Fiction 1

I wrote this a couple years ago at the OWP summer class I took. The class was largely useless (except for social reasons!), but I like the story I wrote. The inspiration for this is a woman I saw when Adam and I went rafting in PA that summer. I only saw her after the trip, but it made an impression!

I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have let them talk me into this. I’m like a beached whale, only not beached. No,…I’m the bobber on the cane pole fishing line my daddy used when he fished at the reservoir, and there’s no way to reel me in.

I can’t decide which part of this is more humiliating: when everyone passes by, waving and yelling, “hang on, help is coming,” or when they politely avert their gaze, as if I’m a street beggar. I know Kevin is going to round the bend before long. He’ll be purely mortified—I’m still not sure he really wanted me to be here.

Oh, sure, he asked. But who can read what a teenage boy really means? I can’t, we’ve proven that over and over. “Mom, we need a few more chaperones or we can’t go whitewater rafting,” he said as I finished peeling potatoes for the roast I was making. “We’re supposed to ask our parents if they can come.”

Would he have said that if he didn’t want me to come? No, I am sure he was crossing his fingers that I’d say ok, I’ll do this for you. He wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise. Even Sharon, my best friend, agreed. Since she’s a high school teacher, she understands the hidden language of teenage boys—the sullen silences and sighs—that baffle me.

The following morning, I called the church to talk with his youth group leader, an energetic man named Bill. I’ve caught the way Bill looks at me, then at Kevin. Lithe, slender Kevin, built like a distance runner, like Lance Armstrong. Pale and quiet, long artistic fingers—pianist’s fingers, in fact. Oliver Twist eyes, always pleading for more, but more what? I’ve given and given, all that I could plus some. I’ve been a room mother, a soccer mom, a Sunday School teacher, car pooled to endless lessons and clubs, even bought the baby grand piano he wanted—I don’t know what else to give. My love? My soul? Kevin hasn’t wanted those. In his detached way, he’s made it clear that I’m not the mother he was supposed to have.

He should have a mother who oozes refined elegance, Blythe Danner, perhaps. Someone who understands his artist’s temperament, who instinctively soothes his angst. Instead, he got me--more Aunt Bea than Melanie Wilkes. More Mayberry than Gone with the Wind. I mean well, and try with all my heart, but I never dress right, or talk right, or even walk right—at least as far as I can tell.

“You’re wearing that?” Kevin looked me up and down this morning, scowling. Teenagers milled around us, more skin than swimsuits—there will be some raging sunburns tonight. Good thing I bought the economy-size aloe. Even the other chaperones were in swimsuits, and Kelly’s mom was there in a bikini, even. In front of the kids—it just doesn’t seem right. Well, gravity will catch up with her someday, I guess. Not that I’m wishing bad on her, but the facts of life hit us all sometime.

“Yes. I am. What’s wrong with it?” My sweat suit was comfortable, a major requirement for any clothes I wear. I’m not going to win any beauty pageants, so why look as if I’m trying?

“For whitewater rafting? Mom, everyone else is in swimsuits. You’ll look ridic—“

“I’m performing public service, Kev. Protecting everyone from the sight of me in a swimsuit.”

“You’re more noticeable wearing that,” he said, motioning towards my sweatpants and “Gardening Angel” sweatshirt.

“I won’t burn, either. You need more sunblock, turn around.” Kevin looked at me once more, a measured look that reminds me he is his father’s child, then turned and walked away.

Sharon was behind me, chatting animatedly with a clasp of teenage girls as she helped tighten life vests. “Miriam—you can put your sweats in this bag if you want. They’re going to lock up the bus in a moment,” she said as she handed me a bright red life jacket.

“This is what I’m wearing.”

She looked at me again, from the floppy brim of my L.L. Bean hat (SPF 50 sun protection) to the flipflops with perky daisies between my toes. “You’ll probably lose the sandals. Want to borrow a pair of water shoes?” At least she didn’t say anything about the sweats.

“Why would I lose them? I’m getting in the raft, going down the river, then getting out of the raft—my feet will be in the bottom of the boat, safe and sound the whole time.”

Sharon pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Ok, But you heard the guide—you’re likely to get wet, and things do float away.”

