tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61757154199106325932024-03-05T01:46:36.410-06:00Caffeinated LoveMusings on life and love accelerated by an iced soy cold press or two.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-68803365078919375722014-04-05T10:17:00.000-05:002014-04-05T10:25:52.158-05:00Sticky BrasTo understand this story, you must first realize I was counseled out of ballet. Before your mind is set to wander off to the Joffrey or even a first rate ballet school in a big city, come back to the little strip mall in an exurb about an hour outside of San Francisco. It was sandwiched between Donna's Gifts, a purveyor of ceramic poultry statues and Mrs. Grossman's stickers, and a dry cleaner. The discussion happened between my dad and the mistress of the studio after a few "incidents" and I never went back.
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So it is somewhat surprising that I landed a spot in the liturgical dance spotlight dance with Kate, a girl who was still enrolled in ballet. Our Lutheran Youth Choir was poised to tour the Pacific Northwest bringing our unique mix of vocal stylings and halted dance moves to churches that apparently yearned for such entertainment. Unlike our competitors, we mixed in our songs for the Lord with liturgical dance which clearly gave us an edge over other bands of Evangelical Lutheran youth choirs. There was one dance where all of the girls (yes, boys do not liturgical dance)would don flowing shiny taffeta long sleeve shirts with bell shaped skirts. We moved in unison (I imagined) ever so slowly raising our hands in open palmed victory. While the others would join the choir to do an upbeat Swahili ditty with snapping (yes, we were all White...for another blog post), Kate and I would rush behind the alter to do a quick change into tight iridescent turquoise spandex dance outfits that happened to be backless.<br />
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Kate, with all of her extensive dance knowledge, selected the outfit to maximize our movement abilities. The fact that it accentuated her curves and made her skin glow from the interplay with the turquoise fabric was just a cherry on top of the danceability. To be kind, I still believe, they chose to order a a size small for me. I was no where near a size small. When they arrived, I stuffed myself into the costume and the adults were skilled enough to hide their certain looks of horror. My skin splotched with freckles seemed to battle with the color fabric and the spandex did not accentuate the right curves.
It was decided that all could be rectified with some sticky bras. Again, I don't think anyone noticed me in this calculous as my midsection certainly extended further than my breast buds. But, sticky bras were procured for the tour by a well meaning adult.<br />
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Our third or fourth spot on the tour was a small church in <a href="http://youtu.be/42BBdzzgPNM">Longview</a>, Washington. It was a "hot" venue because they church elders had somehow conned the local cable access TV station to film our show for the masses. Naturally, the hormone fog was becoming more and more intense as we all imagined ourselves being "discovered" here.
As we prepped for the show, which mostly included looking longingly at the pastor's son with my best friend Karin, the well meaning adult discovered that she had not purchased enough sticky bras. I suggested that I go without, as my washboard breast bone hardly needed the sticker. However, God would not appreciate sticky bra-less girls dancing slowly on the alter in too tight spandex. Instead, she decided that Kate would continue to get two stickers, one for each breast, and the well meaning adult would start cutting the sticker in half for the duration of the tour for me. Yes, my breasts were worth one half of a sticky bra.<br />
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This <i>development</i> only served to set Karin and I off in a frantic giggle cycle that lasted throughout the performance. I won't bore you with tales of the icy stares from our youth pastor or the condescending glances from our other choir members during the live TV performance.
After the cameras stopped rolling and the 26 grey headed audience members stopped clapping, Karin and I darted out the side door. I reached into my shirt and peeled off the sticker parts, giggling to hide my shame. She turned to me and said slyly, "Let's go break store windows." And we went off running barely able to breathe from laughing so hard.
KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-48148292938006494372013-09-13T17:08:00.001-05:002013-09-13T17:08:04.128-05:0026I keep thinking about how different my morning is. Nothing like twenty six years ago.<br />
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Nora quietly woke up slowly. When I peeked in their room, she turned to me like a sunflower facing the sun. She stretched. She flopped back into bed. I approached her, arms open. She bounded into my arms instinctively. <br />
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I carried her in to our room, she gently patted my back as we moved. Spencer hardly stirred. <br />
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Twenty six years ago, I got myself up on my own. I was careful to be quiet, as there were so many of my aunts and uncles gathered in the house. I showered. I dressed. Although, I can't be sure. My heart was numb. My brain switched off. <br />
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I set Nora on the bed. She smiled and said, "Cuddle time?" I climbed back into bed and she wrapped her arms around me. <br />
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I heard muffled noises from the front of the house. I dreaded seeing everyone. I noiselessly stalked into the kitchen. I thought about breakfast, but I don't think I ate. Someone motioned for me to say goodbye to my mom before I headed off to the bus stop. I stepped down into the family room.<br />
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"Tomorrow is family day. Two days in a row," I told Nora and she glowed. Her long limbs twitched in excitement. I steadied my heart. Taking stock to stay in the moment. Training my brain to stay here.<br />
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The room was dark. Crowded. Sad. My mom had been sleeping in a hospital bed near the sliding glass door. I had not known that the addition of the hospital room meant my mom would soon be dead. I just thought, I just thought... I was careful not to wake her. I bent over the railing and laid my hand on hers. It was cold.<br />
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The light from the windows finally got Spencer to stir. I try not to think about how important light is to the race to get to school on time as we face the dark seasons. Dave goes to him and lures him into the day. He, too, is reminded that family weekend starts tomorrow.<br />
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KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-3352513402238298752013-03-09T08:20:00.000-06:002013-03-09T08:20:30.526-06:00Adventures in (not really) Gluten Free CookingYes, we are gluten free. But is what I am doing considered cooking? Probably not.<br />
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We ate burgers (gf veggie for the adults, grass-fed cow meat for the kids) every day this week. Sometimes with a side of gf pasta with olive oil and cheese. Salad for the adults, frozen peas for the kids.<br />
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I am not exaggerating. <br />
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I am paralyzed in the kitchen. I don't think I normally cooked with all that much gluten, but now it is as if my brain is on ice. Stuck.<br />
