Living as I am, in a state with a fifteen percent unemployment rate, I am grateful to be partially employed, especially as I have found myself in a situation in a position that lets me zip into handicapped parking spaces in pursuit of all sorts of errands. [I am working for a family whose mother recently moved in with them. This means, on any given day, I find myself at the library, the hardware store, the doctor's office, the candy store, the laundry room, the nail salon ("an eye-opening experience for the nail care neophyte" reports yr. correspondent), the veterinarian, the Secretary of State.]
10/15/2009
9/07/2009
nightmares are relative, i suppose
Ask nearly any teacher about the teacher dreams. Their eyes will grow wide, and they'll nod slowly. They will recount the nightmares: Their classroom disappears. They are unprepared. They lose their lesson plans. They are possibly unclad. T–, their honorary student-from-hell, is—somehow—the principal. Their third period class pulls off a coup d'etat.
The nightmares often appear in August. Perhaps it is the moan of school buses, shuddering past the house on practice runs. Or the prodigious advertisements for mechanical pencils and Mead notebooks and My Little Pony Trapper Keepers. Something slips into the subconscious and worries the pedagogical nerves.
The nightmares lay in wait. I shouldn't have been surprised when they appeared last month, even after two years away from the classroom. Relax, I said, banishing visions of T– and gum-slathered desks. There's no school for you this year.
But that was before the brouhaha over the President's speech, which he will be delivering tomorrow to students across the country. I'll be heading to a nearby school, for one big voyeuristic round of watching-the-students-watch-the-speech. The brouhaha is a story for another day; tonight I'll dream of English class and brown bag lunches, not-so-secretly delighted that even this year, I get to go back to school.
The nightmares often appear in August. Perhaps it is the moan of school buses, shuddering past the house on practice runs. Or the prodigious advertisements for mechanical pencils and Mead notebooks and My Little Pony Trapper Keepers. Something slips into the subconscious and worries the pedagogical nerves.
The nightmares lay in wait. I shouldn't have been surprised when they appeared last month, even after two years away from the classroom. Relax, I said, banishing visions of T– and gum-slathered desks. There's no school for you this year.
But that was before the brouhaha over the President's speech, which he will be delivering tomorrow to students across the country. I'll be heading to a nearby school, for one big voyeuristic round of watching-the-students-watch-the-speech. The brouhaha is a story for another day; tonight I'll dream of English class and brown bag lunches, not-so-secretly delighted that even this year, I get to go back to school.
day laborer
in memory of last year's labors...
Konstantinos found me before I found him; that is, his camera lens captured the sky above my profile as I leaned against the Coney Island pier. He was, he told me a few minutes later, testing out the capabilities of his new camera, a Nikon whose exact model now eludes me—an unfortunate fact, since its night-light capability was surprisingly superior for such a small camera. He’d just picked up the camera at a flea shop and he made me guess how much he paid. I overestimated.
I suspect that the $300 camera held some pictures of me; I had watched out the corner of my eye as he captured the Coney Island skyline: the languid Ferris wheel, spooling on its endless spindle, the lights, blinking and burning, the Cyclone as it shrieked and rattled its wooden slats. The lens tilted slightly in my direction, and, while flattered, I wondered at a man, alone, slightly plump, with hair glistening and receding like a coastline, who would take pictures of anonymous women. He smiled and asked me to take his picture.
Konstantinos found me before I found him; that is, his camera lens captured the sky above my profile as I leaned against the Coney Island pier. He was, he told me a few minutes later, testing out the capabilities of his new camera, a Nikon whose exact model now eludes me—an unfortunate fact, since its night-light capability was surprisingly superior for such a small camera. He’d just picked up the camera at a flea shop and he made me guess how much he paid. I overestimated.
I suspect that the $300 camera held some pictures of me; I had watched out the corner of my eye as he captured the Coney Island skyline: the languid Ferris wheel, spooling on its endless spindle, the lights, blinking and burning, the Cyclone as it shrieked and rattled its wooden slats. The lens tilted slightly in my direction, and, while flattered, I wondered at a man, alone, slightly plump, with hair glistening and receding like a coastline, who would take pictures of anonymous women. He smiled and asked me to take his picture.