“The kids can have a wild ride; I’m just floating down the middle—or wherever the smoothest sailing is.” Sharon shrugged, then turned to hand a life jacket to Kelly, the violinist I suspect Kevin likes.

When I called Bill, he sounded grateful for another volunteer. “”We’re doing a pretty gentle river—probably no rapids above a 3.”

“Out of how many?”

“”Five. Rapids that are fives are the most dangerous—well, the most dangerous that are passable. There are some sixes that professionals attempt when the water level is right and their life insurance is paid up.” Bill laughed. He does that often, even when I’m not sure what he’s found to be funny. He’s a minister…maybe it’s that “joy of the Lord” stuff that I don’t quite understand.

“And a three means…” I really didn’t see myself doing this, but if I could help…

“A three means there’s a bit of excitement—you wouldn’t take a kindergartener on the trip—but any competent eight year old would have a good time.

An eight year old. Certainly I can do anything an eight year old can do. “Well, I suppose I can help.”

“Great! You wouldn’t happen to have a tent, would you? We’re still short—“

“Tent? For the kids, you mean? I thought there’s a lodge at the park.”

Bill chuckled. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up when that man laughed. I didn’t think that was a good sign. “You know how kids are. We’ll be in the primitive campground with tents—the kids agreed that’s the only way to go.” He must have noticed my silence. “Is that a problem?”

“Sleeping on the ground?”

“You’re welcome to bring an air mattress.” I haven’t fit on those narrow, blow up air mattresses since…junior high, probably. What was that man thinking?

“Um…I want to be helpful and everything,…I’d be happy to bake a big batch of pecan chocolate chip cookies for the kids—but I really think we’d all be happier if I stay home this time. Maybe some other time I’ll be more suited---“ Bill must have known I was about to hang up on him.
“Wait, Mrs. Thomas—I really do need another female chaperone. Rev. Williams is on the verge of canceling the trip. Sharon Wright and Melanie Young are the only other women I have committed, and with 18 teenage girls, that’s just not enough.”

“Sharon’s coming?”

“And Melanie—Kelly’s mom.”

I knew Sharon had a camper, nothing fancy, but it would be better than sleeping on the ground. I haven’t even sat on the floor since Kevin was a toddler, and I truly believe it would take a crane to lift me up if I tried now. There was no way I’d sleep on the ground. After some more discussion, and a couple of phone calls to Sharon, we agreed that I could go, and that I could sleep in Sharon’s camper.

Noises are coming from around the bend. Sound travels far on this river, I’ve noticed as I bob here, water spraying up my nose and in my eyes as it slams around Dimple Rock, then careens across me as I wait for my knight in shining armor. Well, to be accurate, my knights in bright orange life jackets, I guess. They’ll sure talk about me for a while, the fat lady who fell out of her raft, then couldn’t even follow the simple directions to climb on Dimple Rock, walk across the rock pathway on shore, then hop back in the raft just before it gets to Washtub rapids. “It’s simple,” the guide said, “and lots of people get tossed at Dimple Rapids. You’ll be back on the water in no time.”

Right. And for anyone else, it’s probably very easy to climb up on the rock, hustle down the pathway, and hop in the raft. I don’t climb. I don’t hustle. And I certainly don’t hop.
I was so stupid. I heard those directions. Why didn’t I say “nope, not this gal. No way, no how should I be traversing around slippery rocks?” I could have sat in the bus, finishing the Lori Wick novel I’m half way through.

Why didn’t any of these oh-so-helpful guides stop me? Not one of them pulled me aside and suggested that mature women such as myself probably don’t belong on Class 3 rapids? Nope, they just took my money and handed me the largest life jacket they had.

While we milled around, waiting to get our rafts, I soaked in the mossy breeze coming out of the forest onto the river, noticing tracks that the guide identified as river otter tracks. The sun danced on the water, glittering pinpoints that tripped from wave to wave, round the rocks. “This is my Father’s world…” The words we sang this morning still echoed in my ears, and for a moment, I understood all those homages to nature the Romantic poets wrote. I’m a life-long city girl, but for a moment, I wanted to bellow out the refrain to “How Great Thou Art.” This just might be a good day, I thought.