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On the second (or third?) night of the neverending burger-fest, Dave ran out to get buns. He meant to get Udi's, but got <b>R</b>udi's WHEAT buns instead. Only after they were in our brand, spankin' new glutenless toaster was this discovered.<br />
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It was hard not to yell. One letter separated the toxic from the nontoxic. Easy mistake, right? Heated discussions on how many crumbs of gluten could have fallen into our toaster in the span of 2 minutes. Enough to make us toss it? Is it possible to shake the gluten free? Anxiously, we decided to clean it. I now avoid it. <br />
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Last night, I mustered up enough brain power to attempt gluten free pizza last night. (I used <a href="http://glutenfreegirl.com/gluten-free-pizza-2/" target="_blank">this</a> recipe.) I created a "surry" with flaxseed meal to approximate the requisite glutenous goodness to make the superfine brown rice flour, tapioca flour and potato starch come together in a ball. After the "dough" still looked like a pebbled sandy beach, I doubled the surry. It did come together in this ethereal, temperamental glob. The yeast seemed to work quite hard to get the heavy mass to rise just a smidge.<br />
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As we had to get rid of all of the rolling pins, I pinched out the dough into a circle. I tried not to think about my stretchy, soft, creamy gluten pizza dough as pieces of the crust broke off. Parbaked. Topped. It looked decent. I just couldn't bring myself to take a picture. Hipster food photography, be damned.<br />
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Nora declared that I deserved a chef hat. Dave repeated that he loved it, even though I was on to him that he just can't bear to survive another week of veggie burgers. Spence told me quietly that he didn't really like it so much.<br />
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If this was just one night, one attempt of gf pizza dough, it would be a hit. But, it isn't. This is forever. And I want my gluten back.<br />
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KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-42388011710758153292013-03-06T21:33:00.000-06:002013-03-07T11:47:36.568-06:00Gluten(less)<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dave's in the kitchen throwing away my flour. The King Arthur Bread Flour, the All Purpose Flour. The Softasilk Cake Flour. The smidge of Gold Medal Whole Wheat Flour.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am two rooms away sobbing, heaving. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He's chucking my Trader Joe's Garlic Naan, the St. Paul Bagel Bakery Everything Bagels, my malt extract for my homemade bagels. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We are getting rid of the gluten. All of it. Or rather, Dave is. I am grieving the gluten.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He has packaged up the Cheerio's, the Rice Krispies. Tossed all of my Morningstar fake meat products. Pulled the possibly contaminated Ghirardelli Dutch-processed cocoa. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want my daughter to be healthy, for her belly not to hurt every second of every day. I yearn for her blood to hold on to iron so that she can have more energy, to avoid the crank that only malnourishment can bring. I am just also in denial. Celiac? Nora? It can't be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Peering into the kitchen, I see him nearing my spices. Penzy's spices--the Sandwich Sprinkle, the Tuscan Sunrise, and even more small glass jars with pale yellow labels. Back off. I already confirmed they are gluten free.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My kitchen has become a hazmat zone. The sweet <em style="background-color: white; font-size: small; font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">jalapeño</em> colored walls, the yellow lotus beam. This room is so core to my identity, a social gathering spot. The site of many thrown together meals for the dear 9 to 13 pals that will drop by on a Friday night for some homemade pizzas. And now, I can't even bear to enter it. </span><br />
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KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-65055850085896725542013-02-27T20:44:00.001-06:002013-02-27T21:12:54.395-06:00Mind the Gap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It had been wobbly for quite some time. There had been long discussions about the tooth fairy and whether she was real. Was the tooth fairy a girl? A boy? Or something else? Should we find some high speed cameras to document the fairy's arrival? Or would that scare her off forever? Do fairies need privacy? Does everyone have their own personal fairy? Or is their just one? </div>
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He had just got home from dinner with his best buddy. Apparently, he ate lots and lots of pasta. In a foretaste of adolescence, he immediately darted for the kitchen to get some more food. He came back chomping on an apple. He gobbled it up and went to throw away the core before he came to get some "large muscle activity" (his words, not mine.) As he looked in my direction, I saw the gap.</div>
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"Spence, you lost your tooth!" </div>
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Where was the tooth? We retraced the steps. We dug the core out of the trash can. (Yes, I realize we should be composting.) No tooth. Had a terse discussions about the necessity of digging through the entire trash can to unearth the very tiny tooth. We decided a note to the tooth fairy would be sufficient.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4s14nQD-zTTdU58sXRBnhflk6C7V6Rx8KQVl8Ufkbn1xb6F56W3fQOrdX2a9fHPJ560icYhAQY5UzbxiK03UUZDdaEc3Wxf_YLsxty_53xPB3bDyVHnQ-bFpY7Lz6W9bX5ctKKtL6RnM/s640/blogger-image--1020446009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4s14nQD-zTTdU58sXRBnhflk6C7V6Rx8KQVl8Ufkbn1xb6F56W3fQOrdX2a9fHPJ560icYhAQY5UzbxiK03UUZDdaEc3Wxf_YLsxty_53xPB3bDyVHnQ-bFpY7Lz6W9bX5ctKKtL6RnM/s640/blogger-image--1020446009.jpg" /></a></div>
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("Dear Tooth Fairy,</div>
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I lost a tooth in the garbage maybe!!!!</div>
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Spencer).</div>
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Thankfully, she read the note and left the goods. She even left behind a smidge of fairy dust!</div>
KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-11758710309383631032013-02-05T08:25:00.001-06:002013-02-05T08:25:42.659-06:00First Library Card!Let the fines begin! <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfo_abFdsEM0AQA6hgjSlUtm28Hw4Iq-6xi9bGVH8D5RXHvY3Yyl87f6vbK-Kc5PR6ByiLJzzL54Ib-jEmiZC_RvJbvzshqX2HXkEgtzy0gRzXw_HhZ5IKlQfrLzAfXtm6R8A0RZYyqmwB/s640/blogger-image--2106603164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfo_abFdsEM0AQA6hgjSlUtm28Hw4Iq-6xi9bGVH8D5RXHvY3Yyl87f6vbK-Kc5PR6ByiLJzzL54Ib-jEmiZC_RvJbvzshqX2HXkEgtzy0gRzXw_HhZ5IKlQfrLzAfXtm6R8A0RZYyqmwB/s640/blogger-image--2106603164.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGP5if9P9TOHKNpC3VX2GGbuUnnmhzFOG5k-YUknp-pJZo4ly7CsopY1H4y61Lief6GVVtEhDfjJauq23zAnrdU16cr_R5Oh2AdVz_wwDpMQQK3PAY0w0z8qqsVyzvLz8cPvJF2X3eiJc/s640/blogger-image-1067630926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGP5if9P9TOHKNpC3VX2GGbuUnnmhzFOG5k-YUknp-pJZo4ly7CsopY1H4y61Lief6GVVtEhDfjJauq23zAnrdU16cr_R5Oh2AdVz_wwDpMQQK3PAY0w0z8qqsVyzvLz8cPvJF2X3eiJc/s640/blogger-image-1067630926.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vXf0XcGFx6HE3ya8VcnTtCgsAmjauEYcwxXuZGka-FTmIa-gY4HOsVT6eslky4NBHeuoAI7a8E46EE9FOV2XXp2wg1Mt73-TpmjfcG5uRFP3W5kJmI2A4t84rhQRTfxOFZxTjfiW_Dpq/s640/blogger-image--1002417791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vXf0XcGFx6HE3ya8VcnTtCgsAmjauEYcwxXuZGka-FTmIa-gY4HOsVT6eslky4NBHeuoAI7a8E46EE9FOV2XXp2wg1Mt73-TpmjfcG5uRFP3W5kJmI2A4t84rhQRTfxOFZxTjfiW_Dpq/s640/blogger-image--1002417791.jpg" /></a></div>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-63989970586616771562012-12-10T21:47:00.002-06:002012-12-10T21:53:29.186-06:00The Midas Touch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I didn't realize that when we got to this page he was wincing. It seemed like a fairly benign rif on the King Midas story. His best friend turned into cheese. I am not giving anything away by telling you that Tweet, the bird, was restored to his birdlike ways. Happy ending. I bundled up the kids with last kisses and shuffled them off to bed. </div>
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As I was attending to Nor for some reason or another, when I turned around to see that Spence was sobbing. The hard sob where you cannot breathe. I rubbed his back as he sputtered out "I just can't get the picture of his best friend turned it cheese. How must he feel?" I picked up his body from the bed and he curled around me. I stumbled back into my room.<br />
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We cuddled, nose to nose. His tears dribbled onto my cheek. I walked him through the story, told him that after bad moments comes good moments. He was not appeased. Still struggling to breathe, he sputtered out, "I just keep thinking of you...your mom...how you would feel..." His voice devolved into muffled cries. I held him tight, told him how after losing my mom I finally got to get this wonderful life now.</div>
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I also wanted to say that I was cuddled, loved, listened to, that I was held close in the hearts of those who were left behind. I just didn't want to lie. Parenting when your own childhood was a litany of traumas tears at your soul. Fills you with guilt, makes you think by sharing bits of your life you are fraying the innocence of your sweet babes. Where's the road map to navigate through this land mine?</div>
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KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-80252065137308732482012-11-10T22:38:00.002-06:002012-11-10T22:45:02.879-06:00All the way down 38th, Nora pleads for me to drop her off first. I patiently explain that it simply will not work--Spence needs to be at school by 7:30, I need to get to work and the environment needs us to conserve gas. She just wants to show off her big brother to all of her friends at school.<br />
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This happens every day.<br />
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I pull up outside of Bancroft, where the other parents line up to drop off their kids. I jump out of the car to open his door and to guide him to the sidewalk. I kiss the top of his head and marvel at who he is becoming.<br />
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Every day.<br />
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He stops outside the car and presses his hand to his lips to blow kisses. I return them, trying to meet the quickness of his hands and the intense look in his eyes. He starts to climb the steps and pauses at the first landing. He turns quickly and beats at his chest and points at me. I'm never sure where that gesture came from, but I am so thankful for it. He waits until I repeat it.<br />
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Every day.<br />
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He continues to climb the steps until he is at the top. Nora begs for me to roll down the window, if it is not down already. She yells out, "When we get home, we can play puppies!" He nods and smiles. She continues, "Or something you like to do. Like spies." He hollers down, "Yes! Or something we both like...puppy spies!"<br />
<br />
This happens every day.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-66805671302255779922012-08-30T06:25:00.000-05:002012-08-30T06:25:26.845-05:00Reports from Kindergarten<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/esNp4HYIBwM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-87576242987686865492012-06-04T21:43:00.001-05:002012-06-04T21:44:24.975-05:00On the road... Pipestone<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMag6YI74TKYbsNIgInKqca5EJZVQ5ZKegDiqMaFJaNUKsfgUreMM81Umlk2R85xmZ6w-dbAFjck7yGqEW_uBntS_MWdobuxbf47lEjXr62KVUGrzoRxwhKqLhpNv5njiAbIgQSOix3jYx/s640/blogger-image--1251807160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMag6YI74TKYbsNIgInKqca5EJZVQ5ZKegDiqMaFJaNUKsfgUreMM81Umlk2R85xmZ6w-dbAFjck7yGqEW_uBntS_MWdobuxbf47lEjXr62KVUGrzoRxwhKqLhpNv5njiAbIgQSOix3jYx/s640/blogger-image--1251807160.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HMaJxWgXuWdUs_DOEelBLkLQjRpZOgfX1D3DPQe70VdvXY7E6_4A48xqV8hLCCmtyx1OySxYq8gJ9Dl68WzBKu2GYUs-npsTwj2d6fp0yqsMQ1WkPaYawlYCeY_V0VX8DAHl-kAAM6-f/s640/blogger-image-788034258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HMaJxWgXuWdUs_DOEelBLkLQjRpZOgfX1D3DPQe70VdvXY7E6_4A48xqV8hLCCmtyx1OySxYq8gJ9Dl68WzBKu2GYUs-npsTwj2d6fp0yqsMQ1WkPaYawlYCeY_V0VX8DAHl-kAAM6-f/s640/blogger-image-788034258.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbiubF9H59Lt3RfIPZHMkoCI6KkGcAF55-JbFdc9eJveQ2fpu6pDarMFytF8epcz3tyEAu9QTLH1bptb3gA3pPEsGLcfpsG-DdgtsJydl7rUXFDanpJrR7-q7Ccq31sjRT3SpEQXnEjyyz/s640/blogger-image--1142430881.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbiubF9H59Lt3RfIPZHMkoCI6KkGcAF55-JbFdc9eJveQ2fpu6pDarMFytF8epcz3tyEAu9QTLH1bptb3gA3pPEsGLcfpsG-DdgtsJydl7rUXFDanpJrR7-q7Ccq31sjRT3SpEQXnEjyyz/s640/blogger-image--1142430881.jpg" /></a></div>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-66792783253320083892012-05-25T21:29:00.001-05:002012-05-25T21:29:52.393-05:00Maker of MedicinesEvery once in a blue moon, there are these moments where I think I
can glimpse his future. He'll turn a particular direction, the light
will illuminate his profile and I see a 30 year old in front of me. Or
he'll speak about something and the air switches, it tingles, my arms
turn into goose bumps. Something about it speaks about something
beyond.<br />
<br />
Spence has been obsessed with making medicines as of late. His wise and
wonderful teacher, Ms. Niky, taught him to make a simple tincture of
plantain leaves and oil. To him, it was magic. His mouth dropped open
and he said, "This is the most wonderful thing I can ever imagine." She
was moved. He came home and proceeded to practice making medicines for
all that needs soothing.<br />
<br />
Weeks later, he still talks
about the magic of healing. At the preschool picnic, Ms. Niky pulled me
aside to recount the event again. "I think he might have a gift for
herbology." I told him what she had said. "Mom, could there be
something as wonderful as a job that makes medicines for all sorts of
doctors?" When I remarked yes, his brain started turning. I could see
it through his wide eyes.<br />
<br />
The air changed. Could be nothing, but it certainly was a magnetic moment.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-67356576676492540442012-05-12T20:46:00.002-05:002012-05-12T20:46:35.459-05:00Goodbye Art Guilt!I am sure you are already doing this. I am always just a bit late to the party.<br />
<br />
