial shock that always comes with this kind of news—Columbine, Oklahoma City, 9/11, Newtown—was exacerbated by the pure exhilaration that came with having been there just a few hours before.  We stood in the cool spring late morning sun, surrounded by thousands of others bearing witness to the monumental effort it takes to complete 26.2 miles.  We all cheered the wheelchairs, the elites, and then the first waves of runners from the vantage point of Heartbreak Hill, a few miles from the finish.  We also cheered the military personnel walking in long lines in their desert fatigues with large backpacks, symbolizing the context of this race as part of Patriots’ Day, a celebration of “the shot heard ‘round the world” at the battles of Lexington and Concord, the scene of our country’s birth. 

There was a huge security presence: spotters on bicycles, riding along with the runners, looking into the crowd.  Police on motorcycles, moving along the edges of the course, keeping spectators out of the street so runners would have a clear path.  Riding immediately before the elite groups of women and men, there were black vans full of men holding large guns.  At the time, in the sunshine, with the bright colors of runners’ singlets and spectators’ spring jackets, it felt like overkill.  “Who would want to hurt runners?  Runners are harmless,” I said to my friends.

Now I get it.

The Boston Marathon, as my brother Joe put it, is a sacred event.  It is not only revered by runners, but is symbolic of the hard work and sacrifice that led to this country’s founding, commemorated by the race taking place on Patriots’ Day.  The beauty and strength of the individual human body, running, opens into the collective beauty and strength of the running community.  Nels pointed out that the finish line is a place where runners are at their most vulnerable—physically and emotionally spent, tired, hungry, thirsty, sweaty, looking for their loved ones, often with no key, no phone, and dependent on the kindness and organization of the race directors and volunteers.  Bombing the finish line of a marathon is a kick to someone who is down.  Bombing the finish line of the Boston Marathon is a gauntlet thrown down.

How can we, as individuals and collectively, work for a sense of peace and healing at this moment and beyond?  I was heartbroken yesterday, and still am, at the loss of life and the multitude of physical injuries.  I was angry, and still am, that now this race, and every large race, will have to redouble their already incredible efforts to secure the participants and the public. 

At the same time, though, let’s not allow our sadness and anger to overwhelm our awe at what was accomplished yesterday.  Let us applaud the efforts of the winners, Lelisa Desisa of Ethiopia, and Rita Jeptoo of Kenya, and their fine competitors, including our very own Shalane Flanagan, Kara Goucher, and Jason Hartmann, all of whom finished in the top ten. In addition, the 20+ thousand runners who trained for this event, putting in hours of running, deserve accolades.  The race organizers should also be recognized for putting together an enormous event attended by thousands.

Of course we want justice, but not at the expense of healing.  Healing comes from positive action.  Runners, wherever they are on the spectrum of recreational to hard-core, can keep the spirit of the Boston Marathon, and the sacrifices of the victims, through renewed dedication to the sport.  Non-runners can act with fierce determination in their chosen activities, physical or not.  Healing comes from the knowledge that we are constantly working to be our best selves, and understanding that others are doing the same.   Poet William Stafford offers these lines to carry us forward:

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world

Than the breathing respect that you carry

Wherever you go right now?

Wisdom and Violence: Strong Women on Television

When I was a kid, I would play Charlie’s Angels with my friends Kim and Tammi.  Kim was Sabrina (played by Kate Jackson on the show), Tammi was Jill (Farrah Fawcett Majors), and I was Kelly (Jaclyn Smith).   I’m not quite sure what we did to play these characters, besides shoot imaginary bad guys who invaded my backyard.  As a little girl who was first obsessed with strong female characters in literature like Jo March in Little Women and Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, perhaps I wanted mostly to be grown up, and thus have some power to change things for the good.  These women, to a greater or lesser degree, had adventures and took risks unimaginable to me in our quiet suburban neighborhood. 

While I discovered plenty of strong female characters who could kick some ass in literature and popular culture since then, they have always been either over-the-top or too perfect.  In the former category, we had Saving Grace (TNT), a short-lived series featuring a scarily skinny Holly Hunter, who played Grace Hanadarko, a police detective in Oklahoma City.  She drank, smoked, and had sex like the men, but was also in need of saving by Earl, an angel (yes, I know.  The kind sent by God).  So the woman needed redemption but not the men?  Hm.  Holly Hunter’s devil-may-care (pun intended) characterization was undermined by the lousy writing and erratic pacing. 

