Day 23 of the Slicing Challenge

Several months ago I was in a writing class and a woman wrote a beautiful, moving piece about her granddaughter.  Within this piece she wrote an off-the-cuff disparaging allusion to “those pastel people,” comparing them to others more bold and vivid.  Clearly this was not a reference to their clothing color preference, but more an indictment of their personalities.  I admired her craft, and this clever line, the concept and the casually contemptuous tone lingered with me.

I turned this idea over frequently, and initially, I bought into her view.  I mean, who doesn’t admire someone who is bold, vibrant and eye-catching?  Someone who makes an impact. Pastel colors are b-o-r-i-n-g.  But then, it hit me… right between my pale blue eyes.  I am, for the most part, a pastel.  Part of this might be my temperament and certainly part was my upbringing. 

In my family there were many spoken and unspoken rules about how to behave, but there were always rules.  I was raised to be helpful and never to make waves.  Not to make a bold statement.  Never to clash or draw attention to myself.  As a result, my siblings and I had lovely manners but didn’t necessarily know how to speak up for what we wanted or needed.  Good lord, we might inconvenience someone if we expressed a simple preference, so too often we didn’t. Stay in the background.  Smooth things over.  Don’t rock the boat.  Follow the rules.  In essence, be pastel.

The more I thought about this color-based personality analysis and my pastel category, the more I found myself demurring*—not with the overall concept, but with the dismissive tone.  Pastels aren’t merely “washed out” or “nearly neutral”  or just plain boring.  While they don’t have that “zing” factor, they have hidden depths.  Pastels provide balance, promote relaxation, and can be more subtle and nuanced than bold colors.   They soften the edges, soothe and calm.  These are pretty important functions.

 So,while part of me will always long to be bright, vibrant and bold, and to take the world by storm, it’s really not my nature.  And that’s ok.  I’ve come to terms with being pastel.  

* Merriam-Webster defines demur as “to disagree politely with another person’s statement or suggestion” —definitely a pastel way to dissent!

Still participating in the Slice of Life March Challenge–Day 22

I’m not a huge Facebook user, but I do enjoy glancing through every day or so and taking a look at what friends and family are up to.  I even post a picture once in a while.  Sometimes I click on other people’s links and get sucked into a time warp, emerging shaking my head.  A little dazed and confused.  And, yes, often concerned–I mean, why is there a site about what people wear to Walmart?  Who cares?

Anyway, yesterday a childhood friend had posted a link titled “This mashup of famous dance scenes is your new favorite video.”  Beneath it said, “Where else can you see Beauty and the Beast, Magic Mike, and Cameron Diaz all in one place?”  In a moment of weakness, perhaps induced by a desire to avoid all things report-card related, I clicked.  After an odd advertisement, which seemed to have a target audience of cats, the words Shut up and Dance with me filled the screen.  The music kicked in.  The video started.  I was hooked.  Transported.

While Walk the Moon sang “Shut up and dance with me”, clips of dancing scenes from movies filled my laptop screen. What is there about dancing that just screams JOY?  I couldn’t stop smiling, a full stretch-your-face smile, trying to identify the movies–Risky Business, Grease, Billy Elliott, Happy Feet, Dirty Dancing, Beetlejuice, and so many more.

And then, over half-way through, for a brief moment, Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer filled the screen.  In the patio scene from The Sound of Music.  Their eyes locked.  Their arms linked, lifting and forming graceful arches. Slowly, turning, they danced the Laendler and tears filled my eyes.

Tears don’t come easily to me, but something about that moment in the midst of such powerful joy moved me.  Perhaps it’s my life-long love of all things Sound of Music.  Perhaps it’s the youth of these two aging acting legends.  Perhaps it’s knowing that in the background the Baroness watched, hurting, and the Nazis gathered.  Perhaps it’s simply the longing and love captured in this moment.

I have now watched this video mishmash multiple times and each time I smile and feel my mood lift.  Then that moment happens.  Julie Andrews.  Christopher Plummer.  And each time my eyes tear up.  And as I watch again and again, I’ve been considering music and dance and how they encompass so many emotions.  These video scenes capture not just joy, but the emotional crux of each movie–as if the feeling has intensified to such a degree that mere dialogue can’t hold it any longer, it just spills over into song and dance. These moments are imbued with raw, powerful emotion, often joy and celebration, but more subtly, grit, defiance, longing, love, and determination. Transcendent.

