I come from a big red barn,

From newlywed dreams of pigs and beef cattle

And maybe a few cats to keep the mice out of the corncrib.

I come from piles of warm, sleepy kittens,

From puffy tails, shaped like Christmas trees,

And insistent mewing than quiets only

When there is something interesting to chase.

I come from Varnes & Hoover Hardware,

From rows of shiny brass lanterns and sparkling Mason jars,

Where the cheerful Amish gentleman behind the counter

Is just as polite to the girl in the T-shirt that reads, in neon green,

“MY FEET HURT FROM KICKING SO MUCH ASS”

As he is to the woman in the pristinely pressed bonnet.

I come from grilled pork in barbeque,

From salads with sugar and mayonnaise

And overstuffed subs sold by the thousand

To pay a boy’s medical bills.

I come from toasted olive-nut sandwiches

At the Olympia Candy Kitchen,

Where patrons shake their heads and say airily,

“You just can’t find this anywhere else.”

I come from wide-open prairie skies,

Blue and hazy all day, inky black all night,

And in between, a glorious palette of golden-tinged pastels

That demands further investigation,

That demands you stop and gaze.

I come from an old, weathered pier, with flaking white paint,

From crawdads and leeches and seaweed

And the delicate balance between the hot skin of the water’s surface

And the cold, murky, uncertain depths below

That vulnerable toes would rather avoid.

I come from prizewinning eggplants and Merino sheep,

From the Big Pig sleeping on a pile of damp hay

And fluffy, trembling rabbits and feisty draft horses

And gowns with perfect, even seams

Made by tiny, deft fingers

Whose skills I can only dream of, three times older.

I come from lazy, roundabout conversations

About kids and baseball games;

From the pause between catching up and resuming a life lived apart,

From counting rail cars at a crossing,

So fully focused on the moment

That weightier matters slip away; instead,

128 (plus two locomotives) is all that ever mattered

in the whole wide world.

After my first year of classroom teaching, I wrote a piece for my school’s alumni magazine.  It was a half-rant, half-rhapsody about teenage girls and how wonderful and frustrating they were to teach.  At the time, I wasn’t at all sure I would ever teach again, so it was a sort of swan song, just in case.  A little like my friend Chris’ (sadly, his piece has now been archived and costs money to view, but you can take my word for it that it was compelling and true-to-life.)

That summer, I asked my dear friend Terry for some advice.  I wanted to write more, but I was lost about how to do it.  Getting into the business is a lot like getting into acting or fine art: you have to know someone, or preferably, know a lot of people.  What should I do?  I wondered.

Terry is nothing if not direct.  “I think you should write more about the Pink Girls.”

At first I didn’t know what he meant.  Then he started suggesting reading material: Reviving Ophelia, A Return to Modesty, I am Charlotte Simmons, unhooked.  I read them all, but I had more questions than answers.  Mainly: What on earth was going on in the minds and hearts of these women, who were barely younger than me but appeared unable to take part in a healthy, normal relationship of any sort?

Of the four, I think unhooked resonated most clearly with me.  I could sense the author’s concern, shock and bewilderment in every page, all emotions with which I could sympathize.  I wrote the author, Laura Sessions Stepp, and wound up in an extended e-mail and phone conversation that continued sporadically over a few years’ time.

It’s been simmering for several years now, boiling over every now and again when I hear another story of serial hookup followed by serious heartbreak.  So when I had the opportunity to write about an issue of social justice for my current class, Child & Adolescent Development, I jumped.  The paper is much too long to post here, but I’ll give you a teaser in preparation for the next few posts, which will contain controversy-laden excerpts (having done my research, I’m prepared to be attacked, as has everyone who’s written about this from a point of view I admire:)

It’s no secret that teenagers tend to be emotional, volatile and insecure, or that they take evident pleasure in flouting the rules set for them by parents, teachers and other authority figures.  The last decade, however, has revealed a disturbing trend among adolescents that persists well into young adulthood: the replacement of healthy short- and long-term relationships with episodes of unplanned, emotionally-detached physical contact called “hookups.”

Sex is easier than ever for teenagers; we live in one of the most permissive societies in history, in which sexual innuendo permeates even the children’s entertainment market.  As a result, teenage pregnancies are on the rise for the first time in over a decade. I believe this is because our sex-education programs (some of which begin in elementary school) are falling short in a crucial area: emotions and relationships.  We are failing our young women by denying them models of healthy relationships, experiences they can learn from and build on, and forums where they can define for themselves what they want out of a partnership.  In denying them the tools they need to negotiate in relationships, we as a society have essentially set them up for continual failure, and only through a focused effort to reverse these conditions can we hope to change the pattern for future generations.