Then Bill came up bounding up to me. “Hey, there’s six people to a raft. If you and Sharon and Melanie want to be together, add three of the kids and you’re good to go.” Did I mention that I hate phrases like “good to go?” I hate people who use that phrase, too. Bill came in close, putting his forearm across my back and looking sincerely into my eyes. His posture reminded me of every insurance agent who ever tried to convince me I needed to “consider the legacy I’m leaving”. I hate people who look at me like that.

“Miriam, I’m so glad you’re with us today. We take kids on trips like this to teach them confidence, to help them feel strong about meeting the challenges of the future. Sometimes, as they battle the river, they find themselves. This could be a defining moment in your life. I’m excited you’re willing to break out of your Miriam-box to ride the rapids.” I hate Bill, too. And I hope he’s not stupid enough to think I didn’t recognize Dr. Phil’s tag line—a defining moment in my life. I’d like to define his moment, but I’m pretty certain that Dante invented a level of Hell just for people who told their ministers where to go.

Where is the rescue boat? Supposing I’d been hurt—supposing I’d knocked my head and the life jacket was holding me face down in the water. I’d drown, that’s what. My left sandal floated past me a few minutes ago, just out of reach. I can see the silly daisy on it stuck between the pile of rocks between the shore and Dimple Rock. My right sandal, well, that’s anyone’s guess. I can’t walk barefoot. How will I get to the bus?

Damn. That’s all I can say. Double Damn. I don’t like using words like that, but there are times that call for strong words. When river water is bubbling up in your underpants and little waves are rainbowing out from your waistband and you can feel the sun burning your nose as you wonder where the damn rescue boat is—that’s a time you can swear.

“Kevin, isn’t your mom wearing---oh my God, Kevin, your mom’s floating by that rock!” He’s here now. Do I wave? Tell him I’m ok—no. No. I’m turning, looking at shore. I’m fascinated by the….the wildflowers over there. Didn’t even hear then come close, in fact.

“Kevin, do you see her? She’s—“ He’s not blind, Kelly, just don’t look. I know Kevin is dying. I’d always thought Kelly was different than most teenage girls, a bit quieter, nicer. She dresses like a nice girl—none of that cleavage bouncing around like so many of the girls. But she has no future with Kevin, I could see that through a dirty window on a foggy day. When there’s a white elephant in the living room, you don’t embarrass it by pointing out it would be more comfortable in a zoo. When the fat lady is bobbing in the rapids, you don’t embarrass her—or her son—by noticing.

“Mrs. Thomas! Hey, Mrs. Thomas. We’re over here. We’re coming for you.” I heard more than just Kelly that time. There’s six in the boat—who was Kevin with? He slinked off before I noticed.

“Oh, Kelly—hi. Don’t worry about me. There’s a boat coming, I’m just supposed the wait here.” I chuckle, like this is an amusing incidence I’ll share the next time Leno asks me on. “You keep going. I don’t want to put a crimp in your fun.” There. You’re off the hook, Kevin. Run. Paddle hard.

“Hey, Mrs. Thomas. Can you paddle out any closer to us?” I’m going to die now. Don’t those dumb kids see the look on Kevin’s face?

“It’s ok—I can get in pretty close, I think.” Of course you can. Kevin’s in a boat with jocks. Even the two girls are athletic: Kelly plays soccer and swims, and the other girl—I forget her name—plays volleyball. She’s good, too. And the boys—I’m sure a lineman and a wide receiver can get me out. Where were they when my boat was closeby? Kevin’s going to be scarred for life if I flop into that raft.

“Here, I’ve got you—Brent, grab under her other arm.” My hat’s fallen into the boat. I probably look like Rudolph, my nose is so sunburnt. I feel the linebacker’s hand—no, almost his whole arm—trying to leverage me into the boat.

“Water—Mike, we’re tipping!” Kelly didn’t yell exactly, but she was as urgent as a toddler who needs the potty. “Mike, Brent—“ The boys let go, then redistribute weight on the raft. If the girls and Kevin stay towards the other side, I can probably be hoisted up…or so they think.
“Really, I appreciate this, but the rescue—“

“No big deal, Mrs. Thomas. We just happened to be passing by.” Kelly and the other girl giggled. I just realized I hate them, too.

“1..2..3..lift.” A huge heave up, the boat sinks to water level, and I start flopping like a guppy half-way up the side.