9/04/2009
heartland
Saint Peter, population 10,000, home to Gustavus Adolphus, a Lutheran college whose salivatory namesake was the king of Sweden at about the same time Shakespeare was jiggling bellies and piercing lovesick hearts. Gustavus Adolphus (the king, not the college) raised his only surviving child, a daughter, as a boy, and took efforts to guarantee her succession to the throne, a move that was remarkably prescient, or perhaps just realistic, seeing as it was a habit of kings to bloody themselves in battle, as Christina’s did, in honor of their Protestant faith (and burgeoning economy), dying when she was six and leaving her to in charge of the third largest nation in Europe. She ruled for ten years; her first duty that of receiving the Russian embassy, no small task, considering her age and the fact that her mother was so distraught over Adolphus’s death that she would not allow his body to be interred, rather preferring to visit his open casket every day for nearly eighteen months. Eventually, Adolphus’s daughter secretly converted to Catholicism, abdicated the throne to her cousin, and moved to Italy.
8/07/2009
ou gen...
I once almost went to Haiti. My sister, who lived there when I was in high school, and returned there for her doctoral research, was in the country conducting interviews for her dissertation. We planned to rendezvous in Port-au-Prince and spend two weeks wrapping up her research and visiting her friends. And then she fell off a rock and injured her leg, the result of which was a thigh-length cast and a truncated trip. (Interested readers may also want to read about zombies and roosters and foreign girls wandering the Haitian mountainsides.)
Three years later, thanks to the same sister, I have a new plane ticket and hope to arrive in the capital next week (I have learned not to count planes until they touch the tarmac). This means, of course, that we get to go shopping for gifts. Would you prefer markers or crayons, if you were six? Coloring books have undergone quite the face lift in the last 20 years—they feature Disney characters, or Barbie, or worse, and have more stickers than places to color. We hunt down an air pump, so I can pack a deflated soccer ball. P—finds cleats at the thrift store, but my sister doesn’t know where they’d find a soccer field. All the books at the thrift store are Disney, or Barbie, or worse.
Three years later, thanks to the same sister, I have a new plane ticket and hope to arrive in the capital next week (I have learned not to count planes until they touch the tarmac). This means, of course, that we get to go shopping for gifts. Would you prefer markers or crayons, if you were six? Coloring books have undergone quite the face lift in the last 20 years—they feature Disney characters, or Barbie, or worse, and have more stickers than places to color. We hunt down an air pump, so I can pack a deflated soccer ball. P—finds cleats at the thrift store, but my sister doesn’t know where they’d find a soccer field. All the books at the thrift store are Disney, or Barbie, or worse.
7/19/2009
7/18/2009
townie
at the A2 Art Fair, you can...
sign up for the New York Times (highest home delivery rate outside the 10000s)
listen to men playing recorder/s
buy a $165 hat
or support a 5-acre rabbit sanctuary
6/22/2009
enterprising
One of the perks of my job is driving the rental cars. I am hopeless in terms of name brands—was that Chrysler or Pontiac?—but I have been in Focuses and Acuras and PT Cruisers and G6es and even a Commander, which, being the size of a small house, certainly lives up to its name on the road.
I also get to coast on gas fumes, call AAA, inspect scratches, buy tire gauges, fiddle with broken cigarette lighters (damn GPS machines), locate mystery keys, lecture drivers about the significance of the check engine light—in sum, to deal with the statistics of over two dozen unpredictable and overworked machines. My contacts at the local rental company no longer ask to take down my number and I am becoming quite accustomed to the bowl of tootsie rolls they leave on at the counter.
This past weekend the passenger side window of one vehicle was smashed and forcibly entered—I would have happily spared the thieves the trouble and told them the GPS machine didn’t work. Instead, I found myself filching from the candy bowl, reminding one of the attendants not to kill the messenger. "Don't look at me," I said, entering the cool of the rental car office, which is thoughtlessly tucked up against interstate exit 45.
"Oh, I get it” he replied. "You're just the go-to. You're the Kobe Bryant—the one they pass to."
