I cried at work today.
As a class, we watched Invisible Children's latest film entitled "GO". It is a film about a group of students traveling to Uganda (which is the heart of Africa's longest running war) after raising money for the children who live in this war-torn country. The children, who are often kidnapped to become child soldiers, want nothing more than a safe place to sleep and a chance to go to school. A chance to survive. It is everything you would expect it to be: Violent. Horrific. Brutal. Savage. Unnecessary.
For the first time in eight weeks my entire class was quiet. There was no falling asleep, no talking, no trying to sneak cellphones. They were intrigued. Moved, I hope.
I wish I could have gotten inside their little heads. Were they, for just a second, feeling lucky? Grateful even?
The part of the movie that got to me the most - that made me really evaulate my own life - was not just what these children had to endure but the amount of hope they still had. They have. Amist a life that seems impossibly brutal and brief, they make plans for who they want to become.
I wish I had the answer. I wish I could say something profound. I wish I could save the world. I wish. I wish. I wish.
I do most of my philosophical thinking in two places: the shower or the car - Both of which are extremely difficult to get my thoughts down in written form. I always have the right words to explain how I'm feeling in these moments. My usually jumbled thoughts come together in extended amounts of clarity. They seem simple. Poetic even. But, by the time I get out - of the shower or the car - and get to the point where I can sit down and write - poof! Gone.
On the weekends I listen to music while I shower. I know it's not a good thing to do considering we are in California and conserving water is necessary but there is something rejuvenating about listening to a song with extraordinarily beautiful lyrics while feeling vulnerable and relaxed. It makes me feel connected. (If I were an character in a movie or book my dad would yell out - rebirth!) So this morning, there I was listening to music (ipod was on shuffle) when a song that I have always loved seemed extremely poignant.
Oh music!
When I got out of the shower, I felt moved to write something important. So many thoughts were swirling in my head and I felt certain I could finally write something that would really mean something. A way to allow people to see me the way I know I can be. The writer inside me was finally ready to emerge.
I took out my laptop, sat down in my towel-like cover up and was ready to create. Nothing. Nada.
Was it possible that minutes ago I felt like I could write a masterpiece and now I sat staring at the cursor, having no idea how to even start? Then, I realized the awful, undeniable truth : I was not only a poet in the shower but I was also a singer. And a movie star. And everything that I have always wanted to be.
Oh fickle shower! Oh rebirth!
Charlotte's Web is the first book that made me cry. I was in second grade and when I realized what was happening - that this was not Disney - and that Charlotte really was going to die, I felt cheated. How could she really die? How was Wilbur going to recover? How was I going to recover? I put my head on my desk to hide my tears. No happily ever after?
Luckily, I was able to recuperate from Charlotte's passing and realize what had made me so devastated: She was such an amazing friend. Maybe the best there ever was.
I think, at one time or another, we all hope to have a friend like Charlotte. Someone that would go out on a limb for you. Someone who would work all night to put your mind at ease. Someone who would save your life.
My parents bought my a copy of Charlotte's Web that year and I still have it. Even when money was tight, I was always allowed to buy a book. What tremendous parents to understand how much those books meant to me. To have the insight to know that I would soon forget the Barbie I had wanted and always remember the book I had.
Happily Ever After.
I rarely remember exactly when certain events happened. Instead, I loosely group memorable experiences into general milestones: My first kiss was in middle school. I got my first job in high school. I fell in love in college.
It's easier to lump it all together in this way this because it saves me the time from having to figure out exactly when "things" occurred and most people don't really care anyway. But my favorite television show of all time, My So-Called Life, is easy to recall. It aired, for the first time, in the fall of 1994. I know this sounds ridiculous but the reason I remember so clearly is anything but. It's important. It's life-changing. It's tragic.
By mid-November I was an addict. I could not get enough of "My So-Called Life." Here was a show that I could really connect with. This was a school similar to mine. It didn't have the heightened drama of 90210 or the sleazy excitement of Melrose Place. Instead, the characters suffered quietly. Rarely did anyone even know they were suffering. And they "suffered" over what we did - not teen pregnancy or sleeping with your best friend's boyfriend- but zits and unrequited love. It was spectacular. I was Angela Chase. We all were.