So, I shared the link on my Facebook page, hoping to entice others into watching this mishmash of videos–One that moved me to joy and yet brought tears from one achingly poignant moment.  And this morning, I opened my laptop and clicked on the link again.  “Shut up and Dance with Me” filled the air, I sat back to watch, smiled and then, once again, was moved to tears.

http://theberry.com/2015/03/17/this-mashup-of-famous-dance-scenes-is-your-new-favorite-video-video/

It’s another cold Saturday
after a long, trying Friday
but I rise from the nest of my bed
cheerfully
braving chilled wooden floors
anticipating warmth, laughter,
book talk, pastries,
candor and acceptance
We gather around Sue’s kitchen table

It’s book club today

Cutting for Stone
Mao’s Last Dancer
Bury Your Dead
To Kill a Mockingbird
When We Were The Kennedys

I am filled with gratitude for
this diverse group of
seriously fabulous women
who laugh with gusto
speak their truths and
value words and books
No game playing here
Vibrant women with grit
each with her own compelling story

The Paris Wife
The Art Forger
Orphan Train
Reconstructing Amelia
The Invention of Wings

Infused with a love of reading
our conversations meander
We share our ups and downs
commiserate, celebrate
share recent reads and vignettes from our lives
and sometimes we even have time for
insightful conversations about
the designated book.

Same Kind of Different As Me
All the Light We Cannot See
Everything I Never Told You

Mining the pages
of these many books
we’ve discovered
characters, history, culture,
images both haunting and profound
but richest of all
the glowing gem of connection
friendship
multifaceted
priceless.

It’s book club today.

I liked the suggested format for this morning…Before that… So I’m going to try it out!

Just sat down with a nice glass of Malbec

Before that, picked my daughter up from work

Before that, working on report cards–late night at school
Before that, ate half a large cheese pizza to fuel myself for a long night’s work and compensate for a long, long day.  Loved every delicious, guilty bite!
Before that, got my loaner computer from our tech guy
Before that, K-2 assembly
Before that, math fact family butterflies
Before that, chased down the tech guy for a loaner computer
Before that, worked through lunch–gulped down carrot ginger soup at my desk
Before that, math assessment
Before that, poetry into notebooks and reading
Before that, productive discourse conversation
Before that, word work assessment
Before that, early morning classroom routine–kids arrive, smiling and full of energy–I’m not.
Before that, almost dropped the f-bomb–changed it mid-stream to a loud Fudge!
Right Before that, spilled coffee all over my open laptop
Before that, finally arrived at school, relieved, thankful, and a bit stressed
Before that, learned where coolant goes in my car (Note to self:  If in the future heat is not working properly in car, check coolant levels!)
Before that, my knight in shining armor arrived in his Toyota steed
Before that, pulled over when the car overheated
Before that, non-fat half-caff. 2 pump peppermint latte-Friday indulgence!
Before that, read some slices, vowed to accentuate the positive today!
Before that, showered and coffee-ed
Before that, noticed that the thermometer read 7 degrees. Looked again. Growled at the thermometer.
Before that, pet my three legged cat after she stuck her wet nose in my face.  Fed her as well.
Before that, the alarm woke me from a sound sleep.  Morning already?

Yes, it was quite a day!

At the end of a winter
filled with a lifetime of
blizzards, brutal lows, and biting winds,
the roads buckle and heave,
pockmarked
bleached white
from the liberal application of salt.
Foundations crumble
revealing lines and cracks
Unexpected stress marks appear
overnight
and crisscross
like unsightly veins.

A woman of a certain age
can relate
to unexpected lumps
rising precipitously
from previously flat terrain
and the pitted dimpled tarmac
replacing erstwhile taut skin
She sympathizes
with the sudden appearance
of cracks and crumbling edges,
visible veins,
and the streaks of white or grey
on once dark surfaces
The patina of age.

Day 19

Today we had a Code Red drill at school.  We’ve practiced before, so the kids know what to do:.  Head to our assigned spots on the floor by the cubbies, be quiet, and wait.  Pretty simple yet also overwhelming.  I warn them beforehand that someone will try the door to make sure it is locked, so they might hear that.  Then we wait and wait and wait for the “all clear notice.”  I hate practicing these drills.  I hate what they represent.

We try to keep it matter-of-fact:  “This is just another drill to make sure we can be safe in an emergency.”  “It’s just like a fire drill.”  At our school Code Yellow means we have to stay in the building because something isn’t safe outside.  Code Red means we have to stay in the classroom because something isn’t safe in the building.  Many teachers have cited examples of Code Yellows that can happen at a rural school—bear seen in the area, rabid fox, whatever.  The kids can create long involved scenarios about how a fox might be outside so they can’t go to recess, or maybe a bear has been sighted and that’s why it isn’t safe.  They generally accept the fire drill analogy for Code Red drills.

At 6 and 7 years old though, some of them don’t quite get it.  Today after I told them about the impending drill, one student  asked, “Well, who is going to be the bear?  Mr. P or Mr. S.?”  Apparently somehow this student had the impression that the Principal or the Vice Principal was going to dress up like a bear and wander through the school checking to ensure the doors were locked.  I guess he combined his understandings of Code Red and Code Yellow.  It would be funny if it didn’t bring tears to my eyes.