I also get to coast on gas fumes, call AAA, inspect scratches, buy tire gauges, fiddle with broken cigarette lighters (damn GPS machines), locate mystery keys, lecture drivers about the significance of the check engine light—in sum, to deal with the statistics of over two dozen unpredictable and overworked machines. My contacts at the local rental company no longer ask to take down my number and I am becoming quite accustomed to the bowl of tootsie rolls they leave on at the counter.
This past weekend the passenger side window of one vehicle was smashed and forcibly entered—I would have happily spared the thieves the trouble and told them the GPS machine didn’t work. Instead, I found myself filching from the candy bowl, reminding one of the attendants not to kill the messenger. "Don't look at me," I said, entering the cool of the rental car office, which is thoughtlessly tucked up against interstate exit 45.
"Oh, I get it” he replied. "You're just the go-to. You're the Kobe Bryant—the one they pass to."
5/29/2009
oilmen
M–. One of three partners in a Houston car service company. There are Werthers Originals in the cup holder beside me. When he learns I am soon to be in the business of booking multiple transportation shuttles, he is pleased to have made my acquaintance, and plies me to stay in touch. His company is looking to expand—he’s been in the business ten years; the partnership formed a year ago. The car is sleek—a trunk deep enough for two, even three bodies, magazines tucked in the leather seat pockets.
A woman on the radio observes that she’s lived in the States longer than she has in her native England. M– hasn’t been home, to the south of Nigeria, in ten years, but his accent is still able to twist and soften my native language enough so that I confuse Poland for Portland—his cousin is a professional basketball player in the former.
He picks me up from a flight from Detroit. He asks about the automaker’s situation, but I am woefully deficient of information. He’s thinking of going to Detroit for a convention of Nigerian émigrés. They eat, socialize, and discuss topics about home.
He first came to the States for school, in Wisconsin, but then “Wisconsin got cold.” Houston was much more like home, in terms of the weather, and the Nigerian expatriate community is surprisingly prodigious—like much in Texas, it has to do with oil, and the money that helps it flow.
A woman on the radio observes that she’s lived in the States longer than she has in her native England. M– hasn’t been home, to the south of Nigeria, in ten years, but his accent is still able to twist and soften my native language enough so that I confuse Poland for Portland—his cousin is a professional basketball player in the former.
He picks me up from a flight from Detroit. He asks about the automaker’s situation, but I am woefully deficient of information. He’s thinking of going to Detroit for a convention of Nigerian émigrés. They eat, socialize, and discuss topics about home.
He first came to the States for school, in Wisconsin, but then “Wisconsin got cold.” Houston was much more like home, in terms of the weather, and the Nigerian expatriate community is surprisingly prodigious—like much in Texas, it has to do with oil, and the money that helps it flow.
5/24/2009
this bureaucratic state
Long lines and extensive paperwork are best met with an agreeable demeanor and even more agreeable book. Happily, the lines during a recent visit to a certain bureaucratic entity in my newest state of residence were amenably short, so I read hardly any lines of the latter. I did, however, summon the former as I approached the counter, hoping a random bill and change of address form would suffice to prove my residency and establish me as a valid, voting, organ-donating member of the Great Lakes State.
They did, and I am sure the smile helped, although I was sad to see my Lone Star driver's license snipped so unceremoniously.
My attendant commented on the new Save-a-Lot going in across the street. "The poor people will be over there, and the rich people will be here," she said, nodding her head in the direction of the very swanky, organic grocery store next door to her employer.
She commutes from Detroit; a while back, when her father was sick, she took the day off to help him out. He needed to go to the Secretary of State, which is where, in this fair state, one attends to issues of titles and licenses and voter registration--the very office she had just taken a day off from. "That just took the cake," she said. "You should have seen my face when I walked in. I looked evil."
They did, and I am sure the smile helped, although I was sad to see my Lone Star driver's license snipped so unceremoniously.
My attendant commented on the new Save-a-Lot going in across the street. "The poor people will be over there, and the rich people will be here," she said, nodding her head in the direction of the very swanky, organic grocery store next door to her employer.
She commutes from Detroit; a while back, when her father was sick, she took the day off to help him out. He needed to go to the Secretary of State, which is where, in this fair state, one attends to issues of titles and licenses and voter registration--the very office she had just taken a day off from. "That just took the cake," she said. "You should have seen my face when I walked in. I looked evil."
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