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. . .