How bad is it, really?  You have no idea.  Stay tuned.

Well.  I hereby present Ten Pens.  It’s way more fun, and just as free.

Take ten pens from around your house.  They must be free promotional pens.  If you’re short a few, I’ll lend you some: I rounded up 58 just by looking in the study.  They’re all going to school, in case anyone there wants to play (and because, seriously, they seem to multiply exponentially every 13 days or so.  I’m worried about the load-bearing capacity of my desk.)

Now, try to imagine how they might have entered your house.  Word limits are lame, but keep it short or your audience might fall asleep.  (All three of them.) Here are mine:

1. Mini Cooper: Let’s Motor. This is one of those cool moving pens; when you tilt it, the little red car sliiiiiiides back and forth from the Hollywood sign to the Statue of Liberty.  And it was completely free!  All we had to do was buy a car.
2. Revlimid capsules. Please see accompanying full prescribing information, including Boxed WARNINGS. I guess these prescription drug giveways must work, or no one would continue doing them.  I just have one question: “Boxed warnings”?  They don’t sound too bad.  Better than the free-roaming warnings that catch you by surprise, anyway.
3. My school. Awwww. Actually, to be fair about 12 of the 58 were from my school.
4. My school’s archrival school. What th–?!  I did tutor a couple of students from there, but I think I would have noticed this pen before now.  At the very least, I would think my school’s pens would be ostracizing it, but noooo, they’re playing nice and being friends.
5. Best Wishes in the year 2003, Enslin & Son, Hattiesburg, Mississippi. My father’s family’s butcher shop.  We last visited there for my grandmother’s funeral.  It was a sad time, but wonderful to see them all, and I loved the tour of the slaughterhouse and my dad’s accompanying anecdotes from the summer he worked there as a teenager.  We also got married in 2003, so I think their best wishes might have helped a little.
6. Mark & Anna’s Wedding: The Highlight of 2009. Most original wedding favor ever, from a very original couple!
7. Sauza Tequila. Once again, what th–?!  We don’t own a bottle, and I’ve never even heard of that brand.  Tequila is not my scene.
8. Microsoft. Steve, this means nothing to us!  We swear!  We don’t know how it got here or where it came from!  We’re burning it right this very instant and burying the ashes in the back yard under the Apple tree!  Isn’t that poetic justice?  Steve?  STEVE!  DON’T YOU WALK AWAY!
9. Kone Elevators & Escalators. Courtesy of my husband, who goes to trade shows and can’t turn down a freebie to save his life.  Really, if he had to choose between certain death and a duffel bag of stuffed animals with building product manufacturers’ logos imprinted on their bums, I might have to raise Maia by myself.
10. My high school alma mater. This isn’t technically a pen, it’s a letter opener — but it counts solely because of the number of times I’ve reached for it intending to pick up a pen.  A clever ruse, but I’m wise to it now.  Away, fiend!  Into the bag with the others!

Okay.  Your turn.  Comment here with a link to your Ten Pens post!  If it doesn’t go viral within a week, I’ll be personally offended.

I was reminded of poor Gretel yesterday through a series of events.  My personal goal this Lent is to keep my house reasonably in order, such that I would not be embarrassed if someone stopped by unexpectedly. The thing is, cleaning is humbling — maybe the most humbling job there is.  As a liberated citizen of the twenty-first century, it’s hard for me to accept that my husband is the main breadwinner, that he works hard to support us, and that my most natural and  grateful response should be to work just as hard at my jobs: teaching, writing, and keeping our home so that it’s a peaceful and lovely place to live.

The goal is to tidy one room per day, and yesterday I surveyed the kitchen.  It wasn’t too bad: a few dishes to wash, recycling and compost to be taken outside, some old food to throw away.  And the floor.

Several years ago I put my foot down, literally and metaphorically, and decried the use of white sheet vinyl in kitchens.  There is just no way to keep it clean, I explained.  Rob kindly relented and we stuck down vinyl tiles over it, in a much more forgiving pattern of mottled “stone.”  Now almost nothing shows up, and the temptation is to pretend it’s as clean as it looks.  But if you’re wearing socks and they’re dirty at the end of the day, or if sandals and you feel crunching underfoot, you know the truth.

