Political Correctness

It took me a while, but I finally realized why the term politically correct offends me so much. As an unreconstructed idealist and patriot who still maintains faith in the positive growth of human beings and our American society (silly me), I find this term to be most insidiously cynical and damaging phrase spun out of the conservative camp in the last two decades. When anyone uses the term, what they are really saying is..."I know it's morally wrong to be sexist, racist, greedy, vulgar, etc..., but I don't f*in care!" These same folks are currently upset about Happy Holidays vs. Merry Christmas. They believe torture is okay, spying on American citizens is necessary to "protect" them, and democracy can be forced down the throats of any country that has enough oil.

Well, Happy Holidays--Seasons Greetings--and Peace on Earth. If that's not politically correct enough, then f* you!

Twenty-seven in a Million

I was invited party last night to celebrate a former student's admittance into law school. This student is one I refer to endlessly when lecturing my current students about commitment and hard work. J was not the smartest kid in the class, but she didn't know that and no one could out work this young woman. She had a baby while still in the 8th grade--no one knew--not her friends, her mother, nor her teachers. ("I had sex once," she said. "Never again!") By the 10th grade, she was in my Honors American Literature class, and I had no idea that she had a baby until she came to me to get a week's worth of homework--in advance. When I asked why, she said her daughter had to have heart surgery. I almost didn't believe her.

J was never happy with any grade lower than an A, and she stayed after school as long as I would allow her in order to make corrections on her work. She rewrote papers endlessly, struggling with grammar and punctuation as many students do. Her limited vocabulary frustrated her as she tried to read Thomas Paine, Emerson, and Thoreau.

By her senior year, she elected to take AP English (despite mediocre test scores) and she gave up basketball (an outstanding player, she was being recruited by Division II teams) to concentrate on her grades. "I don't want to be the stereotype single mother," she declared. She wanted to be valdictorian--and to go to a top school.

AP Literature did not come easy to her. Much more comfortable with mathematics, she had problems with abstractions and nuance and was often frustrated when I could not give her a formula for some thematic or symbolic element in a text.

She missed valdictorin by three-tenths of a point, but got into the top school...despite unremarkable standardized test scores. She started college majoring in computer engineering, but very soon realized this was not her passion--despite a definite proclivity for math and science. She changed her major to English--much to my surprise.

After graduating with a 3.6, she was turned down by several top law schools due to average standardized test scores. Undaunted, she went to work for the NAACP, and began a Masters program in Public Administration which she completed with a 4.0. Still, her test scores did not tell the whole story, and she was denied admission to several law schools. Finally, she participated in a special week-long program designed to allow the school in question to meet her and evalute her ability to work in groups on practice cases and briefs. Of course, J emerged as a superstar and was accepted to the school.

Last night, I hugged J, her mother, and the baby--now 9 years old--and heard about other students in the class of 2000 (there were 27 of them)-one in medical school, another in graduate school, and others who have completed college in various places all over the country. I also heard about the ones with babies, but no daddies, and no degrees. You'll see their stories in the newspaper and on television; meanwhile J will march ahead, defying the sterotype with sheer will and determination.

From SDS to AARP

Feeling a bit down during the holidays (whoops! I mean Christmas!--after all there's a war goin' on.) ? Just visit a few old folks and enjoy what remains of the the spring in your step and the hearing you still have, even after too many nights in front of the speakers at too many concerts. Attend a Christmas sing-along with people who don't care if they are off-key or that they have forgotten the words. Delight in decorations made of recycled toilet paper rolls and tin foil.

About this so-called "war" on Christmas...The only war I recognize is the one the conservative Christians are waging against working people, gay people, single parents, students, young parents, old folks and the poor. These people claim to represent Christ--but they have no interest in the "least of these..." They seem to side with folks who already have more than enough. As Joni Mitchell once wrote..."some get the gravy, some get the gristle, some get the marrow bone, and some get nothing...though there's plenty to spare."

The Dog Ate My Homework

As a teacher, one expects excuses, but this week has been the king dog daddy of a week for weird excuses.

"Dear Professor *, I cannot continue to attend your class due to my unfortunate situation. I had to go to court this week and it looks like I might have to go back to jail. I would like to meet with you one-on-one about my grade." Hmmmmm.

"Dear Professor *, I ran out of medication for my ADD and cannot finish my final paper. I was too embarrassed to tell you."

"Dear Professor *, I am having too much mental stress with trying to do all YOUR work (my work?--no I am quite finished with my degree--this is YOUR work!), so please extend, to me, kindly, an incomplete." Oh for the simple bygone days of misbehaving pets. . .