In the too-perfect category, there is The Good Wife (CBS).  Alicia Florrick, played by Julianna Margulies, is a top lawyer at a top law firm married to the state’s attorney.  Yes, she engages in some high jinks of her own, but even her colleagues at the firm call her “St. Alicia.”  No thanks.  Both Saving Grace and The Good Wife suffer from inconsistent writing and cheesy dialogue.  Grace was too obnoxious and Alicia too mannequin-like for me to want to identify with.  *Sigh.* Where are the fierce, compelling, and realistic (within the suspension of disbelief realm) women who, just by watching them, can make me feel as if I can channel their powerful, positive energy and no BS attitude?

Luckily, there are two recent characters who fulfill that longing.  First we have Carrie Mathison (played by Claire Danes) in Homeland (Showtime). She’s independent, perceptive, courageous, and while she works for the CIA, she also sees the flaws in the system.   What’s not to like?  Oh wait…there’s that bipolar thing that provides some trouble with impulsivity and obsessiveness.  However, Carrie’s flaws are also assets. That’s how she got the information that a POW had been turned.  Of course, it’s also why she subsequently slept with him.  It’s also what enabled her to go into an old mill by herself to confront a terrorist.  Of course, she almost got killed.  But Carrie’s physical and emotional fearlessness, along with her commitment to a cause, make her the most appealing female character I’ve seen on television or in movies in recent memory.

Another new show, also about spies, has a similar character.  The Americans (on FX) is set in 1981 at the height of the Cold War.  Philip and Elizabeth Jennings (Keri Russell) appear to be your typical suburban couple with two adorable but real kids. You’d never know that they are (drum roll, please) Soviet spies under deep cover.  As their backstory unfolds, we find out they were trained to take on these American identities, erasing all trace of their Russian backgrounds, not even sharing their original names with one another.  Their marriage is somewhat fictional, in that, at first, they are more like teammates than romantic partners.  Elizabeth and Philip don different disguises in order to elicit information from a diverse group of characters working for the U.S. government, either through sexual or violent means. 

Like Carrie in Homeland, Elizabeth is intelligent and resourceful, and can kick some serious ass.  However, she is distinctly different from Carrie in that she is deeply loyal to the Soviet Union, whereas Carrie questions her country’s methods and morality.  Carrie has her own perspective and is happy to violate CIA protocol if she sees fit; whereas Elizabeth shoots a guy in the head simply because she was ordered to, without questioning if this is an ethical thing to do.

Carrie and Elizabeth also demonstrate vulnerability, which makes them feel human, and thus easy to identify with.   Carrie falls for the wrong guy, and has to make the choice between him and her loyalty to her country.  Elizabeth eventually decides that she is ready to make her marriage to Philip more than just a cover.  It is both tension-building and gratifying to watch these two powerful women grapple with ethical choices in their roles as spies and as women. 

I hadn’t thought about what it meant to play games like Charlie’s Angels growing up; that is, to try on different identities.  Why would I want to try on Carrie or Elizabeth?  What’s their appeal to me now, and is it similar to the Jaclyn Smith character when I was nine?  Carrie and Elizabeth are thin and attractive, but that’s where the similarities end.  They are intense, make mistakes, and take risks for what they believe in.  Maybe that’s what appeals to me now: these characters may have doubt and fear, but they don’t let those feelings slow them down.    

Clothing Loathing: The (not so) Great Purge

You only need one pair of pants and one shirt for the week.

                                                            The Waynus (my dad)

When I was in my early teens, my mom and I would go school shopping every August.  We would spend the day at Glenbrook Mall starting at 10 a.m., stop for lunch at the food court overlooking the indoor ice rink, and then wind down, exhausted, by splitting one of those giant chocolate chip cookies at the Great American Cookie Company.   I dutifully modeled each outfit for my dad as he had a martini before supper.  As I ran up and down the stairs to change, Mom would say, “That was a great bargain!” Sometimes she would tell me not to bring out a particular item, saying, “Daddy doesn’t need to know about this one yet.”  We had our secrets, as Mom would carefully parse the line between what I wanted and how much she knew Dad wanted to spend on things as unimportant as school clothes.  When both your parents spend their formative years during the Depression, it’s pretty hard to convince them of the need for Calvin Klein jeans or Izod shirts, both of which were essential at Homestead High School.   

