Uniform Update

Tuesday, the entire campus will begin following a zero tolerance policy regarding dress code. Anyone not in total compliance gets sent home for the rest of the day. That means sagging pants, wrong color t-shirt underneath, untucked shirt--that's what I was told Friday. They called all the kids into the auditorium by grade level, and read a statement telling them that beginning Tuesday, strict compliance was being enforced.

I'm debating between spending the day hiding in my office, or standing in the hall as a citizen journalist. I spent Friday--when they told the teachers and kids the plan--alternately mad, disgusted, or on the verge of tears.

We used to believe in relationships. We used to try to work with the kids to overcome all the obstacles that keep them in failing neighborhoods, menial and service sector jobs--I spent 17 years of my career being the representative of the system that was holding the students down, mired in the teachers vs. students mentality. A few years of Camelot, then....I see where this heads.

So far this year, we've been forced to watch video of Columbine, including the suicides, and been indoctrinated into fearing the kids, now we get to be the Maxwell's Silver Hammer of Fashion. The concept that relationships matter is gone, despite all the happy talk. Actions speak louder--and the kids believe actions a whole lot faster than they believe words.

And words--yea, like the teachers are using as they "discuss" the new policy in the workroom. My new diet plan is to sit in the workroom and try to eat as teachers talk about the "campus wear" policy.

The only real question is this: do I send the protest email to the superintendent before seeing how things go Tuesday, or do I wait until the debacle unfolds? The clock is ticking, and I'm not staying silent this time.

Vision Revisited

Here's the update on my new year's plan, redefining myself with "I am a writer" and "I am an athlete."

How's "I am a sloth" and "I am an owl." Both of those would be far more accurate. I've been getting up at about 5 a.m. for almost 2 weeks now, figuring I'd get used to the early hour and cherish the time for write a work out.

I also believe that there are elves at the North Pole named Sparkle and Twinkle. At this point, the elves are more likely than that I'll ever be functional at 5 a.m.

I have been up, in a state that most zombies would recognize. I'm beat and barely cogent by 9 pm, and heading to bed when Beth does, at least many nights. But I'm still zombie-fied the next morning.

The basic idea is good, I think--changing how I define myself. But I suspect that the modus operandi needs tweaked. I'm too brain dead all day long to even consider Plan B.

Sleep might help--and not setting the damn alarm to play the Star Wars theme in my ear at 5 a.m. Maybe tomorrow I can explain Plan B...

Set the phasers to stun

Topic du jour: Playing. I don't remember which conversations triggered this, but I realized a couple days ago that I don't play well. Not that I don't play well with others, although that could be a totally different topic worth considering. Just that I'm not good at playing in the "being playful" sense of the word.

I haven't researched this or read anything about it, but I suspect that there are different types of playing:

• mental, like playing with ideas;
  
• spiritual, like having a playful spirit, being lighthearted;
  
• social, for instance, being a fun person to interact with; and
  
• physical, which would not imply being athletic or playing serious, necessarily. This is hard to explain, but people who get amused and have fun doing physical things....and yeah, I know you're giggling.

What I realized is that I'm strong at playing with ideas, not just thinking, but having fun putting together unexpected ideas, looking for interesting and amusing kernals of info to process and putt around. To be honest, I know that's why almost all of you keep me around: to see what I'm likely to be thinking about. I give good conversation. (or so I think. maybe I'm kept around because if I'm around, you know a pop machine won't be far behind. I'm like an early warning system for soda)

Spiritual playfulness--probably not. I think too much. If you want theological play, like arguing over which disciple could have been replaced by a female or whether Job was real, I'm in. But lightness of soul...not me. I like my soul heavy, Marvin Gaye style.

I'm socially adept enough, no worries--but I'm not the socially playful one, either. People don't throw sheep at me and giggle very often, and the basic miliue of female interaction--flirting--is... I don't need to go on, I'm sure. I give good conversation. That's almost antithetical to being socially playful, I suspect.

And then....physically playful. If you hop in the Way Back Machine, I was perfectly finely coordinated, could do all the usual physical tasks, even wanted to be in Little League, but girls weren't allowed (I could be a catcher. Really) But just playing,...enjoying moving around, goofing off, physical humor--I'm baffled and self-conscious and...just amused by others, but I like to watch. I say I want to learn to dance, I'd seriously like to (note that I instinctively used the word "serious" while discussing play....that's not a good sign...), but I feel way too stupid dancing to do it anymore. (Of course, trying to follow a dance/ exercise dvd in my bedroom alone may not be optimal dance situation, I know.)

If there were a rubric for assessing the abillity to play, I think I'd score pretty high on 1 out of 4 categories, but tank on the other 3. I'm still thinking about this...not sure that's awful, but it is interesting. I think I'll play with this idea a bit more...

Happy New Year

I got up at 5 am, did some stretches, answered some texts (when do some of you sleep?) and sat down to write. That's my new plan...

I didn't make new years resolutions; however, I did decide that I am redefining myself, beginning with the end of Christmas break. It sums up in two simple sentences:

I am a writer.
I am an athlete.

If you're paying attention, you're laughing. First, I've said I was a writer for years...decades. Writing to do lists is my major achievement, though. It your litmus test for being a writer is fairly low, you may agree that I am a writer. Hogwash! If you define writer a bit more stringently, you should scoff at me calling myself that--based on output, or discipline, or probably even talent, I don't qualify yet. I haven't proven it.

The second sentence is more amusing. I believe that jumping to conclusions is an aerobic exercise. I have a long history of being allergic to jocks. Hives, sneezing, snarky comments--it's not pretty when I'm confronted with dealing with athletes. So the idea that I'm even pretending to want to think about possibly calling myself one...Robin Williams should have such good material.

However--here's my theory: if I define myself as being a writer and an athlete, then commit to proving in my decisions and actions that I am in fact a writer and an athlete, maybe I'll make some changes that will add up over time. For instance, I'm back off pop. If I want to be an athlete, pop is counterproductive.

To that end, I'm getting up early each morning to do things that athletes and writers would do. I'm still figuring out details, of course, and I'm amazingly foggy since I didn't get to sleep till after one, but I'm easing into it. Just the fact that I'm typing when my cozy flannel sheets are whispering my name is noteworthy, so I'm counting today as a success.