Cleaning House

When nothing else works, I always fall back on cleaning closets. Today, I ran across four vintage purses (not really, just old) and found all kinds of loose change and a lot of those moist towlettes, that are no longer moist, I'm sure.

Finding a home for things I no longer want makes me really happy--I gave away several bolts of vintage fabric to a decorator who could not believe I didn't want money for them. I told her that I'd call her for advice some time and she could talk to me for free.

I think people should barter more--it avoids the whole payroll tax routine--not to mention the whole "money" thing. Bake me some bread and I'll edit your next history paper. Paint my bathroom and I'll tell you how to get through writer's block. Bring me a load of firewood and I'll tutor your kids in grammar. C'mon, it could really work!

Road Trip

Today, I'm off on a road trip--something I don't do very often alone. I'll carry bread from my favorite bakery, several journals, some poetry to read at the conference and some Vernors for my host who is a native Detroiter. I'll pack my favorite music and head off to a place I've never been before, temporarily untethered--except by cell phone-- to the life I lead here. I'll recall road trips from the past--one in particular--taken in a restored 1942 Studebaker. We were more adventurous then--a few dollars in our pockets and we could move across the country, crash with friends for a few weeks and find a new place, another life. It's not so easy now--burdened with stuff--antiques, books, photo albums, artwork, computers, the kids' stuffed animals...

A question sometimes posed is: "what would you take to a desert island?" I'd like to put a more pedestrian question out there--"What would you put in a Ford Focus wagon and where would you go if you had a one-year paid sabbatical?" Think about it and get back to me.

The following email came today and cheered me up tremendously! This young woman was a student of mine several years ago and faced many difficulties simply finishing high school--only one of which was a pregnancy at the age of 12. But, she now can speak very well for herself!

Hello Friends and Family,

As many of you know the week of October 24-30, 2005, I was in Lansing, MI attending the Thomas Cooley Law School qualifying program. The program was very intensive, and I believe the most intellectually challenging task I ever was involved in. There were 31 people in the program from all over. We had people from Jamaica, Africa, LA, Vegas, and many other states from the East to the West Coast. We studied the 7 different intentional torts: battery, assault, false imprisonment, intentional infliction of emotional distress, trespass to chattel, trespass to land, and conversion. In one week, we were taught how to brief a case and use legal analysis to write out the different elements of the law. It was unreal how complex the laws of our land are. We were only studying seven laws, but getting down the format and the language used to make an argument for or against the plaintiff was unlike anything I have ever done. Although the week- long studying was very intensive, it made me want to learn the law even more. We had 3 people leave the program without even notifying the coordinator that they were quitting. It made me feel good that although I was struggling, I stayed the course and gave my best possible effort. So right now I have to wait until the 15th or so, and I will know if I am indeed admitted into Thomas Cooley Law School. In the meanwhile, I am still taking classes for my master's in management and public administration with a gpa of 4.0.
I must say that I truly appreciate all the support that each and everyone of you have given me as I try to make a better future for my daughter and myself. I know that with God's will I will be sending out an email letting everyone know that I have been admitted into law school for 2006, so look for another email from me in the next weeks to come. I hope that everyone is doing well and please if I haven't heard from you in a while drop me a line and let me know how you are doing.

Well, since receiving this email, I'm doing a lot better!

Greater and Greater Grace

I'm glad I made the effort (walking about 3 miles, standing in line for 3 1/2 hours) to get into Greater Grace Temple where Rosa Parks' funeral was held yesterday. It was a glorious Indian summer day and I parked my car about a mile or so away from the church on a small neighbor side street because 7 Mile Road was closed--(I know you only know 8 Mile, but we have lots of mile roads in Detroit.)

Anyway, I walked to the end of the line- which was about 1/2 mile long by the time I arrived and found myself next to a tiny, well dressed, elderly, light-skinned American American woman, using a cane. We struck up a conversation and I learned that she was 85-years old and had been born in Kentucky, but raised in Michigan. Since it was 7:30 a.m. and the funeral was to begin at 11:00 a.m., we faced a long time in line together--and the possibility of never getting in at all.

I told her I was a teacher and had a strong interest in American history--particularly of the civil rights era --since I was tangentially aware of it as a child and became more outraged by injustice as a teenager. I told her of my dual upbringing--born in the south, raised in the north--school year in the north--summers in Mississippi. I asked her to tell me about her life--as much as she wanted to. It was fascinating to hear her own version of the Rosa Parks' incident--she was 19 years old, taking the bus from Wayne State when she was asked to stand and move to the back. She reported that she had resisted only briefly. But it was 10 years before Rosa Parks! I reminded her that Rosa Parks had the backing of SCLC and was much older than she had been.

