Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Ostracism

I've spent many years observing social interactions in hallways and recess courtyards of schools. As we enter a season that traditionally is about caring, sharing and peacemaking, I want to tell a little fable.

Once upon a time there was a misfit, a 13 year old boy who was not handsome. He was overweight, had hair that looked like his mom cut it with blunt scissors, and wore thick, thick glasses that distorted his eyes. Whatever outfits the other students wore, the boy always seemed to wear something that didn't fit in; if they wore cut-offs, he wore a suit and tie, if they dressed up, he wore jeans.

He always sat alone at lunch. If someone sat at the same table, they were careful to put at least 4 or 5 feet between them. After a while he stopped going to lunch. When someone sat next to him or walked next to him by accident, then the other students kept away from that person too - far away. The boy didn't talk much. He withdrew into himself and set up a kind of cloud of sadness around him, making others avoid him even more. He didn't get good grades and was always picked last when they chose teams. He was bitterly lonely, but he told his mom that everything was fine at school.

The boy spent most, if not all, of his adult years recovering from his adolescence.

This boy could be you and I. We've all seen people like the boy, whether male or female, in public school or at a senior citizen book club. What would it take for people to reach out and sit with someone who is ostracized and risk their own status? Is the responsibility of education only to teach curriculum, or is there something even more important? The arts teach empathy, but need to go much farther. We need not only to feel what it's like to wear someone else's shoes, but also to learn what to do as a result of understanding what that person is going through.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving. As a vegetarian in difficult times I have to think a bit about a reason for celebrating this holiday. The TV ads tell me it's about recipes, not overcooking the turkey, getting ahead on the holiday sales. My elementary school taught me to wear paper Native American (back then called "Indian") wreaths decorated with autumn leaves and to march down the assembly aisles donating my canned goods. We re-enacted the Pilgrims first Thanksgiving. My mom made "Indian" pudding, a delicious mixture of corn meal and blackstrap molasses, with a sauce that had real rum in it. There were the trips to see grandparents sometimes. But nostalgia only goes so far.

All right, I'm developing some present day meaning for myself. First, I benefit from being grateful. Psychology has confirmed this: make a gratitude list daily - at least five items- and you will feel better emotionally and physically. Second, the four day holiday gives me a needed rest before the downhill race to December 31st. Third, I can catch up on laundry, cleaning and homework assignments. Fourth, I can help out with one of the meals for homeless citizens. Five, I can avoid shopping and reflect on Life during the time I will save, not to mention money.

For students and teachers, Thanksgiving Week is wonderful. My students look forward to the food and to sleeping all day every day. It's wonderful until Monday, November 29th, which marks the season of the school year called Mid-Term, not Year End: exams, term papers, portfolio's, presentations. What was the blissful beginning of the school year has become the hard reality of Due Dates and Evaluations, with spring standardized testing looming in the shadows. Let me get back in bed. I plan to relax while I can. Happy thanksgiving.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Chickens

I'm late I'm late with my Monday blog, because I added urban mini-farming to my list of arts education activities this past week. With my husband out of town I took on the care of our 4 chickens, organic apple department and tomato patch. Yes, this is an arts education activity!

At 8:00 am each morning I let them out of the nesting area. Ricky rushes out first, clucking gratefully, staggers around, then rushes back inside to get his hens, who have to emerge in the correct pecking order. That's right, if they're not in the correct order, they get pecked. Patriarchy! Can we get a Gloria Steinem for the Poultry Population?

Next I break up pieces of bread, egg shells, apples, into bits and scatter then in the chicken "run." It's gratifying to receive their soothing, clucking appreciations as they rush around examining the menu and discussing it. As I return to the house for my coffee, Ricky utters a mournful crow. How dare I leave them unaccompanied?