Unfortunately, neither my mom or I were sensitive to fashion trends, so it wasn’t until the first week of school that I would find out either a) every other girl had bought the same exact shirt I had, or b) bell bottoms had gone out of style without my noticing, both of which happened in seventh grade.  This was in contrast to a friend, Melissa, who had a seemingly endless supply of different-colored corduroys with matching sweaters.  She hardly ever wore the same clothes within two weeks, much less within one week.  

That year, a store that specialized in low prices for flawed designer items (a precursor to TJ Maxx and Marshalls) opened at Times Corner, the local shopping plaza.  Mom was in Germany with her church choir, but when I saw that the store had Calvin Kleins on sale, I knew I had to get there.  Somehow, I convinced my dad to take me and buy those jeans on a Sunday morning instead of going to church (I just knew they would be out of my size should we wait until afterward).  At last!  No more bell bottoms.  Unfortunately, some of my peers were quick to discern that I was wearing the same pair of jeans every single day and called my (and everyone else’s) attention to it.  When parents attempt to comfort you by saying nobody notices fashion faux pas but you, rest assured they know nothing about the scrutiny of teenage girls.       

The shame and humiliation of not having the right clothing, along with not having the right parents who understood this, has followed me.  I remember the first time I was able to wear a different pair of pants every day of the week.  I was like, “Take that, bitches.”  By then, though, it didn’t matter. 

My clothing and fashion woes continue.  I am truly my father’s daughter, in that I can’t find it in my heart to spend full-price on any clothing item, unless there’s a special occasion and I’m desperate.  The thing that gets me now, though, is the pace of the trends.  I can’t keep track of which color is in, and which season you can wear it.  I was also a little late with the longer hems on pants, and still haven’t figured out where my dresses and skirts are on the continuum between hussy and prude.  The rules changed once I hit my 40’s, but since I didn’t know what the rules were in the first place, I’m not sure how. 

All of this indecision—along with a loathing for trying on clothes--led to a glut of stuff that doesn’t fit right, look right, or is possibly out of fashion (not that I would know).  Thus, there are now five giant garbage bags full of said clothing destined for a spring garage sale.  This Great Purge, though, is apparently not great enough.  I still have two small closets and two dressers filled with clothes, most of which fit into three categories:  running, yoga, or school.  It would be easy to just stick with the basics—white t-shirts and khaki shorts for summer, black for school—but I haven’t given up on the fantasy that someday I will wake up and know what’s in fashion, what looks good on my particular frame, and what’s cool but appropriate for women in their 40’s.  I welcome any help, but if you’re like me, you might want to check out our garage sale in May.         

Identity Crisis or Ability Crisis?

There’s going to be a day when I wake up and I’ll pack up my shoes and I’ll be done…I don’t want to go and run a 21 minute 5K.

                                    Sheri Piers, 41 year old American elite runner

If you have run a 5K and you’re over the age of 30, or even if you’re not, you know that running 3.1 miles in 21 minutes, in which you would run each mile in less than seven minutes, is pretty great.  Depending on how big your local race is and who competes, it’s certainly possible, even likely, that you would win your age group, especially if you are a woman. 

I myself have barely scraped under 27 minutes, and that was just once, on a course that was probably short.  Now, I realize it’s completely unfair to compare myself to Sheri Piers, who was recently on the cover of Running Times (www.runningtimes.com), and the top American finisher at the Boston Marathon last year.   It’s like comparing most high school swimmers to Elizabeth Beisel or local softball players to the Boston Red Sox.  We are engaging in the same sport, but it’s at completely different levels.  That’s not my real objection to Piers’ comment.

Instead, I wonder at someone who would give up a thing that is a huge part of her identity and life—she runs between 90-130 miles a week and only takes a couple of days off a year—because she couldn’t run a certain time. 