As we talked, the few people within earshot began to listen intently to our conversation. She was quiet, well-spoken and warm, and I gently prodded and asked more and more questions, pushing for more details. She told me of how she marched in Detroit with Dr. King and of problems she had as the only black dietician in her class at Wayne State. She had attended a private school in Kentucky that was run by northern white women who believed in the education of young black women...Reminiscent of Zora Neale Hurston's experiences. One of the people in the crowd asked where we "stayed"--thinking we were together. It was only then that I realized that she and I were really about the same "shade." I never asked her, but I wondered if she had ever been about to "pass."

I told her of some of my experiences and how proud I was that many of my former students, all African American women, were in college or working professional jobs. I didn't tell her how many were pregnant and I failed to mention the one who had been fatally shot while at an after- hours club. I figured she'd already had 85 years of bad news.

Finally, just before being allowed to enter the church, I asked to know her name and gave her mine. We shook hands and found ourselves nearly the last two people allowed inside. I had to keep up with her as she wove her way through the enormous corridors--she had been in Greater Grace before--and she led me to the side chapel where an enormous screen had been set up. As we entered, the service was beginning and she burst into song--with a voice as strong and pure as I had ever heard! She knew all of the scriptural readings by heart, too.

Together, we sat for the next 5 hours listening to some of the most moving and powerful speakers this country has to offer--people who can move others to tears, laughter, and shame--all with words! Starting with former President Bill Clinton, who had to leave early, and moving to Rev. Al Sharpton who was unbelievably followed by Minister Louis Farrakhan, and Barak Obama, and so many others, one after another, they seemed to be able to lift the crowd to higher and higher ground. To see all of these people at once--together-- was unbelievable. My own little Rosa Parks and I clapped together, bowed our heads together and laughed together, too.

As I left, I thanked her for spending the day with me--I don't know what compelled me to go to that funeral, but meeting this woman was just what I needed--.

Rosa Parks Service

I'm going to try to get into Greater Grace tomorrow for Rosa Parks service--somehow the civil rights movement has framed and embraced my life. I was born in the south and raised in the north--but my grandmother's Mississippi farm was very near the river where the three civil rights workers were found--and although I don't have clear memories, I was very aware of the "race problem" as I was growing up. Barefoot black kids came into my grandmother's grocery store during the summers I spent there.

It upset me that America was mired in hypocracy--and ultimately, my most important experiences were involved with teaching in this city. I gravitated to this challenge. Most of my students are African American and I'm very interested in how they view the world. I'm also aware of how I can help them negotiate college if only they'll believe in themselves. I wrote them all emails today saying we needed to work harder together. Detroit faces a mayoral election this next week--and it's all about trust.

Imperial Democracy

If you haven't met Arundhati Roy, you need to. . .she says it better than anybody. http://www.chitram.org/mallu/ar.htm

A Trip to the Fabric Store

I had almost an hour to kill between a class and a haircut, so I ducked into a really nice fabric store just to look. What washed over me was the realization that I had mostly done the fabric store thing with my mother when I was a too-tall teenager and the 1960's style skirts were really short. That meant I could not buy much off the rack, so my mother used to make my clothes. We would pour over the pattern books and then the creativity began. She was such a good sport! I'll never forget the pink paisley jump suit, the royal purple Yves St. Laurent maxi coat (down to the ground!) and a wonderful three piece donegal tweed suit--mini-skirt, waistcoat and cuffed pants! And the Mary Quant dresses--psychedelic patterns and all. What I wouldn't give to have those clothes now to give to my daughter--who could actually wear them. But 40 years later and too many moves have pared down my collection.

A friendly saleswoman asked if I needed help and I started to launch into a nostalgic reminiscence--but it suprisingly caught in my throat. I wasn't nearly appreciative enough to my mother, so I think I'll call her tomorrow and tell her.

Fall on Campus

If you ever want to feel young and frisky again, just take a walk in the fall across a Midwestern college campus. Strolling among the students, cutting between the Engineering Building and a funky diner, and warming in the autumnal sun--there is no better elixer. But the students appear tired, and they seem uncommonly burdened with their backpacks--distracted by the cell phones glued to their ears. I feel a little silly carrying my 30-year old leather satchel--which actually used to be diaper bag--and breathing in the cool air while admiring the architectural details of the oldest building on campus. They have no idea where they are in the scheme of things, I think. They have no idea how absolutely precious this time is. They have no idea...

Let's Hear it for the Boys!