During the actual drill the kids did well until one of them had a sneezing attack.  Sitting near her cubby, she grabbed her stuffed animal and proceeded to sneeze into it repeatedly.  Several students nearby began giggling.  It was contagious.  One student climbed into his cubby and peeked out from behind his coat—again and again.  More stifled giggles.  With some stern looks, I managed to quell most of the noise and finally the drill ended.

After a quick debrief, we took a break for snack.  One student who had done a super job is typically a bit “squirrelly” and has a hard time managing his energy.  I made it a point to compliment him on how well he had done.  He said, earnestly “You know why I did such a good job, Mrs. Hogan?”

“No, why?”

“Well,” he said,  “It’s because if it was a real Code Red, I wouldn’t want to make noise ’cause I wouldn’t want to be dead.”    

“Mrs. Hogan!  Mrs. Hogan!  Mrs. Hogan!” my first-grade student exclaimed, “I know everyone’s last name in the classroom except yours.”

“What?” I asked, slightly confused.

“I know everyone’s last name in the class except yours.” he repeated, still grinning with his accomplishment.

“But, B., you just said my last name.” I stated.

“What?” he asked, wrinkling up his nose and tilting his head to look up at me, clearly puzzled.

“You just said my last name,” I repeated, “when you said my name.”

“Mrs. Hogan?” he queried.

“Yes,” I said, “Hogan is my last name.”

“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t know that.”

I’m still shaking my head…and laughing…and shaking my head again…

Today I read Kate Messner’s post about a bitter controversy swirling around YA author Andrew Smith’s comments in a recent interview.  Entering the piece I was curious, taking a slightly-guilty detour from my plans for my day (managing car repairs, grading, lesson plans, etc).  Leaving the piece, I was deeply saddened and concerned.  I had heard about the severe trolling that targets women who write about sexism in the gaming world.  I suppose in my mind I thought this was awful but relegated it to the “gaming community” of which I am not a member.  It’s only an isolated segment of our population—horrible in a remote sort of way, not really my problem.  And yes, I feel ashamed as I type this.

However, reading Kate’s post made me revise my woefully superficial understanding of the depths of this issue.  I mean, why would anyone post hostile comments on a Ted-Ed learning video about writing fiction?  Or a photo essay on an Adirondack spring?  What is this amorphous rage that spews out in hateful bursts onto the internet?  I just don’t understand.  Is this solely because women are the authors?  Is it some sort of inchoate rage that simmers, erupting in random directions?  I really don’t understand.  Do these people feel empowered by taking others down?  Is there something in our culture or in internet anonymity or a combination of some sort that breeds this sort of hate?

I recently listened to a piece on This American Life in which an author, Lindy West, who was severely trolled,  spoke with one of her trollers—now repentent.  This man had gone to elaborate lengths to harm this woman—creating a Twitter profile for her recently deceased father that included a picture and a bio that read “Embarrassed father of an idiot; the other two kids are fine”.  He even tweeted her from this fake account.  When talking to her now, the troller suggested that a lot of his self-hate was directed toward her because the issues that challenged him in his life were ably addressed in her own and didn’t affect her happiness.  Why do some feel free to strike out at others when they are in pain?

Assuming he speaks the truth, I’m glad this man has stopped his trolling activities, but really the damage had been done.  I’m sorry doesn’t make it all better.  Lindy West noted afterward, “It’s frightening to discover that he’s so normal”.  Apparently crazy, violent hatred can come disguised in banal packages and travel through the internet without repercussion.  In a move imbued with the humanity so lacking in trolls, Lindy West chose not to reveal his name. 

As a writer who is taking risks these days (extremely minor ones, but significant to me), I’ve been enjoying the anonymity of the web.  Sure, my name is on my fledgling blog, but few friends know I am doing this, and the positive power of the Slice of Life writing community has been so uplifting.  In marked contrast to these other women, I have anticipated reading any comments I get!  I can’t help but compare my experience with the hateful, violent profanity-laden experience that Kate and Lindy West and all those gaming bloggers unwillingly shared.  The internet community feels a bit shakier to me now, less secure, resting on a fault line.   For now, I’m going to keep writing and posting and I know I will also continue thinking about this.  Thank you again, Kate, for demonstrating the positive power of words in your thoughtful, eloquent piece.