In contrast, the next article in that issue of Running Times had exactly the opposite message.  David Alm writes about what he learned from training for a week before a half-marathon (13.1 miles) with some of the fastest runners in the world, mostly from Kenya and Ethiopia.  David knew he couldn’t keep up with them, but these runners didn’t treat him any differently.  The race was hot, hilly, and grueling, and everybody ran slower times than they were used to.  You’d expect elite athletes to be very disappointed—after all, these times are of public record and can have an impact on sponsorships. Instead, David writes, “But to them, none of that mattered.  Our times were numbers, nothing more.  And no one seemed disappointed—with themselves or with me.”  In contrast, when Piers had a bad race, she said, “I was so sad, and so mad.  I just felt like it was my last chance to do it.  Being in the shape of your life doesn’t happen all the time.” 

I wonder if Sheri’s all-or-nothing attitude, reflective of American ideals, is one reason why many students don’t feel valued in schools.  They know they are measured by their scores on tests.  As Ernest Morrell told 200+ English teachers today at Rhode Island College, kids know that education is valuable.  What they don’t know is how valuable they are.  Morrell argues that we don’t have an ability crisis; instead we have an identity crisis.  Motivation is the result of value (kids valuing what they are learning) plus expectancy (they believe they can succeed). 

It seems that Sheri Piers, who is not just a runner, but a parent, partner, and nurse practitioner, connects a certain 5K time to her self-worth.  While I admire her work ethic, stamina, and commitment, I hope that she won’t give up running just because she might lose a race to the likes of me. 

Unfortunately, this same kind of narrow measuring stick is at work in our schools.  I hope that students are given the message that standardized tests, and even course grades, unfold within a larger context; some of which they have control over, and some of which they do not.  Performance on those arbiters is not just about effort and ability—there is always a complexity of factors at work. 

And I hope teachers understand these same complexities.  Of course, we must always do our best to ensure our kids’ learning through motivation, engagement, and the teaching of necessary skills.  But we can’t lose sight of how, as the African runners suggest, we must value every runner’s [student’s] efforts, success, and potential.            

The Story Eunuch

Have you ever brainstormed a list of fantasy jobs, or simply fun ways to earn money?  Nels and I do this regularly, usually on the deck while listening to music and drinking beer.  We generate possible names for bands, pithy sayings for Magic Hat beer caps, themed music playlists, and so on.  

Unfortunately, there does not appear to be a market for this enterprise, despite the plethora of boring or downright offensive band names (Old 97’s=yawn, Popa Chubby=gross) or beer cap wisdom (Minds Awaken on Roads Less Taken=cool; A beer in hand is worth 2 in the Fridge=yawn).  My latest favorite potential band name is Meat Bat.  I saw it in directions for a recipe to whack chicken breasts to a particular size, but it could also mean a new variety of bat that eats frogs, for instance.  I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never earn a living from Meat Bat.  Damn the internet and its DIY-for free mentality.

Speaking of fantasy jobs, my friend Bryan from yoga teacher training has a great idea.  He theorizes that there are people who want to tell their stories to someone they can trust, knowing that these stories will not get judged or retold.  Bryan would simply listen, without question or expression, not imposing his experience or energy on the story, but just hearing what the person has to say without reacting to it.  When the person left, Bryan would promptly forget the story.  He named this job “The Story Eunuch” because it would be emotionally safe. 

As someone who longs to be heard, this didn’t make much sense to me at first.  I want reaction (with appreciation being especially welcome, thank you very much).   But then I realized that there are lots of stories I tell in my daily journal writing that never make it to a listener or reader.  This writing provides a safe place for making sense of raw experience.  Like the making of sausage, nobody else should be exposed to this process, lest they realize their darkest fears about me, i.e., that I am completely nuts.  For people who don’t use writing as this kind of outlet, however, having a non-reactive listener might be helpful.  It would be a cheaper form of therapy, plus the storyteller would know that Bryan isn’t concocting a way to fix her/him, or even to get her/him to fix her/himself.  

Maybe we all could use a Story Eunuch.  When is the last time you told a story and felt that you were heard without judgment, reactivity, or someone wanting to fix the problem for you?  Or worse, that they would remember that story and always associate it with you, when really, it was just how you felt at that particular moment?  Our stories seem to follow us around.  They gain purchase in the telling and retelling, until even we believe that they convey something more than they actually do.  Stories are powerful arbiters of meaning and identity, whether the meaning is accurate or the identity is truthful.  