I have started to photograph and keep blogs of my kids art projects. So easy to do with a smartphone (just download Blogger and sync it with your phone). I no longer have the art guilt of tossing art. If you are not doing it, I suggest you start. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://spencerartwork.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Spencer's Art</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://noraartwork.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Nora's Art</a>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-47659076430485811162012-04-23T19:29:00.001-05:002012-04-23T19:29:58.048-05:00Animal Babies...Nor Time<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPzUF7uduCi5K1LCxC795-tcc6_Fx858yFS2-2W4IaPUT0ObdICJp6vvHDeewdbIUNRjLriVPEWqdCV9hwkhLbSQplQqA4GPAQb6ORDIEv6i-0LzN74HB7TsPLAewp5XVCf-pw7V41Arl/s640/blogger-image-384977202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPzUF7uduCi5K1LCxC795-tcc6_Fx858yFS2-2W4IaPUT0ObdICJp6vvHDeewdbIUNRjLriVPEWqdCV9hwkhLbSQplQqA4GPAQb6ORDIEv6i-0LzN74HB7TsPLAewp5XVCf-pw7V41Arl/s640/blogger-image-384977202.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBNl-adCEBBo2T23GoJV96VGYTmf1Tb9jGvRR6uY7zYDHShhZev47JVAUEQQ3-7Qx95dd2wBZM6gvSHKJyJTS-guvJPtMvn5sfBMjyaUVrkpsonqIOEcHMLtmosscE4jrIYLZDJuOfpc2u/s640/blogger-image-200459446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBNl-adCEBBo2T23GoJV96VGYTmf1Tb9jGvRR6uY7zYDHShhZev47JVAUEQQ3-7Qx95dd2wBZM6gvSHKJyJTS-guvJPtMvn5sfBMjyaUVrkpsonqIOEcHMLtmosscE4jrIYLZDJuOfpc2u/s640/blogger-image-200459446.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VMecndjE0IFjQDmulnGmnhSJZ4dOtpvE7AvDbB9vEUroDUILnStWbDhVVw7mQQ0YXbRrIFGECJuzQKZNqYQRAXcR4FAtr4E0r9bqN-k24sAsDYotUF8ILMUcyoEtgEq_91HP9irulnMg/s640/blogger-image-2044918545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VMecndjE0IFjQDmulnGmnhSJZ4dOtpvE7AvDbB9vEUroDUILnStWbDhVVw7mQQ0YXbRrIFGECJuzQKZNqYQRAXcR4FAtr4E0r9bqN-k24sAsDYotUF8ILMUcyoEtgEq_91HP9irulnMg/s640/blogger-image-2044918545.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAv3nt19lboH5UJTxqegAdy_vV8k-rMey8sX0klJYHuTBE3UbJQYJUjW72u4ArNCexad40vB3u4Gfg5Pi0RLovE_VkCvvN-JXemk4L0tvrpUt2OwLy0GI4nbR76QTF7fCez3bXxb9YXtlS/s640/blogger-image--1807655798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAv3nt19lboH5UJTxqegAdy_vV8k-rMey8sX0klJYHuTBE3UbJQYJUjW72u4ArNCexad40vB3u4Gfg5Pi0RLovE_VkCvvN-JXemk4L0tvrpUt2OwLy0GI4nbR76QTF7fCez3bXxb9YXtlS/s640/blogger-image--1807655798.jpg" /></a></div>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-88396762958985813212012-04-09T18:41:00.000-05:002012-04-09T18:41:14.366-05:00ResistanceNeomarxist ignoranus when someone breaks your nose and bashes your head
against the pavement is that great bodily harm? Does one have the right
to defend themselves or if a "black" person is attacking then that is
just what you get for being perceived as "white"?<br />Does "black"
privelege include the right to assault "white" people for looking at
them wrong? Does "black" privelege include the right to call RACISM on
every event and instance of life?<br />You are an idiot racialist and if you taught in my school district I would be doing everything in my power to have you fired.<br />
<br />
This was a comment I received on my lesson on antioppressive education and Trayvon Martin. <br />
<br />
After crying, I saw that this was another great opportunity to discuss resistance in our world. I don't know this person (or at least I don't think I do), but I can hear how threatened s/he is to transformation of the world. I know that s/he has yet to read or hear about Freire and the "Pedagogy of the Oppressed." It is only when the oppressed work with the oppressor that humanity can be assured for us all. <br />
<br />
I brought these words into my class so that these future teachers can think through resistance. How do we respond? How can we break through the fear? It was a great conversation, even if every single one of them probably believed that they would not face such resistance where they want to teach. <br />
<br />
It is a call for us all to continue to work with people that resist. People that feel backed into corners and resist true opportunities for healing transformation.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-58881244257247203372012-03-24T08:03:00.000-05:002012-03-24T08:47:41.942-05:00What is your vision of social transformation, and how far are you willing to go in your capacity as classroom teachers to achieve it?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRu_Ayie8p_2Xu7TZs7nYa3WyRr8d0Z5XoMBS8IZEV5PijogJ8ElYJgas9ljhxfNS94yTdcflw0ao6dRibQGLN_MsFf4lsZiQZaFFZaYAFfhkFTzAkSjKShPJYNADXdcrwHzCSKtuygLuI/s1600/Trayvon" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRu_Ayie8p_2Xu7TZs7nYa3WyRr8d0Z5XoMBS8IZEV5PijogJ8ElYJgas9ljhxfNS94yTdcflw0ao6dRibQGLN_MsFf4lsZiQZaFFZaYAFfhkFTzAkSjKShPJYNADXdcrwHzCSKtuygLuI/s320/Trayvon" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Even as the news swirls around the senseless death of Trayvon Martin, I am keenly aware of the many other black and brown bodies that are sacrificed for the maintenance of white supremacy. How do we prepare teachers that are able to meet the oppressive world and sustain the energy to work for substantive change? How can I, I as a teacher educator, help to nurture future teachers to realize their potential as change agents?<br />
<br />
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
I found a great article <a href="http://www.warner.rochester.edu/blog/warnerperspectives/?p=1220#more-1220" target="_blank">here</a> that helped me form my lesson.</div>
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This was my response with my capstone Education class at <a href="http://www.minneapolis.edu/Educational-Programs/Programs/education/" target="_blank">Minneapolis Community and Technical College</a>. We had already read the first two chapters in Troubling Education by Kevin Kumashiro in preparation for this lesson.<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I. Reconstruct what you understand about the killing of Trayvon Martin as a diagram in groups of 4 or 5. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How did race work here? How did race and politics intersect? Draw the description on your diagram.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Thinking about hook’s term “</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">white</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> supremacist </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">capitalist patriarchy,” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">how do you see this at play in this tragedy?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What’s not being said here?</span> What still needs to be asked?</li>
</ul>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">II. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/03/22/carol-city-student-stage-_n_1373439.html?ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false" target="_blank">Video</a> of his classmates walking out</span>. Think deeply about what happened prior to this walk out that was not supported by administration.</div>
<ol style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What is the responsibility of his teachers in the face of this tragedy? What should be expected of them to act? </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What
are the expectations for teachers across the country to teach/respond
to this tragedy? How can teachers help students of color analyze
oppression, their rights and organize for change? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Brainstorm at least five different lesson seeds.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What do you still need to know?</span></li>
</ol>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">**One Million Hoodie March for Trayvon Martin at U of M: Thursday, March 29 at 5:30 p.m.</span> **<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">III.