 Slice 15

It’s March 15th and it’s snowing.  I live in Maine and that just happens here.  I usually don’t mind snow in March and April because I know it’s ephemeral in nature.  However, this year, with feet of snow still waiting to melt, this snow seems like it’s adding insult to injury.  To top that off, it’s an indecisive snowfall—the flakes float and whirl, up, down, and around.  They’re not even doing anything!  I know—I’m contradicting myself here.  I really don’t want snow, but if it’s going to snow, it might as well snow, dang it! 

So, in a move to mitigate my snow-induced irritation, I head to the kitchen to make soup.  There’s nothing better than a pot of hot soup simmering on the stove on a snowy(-ish) day.  Today’s soup du jour will be Carrot Ginger.  This time, in a burst of daring,  I’m throwing a few parsnips in as well.  Take that,  Snow!  As I peel, slice, grate and chop, a pile of sliced carrot, onion and parsnip, vibrant orange and sunny white, grows on my scarred wooden cutting board.  I feel a bit better already.

Within half an hour, the aroma of simmering soup fills the house— Lots of onion with sweet overtones of carrots and parsnips, spicy ginger, and a nuance of fresh orange.  Inhaling that tempting, nutritious medley, I feel my mood slip into a gentler, happier place.

For the finishing touch, I puree the soup —softened vegetable chunks swirl into the broth in a delicious alchemy, transforming into a velvety amber elixir. 

Outside, the accumulated snow remains and those directionless snowflakes are still present.  Inside, I ladle a few spoonfuls of soup into the bowl and scatter a few pieces of scallion atop it all.  Ahhhh!  Soup’s on at my house. 

Day 14

The local Recycling Barn is always one of my Saturday destinations.  This morning, bag in hand,  I was gathering items to bring along:  newspapers, glass and plastic, a broken lamp, books, the wine glass I won at a Pampered Chef party last night, some random beaded necklaces, etc.  Some things are trash and some are waiting to be someone else’s treasure.  I picked up a pair of neon green sunglasses from my dresser and considered.  Last summer these were handed out at the Color Run 5K.  It was a beautiful day, perfect for running, and my first race with my 19 year old daughter.  Warm memories.  The glasses were a cute keepsake but honestly, they’d been gathering dust on my dresser since last summer.  Did I really need to keep these?  I hesitated.

Adeline and I after the Color Run–
I’d already had to remove the green sunglasses to use my prescription ones.

Another more recent memory stirs, this one from a discussion in my first grade classroom. We were talking about  Ezra Jack Keat’s classic, Peter’s Chair.  At the beginning of this story. Peter is upset because all his blue childhood things are being painted pink for his new baby sister.  At the end he’s happily painting his blue baby chair pink with his dad’s help.  After reading the story aloud I asked my students what happened to Peter in this story.  Why does he change?   A small hand shot into the air.  “I think Peter learned that he doesn’t need to keep things, like his blue chair, to keep his memories of being a baby.”  Out of the mouths of babes.   I threw the sunglasses into the bag.

At the Recycling Barn, I unloaded and emptied the recycling into the designated wooden containers.  Then I wandered over to the “shopping” area to drop off the neon green glasses and other items. I placed them on the shelves, setting the green glasses next to someone else’s discarded vase.  I love seeing what is resting on these shelves and imagining who will take each item.  There is an ever-changing mixture of things, ranging from new to should-be-discarded.  Over the years I’ve brought home mugs, games, baskets, a Melitta electric kettle, two boxes of new Williams-Sonoma bakeware, a pristine small step ladder, and always books, books, books. There is a huge book swap/library area and I never know what I’ll find, which is part of the allure.  Today in the kids’ section, I scored a great book to use as a mentor text in Writers’ Workshop next year.  After a cursory glance through the remaining stacks, I grabbed another book (this one for me) and then cut myself off.

The book swap at the Recycling Barn

Heading out, I paused at the door as two men, one younger and one middle-aged, moved a gigantic, hideous, plaid couch out of the building.  When I walked outside after them, I looked across the parking lot, curious to see what vehicle would hold this behemoth.  There it was, a small four-door car, back seats already brimming with plaid cushions.  I stopped for a moment to watch, wondering how this was going to work.  The two men aligned the couch with the car then paused.  After a brief conversation, they hoisted it upward, grunting, flipping it onto the roof. The face of the middle-aged man turned bright red with the effort and I worried momentarily about his cardiac health.  After a tense moment, with a bit of jostling, the sofa settled upside down atop the car, looking a bit like a canoe with ends overextending the length of the roof.  The men smiled, appearing well pleased with themselves and the older man’s face resumed a more healthy color.

I placed my books and leftover bags in the back of my car and reversed slowly in the soggy dirt parking lot.  As I drove away, two more people emerged from the long, low building.  I glanced over and saw a 6 or 7 year old boy walking out with his dad.  He was wearing a ball cap and a winter coat and on his face, he was sporting a neon green pair of sunglasses.