Not to put Bryan out of future employment, but I wonder if we each can be our own personal Story Eunuch.  Can we listen to the private stories we tell only ourselves, and the public ones we share, with equanimity and compassion?  Can we choose to see these stories as constructions of experience, as opposed to arbitrary truths?  Perhaps it’s time to inventory our stories, and throw out the ones that don’t serve us.  The ones that create conceit and the ones that hone in on limitations. 

While we are at it, maybe we discard the stories we have about other people:  She’s OCD.  He’s a jerk.  The cat is lazy.  That way, we act as Story Eunuchs for others.   What might happen if we remove these judgments?  What possibilities appear?               

  

Bill Ayers, Katherine Boo, and Me

In yoga teacher training, we talk about dharma, as in “What is your dharma?”  Dharma, loosely translated, means one’s path, or true nature.  One of the questions on the final exam asks, “Is your dharma clear to you?”  For me, the answer to this question is no.  My dharma is maddeningly opaque.  But I recently encountered two people whose dharma is beautifully transparent. 

Bill Ayers is a teacher and writer who has been a social justice advocate since the 1960’s when he first started teaching kindergarten.  His activism has brought him trouble at different times, most recently in 2008 when conservatives excoriated President Obama’s relationship with him (they were both active in Chicago politics).   Fox News discovered he was the keynote speaker for last weekend’s Association of Teacher Educators conference in Atlanta, and there was a brief sizzle about how teacher educators were inviting a known terrorist to speak.  Luckily, the ATE leadership did not bow to this pressure.  Seeing Bill Ayers speak, in person, was a profound and moving experience. 

He talked about seeing the unseen people of the world, because “every human being is of incalculable value.”  He spoke about the differences between teaching the arts of liberty—initiative, courage, imagination, listening, speaking--versus obedience and conformity.  He was earnest and honest about the intellectual and ethical challenges of teaching, and said that it was up to us to change the dialogue that has blamed teachers for the problems of student learning borne out of poverty, inequity, and racism. 

He also said, “Privilege blinds us and anesthetizes us” and insisted that whatever rich kids get in school, all kids should get.  Smaller class sizes, libraries, field trips, discovery learning.  He clearly understood the pressures teachers experience in the face of scripted curricula and few resources.  Ayers said that his son, a high school teacher, told him that he was 70% an agent of the state and 30% a free agent. Ayers urged us to find the nooks and crannies in order to do what is right for our students within that 30%. 

These messages about making the invisible visible and the blindness that comes with privilege reminded me of the book Behind the Beautiful Forevers by reporter Katherine Boo.  She spent over three years collecting and documenting the experiences of residents of Annawadi, a slum adjacent to the Mumbai, India airport.  In a matter-of-fact, nonjudgmental tone, she describes the harshness, the corruption, and the stench through the eyes of several different residents.  Abdul is a garbage sorter who collects recyclables from his fellow residents who scavenge trash from outside the airport.  Asha is a wife and mother who uses the corrupt system to gain power and money for her family’s well-being.  Fatima is a woman born with one leg who changes their world forever when she sets herself on fire in protest and rage against the unfairness she experiences.  Boo humanizes these individuals by providing their perspectives on survival in a place that only wants to get rid of them in order to attract Westerners and others with money. 

Bill Ayers and Katherine Boo are not afraid to look at the results of dehumanizing poverty and inequity.  They do not let us turn our heads from the individual and collective anguish inflicted on the voiceless—poor students of color and slumdwellers.  They also don’t victimize them by claiming what Shoshana Felman calls “passive empathy,” which further oppresses the unseen by removing their power.  Instead, Ayers and Boo view the strengths and choices of their subjects with respect for the individual and the context.  One Annawadi resident says, “Rich people fight about stupid things.  Why shouldn’t poor people do the same?”

I am no Bill Ayers or Katherine Boo.  Neither, probably, are you.  However, we can still bear witness to the social, economic, cultural, racial, and sexual inequities of the world, and vow to see the unseen, not with pity or contempt, but with the knowledge that “every human being is of incalculable value.”  Ayers ended his talk with a quote from the Mary Oliver poem, “Instructions for Living a Life:”

Pay Attention.

Be Astonished.

Do Something.

Sure, that’s a bit opaque for one’s dharma, but I’ll take it.