Journal: What is your vision of social transformation, and how far
are you willing to go in your capacity as classroom teachers to achieve
it? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Underline parts that you wish to share. Read the sections you feel comfortable sharing. Ask follow up questions as necessary.</span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Keep thinking about your response as we continue working. </span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
IV. Return to the early discussion. How should we best teach about Trayvon and this tragedy? How could our lessons work for change?<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
</div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
</div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
</div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Let’s lay some key definitions:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">*
Other: In many ways, Trayvon was viewed as inherently Other that
night. His age, skin color and dress all contributed Zimmerman to see
him as Other. Opposite. Foreign. His status as “Other” threaded in as
the legal response (and law) affirmed that status of Other.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">* Problem with Binaries--Black or White: How do these binaries reify oppression?</span> How was Zimmerman cast in a binary with Trayvon, even as it was perhaps more complicated?<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">* What is normal? How does normality affirm this tragedy?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Kumashiro discusses four different approaches to antioppressive education: </span>Quick mini-lesson/refresher on chapter 2 of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Troubling-Education-Activism-Anti-Oppressive-Pedagogy/dp/0415933129/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1332592175&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Troubling Education</a>.<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>
<ul style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Education for the Other</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
</ul>
<ol style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Problem with how we define and understand what the Other is and who she should be</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Power dynamic--still created by the powerful to alleviate the suffering of the Other (for, not with)</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Change: adjust or create spaces to meet the needs of the Other. This maintains the status as </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">completely Other or suggests assimilation; culturally relevant pedagogy</span></li>
</ul>
</ol>
<ul style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Education about the Other</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Changing, supplementing, enriching the curriculum</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What is defined as “normal?”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Knowledge inside and outside the classroom--impartial, marginalized; problem with the “hidden curriculum.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Knowledge as partial is critical--it rests on a notion that you can never fully be the expert </span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
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<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Education that is critical of privileging and Othering</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This acknowledges the power imbalance and structural element</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">"Pedagogy of positionality”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Structural elements seem to posit that it has the same general effect on individuals...not true </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">and can </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">lead to further oppression</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Crisis can lead to resistance</span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
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<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Education that changes students and society</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This rests on the belief knowledge is partial; identities shift; oppression is citationally reproduced</span> </li>
<ul>
<li>Share story of my 8th grade student Julian, the brilliant boy who resisted knowledge of slavery as it was only reproducing the oppression within him. Pause to wonder how Trayvon was as a student.<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
</ul>
<ul style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How does discussing these stereotypes and oppression reify them?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Supplementation: which to cite and add to the definition; Change means not just to ban harmful words </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">or histories, but to add to it, supplement, and make it new. </span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Think through the word "queer." </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
</ul>
<ul style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><ul>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There is no perfect curriculum; no perfect resource: Rather, there are questions that inspire critical responses.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Ethics of Crisis</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></li>
</ul>
</ul>
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IV. Jigsaw: Separate from your home team into four new groups to dig deeply into one of these four approaches to antioppressive education.<br />
<ul>
<li>Help each other understand this approach. Dig into the text. Surface quotes that can add to your discussion.</li>
<li>What questions emerge? </li>
<li>Explore the strengths and weaknesses of this approach.</li>
<li>Share examples. How would this look in practice?</li>
</ul>
</div>
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</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Go back to your homebase team. Take one minute for each person to share their new nuanced understanding of the approach to antioppressive education. Ask questions.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Return
to our responses as to how to respond to the tragedy of Trayvon Martin.
How would you categorize your lesson plans with these four responses? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Add to each of the four categories a lesson seed idea.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Take a moment of quiet. Be with your thoughts. Listen to what you are thinking. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Who would like to share? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How do we think about the crisis that can come for our students? How do you manage it, if it happens?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Return
to your earlier journal. Think about what you wrote. Consider the
different approaches to antioppressive education. Journal.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-23767168244883975612012-03-17T06:27:00.001-05:002012-03-17T06:28:22.844-05:00Sneaky Seamus<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdUqRnKG8CmDoUwHgpBkGBHQQ-ROyHI56vrJsvo24JsYPSwqmPjllUuUPAJgmTnYDAy3_PVb59Wq7vLrtfNuu8pcrycL02XsrvO58EEfzLCofLBKxqESvr0UCq4GuGLEvtdKUera_k3jt/s640/blogger-image-1597362152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdUqRnKG8CmDoUwHgpBkGBHQQ-ROyHI56vrJsvo24JsYPSwqmPjllUuUPAJgmTnYDAy3_PVb59Wq7vLrtfNuu8pcrycL02XsrvO58EEfzLCofLBKxqESvr0UCq4GuGLEvtdKUera_k3jt/s320/blogger-image-1597362152.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teeny tiny potatoes!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOU3j8rXPVDh9mQTJcOi6__3cH3SgYjRRdYzFOuIAQ1fsjBXzW8G7FYqWZVaX5tM_H9A1_ah2uEE3LKqPqhku13lTX19LVOvXaDJfJ2qs4vzGr6zclhCUeMxv0aKxapHxeFYPH-fpf_Ja/s640/blogger-image-1318333282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOU3j8rXPVDh9mQTJcOi6__3cH3SgYjRRdYzFOuIAQ1fsjBXzW8G7FYqWZVaX5tM_H9A1_ah2uEE3LKqPqhku13lTX19LVOvXaDJfJ2qs4vzGr6zclhCUeMxv0aKxapHxeFYPH-fpf_Ja/s320/blogger-image-1318333282.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green muffins!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The leprechauns snuck into our house last night. Who can blame them? We left tiny round rocks on the drain board. Leprechauns can't help but turn those round rocks into potatoes and leave behind green muffins for good measure. <br />
Seamus the Leprechaun also promised trickery during Spence's birthday party this afternoon...keep an eye out.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-35179826373905608862012-03-15T20:59:00.001-05:002012-03-15T20:59:16.709-05:00<br />