“Water, Brent,” Kelly shrieked. Deal with it, Barbie. The boys count again, a pull, and…

My sweatpants float to the surface. Without my legs in them, that is. Me and my granny underpants, the ones with the elastic gaping on the sides, are still partially underwater, but I feel new rapids rushing into crevices previously exploded only by my gynecologist.

“Uh, Mrs. Thomas,…uh…” Mike—apparently the smart one on the raft—realized that my sweatpants were half-way through Dimple Rapids.

“Oh my God!” Kelly had quit bailing water out (of the self-bailing rafts—how typical) just in time to see my sweatpants get to the calm after the rapids. “Mrs. Thomas, I think I see your pants.”
Kevin hadn’t noticed my worn out Hanes manipulating the rapids until Kelly yelped. With any luck, he’ll hate her for noticing, not me for wearing them.

“That’s no big deal, right, Mrs. Thomas? I mean, you’ve got on a swimsuit under that, right? Mike’s trying, I know. But I see him selling used cars in the future, mainly lemons. Lemons Ralph Nader condemns. Lemons that will get him investigated by Mike Wallace.

“Actually, uh, that’s a good point. I really didn’t think I’d—“

“Paddle!” Brent yelled, and the back of the boat grazed my head as it spun out of control. They had drifted too close to the rapid, and were sucked in and over and around. “Hang on—ride it out!” They were all clutching the rope on the edges, bending over as low as possible. It was like watching Dorothy as she careened through the tornado, watching as water flooded the Titanic—nothing could stop the raft’s twirling, bouncing, and lurching through Dimple Rapids.

I tasted blood. A scrape from the boat trailed blood from just above my eyebrow. If I had my hat, maybe I could blot it, but no use crying over spilt milk. What about spilt blood? Or about fat ladies spilt out of ridiculous boats on rivers that should be labeled as safety hazards? Where’s the surgeon general when we need him? They label cups of coffee at McDonald’s, but let children in inflatable boats bounce through this Pinball Wizard’s version of Hell?

“Mrs. Thomas! Mrs. Thomas!” I look through the rocks, beyond the rapids. There’s Mike, waving my sweatpants in the breeze. “We got these for you!” Kevin is resolutely looking down the river, away from me, away from the sweatpants, his jaw clenched.

Too numb to answer, bleeding and pantsless and bobbing, I decide that’s enough. I’m going to die now.

Speech I Gave at MI Honors Banquet, April 2008

I feel honored to be chosen as the representative from the MI staff to get the privilege of addressing the students, parents, and guests here tonight. I’ve written about five totally different speeches for this, mainly because as I’d begin writing, I’d realize that there was something even more important I wanted to share. It would be appropriate to pat the students on the back, say some congratulatory things, then sit down. And all the MI teachers do want everyone to know how proud we are of the students sitting here tonight. Their hard work and dedication is evident, and it’s wonderful to celebrate that.

While I was mentally meandering, though, I found myself in a couple of different conversations that all tied together in a weird synchronicity, and I realized what I wanted to say. It's simple, and obvious: we must believe the things we teach our children. That’s how Woodrow Wilson said it, and I couldn't think of any better wording. We must believe the things we teach our children. Of course. Furthermore, if we’ve done our jobs well, you’ll know what we believe about education, why we value it, and—hopefully—you will have considered how those beliefs apply to you.

So what do believe—and what does MI believe? Since this is the school of multiple intelligences, I could take the easy way out (insert first line of Whitney Houston I believe that children are out future). I could do that—but I’m not going to. That's not really what I think needs said, so instead I want tell you what I hope these students are really learning from my colleagues and myself.

Here’s the a priori, the baseline, belief: The world you will live most of your life in is not here yet, and it will be different than the world now. We need to teach you how to think and how to learn so you’re ready for the world we can’t imagine at this point. The changes in my lifetime have been amazing; we can’t begin to guess what skills and information you’re going to need to thrive in the world 40 years from now. But we believe that people who can read and write, who can think critically and continually learn will succeed in that brave new world; that’s why MI is committed to focusing on literacy and critical thinking skills.