Out came the broom.  Sweep and sweep and sweep.  A nice, satisfying pile of dust and dirt.  Lunch was almost ready; the sweet potatoes were starting to squeal in the oven.  I decided to get a head start on breakfast by soaking my Irish oatmeal.  Quickly, open the freezer, grab the can by the top and –

If you haven’t done this, been deceived by a cute canister with an ill-fitting lid, then you really have no idea of the quality of steel-cut oats when dropped on a clean vinyl tile floor in 2-cup portions.  They’re a little like tiny ball bearings, making a most pleasing bouncy sound as they fall, roll and scatter to all corners of your previously-clean kitchen.  I actually laughed.  Then I thought, “Well, at least the floor is clean.  I learned a lesson here!”  The broom, again: sweep and sweep and sweep.  A nice, neat pile of oats.  But as I turned to drop them back into the can, I looked more closely.  There was some dirt — well, to be honest, quite a bit of dirt — in the pan with them.  I actually thought of rinsing them, but decided that was too much even for a cheapskate.  Into the garbage.

Now I reopened the freezer door to survey the damage: a rolling landscape of mounded oats all over the bottom shelf of the freezer, nearly burying the door of the closed refrigerator.  I touched the mountain — just touched it — and a cascade of oats rained down onto the floor again, tappity-tappity-tap.  After a few more similar showers, I gave up trying to keep the floor clean and scooped them out of the freezer, putting handfuls back into the can and consigning the extras to the floor.  In the end I needed to use a sponge, in the process wiping up several spills I hadn’t noticed previously.  How do things get this dirty?

Finally, I opened the fridge, and a line of oats neatly hidden in the folds of the rubber seal tumbled into the egg tray, the shelves and the crisper drawers.  (Yes, they somehow made it into the drawers.)  Again, out came the sponge, and again, I was most displeased to find that the refrigerator was not nearly as clean as I’d imagined.  Ugh.

I crunched over to the oven and turned off the potatoes.  One more time with the broom, this time all over the floor — those oats were awfully determined to get away.  Sweep and sweep and sweep.  Again, a pile of oats and dirt; I gave up wondering where it had come from and was just grateful it was going into the trash now.

Lunch was wonderful, maybe all the more so for the wait until the oats (now transferred to a Ziploc bag) were safely back in the freezer.  And an hour later, in walked my students, tracking mud and dirt in a trail from the door to the piano bench and back again.  I swept (and swept and swept) it up.  A thankless, never-ending task if ever there were one.  A task to keep you humble.

You know the story, even if you didn’t happen to hear it in church yesterday because you arrived too late.  Because you thought you might be taking a day trip, and then when you decided not to, your husband was slow getting ready, and on the way you both stopped by the office to print some documents for the annual meeting after the service.  Anyway, you were late and missed the reading, but you know the story all the same.

You know the story because it’s one of your favorites.  Leaving and coming home: two of the most wonderful and scary experiences possible, and yet two of the most ordinary.  Every day, most of us leave and come home several times.  Even a longer or more exciting trip looks just the same from the outside: we walk out, close the door behind us, gather our things and head off.  Some time later, we repeat the process in reverse, and everything is back to the way it was.

I often play a game with myself as I enter and exit the driveway: would I rather be starting out or ending?  Sometimes it’s easy: if I’m going to work, I probably wish I were coming home already to a peaceful house and a good book and lunch.  If the house is a mess and I’m going to meet a friend, I’m already dreading the return to my responsibilities here.  But the more anticipated the trip, the higher the stakes.  Would I rather be tired and happy, full of the experience of the day, but with it behind me?  Or would I rather be excited, with something to look forward to — but without having had the something yet, and wondering what it will be like?

These questions make me think more deeply about what I’m doing.  Often I’ll find, with surprise, that I’m dreading dinner with my friends, even though (and maybe because) I haven’t seen them in a long time.  Or I’ll realize that I can’t wait to get to school and delve into a new chapter in the history of the American pen.  Sometimes things flip-flop, and I end up spending far too much time on things that don’t mean much to me and far too little on the things I love.  As I leave or return, I vow to myself to put things in order.

What did the Prodigal Son think as he gathered his things, “all he had,” and left the beloved house of his father?  Did he know, deep down, that he would one day return?  Did he imagine his wealth would last forever?  As he sat among the swine, did he imagine what he must have looked like leaving the house in such arrogance?  And as he returned, did he wish he could be starting out again, so that he might ensure a different kind of homecoming?

Every day is a new journey for each of us.  Today I’m bidding a shy hello to the excellent community of Alexandria, which found and recruited my voice to add to the others who discourse there with alarming erudition.  I’m honored by the opportunity, and as always, I don’t know what side of this trip I’d rather be on.  I’m just grateful I get to go at all.