It was a Thursday - my show was on.
She didn't come to school that day and I should have known something was wrong. I saw her after school and I asked her why she stayed home if she wasn't sick. She said she just didn't feel like going. I should have asked her more.
Why didn't I ask her more?
We talked on the phone that night - the usual. We asked each other who we liked. At the time, that was everyone's biggest concern. We agreed that each other's crushes were worthy. Both cute. Both smart. Both nice. Then - came the last thing I would ever say to her besides "goodbye."
"Hey, can I call you back after My-So Called Life?" I asked.
November 17, 1994. Thursday. 8:00pm. - So much for not being good with details.
We would never talk again.
I have this connection with "My So-Called Life." To this day, when I watch old episodes, it still puts me in this place I can't quite describe. It reminds me of being twelve and insecure. It reminds me of secretly loving someone from afar and hoping and dreaming they would one day love me back. It reminds me of looking forward to high school and all that was to come in my life. It reminds me of telling a friend who needed me that I had to go to watch a stupid tv show. It reminds me of Carmen. Of guilt. Of an emptiness that I just recently learned how to fill.
It reminds me.
Abe Lincoln nailed it. Unfortunately, in America, that just doesn't cut it. You have to define yourself as something. You have to be a Christian. Or a Catholic. Or Mormon. Or Muslim.
Well, maybe not Muslim.
I have a bulletin board in the back of my classroom. Since I teach American Literature I decided it would be good for the kids to see the faces of the founding fathers. So, I started with Geroge Washington. I added Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams...you know, the regulars. But since it's MOSTLY a literature class I decided to add famous American authors: Nathanial Hawthorne, Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Arthur Miller. But then, why not add famous American scientists, athletes, thinkers, actors, presidents?
So that's what I did.
The kids adore this wall. They walk in and see how many people they can name and what that person did to influence America. They make eloquent sales pitches on why I should include people like Bob Marley and Cheech and Chong on the wall. Huge advances in reggae music. Revolutionized the film industry. Spread laughter and joy to people internationally. Right.
So it sort of surpised me today when I saw a kid standing at the wall, point and say, "God, what a stupid name. Why would anyone name their child that?"
I have to admit - I thought it was someone like Bono or something. A nickname that the kid didn't realize was a nickname. An innocent mistake.
I wish it was that innocent.
"Who are you talking about?" I asked.
"Barack. That's suuuuuch a dumb name," he answered, as if this was the most obvious fact he had ever come across.
I wanted to shoot back that I thought his name was dumb.
Then, I quickly remembered - I am the teacher. Crap. I am the teacher.
"It's not a dumb name, it's an African name. Just like we have people with names from all around the world in this class, his name is part of his culture. I'm sure if you went to Africa they would think your name was pretty strange." - Okay, I think that was fair. I didn't attack him. I just tried to open up his perspective. I crossed my fingers.
"It's not just his name that's dumb..." he continued.
I held my breath.
"It's not just his name that's dumb, it's also the fact that he is Muslim. Who wants a Muslim for a president?"
Oh boy.
I answered too quickly. I should have thought about it. I should have settled down, took a deep breath and looked around the classroom before I shot back, "He is not Muslim!"
If I had taken a second to look around, I would have remembered Nihad. My sweet, introspective, kind, painstakingly quiet Nihad. And the reason I would have answered differently, the reason I should have answered differently is because Nehad is Muslim.
I hate the way we, as a country, have talked about Barack Obama's religion. The media spends their time disbanning rumors that he is Muslim insteading of discussing the fact that it should not matter what religion he practices in the privacy of his own home. Time is spent convincing Americans everywhere that Obama is Christian, just like the rest of us. "Don't worry America, he belives in God." "He's been a Christian for twenty years now." "His famiy has been raised in the church." "Here is Obama with a bible." Obama is safe.
What happened to the separation of church and state? What happened to equality and freedom? What happened to America? This sort of backward thinking has even gotten to me. When a kid in my classroom "accused" Obama of being Muslim, I quickly came to the rescue."Don't worry class, Obama believes in our God. We can all sleep easy tonight."