After 7 years of teaching girls exclusively, I'm finding my young male students to be surprisingly well mannered and cooperative. I'm not sure what I expected--maybe hands on hips, eyes rolling--I got used to being challenged, almost comically so, by my young female students. Now, all I have to do is pat my head and these young men remove their hats; I tug on my ear, and they speak up so I can hear. If I put a finger to my lips, they stop the chatter. If I chide them for being tardy, they apologize! They willingly revise poorly edited papers--and eagerly listen to my advice.

Perhaps we've had an alien invasion here in Detroit--or just a lot of young men raised by high spirited, strong-talking women have entered college. I wish the images of these young men were as prominent in the media as those of the foul-mouthed thugs they listen to on their I-pods. They are learning to read and write at a college level and hopefully to dream the dreams that will take their lives in new directions.

Trust the Process

As a writing teacher, I often tell my students to just "trust the process." Whenever I assign a challenging essay, they trip over themselves with trivial questions which reveal their fears as well as their intense preoccupation with the end result, and of course, grades. I want them, instead, to immerse themselves in the joy of inquiry and the exhilaration of creative work. I want them to discover their voices. . . they want to know when it will all be over. "Am I done, yet?" When I sit down every day to write this blog, I don't know what will happen. Some days, I'm burning with an issue that has gotten under my skin, and other days I simply agree to discipline myself. I try to "trust the process." Some days the words flow so fast that my fingers can't keep up and other days, each line is a struggle. I guess I should be teaching them to love the struggle.

Go to Operation Eden

I was sent a link to http://operationeden.blogspot.com/ and it is amazing. The photography is outstanding and the writing is moving, too.

Did You Get the Message????

I went to the funeral of a former student today in a very modest storefront church on the east side of Detroit--a neighborhood that needs more than God and gospel. The atmosphere was so different than at white folks funerals--kids ran around in t-shirts emblazoned with the picture of the deceased on the front and the music, save the lyrics, would have been great to dance to. People got up and spoke as the spirit moved them and told tales about Katrina, and there was laughter and poetry and tears. I saw many of my former students, grown up, some with babies in arms. As we wandered outside, I hugged them each and said, "Did you get the message?" They looked at me curiously. "What message?"

Katrina was shot because she was in an after hours club--a place she had no business being with too many desperate people with nothing to lose. This community just accepts that violence and early deaths are a natural part of life. But we failed her--we all failed to pull hard enough to jerk her back from the brink. I saw too much celebration today and not enough anger. . .

Brownie's Revenge

It's clear Michael Brown, former FEMA director and expert in Arabian horses, has adopted some of the Bush administration's attitudes about responsibility. Last week, during the hearings about Katrina, he was diffident, hostile and unrepentant, shifting blame while claiming to not be pointing fingers. His only error?? Not realizing how dumb everyone else was! Since this attitude has worked before for the Republicans, I'm sure he was well coached in standing up to the cross examination. We saw this again yesterday with Tom Delay. Is there some secret school they all go to to learn how to be simultaneously hypocritical and morally outraged? The Rush Limbaugh Academy of Conservatism? I long for the days when the president was only hiding a couple of blow jobs and an intelligent and ambitious wife.

A Million Readers?

I just read that a blogger from a local suburb enjoys so many hits on his blog that he's going to make his entire living off of it. He used to teach. That says it all! His blog concerns the antics of such superstars as Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, et. al. People are so caught up in the vicarious thrill of the lives of super skinny airheads, that a former teacher can retire. Perhaps if I launched a Nicole Richie for President website, I could pay my heating bill this winter.

What's Goin' On?

Over the weekend, I heard a story on the local TV news about a shooting at an after-hours club on the east side of the city. During an argument, someone pulled out an AK-47. The hair on the back of neck stood up, and an involuntary shiver went down my spine when the announcer said a 21-year old young woman had been fatally wounded. I thought to myself, "she could be one of my students."

The next day, I received an email confirming that, indeed, a former student of mine had been shot and died subsequently at a local hospital. I wish I could say that I was shocked and surprised by this, but I was not. She was a smart girl who made really stupid decisions.

She graduated in 2002, I believe, but at any other school, she would have dropped out or been kicked out first. Our little school embraced her quirky sense of humor, her wild "coming apart at the seams" appearance; and we all recognized that underneath the "street-wise" veneer lay a certain innate and gentle intelligence. When she came to class, she could perform like any top student--she was engaged; nothing was too difficult for her, and she asked the right questions. At other times, she slept in the back, came late or didn't come to class at all.