A related belief is this: curiosity is crucial. The ability to ask questions, to look at the world in wonder and awe---you need that. Little kids are curious about everything, asking a question a minute. Somehow, school kills curiosity. We get so busy meeting objectives and testing standards that students don’t learn to ask the questions they need to ask; they are too busy answering questions we choose for them. The reading and thinking skills we are working to teach you are meaningless if you don’t have curiosity to motivate you and direct you to use those skills.

Another quote I like encapsulates my third essential belief about learning: “You must do the thing you think you cannot do." That’s from Eleanor Roosevelt, who knew a few things about taking risks. If you always play it safe, if you always do the things you know you can do, there’s no learning curve. You’re in a rut, floundering in the doldrums. Trying something different may be scary, you may fail—but at least once in a while, you have to try. Consider the accomplishments you’re most proud of—did they come easily? Or did you struggle, out of your comfort zone, standing on the edge? I know that my most proud moments have also been my most nerve-wracking. It’s not a challenge if you know you can do it easily.

The last belief is possibly the most fundamental one of all: the most important lessons you need to learn and tasks you need to accomplish don’t include tests or grades. In real life, life after you finish your formal education, grades aren’t given. There is no honor roll for being a good parent, or for doing the laundry on time. Mr. McClellan won’t show up at your door with a trophy for getting up at 2 a.m. to feed a baby. Grades are a convenient yardstick for teachers and students to measure knowledge—but after you finish your schooling, there won’t be honors banquets and yearly applause for doing what you should do. Kids love to tell me they are grown—some of you in this room have insisted that, in fact—but until you can do what needs done without any fuss or fanfare, without the fear of a failing grade motivating you, you’re not an adult.

Grades are a by-product of learning, not a goal. Hopefully, you are here tonight because you’ve read interesting things, taken on challenging problems, asked hard questions and didn’t let go till you had some answers. Hopefully, we’ve taught you to value the process of learning, not the by-product of it—the grade. We’re proud of your accomplishments, and happy to celebrate your success. We want you to continue earning good grades—but we cross our fingers and wish on stars that once you’ve left our hallowed halls, the lessons you’ve learned from all your teachers here will transcend mere facts and figures. So congratulations—but you’ve only just begun.

Why Buffy?

That's the question I was asked last week, and the question that I've seen in the amused or befuddled eyes of people who know that this has been the Summer Of Buffy for me.

Taking a step backwards, when Buffy the Vampire Slayer was the religion practiced by my dad and my daughter, I scoffed. Laughed at their insistence that I'd like it if I just gave it a chance. Isn't that what heroin dealers say, too? Teenage cheerleader valley girls who are also mystical vampire slayers, right. I read Chekov and Dickens, I'm both hoitier and toitier than Buffy.

I'm now eating those words.

First, I have the luxury of watching all 7 episodes at my leisure, not needing 7 years to bring the story to fruition. At the beginning, I watched the first couple seasons lackadaisically, episodes when I had time as school was winding down. Then--the story line picked up as I suddenly had more time. Voila! Since summer began, I've done the intensive buffy-a-nalia at times--several episodes in a day, just soaking it all in--then, as I realized that I was getting closer and closer to the end...parceling the shows out, one new episode a day, building towards the end.

I've got just 4 episodes left to finish the whole series and see how it turns out. I want to watch them, but... summer ends when Buffy ends. And I suspect that even if I think the end is great, it won't be the happy, satisfying, tie up all the loose ends-they-live-happily-ever-after that I'm hoping for on some level.

So why Buffy? Here are some reasons, in no particular order:

• It's the Monkees' fault. Honestly. At a critical point in my development, the Monkees imprinted on me--friends, living in a beachhouse, entwining their dreams and working for the common good. And a bonus: Davy was so cute! Buffy has that same dynamic: best friends through thick and thin, through apocolypse and demons, working to keep evil out of Sunnydale. And the bonus: Angel. And Xander. And Giles (I admit that the fact I think he's hot is showing my age). And Spike...although it took me five seasons to add him to the list.
  
• Brains are respected in the show. Giles, Willow, Oz--all book-ish nerds, all central and respected, and not in the black glasses, pocket protector Pointdextery way.
  