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I am trying to hold on to all of the scraps of conversation that appear like shiny pennies in my path as I rush through life. Every time Spence opens his mouth, I want to furiously jot down every word in a notebook. Perhaps I should get a tape recorder and lurk to steal away every word. This is a beautiful age. Just like every number before and I suppose every number from here forward.<br />
<br />
He's a full hand today.<br />
<br />
Usually, he wakes us up by cock-a-doodle dooing. He didn't this morning, but I hope I can always hear that in my mind as he grows older and forgets to do this. He bopped into bed between Dave and I this morning and he listened to us warble (me: warble, Dave: sing) Happy Birthday. When discussing the prospect of presents, he turned to us and said, "I just want you guys." <br />
<br />
How do I not swirl up and lose myself in those words? Could there be anything finer? Doubtful.<br />
<br />
When presented with a birthday pancake with a candle, he looked up full of love and said, "Thank you, mama. Thank you!" The words...fairly run of the mill words. But, ah! The tone. If I was still a 4th grade girl, I would be able to decorate the words with bubbly cursive and hearts at the bottom of the exclamation point to communicate the tone.<br />
<br />
At lunch, he ordered grilled chicken and a salad. "Now that I am five, I think I will like salad now." He proceeded to chomp on lettuce and the light green part of cucumbers. "Maybe I will drink coffee now too," he said barely able to contain the giggles.<br />
<br />
We wandered into <a href="http://sweetsbakeshop.com/" target="_blank">Sweets</a> on Marshall. Mindful of the allure of sugar, I reminded him to use your eyes, but do not touch anything. A few steps in he turns and looks at me a wee bit mournfully. "We have a problem, Mom. I can't seem to stop touching the floor." <br />
<br />
<br />Happy Birthday, Spencer. <br />
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</div>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-40410161803931769682012-03-12T19:58:00.000-05:002012-03-12T19:58:00.951-05:00There will be fairies tonight.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXeByfkpGbbaNbhbWb131DfoLgr6C6V2XDWtoCgvMxIPEMQdB0ohwO93XK43cYPF6MsRxaXjZXROrgoAGIAqCqGrBY76EOOw8mWStFTQtevFoYeDzad7DTmVxdF3H1MBjmncUaNGIcUIz/s640/blogger-image--2029966343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXeByfkpGbbaNbhbWb131DfoLgr6C6V2XDWtoCgvMxIPEMQdB0ohwO93XK43cYPF6MsRxaXjZXROrgoAGIAqCqGrBY76EOOw8mWStFTQtevFoYeDzad7DTmVxdF3H1MBjmncUaNGIcUIz/s640/blogger-image--2029966343.jpg" /></a></div>
We tied the muk on the tree for the fairies today. It had been a long time coming. There were ample conversations about how the muk was not good for her teeth. (The threat of braces seems hollow when you are 3.) We chatted about how muks are very important to babies when they don't have words, but less important when you are able to talk about how you are feeling. We lured her with promises of chapstick (which she calls "chopstick"). <br />
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She is cuddling 12 tubes of glittery lip gloss tonight. <br />
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Growing up can be hard sometimes.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-75116265750433916942012-02-25T14:05:00.002-06:002012-02-25T14:05:36.191-06:00Three!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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In most ways, I cannot believe Nora is only 3. How has it only been three short years since she turned our life so much sweeter? It feels like she has been with us for much longer. Perhaps it is a sign she is an old soul, so comfortable on this earth.<br />
<br />
<br />
If she had her druthers, she would subsist only on pasta with Parmesan cheese, yogurt tubes, 'yogurt with a spoon,' and Clif bars. She wants to be a butterfly when she gets older. <br />
Or maybe a ballerina. <br />
<br />
She loves me, Papa, Spencer, Dallas and daffodils. Nora is a gifted storyteller and practices daily...hourly really. Lately, she has been taking to recording all of her thoughts in little notebooks. Working carefully at writing, although she is more interested in creating her own symbols. <br />
<br />
Her rainbow party was quite a hit. She screamed with joy when she saw the decorations. Rainbow themed food, rainbow aprons with shiny jewels and puff balls, and of course lots and lots of stickers. It was a strict "only Addies" guest list, with the only exception being Bubbeh.<br />
<br />
What a day. What a kid!KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-26887292088621426822011-11-11T13:54:00.001-06:002011-11-11T13:55:05.394-06:00On Veteran's DayI saw only the back of his head as he darted out of the room. I took a mental tally of what had been happening. I studied the faces of those he had been working with only to see smiles and the hum of productive conversation. It was odd. Something in the basement air twisted.<br />
<br />
As quickly as he darted out, he was back. I saw the pink marks around his wide eyes. Hands in his pocket. He seemed smaller even as he towered above me. "Can I talk to you...outside?"<br />
<br />
I followed him as he jagged out the door. "I have PTSD and I am triggered." His brown eyes were even wider. "I am not sure why." His skin was marbeling pink. I could sense his heart racing. I resisted the urge to hug him, to push back the fear. I listened instead.<br />
<br />
On this Veteran's Day, I know the drill. I am to feel grateful. Thankful. And I am. Yet, this sits with anger. Young men and women are expected to sacrifice what they do not even know they are giving. And a lifetime is spent recovering, reflecting and attempting to move forward.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-62255734216384692132011-10-31T21:09:00.000-05:002011-10-31T21:09:14.737-05:00Blueberry Girl"Ladies of light and ladies of dark and ladies of never you mind--This is a prayer for a blueberry girl."<br />
<br />
Nor and I have taken to reading and rereading and reading one more time for good measure Neil Gaimen's <a href="http://www.harpercollinschildrens.com/books/Blueberry-Girl/?isbn13=9780060838089&tctid=100" target="_blank">Blueberry Girl</a>. It starts with a beautiful picture of a reclining redheaded woman, almost 9 months of babe in her belly. Nora points and says "Mama." I neglect to tell her that I looked more like the planet Mars with a small pimple of a head on top. And then she points to the belly and grins. "Nora." <br />
<br />
"Keep her from spindles and sleeps at sixteen, let her stay waking and wise. Nightmares at three or bad husbands at thirty, these will not trouble her eyes."<br />
<br />
I venture into asking her what she remembers about growing in my belly. <br />
"Warm," she says plainly. <br />
<br />
What was it like when you were born? <br />
"I was really sad. I cried a lot. And then I had milk, strawberry milk." <br />
<br />
"Words can be worrisome, people complex, motives and manners unclear....this is a prayer for a blueberry girl."<br />
<br />
When I ask her if she is a blueberry girl, she tilts her head and grins with astonishment. "No! I have no costume." A strawberry girl? She just shakes her head. Silly mama.<br />
<br />
Again?KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-41690483516431896952011-10-25T21:55:00.000-05:002011-10-25T21:55:05.524-05:00Dinner TimeThis is the drill. I suddenly become aware of the time. Usually 30-40 minutes past the time I had intended to be on my way home from the gym. I shut off my computer screen, rush a student out of my office, and toss a few books that I intend to review at home. (And dutifully will return to my office the following morning still tucked in my bag.) I keep my head down as I speed walk to my car, so as to avoid eye contact with anyone that could derail my singular quest to make a delicious meal.<br />
<br />
As I dart through side streets to get to my abode, I concoct recipes. I think through what we have in the house, briefly reflect on the food pyramid or food circle or food plate. I burst through the front door with visions of vegetable-based protein sources and delicious sauces. I settle on roasted pumpkin risotto with slivered almonds. I get to work.<br />
<br />
Dave calls breathlessly from his race to pick up the kids with short updates on their days. If the lights at 32nd and Hiawatha cooperate, I have about 12 minutes to finish the meal before the kids shoot through the door and start poking in the kitchen. A bit of movie magic somehow happens and dinner is on the table, the kids hands are mostly washed, and we are about to eat.<br />
<br />
Upon seeing the meal, Spencer just asks if he can have broccoli instead. Nora demands pasta. I want to bang my head on the table, but am wary that my red wine may spill. When I get gruff and muffle something like, "I worked really hard on this meal and this is what is for dinner," Spence asks to be excused. Nora starts wailing.<br />