She leaves a 10-month old son--I don't know about the father--but I can guess. What becomes of a baby whose mother is shot and killed in this way? I don't need much imagination, knowing what I know of his mother's life.

Someday in the future, during an after-hours party fueled by drugs and booze and attended by thugs with street names like "D-Man" and "Double C,"an AK-47 will appear. Here we go again.

Back That Thang Up

We went to a wonderful wedding celebration just last weekend, and it was a joy to participate in an event that is such a damn leap of faith! Just when I think we're at the gates of hell climbing out of our collective handbasket, someone or something reminds me that life just goes on. People meet, fall in love, believe it will be forever, and decide to celebrate in grand style. The church was breathtaking--a hexagonal cathedral in perhaps the worst part of Detroit--but just the right place. The bride looked like Grace Kelly and my daughter, the rogue bridesmaid, wore a stunning black Vera Wang gown and cleared the dance floor with her handsome escort. When they announced the hustle, I was proud to hear her say--"don't worry, watch my Mom, she knows how to do it." Those years of teaching in the city paid off when it came to shaking that money maker.

Refugees from Third World USA

Someone in the media mistakenly called the evacuees from Hurricane Katrina "refugees," and they were very quickly reprimanded by the language police. But after some consideration, I've determined that many of these folks are indeed refugees--from third world USA--a place many other, more successful Americans, have not had much contact with before this tragic event.

The human and material costs emerging here are astronomical--and should remind us how expensive it is to ignore the problems of poverty and discrimination in our country. If a baby is unlucky enough to be born into a poor family in this century, he can expect to live in unsafe housing, to be exposed to all manner of environmental pollutants, to enjoy little if any medical attention, let alone basic coverage, and then to receive a substandard education. He can also be expected to be blamed for all of this once he's old enough.

America needs to wake up -- we can and should be a better country. Authentic patriotism stems from the unshakable belief that we can and shall live up to all our ideals and that they will be made manifest in our citizens and our communities. (cue John Phillip Souza!)

Compassionate Conservatives on Vacation or Give a Man a Fish???

What can I say that hasn't already been said?

Read It and Weep!

Yesterday, after a reading class I teach at a local university, I found one of my newest students waiting for me in the parking lot. She asked if I could help her find a way to teach a 16-year-old high school boy how to read. I was almost speechless! Apparently, he found out she was going to college, even though she had scored so low on reading that my course is required. He revealed to her that he does not know how to read and asked for her help. Indicating that she is the first person he has told, he said he was very embarrassed and didn't want any of his friends to know.

I had no idea what to tell her! Local literacy programs exist for adults, but this student is surrounded by teachers -- they just don't know his secret. I told her to give me a week to do a little checking around, but meanwhile, I suggested, "tell him that if he's fooled everyone around him, he must not be too stupid!"

After teaching English here for so long, it is difficult for me to imagine how a teacher couldn't know if one of his or her students could not read. Shameful! Yet, I know how impossible it can be to manage six classes a day of forty kids each, day after day. The cracks are too big--and we are often too tired to keep putting our fingers in the dike.

I'm going to try to find out if there are materials she could use to help him. Maybe someday, she'll look back and tell the story of how she decided to become a teacher. Wouldn't that be something?

"Storms Don't Kill People--Public Policy Kills People!"

It's interesting that the very same politicians who offer "personal responsibility" as the answer to all societal problems are spinning around this issue and trying to avoid the "blame game." Well, the last time I checked, the game was over and New Orleans lost, and there are bodies lying bloated on the field.

So, I'm not going to "blame" anyone--I'll just say that "Storms Don't Kill People--Public Policy Kills People!" Anyone want to buy a t-shirt?

Katrina, as a natural disaster, is being blamed for all the devastation, but it looks like much of her destruction could have been mitigated if public policy had been informed by unbiased scientific analysis (meaning not forced into shape by corporate and self-interest) . Two larger issues loom in the background here beneath all the spinning--environmental policy, specifically wetlands) and federal funding of critical infrastructure projects to address homeland security issues.

Let's see if the media chooses to examine those issues rather than the compelling and emotional family reunions. I'm guessing a three-hour special on the wetlands is NOT in the works at CNN right now.

Masters of War

Bob Dylan's lyrics from the 1960's are more relevant today than ever--but so what? While searching for an original way to engage my students in the task of raising their reading comprehension scores to the college level, I did a lyric search and found songs from Tupac and Kayne West. I also copied lyrics from Sinatra's Birth of the Blues and, of course, the lyrics from Masters of War. Profound ideas come a wide variety of packages--diverse voices converge into uncomfortable truths. "Kept my history of mystery but now I see/The American Dream wasn't meant for me." To the Masters of War Dylan says: "You fasten the triggers/For the others to fire/Then you set back and watch/When the death count gets higher/You hide in your mansion/As young people's blood/Flows out of their bodies/And is buried in the mud."