• The writing is amazing. Each character has a different voice, different syntax. The vocabulary used is expansive--and I don't mean the made-up demon names; even Xander, who claims to be the dumb one, has a rich and varied vocabulary that fits his character like spandex. And the smart characters, Willow and Giles? Wow. The writers rank right up with Northern Exposure, MASH and Moonlighting--the best-written shows ever.
  
• The character development. The funny little quirks in Willow's personality in the first few seasons turn into tragic flaws, Xander's quiet persistence becomes his greatest strength by the end--the characters change and grow, but the seeds are true throughout. Evil Spike's redemption is almost worthy of Tolstoy, well, just add leather and blood, true. But the manipulation of flaky Willow to first-class threat, and deadly Spike to stalwart defender--and the fact that those transformations ring true...Charles Dickens would have been proud to write on a staff that created those characters.
• The complex story arcs. While each episode is a complete story, each season has a metaplot that draws in the audience, making the show as addictive as coffee. The basic formula is inevitable: Bad guy/thing/situation threatens Sunnydale/the world, and Buffy and the Scooby gang must stop it. However, Joss Weadon and his merry band of writers make as many variations on the theme as Mozart. They do kill off major characters--and they do let their characters make bad decisions and suffer for them. Major, totally unexpected plot twists (like a sister showing up in season 5), make sense and work--and make for a chaos factor I really appreciate.
  
• As I've talked with friends and family about my Buffy habit, they constantly want to know how far into the series I am. People are anxious to tell me things that happen, and I'm astounded by the extent of my friends' emotional buy-in to the characters and the overall story--and this is years after they have found out what happened! The story and the characters are compelling, and I'm abashed to admit I've gotten totally hooked.
• Love trumps evil and weakness. The friends' relationship with each other, with Giles (Buffy's mentor), and with their various romantic relationships give strength and heart to their battle.
• Fun to think about. For instance, it's the Wizard of Oz, in ways. Xander's the Tin Man, all heart; Willow's the scarecrow, the thinker; Cordelia's the Cowardly Lion, refusing to fight, but in the thick of it...see? It's a fun game!
  
• Last, it's just fun escapism. In this morally ambiguous time, I like knowing that Drusilla is bad. Always. That the badness du jour threatening Sunnydale is really, really evil. No room for political correctness, no need for Jimmy Carter. Kicking its ass to the Hellmouth and sealing it tight is the mission, and Buffy will do it...sooner or later. I'm discovering the joy of labeling something bad, evil, nasty--and knowing that Buffy, and Giles, and the rest of the gang, will do whatever it takes to make the world safe.

So...four more. After tonight, three. I want to know how it ends...but I don't. Once I know, I lose the freshness and discovery of watching. I'll miss that. I'll rewatch earlier episodes, and really enjoy them, and find new and interesting meaning in them, but I'll know how the story ends. I'll be watching with a shadow...and I know I'm not going to like some of the plot twists at the end...

I'm sure I'll write more Buffy related posts later, but this is for the people who asked, why Buffy?

I've Got a Theory, v.1.0

Everyone talks about "reaching out" and "building relationships," especially with people who are different than ourselves in some way--race, status, age. At school, the battle cry for 5 years has been "Rigor, relevance, relationships," with the a priori that without relationships, we won't be able to create rigor or relevance. And even though I understand the effectiveness at having good relationships with others in the school, often the discussions and techniques for "building relationships" seems....artificial. Contrived.

At church, the message has been about reaching the neighborhood surrounding us, with the unspoken understanding that the neighborhood is radically different than us; too often, I suspect that the well meaning people at my church see the people in the 'hood as object lessons for what happens when a person makes poor life choices, doesn't get a good education and a lucrative career. Our temptation often is to fix those people and their lives, not to build relationships with them. However well meaning we are--and however helpful we can be--that's still judgmental. We're better, we're the ones with the answers, the resources, and God wants us to use those to help you. All true and good, probably--but still judgmental and superior.

Anyway, last Sunday the message was an eloquent plea for redefining who our neighbor is, via "The Good Samaritan." (Yes, I know how shocked the audience was by that interpretation.) The speaker, an earnest, articulate man, spoke about Jesus in the ghetto, talking to the homeboys and ho's and challenging us, the comfortable, to leave our comfort zone and talk to our neighbors.