<br />
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Just another dinner at the Snyders. KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-87380940462460199342011-10-11T21:35:00.000-05:002011-10-11T21:35:45.495-05:00PumpkinsPerhaps I should be a bit embarrassed in admitting this. <br />
<br />
I love pumpkins. Passionate about pumpkins. I want to hoard them. Pile them up on my front porch. Stash them on every stair on my case. I want to name them, cuddle them, comfort them from the inevitable knife that is waiting to slice into them.<br />
<br />
When I was small, I would bathe them. More than once, in the sink like a wee baby. I would steal a laundry basket and turn it into a pumpkin crib. Name them. And weep when my mother mentioned carving into her. It was haunting to see the gourd start to decompose, despite my best efforts to hold back time. <br />
<br />
And I would pine for the next October to do it all again.<br />
<br />
I am a bit more grown up about it all now. I slyly wash the pumpkin, just once, and never with bubble bath. I am all business-like about the carving. And there are no pumpkin cribs.<br />
<br />
So you can imagine my heart flutters when Nor decided to cuddle her baby pumpkin. Bring it into the bath and scrub it with her butterfly wash cloth. Sleep with it right next to her on her nightstand. Demand to take it to school and introduce her friends to her sweet little pumpkin. <br />
<br />
And a new generation of pumpkin-lovers begins.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi215JH561df6zrbeJqfa-CKAzBf_eRQFipSASzZAkW-gkhs8omBTESE7fIZCOhBUkiqnsDPNQwGD0yrTmDZQihVsCJXod7bYQWVhytTBVBLq_fgJklGV7rcMbd7ffNiO8crjNj5jHbIspg/s1600/IMG_2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi215JH561df6zrbeJqfa-CKAzBf_eRQFipSASzZAkW-gkhs8omBTESE7fIZCOhBUkiqnsDPNQwGD0yrTmDZQihVsCJXod7bYQWVhytTBVBLq_fgJklGV7rcMbd7ffNiO8crjNj5jHbIspg/s320/IMG_2007.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-15235919569874556442011-09-29T22:02:00.002-05:002011-09-29T22:04:29.531-05:005772<div style="text-align: left;">I am getting better at navigating Jewish holidays. I didn't have even one <a href="http://caffeinatedlove.blogspot.com/2007/09/what-not-to-wear-temple-edition.html">meltdown</a> today as I got dressed for services. Not one tear was shed when I maneuvered through my closet of Target clearance buys and countless pairs of cords to unearth something suitable. Even though the usher refused to say hello, shrugged at my prayer book request, and sent me to the cheap seats, I think I totally belonged. Except for the Hebrew thing. And well really knowing what was happening throughout the 3 hour service. And still being stunned it was a 3 hour service.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</style> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Dave was asked to give the sermon today to kick off 5772. It was nothing short of amazing. I sobbed through most of it, in awe at the way he knit words, images, and actions together. It was a masterpiece. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Seven minutes in, I had to sneak a photo. I know, not Kosher. </div><br />
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</div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I was (mostly) discrete. I just needed some documentation of the moment. And really, this photo pales in the face of Dave's words.<b> </b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>Soul Justice and The Faith of Isaac</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I sat cross-legged, self-conscious and stiff, but enough at peace to slow my racing thoughts and enjoy my first meditation class as a young adult in Baltimore. The rain clattered against the roof and the wooden floors creaked against my settling and resettling hips and ankles. As I held my hereditary anxiety at bay for the duration of the class, I noticed that both my inner and outer worlds had grown quiet. I walked out of class and discovered the rain had frozen into the season’s first snow. The muddy light of streetlights, automobile headlamps, and neon storefront signs reflected off the snow and was lifted to fresh heights, and the sounds of the city were absorbed into the snow’s silent crystalline surfaces. A minor rebirth of self, within a minor rebirth of a city; this is my first offering to you, my Shir Tikvah family, on Rosh Hashanah. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wish I could say I stuck with it, and developed my own meditative practice; but I didn’t. Then I joined the morning Minyan here at Shir Tikvah, and loved it deeply; but I let my busy-ness grow like weeds into that Thursday morning space where I’d prayed with a small, dear group of chaverim. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I think about my most meaningful experiences in prayer, in meditation, or in spiritual practice, the common denominator is a sense of welcoming; a bone-deep feeling of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being welcomed </i>and celebrated and accepted and enfolded…; and a rising song of an answer in myself that celebrates the world and rededicates myself to its people. I notice my breathing; I notice the wind stirring tree branches. This happens a few times each year, if I’m lucky. Such a feeling may visit some of us in shul today, but for many of us, still shaking off the distractions and anxieties of our secular lives, it may not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m afraid that many of us, myself included, spend a lot of time in the clutches of what some in the Buddhist tradition call the trance of unworthiness, which means we are telling ourselves, mostly below conscious awareness, that you don’t belong here, that you’re a fake, you don’t really know what you’re doing, you’ve earned only the misfortunes that have befallen you, while anything good in your life is the result of some cosmic or bureaucratic misunderstanding, and you better keep faking it so that “they” don’t figure you out and exile you from your home, your community, your school, your workplace, your shul. The writer Anne LaMott called it her very own subliminal radio station playing in her head.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wonder if Isaac, the son of Abraham, felt any of the tension between these feelings of unworthiness and feelings of welcome, as he lay bound upon his father’s altar. We hear a lot about the test of Abraham’s faith, but what about the faith of Isaac? Was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Isaac’s</i> faith shaken as the bonds cut against his skin and his father readied his sacrificial blade? Was he calm as he readied himself to die? Or did he blame himself for the suffering he was about to endure, to make sense of the inexplicable fate that hurtled towards him? This figure of Isaac becomes achingly familiar across the millennia. Especially as children, but even as adults, we accept our suffering, and we twist our lives like vines slowly around the question, what must I have done to deserve this fate? She’ll find her away out of that bottle, she didn’t mean it when she hit me; he’s just a tough love boss, and how could I have made such a clumsy mistake anyway? Like vines slowly covering the contours of an altar, we endure domestic violence, poverty-wage jobs, school bullying, predatory lending and foreclosure, we twist our living, our thinking, our being into harmony with violence, and project the figure of Abraham onto our oppressor. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: purple;">(Kristy here. It was at this point that all of the tension that I sometimes have about raising our kids Jewish evaporated. I mean, who wouldn't want their kids to be like this man that I get to be married to forever?)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">None of us needs to perish upon these altars. This is the prophetic wisdom of Judaism that I believe in—that we are welcome in the radical abundance of God’s universe, and we are commanded to knit justice and radical openness to the stranger, the widow, the orphan, into the societies we create, and even, as Jeremiah reminds us, into the strange cities into which we are cast by chance or flight. And if we find we have to blind ourselves to this commandment in order to get through a single day in this society, may the Shofar blast illuminate a different path, even for a moment, like a lightning bolt in the depths of night.