In the wake of Katrina, I hope we can all reexamine the sometimes empty promises of our democracy and begin the address the dangerous, widening gap between rich and poor in our country. The citizens of New Orleans reverted to "looting" because they had nothing to lose! I don't make false distinctions between "good" and "bad" looting--(oh how the inadequacies of moral absolutism are revealed in the face of such a staggering disaster!) A VCR or microwave? "Oh, how decadent and opportunistic!" Well, anything that can be turned into cash is fair game when you are trying to survive.

I can't get this disturbing dream out of my head--I'm in a lifeboat that is sinking and I am given orders to make sure no one else boards--We solemnly peel off the fingers of the drowning and release their bodies into the vast black water surrounding us.

Our Collective Conscience

When I look at the images of the suffering, death and complete devastation of hurricane Katrina, I'm compelled to ask what role, if any, public policy played in the massive suffering of New Orleans victims. It doesn't take a genius to connect the dots from energy policy which favors global corporations while ignoring global warming and the need to protect wetlands, foreign policy driven by the "need" to control the natural resources of others, federal budget deficits driven by an ill-conceived war and a huge tax give away. Democracy's got no clothes!

What is the role of the government? Fox News pundit, Bill O'Reilly is already spinning the ..."see what happens when you trust the government...?" as if citizens have no right to expect anything from their government. Compassionate conservatism, indeed! We should be better than that. In America, our government should be our collective conscience. The federal budget should reflect our concern with equality and social justice--and not simply pork barrel projects designed to keep the powerful in power. We could be the greatest country on earth if we could stop the flag-waving and the posing and get down to the business of building a better society. But the people in power "hate" government--they want to privitize everything--that way you can pick and choose who you think is really "worthy" of your charity--and write it all off while you're at it.

How do you like smaller government, now?

Since our government has been taken over by those who "hate" government and want it to shrink, we now see a complete erosion of any commitment to infrastructure, community or the public good. The rich live in gated communities with private security forces, private pools, privatized power (generators), bottled water and endless food supplies, while the poor are floating on broken doors down the sewered streets of New Orleans. Why? Follow the money . . . money that should have been spent shoring up the levees. Who cut it off and why? Just guess!

It is clear that many of our leaders can't imagine people without the resources to evacuate. Where have they been? For many of the homeless and poor people who survive Katrina, this storm could actually be the best thing that ever happened to them. They might actually be able to gain some ground. As long as they slept in alleys and pushed shopping carts, no one cared.

The outpouring of sympathy for the "suddenly" impoverished always confuses me. When people lose everything all at once, we turn on the cameras and can't get enough of the images of suffering. However, when people are regularly victimized by systemic poverty, we quickly look away and change the subject.

I hope people begin to realize that it is a priviledge to be able to ignore politics--it means you have the resources to sheild yourself from injustice. Maybe $5.00 a gallon gas will wake you up.

Through a Teacher's Eyes

I became a teacher because I had a teacher--a really great teacher! She came along at exactly the time that I had no idea who or what I was to become, and a nasty high school environment had managed to rebuff my edginess and my originality. She celebrated me! She got me! In her eyes, I was beautiful, not awkward, not too tall, and not too red-haired and freckled. I was brilliant, even though my grade point average reported nothing to write home about...and I wasn't in the Latin IV class, or in Honors English Literature with all the girls who were Eastern girl school bound. She appreciated my creativity and my iconoclastic humor, and in doing so, she persuaded me to see myself in a light that was certainly more positive.

Years later, one of my best and most-loved students spoke at the graduation exercises at the high school where I had been teaching for seven years. She said that the main thing about me, as a teacher, was that I helped students to see themselves not as they were, but as they could be. I helped them see themselves through my eyes--my adoring eyes. Jayne was right--I did adore them...they were emotionally open, sassy, opinionated, brilliant, silly, serious, faithful and true. And they needed me to love them. And I did. And I do.

Wolverine Poem

Still we see our brittle truths
Of conflict, fear and power
All across our land—and
The truths of possibility

Imagine glass and concrete
City landscapes—
Each rough line prolonging itself
Straight off into the gray horizon’s edge

Or a small log cabin tucked beside the
Sturgeon River—its twisting song
Rolls through clinging cedars and
Vigilant pines—spilling its coppered water turmoil
Into the mirrored blue of Burt Lake

When the quieted village seems asleep
Heavy—full of forgotten songs and dull dances,
Poems are read aloud to the stars
An offering by a woman who came again
To learn how to live
Whispering the truths of her own possibility.