But the picture I get isn't Jesus preaching at them. The gospels record sermons to large groups--the Sermon on the Mount, the Sermon on the Plain. But there aren't great sermons from the Jerusalem 'hood. I have a theory--Jesus didn't go to the ghetto to talk to the poor, disenfranchised, disaffected people on the edges of society; He went so he didn't lose sight of what mattered, of why he was here, anyway. He went to remind himself who the people he was called to love really were.

When he went to the ghetto, I suspect Jesus wasn't talking; he was listening. Nodding, thinking, supporting, maybe asking questions--but questions that showed he was curious about their experience, that he cared about what was going on in their lives. Not implicitly judgmental questions, slyly asserting the superiority of his views and life choices.

I've spent hours--years, really--with dedicated, sincere people who explain how to build relationships with "minorities," or "our students," or "the unchurched"--anyone who is not "us," really. Almost always, they focus on what you say. In fact--active listening techniques aren't about listening, they are about talking! In theory, it's about how what you say about what you hear, but it's still not about how to listen. Not really. There are serious limits to active listening's core advice: show you're empathetic and trying to understand by restating what the person says. There are times that works, yes.But if that's the extent of how we build relationships and relate to the "not us" people, wow. No real communication there. No real understanding or building bridges or reaching out.

The gospels don't include a "Sermon from the 'Hood" because there wasn't one; building relationships and loving people rarely involves prolonged lectures. Jesus lectured other places, other times, maybe even to other types of people. But in the 'Hood, he listened. He learned, not just the facts--facts are easy to learn--but he learned what the faces of his people looked like as they talked to him. He didn't memorize mission statements; he memorized the faces that made the mission statement matter.

But we've established long ago that I don't like all the cuddly, happy, relationship-building, team-building happy crap. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I really don't know as much about reaching out as all the people who preach "active listening" and "protocols for building relationships." But for all the talk about building bridges and the importance of relationships, I don't see many campfires surrounded by people of all ages, all races, all socio-economic groups, singing Kum Ba Yah together. Makes me wonder,....that's all...

Reprint #1

I wrote this a couple years ago for Devin. I don't remember exactly why, but he needed a sample of writing for a class...or something. It's possible that no one has read this except Devin and I, in fact.

I live in Lima, Ohio. I was born here, lived here though a much of my childhood, then returned after finishing two masters degrees. Lima is a town with body image issues. It thinks it is bigger than it really is. And despite its small-town size—about 40,000 residents—Lima considers itself a city, with all the benefits and drawbacks that implies. I lived for 5 years in Van Wert, Ohio—a truly small town with no aspirations to be a city—and I lived in Toledo for about 9 years, so I know the difference between a city and a small town. Lima is neither.

Lima has all the big city problems--there were riots in Lima in the early 1970’s, infecting the south end of town, spilling over into the high school. Long ago riots, not-quite-remembered, not-quite-forgotten race riots. Those days foreshadowed the Lima I live in now, a town abandoned by the upwardly mobile white middle class. Our collective memories are unfettered from the truth—maybe a cop wasn’t killed, maybe students weren’t stabbed and beaten beyond recognition in the riots—but the fact we chose to tell those stories about our town matters more than the facts we find in the grainy, microfiche Lima News accounts of those troubled times.

As a elementary school kid, just before the riots, my concept of Lima stretched east from Collins Street, where my school district ended, to the Hog Creek bridge beside our church, about 7 blocks west of our house. The north/south axis was about a mile long, too—from High Street to Bellefontaine Ave, which was too busy to cross—it was 3 lanes, after all. I rarely left that segment of Lima; even our grocery store fits neatly at boundaries. Within those confines, I pretty much had free reign. I could hop on my bike and visit friends, or spend my babysitting money at the Dairy Mart on Pepsi, which my mother never bought. My children have never had that much freedom here.

Now, the residents of the outlying county are sure that Lima isn’t safe to drive in after dark, and they are sure the schools are both inferior and dangerous. As I read the Police Log and the obituaries in the Lima News, I shake my head—maybe the people who fled are right; In twenty years of teaching, I’ve had 3 current students die violently, and five more have died in gang-related violence after high school. I have four former students who are in prison for life.or on deth row. Teen mothers and students with probation officers abound at my school; discussions about teething babies and potty training are a regular feature at our lunch tables.