“Really?” he responded, in that Socratic tone all teachers love.  “None of it?”

This made me sulk a little, but he’d made a good point.  There are a few entries I’m proud of.  And when I read over them, it’s interesting to see that very few of them have to do with teaching, except tangentially.

To quote the catechism, What does this mean?!  I’m not sure.  But I know I like writing about my life, whether or not it’s directly related to my career.  I know it doesn’t make sense to limit yourself to the point where you can’t write what you enjoy.  So if you see less social commentary and more personal vignettes from now on, don’t be alarmed.  But do tell me what you think!

So this lady mentioned needing an editor, and Rob mentioned he had a wife who kindly corrected his grammar in every turn.  (Just then his phone rang; it was me, sending him a text that read, “at every turn, honey.  Love you!”)  So, after that, she had no choice but to call me.

It’s tough to edit your peers’ work.  It’s much easier to edit your students’.  As a teacher, I can be firm, unyielding, even a bit harsh, and the students understand it’s for their own good.  But for someone your age — or, in this case, someone twice my age — it’s trickier, especially when it comes to style.  I don’t want to invade too much of what is really a very personal project.  I’m nervous (especially about learning a THIRD style of citations — I used MLA in high school and college, have been forced to learn APA for grad school, and now will have to become fluent in Chicago / Turabian as well.)  She has a lot of confidence in me, which makes me twice as nervous.  I hope I’m up to the task!

If you’re not from the prairie, you don’t know the sun, you can’t know the sun.

Diamonds that bounce off crisp winter snow, warm waters in dugouts and lakes that we know.

The sun is our friend from when we are young, a child of the prairie is part of the sun.

If you’re not from the prairie, you don’t know the sun.

Students then brainstorm a list of things about themselves that they think would be difficult for an “outsider” to understand.  When we did this as a group, I came up with Byzantine chanting, having a stay-at-home mom, going to a tiny private school and living in Manhattan.  Then they choose the one with which they identify most closely (I just went with the first choice) and list both positive attributes (haunting, otherworldly melodies; a deep spiritual connection) and negative ones (a scale that’s difficult for Westerners to conquer; the ugly attitude of people who don’t like the sound.)  This is transformed into a memoir-type piece:

If you’ve never sung Byzantine chant, you don’t know what it’s like to fight with a scale the way an angry two-year-old fights with his older brother.  The notes slip in where you don’t expect them and squeal with shrill indignation when you tread on their toes.  You’ve never sung your way into a corner and then had to back sheepishly out of it, not sure where you took a wrong turn.  You don’t know what it’s like to have your accomplishments dismissed airily by people who say it sounds “ugly” and “weird.”

But, if you’ve never sung Byzantine chant, you also don’t know what it’s like to be physically shaken by a melody, right to the very tips of your tingling fingers.  You’ve never sung a sound you swear didn’t come from inside your own lungs, but from some celestial puppetmaster with a generous heart.  You don’t know what it’s like to luxuriate in the paradox of deeply loving something you still don’t fully understand.

I’ve done a similar activity using the section from “A Year in Provence” where Peter Mayle describes a Provencal greeting:

The instrument of warning and argument is the index finger, in one of its three operational positions. Thrust up, rigid and unmoving, beneath your conversational partner’s nose, it signals caution—watch out, attention, all is not what it seems. Held just below face level and shaken rapidly from side to side like an agitated metronome, it indicates that the other person is woe­fully ill informed and totally wrong in what he has just said. The correct opinion is then delivered, and the finger changes from its sideways motion into a series of jabs and prods, either tapping the chest if the unenlightened one is a man or remaining a few discreet centimeters from the bosom in the case of a woman.

I have the students practice this with each other until they’re collapsing with laughter (it doesn’t take long!)  Then I have them think of a similarly strange ritual, something that would look very odd to an outsider, and describe it in very specific terms.  One girl, a swimmer, told me how to do a “deck change,” where she changes clothes in full view of others without exposing anything.  Another wrote about the ritual of Girl Greeting from a male’s point of view: it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever read, from the initial screaming and hugging to the final moments of the conversation, when they accompany each other to the restroom and leave their poor dates staring after them.

Hoping you’ll share some of the “foreign” elements of your life!

Meanwhile, her father was cautious, bashful, but eager to work.  As we finished, his hands trembling from the effort, he breathed a sigh of relief.  “This is so hard!” he exclaimed. “It’s like learning another language!”