Evangelical Christian Terrorists

Pat Robertson finally gets it! After years of publicly denying any empathy for terrorists, he stepped into a giant pile of hypocrisy. He's so frustrated with Chavez that he wants him "taken out!" Gee--that's real Christian of him. If only he were willing to strap on a few sticks of dynamite and blow himself up in front of the Venezuelan embassy...

Mad Hot Ballroom--or All We Need is Dance Lessons

I saw the acclaimed documentary film Mad Hot Ballroom this weekend and I loved it--who couldn't love those adorable little ethnically diverse kids and their wonderful teachers? But something in the back of my brain kept nagging at me--and after a while, I began to see that this kind of story, as uplifting (not my word) as it is, masks the real problems. It says to us: look how easily we can solve the problems of poverty, drug abuse and single or absentee parents! It matters not that our so-called "safety net" has holes big enough to drive a M-1 tank through; and the bottom rungs of the ladder to the American Dream have been cleverly sawed off by the Bush Administration's tax gifts to the wealthy. Not to worry! A concentrated series of dance lessons and a city-wide competition and it all goes away! This documentary, for all it's hopeful moments, fails to examine the systemic stranglehold of poverty and the third rate school systems that our urban areas have to tolerate because we refuse to examine the unjust method of funding through property tax. I noted this as I read about my own suburban high school adding a new swimming pool this summer while the roofs of Detroit's school leak onto 25-year-old desks. The movie I want to see would follow these same dancing kids through high school. I don't imagine my Republican friends would recommend such a movie so enthusiastically. Don't get me started.

We the People

What Was She Wearing??

The first question a right-wing conservative will ask when told about a rape on a deserted street, late at night is, "What the hell was she doing there at that time?" Moreover, if the woman was wearing a mini-skirt and a thong, she must have been "asking for it." Yet, these same folks become apoplectic if anyone even hints that the US might possibly be doing something (oh, I don't know...occupying their country???) to provoke terrorism. They refuse to examine the question at all and will persistently overtalk anyone who wonders aloud about the wisdom of our current situation.

As a Peace Movement veteran, I have been spit at, shouted at, called names, threatened, and nearly run over for suggesting that peaceful solutions can be found for all problems, big and small, domestic as well as global. Okay, so I give up. The next right-winger who so much as raises an eyebrow at me risks a massive head injury. Are you happy now?

Pretty Disturbing????

Just south of the Baghdad airport, a bomb exploded recently, flipping the 25-ton amphibious assault vehicle which was transporting soldiers at the time. "'This was a catastrophic event,' said Sgt. Jason Knapp, an Air Force bomb technician who arrived at the scene of the multiple attacks the next morning. He found a foot from one of the American soldiers in the shallow water of a nearby canal. 'It was pretty disturbing," he said." Pretty disturbing????

When do we begin to understand that traditional military solutions will not work in the post-modern arena? When do Americans begin to listen to leaders who speak the truth about this atrocity instead of the pre-programmed talking points meant to reinforce the distortions and lies in which our current administration has invested so heavily? When do we finally realize that this war is not about anybody's freedom, our or theirs--it is about access to natural resources, both oil and water, and the building of permanent military bases to secure these resources for the use of our global corporate robber barons. And Americans have been manipulated by fear into supporting it.

As a resident of a city struggling to maintain its fragile and aging infrastructure in the face of capital flight and unrestricted sprawl, I'm wondering if an Al Queda training camp, just south of 8 Mile Road, might be a better strategy than all the swearing, wishing and hoping we do around here. Either that, or a new mayor.

I think I'll go lay or lie down...

Whenever I have a stack of papers to grade, a pile of laundry, a long list of gardening chores, a room to paint, or a sink full of pantyhose, I look for something else to do. Blogging may be the answer. Or not. If this, too, becomes work, I'm not sure I want to try to do it every day. Then again, I always tell my students to respect the process and trust the process. So, respect and trust, it is. I've not been successful at exercising daily, so maybe writing might work--not as a way to lose weight--but as a way to keep from talking to myself. The older I get, the more I enjoy myself as a conversational companion--so agreeable, so insightful, so funny! I really get me! So I think as bloggers, we simply want others to get us--it is a way of sharing that offers few, if any risks. And, its either a great way to procrastinate, or another task to put off. I think I'll go rest now.