Luckily, I recovered quickly. I saw Nehad's head shoot up and look at me curiously - waiting to see my next move. I saw the rest of the class wait for me to continue. ( I obviously don't raise my voice very often so they were excited to see me fired up).
We talked about steroetyping for the rest of the period. We made lists on the board about different ways people could be classified and then how and why those particular groups are attacked. Then we added discrimination against short men (yes, the kid that thought Islam was scary, is short - intentional, yes) and we added discrimation against tall women. We added sterotype after sterotype until every kid could be labeled as one of the groups on the board. We talked about what it feels like to judged before your met. How it hurts when someone generalizes about people. We talked about how lucky we were to live in America where we could have this conversation. It was hopeful.
It was something.
I'm determined to write every day. I've found, however, that the hard part of writing is not necessarily just finding the time to write, but to find something to write about. If I approach this as a "What I did today" sort of blog then it would inevitably turn into a compilation of stories about the most annoying high school students in the world. And since I know it will happen that way eventually, I'm going to make a conscious effort to NOT talk about my students for awhile. (I know some of you are breathing a sigh of relief - In real life, I do this far too often). Instead, I'm going to write about what is really on my mind. What I think about after I crawl into bed but before I fall asleep: my brother, Jeff.
Jeff is heartbroken. Jeff was heartbroken. Jeff is heartbroken.
Hmmmm. I need a definition of heartbroken.
Merriam-Webster's dictionary defines heartbroken as "overcome with sorrow."
Jeff was heartbroken. He is not overcome anymore.
And this is what makes Jeff remarkable. I know he feels sorrow. I know he feels, at times, like his world will never be whole again. But Jeff has this ability, this unmistakably brave and delibrate ability to see life for all that it can be, not just what it is. He has this desperate hold on idealism that makes even the most cynical have hope.
Jeff was hearbroken.
Jeff is back.
I feel like I've been searching for inspiration. Something to motivate me to write, to create, to do anything that can connect me in some way to my private thoughts. Those thoughts that feel better when they are expressed because when I attempt to make sense of them - they kind of start to have some validity.
I started by buying a journal. As a child, I wrote every night but as my life became more complicated and private I felt nervous having my life scribbled out for anyone to read. So, last month, I bought this journal - and my intentions were to write in it. Every day to write. I convinced myself it would be a place where I could record what happens in my life. A way to keep track of the daily occurences. The problem was - the problem is- I'm too critical of my own writing. I would sit down to simply say what I did that day - but didn't know how to start. I mean, I can't start it "Dear Diary..." That's so juvenile. My writing has come much further than that by now, right?
Wrong.
I could not write. The writer's block that sometimes plagued me in college was back - with a vengeance. Nothing I wrote was good enough. Not deep enough. Cheesy. Bad.
I turned to TV. If I coudn't write about my life, I could write about other people's. I could write a quick post on myspace about how much I hated Sarah Palin. I could bitch about McCain. I could voice my opinion. I have an opinion. I have a voice.
Yet, this still was not enough.
Then yesterday night, everything changed.
Meghan came over to watch a movie since we had missed our regular Friday night flick. We made a trip to Blockbuster and rented "The Waitress" with Keri Russell. We drove through "In-and-Out" and got greasy, unhealthy, delicious meals. We were ready for an amazing night of bad chick flicks and artery-clogging food. I could not wait.
Then, Meghan said, "Oh, I have to show you this blog. It's so moving. It's so sad. It's so inspiring."
Inspiring? Hmmm. Sadly, I cannot be inspired. I've tried. But hey, give it a shot.
I don't know if it was the fact that she read the blog aloud to me. I don't know if it was because I've wanted to be connected to something both apart and a part of me. But it worked. I listened to Meghan read the words from a mother I've never met .She talked about her husband and I thought about mine. She talked about her children and I imagined what mine would one day look like. The beauty of her words helped me find mine.
She put the computer down and we ate our meals. Sure, the fries were a little cold, the soda - a little watered down, but I felt excited.
We watched the movie...EGH. It was sad -and - I think, made Meg and I really appreciate our own lives and husbands. And each other. And the friendship that we have that has endured since we were twelve. And how fantasic and beautiful it is to do nothing more than eat, read, and talk with a friend and feel whole and satisfied and happy. So very happy.