I told him he was right, explained the similarity: when you read something out loud, you don’t read each word individually; your eyes scan the page and give your brain a few moments’ warning before your mouth actually needs to form the words.  Reading music is the same, but there are numerous systems of denotation: tone, rhythm, pitch and expression all intersect in one glorious symphony of Unchained bliss.

He shook his head.  “It’s like taking a Spanish class or something.”

I laughed.  “I can’t help you with Spanish,” I said ruefully.  “I took French instead.  I probably should have taken Spanish.”  It was a lie of which I am ashamed: in truth, I am proud to know a language and culture as lovely as French, even at the expense of something far more practical.  The language itself can move me to tears, as it did once in a Solemn Mass at Sacre-Coeur or in the husky outpourings of Carla Bruni — so much so that reading it during Agape Vespers is difficult.  Even the word emouvant, moving, is far richer a concept in French than in English.

Rod Dreher wrote very beautifully yesterday about terroir, another French word that can’t easily be translated.  As I read his words (tres emouvant) I thought about my own terroir.  Here are the basic elements:

Books. I’m sitting next to a huge shelf of them.  This is a laptop, so I could be anywhere, such as in my bed upstairs, where Rob and my comforter are nestled in a warm, fluffy pile.  But if I leave this room, I won’t be able to grab something I need from one of my color-coordinated shelves, and that’s too much of a risk when I’m

Writing. It is the focus and bane of my existence.  I love it.  I hate it.  I’m good at it.  I suck at it.  These thoughts follow me throughout the day.  I cannot lose them, but I cannot stop, either.  For now, I’m here.

Maia. About five minutes ago  she moved from her perch beside my head, wedging herself into my lap in front of the keyboard.  I have to type haltingly, a few precious letters at a time, to avoid disturbing her.  But I do it, because a warm, fluffy kitty is even better than the warm, fluffy comforter upstairs.  Few people ever see this side of my snobby Siamese diva, but that makes it all the more precious to me.

Pain. She is digging her claws into my lap in ecstasy, and I am protected by only a single layer.  The pain is worth it.  It is my experience that this is true more often than not.

Pajamas. Covered with cat hair.  And my own hair is a mess, half-damp from my shower and uncombed.  But it’s my terroir.  And six days a week I get up early to put on a Catholic schoolteacher’s uniform, so today I get to languish a little in comfort with

Mexican Cocoa. Raw milk, heated just enough.  Sucanat.  Cocoa, cinnamon and a pinch of cayenne to stop my cough (the remnants of what I think is probably a developing mold allergy.)  It goes very well with

Mexican Gangsta Rap. Didn’t expect that, did you?  But it’s pouring out of the car across the street, and in spite of myself, I’m enjoying the beat.  It’s my terroir, but it’s not my world.

Music. Currently from Rob, who is now awake and drifting from David Bowie to Colin Hay and the Cars.  Snatches of his guitar drift downward, as does his strong, gorgeous voice.  Few people see this side of him; he doesn’t like to perform, unlike his fearless and choleric wife.  But hearing him strum away upstairs is one of the great joys of my life.

During the break between classes, I squeezed apologetically into line for a bagel.  (Teachers are allowed to cut, but I felt guilty anyway.)  As I ambled back upstairs munching, I passed the vice principal.  “So, we get to leave now, right?” I joked.  “We’ll give it 15 more minutes,” she answered, completely serious.

I swallowed and returned to my classroom, where the students were gathered in a whispering huddle of misery.  “Omigod, I have to go SO bad,” one moaned.  Inwardly, I rolled my eyes.  Girls.

The bell rang, and eight pairs of eager eyes were trained on me – silently, for once.  “It looks like they’re going to cancel school,” I said, smiling.  A series of high-pitched noises ensued: they had not dared to hope for this!

No sooner had I closed my mouth than we heard the click of the PA system.  “May I have everyone’s attention, please.” You could hear a pin drop.  “The county has not been able to give us any more information about the water main break, so we have no choice but to close sch – ”

The poor secretary never finished her sentence; or, if she did, it was drowned out in a chorus of shrieks and cheers that ran the length of four hallways on four floors, from the mouths of hundreds of giddy teenage girls (and probably a few teachers, too.) Immediately, they began making plans to go to lunch together on their day off.

I knew I wouldn’t be going out to lunch; I had so much catching up to do, grading and planning, that I’d probably be there until the final bell rang anyway. (I was.)  But something about group giddiness is awfully infectious, and  I couldn’t help but be filled with wild joy along with the rest of them.