To My Summer School Students

What a gift it was to be able to be with you again this special summer in your lives—Watching you develop powerful, true voices has been a particular thrill to me. You know how I feel about writing—it is not simply a skill you need—it is your birthright—to discover your voice, the power, the uniqueness of your own special way of expressing the truth is one of the most important efforts of your lives. You may not fully realize it today—but I’m confident you will eventually come to know how critical it is. You will all need to become lifelong learners—if that makes you tired—I’m sorry. The world is changing fast and you’ll need to change along with it if you want your dreams to be more than just daydreams. But I know you can do it—you know you can do it.

One last lesson I hope you’ve learned from me is that the quality of your academic work represents you and the young lady you will become. If you aren’t satisfied with it—keep on working. Don’t be afraid of hard work. Your work is not your teacher’s work—it is not about who your parents are—or the school you attend—or even the friends you have. It is a manifestation of your imagination, your creativity, your gifts, and your skills. Like it or not, you own it! How much are you willing to invest in yourselves? When you cease needing deadlines, assignments, coaxing, reminders, and threats, when you read difficult material on your own for yourself, record your thoughts and ideas without expectation of praise or reward, you will finally discover the joy of owning your mind and the fruits of its labor.

J. Evans - Oregonian Cowboy - May He Rest in Peace

Two Ways to Herd Sheep

Let us tell ourselves
stories: one evening in Lake Creek Valley
just west of Low Pass in the Coastal Mountains of western Oregon
the dog with one blue eye and one brown
is herding the sheep along a ragged fence row,
The horse knows what to do.

The rider, uncertain, gropes along,
her mind circles above in wide looping gestures
imposing a narrative on disparate images:
the dog’s blue eye, the horse’s forelock, the sheep, the fence.

The dog positions himself.
The horse, impatient with the rider, tosses her head
The sheep know just what to do.
Together, they turn--pushing through the narrow gate
and into the clapboard corral.

Another evening, another ride
The blue/brown-eyed dog is gone hunting for elk
in the Cascade mountains above Mackenzie Pass
The rider, in anxious pantomime, whistles,
shouts to the phantom dog
her pretense hovers in an uneasy cloud above her.

Still,
the horse knows. The sheep know.
Still,
they pivot, in unified homage,
a stream of instinct—narrowing themselves again
through the corral gate.
The rider knows just what to do.

Art and Soul, from the Wasteland Series - 2005

Is it just me or is it hot in here?

So finally our conservative friends, the ones who have discounted scientific evidence for global warming (not to mention everything else), have a new tactic--admit we have a problem and quickly serve up a solution that will benefit their bloodsucking corporate pals. Yes, my friends, "noocuelar" power! Get ready for Halliburtan to get another no-bid contract. No one will object because we'll need the jobs. New Zealand is looking better and better.

Summer School 2005

Dominican High School & Academy was founded by my friends the Adrian Dominican nuns more than 60 years ago. It's growth and demise echo Detroit's--white flight, fewer and fewer young women willing to forgo the social push/pull of co-ed high school, and fewer parents able to afford the luxury of private school. From 1997 until 2004, I taught English to mostly African American girls--young women really--until the apparent futility of attracting more students overwhelmed me. I decided to let go and move on.

I focused on my favorite subject--writing--and decided to say "no" to everything else. Writing transforms...writing well empowers. The most significant changes I had the priviledge to initiate involved young women discovering their voices. So, I now teach both at Wayne State and Siena Heights Universities.

When the principal from Dominican called me to teach summer school, I jumped at the chance to reconnect with my "girls" and to offer them my newly acquired insights. I developed and course just for them--Senior Composition. The would learn everything they needed to know about writing for college.

The old saying, "you can't go home again," is usually confirmed by disappointing experiences, but in this case, I have gone home, and it has been more than satisfying. I am invigorated with their curiousity, their challenging questions, their humor and their love. The class has exceeded my expectations and theirs, as well.

Of course, it helps not to have to be concerned with the rolling of the skirts, uniform violations, chewing gum and all the other disciplinary annoyances. We eat in class, wear what we want to--wander off to the bathroom to check our voice mail. Since my students have chosen to be here with me, there is little to no resistance or slacking off--I say little--there is some, but it's understandable. The school is being packed up, the walls are almost bare, it is 90 degrees and sometimes we are simply struck with the sadness of tables in the dining hall stacked with dusty textbooks instead of noisy girls. The dumpster filled with desks moved me unexpectedly one morning.

In spite of witnessing the very end of something I loved so much, I'm glad to be there. I know that 12 young women will end the summer knowing they have a power that they can leverage throughout their lives and I fully expect their voices to be heard!