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the intersection of prayer and power, of spirituality and the struggle for justice, I offer the question: who among us remembers we are welcome, and who twists upon the altar? Who has bound herself in the unforgiving coils of a self turned against itself, in exile from itself, and who is bound by injustice, prone on the altar of poverty and powerlessness? Who chokes on the false faith of Isaac? And when will we free ourselves from the altars of sacrifice that bind us; when will we unmask the false Abrahams that menace us, to refashion the world so all of us can revel in the same message of radical welcoming and celebration, that says, to all of us: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can dwell here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can thrive here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can love and be loved here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can be different, or think different, or believe different, or love different, or look different, and you will still be recognized and welcomed here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can labor here, and you will reap an abundant reward, and so will your children.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">Your children will be nurtured here, will be called to contribute their best, and will know that they belong here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can thrive here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You are welcome here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">This is the message that I would place like a signpost to all travelers at the intersection of the path of prayer or spiritual practice, and the path of justice, of tzedek. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now come with me, 1100 miles to the east, and around a decade into the past, into the blazing Baltimore heat that baked the blacktop soft against the slapping soles of my dress shoes, hurtling through rush hour traffic towards the inner harbor, towards the Convention Center, towards Phyllis, a veteran banquet server and shop steward, who was standing down her general manager, forbidden Union buttons clenched in her fist. I had been driving south on St Paul avenue a moment earlier with two fellow organizers, Leon and Alyson, before Phyllis called me from her cell phone, whispered a few frantic hushed words, they’re going to take me away right now, I started giving out the buttons and they caught me right away, get down here now! We were stuck in rush hour traffic, inching along towards the great convention center where convention guests were preparing for some tasty appetizers and where the GM was preparing to escort Phyllis off the premises… so I jumped out of the car, leaving Leon and Alyson with the keys, and our picket-signs stuffed in my trunk, and I ran down the street to give Phyllis some back-up. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">Now Phyllis lived with her family in a pretty tough, run-down apartment complex in West Baltimore, but she looked sharp in her tuxedo attire, and in my opinion, the crowning touch was the Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees, HERE Local 7 button, a classy grey with navy letters, on her lapel. Convention Center management differed in their opinion, and threatened to fire any of the 120 or so workers who dared to wear a union button as our contract negotiations heated up that summer. So we planned to all ‘button up’ just before a big convention meal was to be served, and in case they tried to punish any of the workers wearing buttons, we prepared the whole group of workers to walk off work for an “unfair labor practices strike”—which meant they would have some extra legal protections from company retaliation. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">So… I dashed past the security guards who, I would later learn had a mug shot of me and orders to kick me out if they saw me without a management escort, and I raced upstairs to join the confrontation between the HR director, the general manager, Phyllis, and a gathering throng of workers and befuddled convention goers. Ultimately, a little bit of justice was served that day. Phyllis and I stood our ground and so did the other workers, and they got to wear their union buttons without retaliation. They ended up getting a great contract with health insurance coverage and wage increases. That, and I’ll leave you with the image of Kenny, an older gentleman who worked in the back of the house, unfailingly courteous but too cautious to get caught up in union trouble, even to wear a button; Kenny, who came hesitantly out with the other workers to support Phyllis that day, silently; Kenny, who finally approached me on that day of raised voices and confrontation, and silently invited me to put a local 7 button into his open, deeply calloused hand. Something both concrete and inchoate, something objective, quantifiable, and something that cannot be safely entrusted to language, all of it clumsily filed under the word Justice, happened that day, and that summer, in the stifling heat of Baltimore.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">Sometimes the angel of G-d tells Abraham, “do not lift your hand against your son, free him and be welcome on this earth”, and sometimes maybe G-d speaks to a woman named Phyllis, and tells her to overcome the false faith of Isaac in her oppressor, so she can rise up and call on her co-workers to wear a union button, risking their jobs to hold the line for economic justice, to free their families and the generation of their children and grandchildren from the altar of poverty and powerlessness, from a society that tells them that they don’t belong here, they have no right to dwell here, no right to thrive, to accumulate knowledge, a home, or other wealth to pass along to their children… </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">I challenge each of you, I call upon you, I implore you to hear within the raucous sounds of struggles like this one, and many others that go unreported today, the profound labor of rebuilding an economy—it cannot be built without you, and you cannot join in building it until you yourself are released from your own altar, until you dispel the sham Abraham that menaces you in a thousand forms. When it seems too hard, think of your children, and your children’s children, emerging from an economy of cruelty into a new world, like a world freshly adorned by the season’s first snow, a new economy that resonates not with a message of judgment, but instead with a message of welcome:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can dwell here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can thrive here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can love and be loved here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can be different, or think different, or believe different, or love different, or look different, and you will still be recognized and welcomed here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can labor here, and you will reap an abundant reward, and so will your children.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">Your children will be nurtured here, will be called to contribute their best, and will know they belong here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You can thrive here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;">You are welcome here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 379.2pt;"><span style="color: purple;">(Me again. I did resist the urge to stand up and cheer. Or to raise a sign like Norma Rae...something like, "That's My Husband!" or "Revolution Now." But, it did dawn on me that Dave might need to become a rabbi. And that I might really be okay with that.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6175715419910632593.post-22097769553595894612011-09-18T08:11:00.002-05:002011-09-18T11:33:51.149-05:00The Perilousness of MPR in the MorningI woke up this morning to<a href="http://www.npr.org/2011/09/18/140477014/donor-conceived-children-seek-missing-identities#commentBlock"> this</a>. I had not yet even had a sip of coffee. Incredibly bad timing.<br />
<br />
I have now had about 8 large gulps of cold press and I am recovered. Mostly.<br />
<br />
I had never thought about the other relatives of my donor. His parents, his siblings. My donor grandparents, my donor aunts and uncles. It was a subtle ache.<br />
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And then I started to read the comment sections. Something I should recommit to never doing. I don't understand folks that try to narrow identity down to one thing. I am not sure why in questioning the use of anonymous sperm and yearning to know more someone might comment that your life could be taken away if you are not grateful.<br />
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I suppose, if I am being honest, that if a letter arrived at my door with the information about my donor I would not hesitate to open it. I do want to know. I want to know what he looked like, if his eyes are green or hazel or brown, if his amygdala is as active as my own. It is a question of identity. Because time is precious and scarce, I cannot devote my time to this effort.<br />
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But, I am still curious.KMShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03420056119100109070noreply@blogger.com1