But we also have a convention center that houses the offices for the Lima Symphony Orchestra, and across the street from that is ArtSpace, a gallery and arts facility frequented by the upper-crust, educated residents. We have an accredited county historical museum, a metropark system, both an amateur theatre company and one through the local OSU campus, and several different arts and music festivals each year sponsored by the very active ArtSpace Association. There are artists whose work is shown in New York, musicians who trained at the Cincinnati conservatory, and an Julliard-grad acting teacher who came home to Lima after a bitter divorce.

Of course, my students—over 50% black, 70% free lunch, many with parents who never graduated from high school, few with parents who attended college—those kids don’t see the symphony or take classes at ArtSpace. The line dividing middle-class white and not-middle class is as firmly drawn as it was in New Orleans pre-Katrina.

So why am I here? There’s been an awkward moment at each of my class reunions, a point where someone who’s moved on to Cleveland or Chicago or New York turns to me and asks, “So, where are you these days?” Before I can answer, almost always a nearby eavesdropper turns around and answers for me: “You don’t know? She’s still in Lima—even teaching at Lima Senior. I couldn’t imagine staying….” And heads nod all around me. The best and the brightest leave, almost without exception. None of my close friends from high school settled here, opting for the bright lights and the truly big cities.

I feel the defensiveness catch at the back of my throat, threatening to strangle me, then I swallow. Hard. Sometimes several times. And I remember why I’m here—and brightly laugh back the attitude with a breezy bon mot. “Don’t you want a good education for your kids?” I’ve been scolded by upscale former classmates. “Well,” I shrug, “my son got a perfect 1600 on the SAT—I suspect he couldn’t do better anywhere else.” That usually quiets them down for a few moments so I can escape.

We have the county fair each August, and football games Friday nights all fall, complete with the marching band half-time show. When I go to the store, the cashier is usually a student of mine—and in just a moment, I can drive to the reservoir and take a midnight stroll under the stars. My kids have grown up with cousins, grandparents, and even great-grandma only a few minutes away.

My husband and I planned to settle in Toledo, or Chicago, or somewhere metropolitan, but I was offered a job in Lima—and with a high-maintenance, very fussy baby-turned-toddler who never slept, being near my Mom sounded awfully good to me. When we came, it was for five years, just until my son was in school. No way was I staying in Lima, I said, imagining the life waiting for me in Chicago or Boston. Life intervened, though, and twenty years later, I’m still in Lima.

I can retire from teaching in ten years, the year after my youngest will graduate from high school. I assume she’ll leave Lima—and I plan to, also. At least for a few years. Whether the big city will beckon me then or I’ll retire to a cottage on a lake front, I don’t know—but I see myself having a few years doing something else—being something else—before my knees give out and my hair won’t hold dye any longer. But then, much later, I suspect I’ll be one of the old ladies smiling at the toddlers at my church’s Christmas Eve program as they try to sing “Away in a Manger.” Even though I don’t plan to stay here, I may well end here—it’s home, after all.

There’s a story Limaites tell , one that maybe says more about us than any other. We have a chemical plant, an oil refinery and a tank plant—and we have had those since my dad was young. Ask anyone in Lima, and they’ll tell you this: because of those industries, we’re number 3 on the list of places to bomb if there’s a nuclear war. It used to be the Russians who wanted to get us; now it’s middle eastern terrorists. Everyone I’ve ever met from outside of Lima is baffled, truly astonished by this belief. And everyone I’ve ever met who was born and raised here takes it as an article of faith equal to anything found in the Bible or the Declaration of Independence.

“I was born in a small town”—that John Cougar Mellencamp song resonates with me. Lima doesn’t know it’s a small town though—any town that ranks as the #3 target in the US is way too important to be a small town. And even though the logical part of me knows Russia never even knew Lima existed, and the Taliban isn’t trying to infiltrate the tank plant—there’s a part of me, the forever-10-year old voice whispering at 3 am—that believes that during the depths of the cold war, little boys with names like Vladamir and Leo played war with their 3 inch high plastic red soldiers, aiming their teeny bombs at Lima, chortling, “Ya, ve vill take over the world vonce ve rid ourselves of Lima!” It wouldn’t surprise me one bit, you know. That’s the type of town Lima is.