I can't see any ears on the chickens, but their hearing doesn't suffer. If they detect that I'm in the house mid-day, they call me in a loud chorus of crying cackles. I emerge from the back door and there they are, lined up shoulder to shoulder (do chickens have shoulders?), peering through the grating that's closest to the house. What do they want? I could pick some grass ("green salad") or even better, sit on a chair next to them and talk to them. This is a wonderful thing to do, because they agree with everything I have to say. I practice my monologues, complain, ask them questions about the meaning of life, and enjoy the free therapy. If we're lucky and Labor was successful, the four of them might call me in a different sounding chorus, a more triumphant trumpeting sound, announcing the birth of an egg. Ricky always supervises me while I collect the warm, pink orb.

Before dark, I scatter more bread crumbs and table scraps for our enthusiastic chicken children, so they will sleep in and not wake the neighbors at 6:00 AM. Of course I'm exhausted from my Farmer's Wife activities and my blogging has suffered. But never fear, the Farmer has returned and I can resume my restful former life as an artist.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Nesting

It was cold this morning, the first day I put on gloves to go outside. We had a big rain last week, some of the trees have turned gold or red. If I didn't realize it before, I know it's fall now because we turned on the heat yesterday instead of relying on one more sweater indoors.

This is the season when the stores put out the holiday decorations, the Food Bank puts more barrels at the grocery store door, daylight dwindles and the birds overhead fly their formations South.

This year it's also the season for what I'm calling Re-Nesting. We don't expect it in the U.S., do we? The rule used to be like the story of the 3 Little Pigs: parents kick the children out of the home when they turn 18. Other countries expect the Full Nest, with in-laws, grandparents, grand kids, cousins, married daughters and sons all under one roof. Let's add to the crowd our children's friends, and friends of friends, who may have lost jobs or be between rentals. Recently our living room has looked more like a sports bar, with an assemblage of young men watching the Warriors or the Raiders. We bake oven-loads of potatoes to feed them all and keep the vegetarian house warm. We get the cots and mats out of the shed for the extra overnight drop-ins.

The result? A lot more fun. And ... more disagreements. As foreclosures mount, jobs decline, rentals stay high, then forced togetherness increases. If Re-Nesting continues to be a trend, then we should all advocate for the return of required Conflict Resolution programs in the schools. I also think that all of us over 18 should take Conflict Resolution or Chore Sharing Certification as a job requirement - like having a social security card.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Halloween

Last night the spooks roamed the neighborhood collecting treats. Children love wearing costumes and knocking on doors. Teenagers love bringing the candy to school for weeks afterwards.

This week we'll celebrate Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, as communities have thankfully become more aware of the universality and beautiful difference of diverse cultures. We're invited to remember those we have lost, the imperfect saints who have gone before. Writing poetry or a letter to a loved one who has died can be healing. I beleive it's true that although the arts are not therapy, they are therapeutic.

I recently took some time to write an elegy for my mom, and hope that others will write a poem too. Here's mine, send yours.

Elegy

Now might I see you
shoulder pads
two-toned high heels
shaking hands at some event or
taking the hat pins out of your red felt hat
running your hand through your curly black hair

Now might I see you
cooking the flank steak on the table top broiler
clearing the dishes off the stained tablecloth
calling me from 3 rooms away to
“Spit out that gum right now”
Now might I see you on the move
all five foot four inches
dressing down the grocery clerk for being slow
sticking volunteer stamps on a hundred envelopes by the green couch
separating the wet garbage from the dry like they did on the farm
even though it was New York City

The last time I saw you
you lay in the great oak coffin like a wooden ship with brass fixings,
lavender sweater pulled tight over breasts pumped young with embalming,
red lips drawn in a straight line across the cosmetics on your changed face.
You would have liked the bathroom there, glittering sterile,
the rugs sinking deep, vacuum streaks in parallel lines
hushed lighting organized, respectful.
“In a better place now
We gather not to mourn but to celebrate the life”
the life never lying down like this

Now might I still see you even
those last 3 dementia years
my mother yet my child
those last 3 years that I
cried the tears you couldn't
spoke the words you couldn't
held tight the body you couldn't
my little girl those last 3 years

I put a lavender Mum by her cheek
from the packed bouquet over the propped coffin lid
It matched her sweater

She would have liked that