Pearls of Wisdom

In my 25 years, I've learned mostly the following:

1.       Passing out before midnight on a Saturday night doesn’t make you lame, it makes you confident.

2.       Cottage cheese looks gross, but tastes amazing.

3.       Never do something yourself when you could bribe your sibling to do it for you.

4.       Although tempting, it’s usually a bad idea to keep your credit card in your back pocket rather than tucked safely in your wallet.

5.       It’s worth spending money on soft sheets and name brand hair products.

6.       Don't let anyone tell you coffee is bad for you.

7.       Belting an outfit really does make you look skinny.

8.       Dance parties are usually more satisfying in your kitchen than in a bar, particularly when they include a certain Wiley Goy.

9.       Eating pizza while drinking is never a bad idea.  Eating pizza is never a bad idea.

10.   Sometimes 12-year-olds have great taste in music.

11.   Never use a glue trap to catch a mouse unless you’re cold-hearted.

12.   Keep your deodorant in the fridge if the temperature gets above 90.

13.   Leave home at least twice.

14.   Procrastinate a lot, and then work harder.

15.    Childhood friends are worth keeping around, because you never know when you might all end up in NYC.

16.   Beware the transformative power of matching pajama sets.

17.   Bring plenty of water on all outdoorsy endeavors.

18.   Reunite.

19.   Travel far away when you have the money, but especially when you have the time.

20.   Create a secret language so you can be judgmental in public.

21.   Get a few speeding tickets because going fast is fun.

22.   Go on long walks with coffee and sandals.

23.   Consider meat.

24.   When shopping, never wear overalls, a sports bra, skinny jeans or shoes that tie.

25.   Flop frequently and flop well. 

Good Reads, Part 2

If Michiko Kakutani can do it, so can I.  Here's what's on my nighstand lately:

The Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides: When a writer waits ten years between books, it’s hard to meet readers’ expectations.  Eugenides’ new book is criticized for its failure to live up to his first two novels—the inventive Virgin Suicides and Middlesex.  And it’s true: The Marriage Plot is not as original, thought provoking or beautiful as Eugenides’ earlier work, but this comparative critique doesn’t take us very far. The book is still good.  The novel chronicles the intertwined lives of three Brown graduates trying to keep love and intellectualism alive during the post-college letdown.  As in his previous novels, Eugenides once again showcases his masterful ability to capture—with dry humor and attention to detail—what it feels like to be young and lost. The book is about intellectual snobs and, as such, will appeal mostly to readers who have intimate knowledge of life on an elite college campus (certainly no one I know).  The Marriage Plot is a big, graceful novel in the finest sense: multigenerational, global and full of trial and tribulation. 

The Tiger’s Wife, by Tea Obreht: So much contemporary fiction is about dysfunctional people and their dysfunctional relationships, families and jobs.  In its attempt to capture what life is like at the beginning of the 21^st century, contemporary American fiction often fails to provide readers with the escapism for which literature is known.  Realistic fiction is a little bit too real.  24-year-old Obreht’s debut novel defies this trend by offering up a novel rife with fable, allegory and history—the Eastern European answer to magical realism.  Set in the Balkans, The Tiger’s Wife tells the story of a young doctor trying to uncover the mystery surrounding her beloved grandfather’s death.   Obreht weaves in a tale about a village haunted by a seductive tiger and another about a Deathless Man who cannot himself die but can predict the fate of others.  The darkly beautiful book is driven not by characters and their neuroses, but by a culture so foreign and magical that it’s easy to escape into Obreht’s careful storytelling.

“The Laramie Project” by Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Project:  Because most of my life is consumed with what I teach, it seems appropriate to recommend what I’m teaching.  In 1998, gay Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered in what became the catalyst for the last decade’s hate crime legislation.  Immediately following the murder, members of the Tectonic Theater Project interviewed everyone associated with the incident and compiled their interviews into a play. “The Laramie Project” is a powerful exploration of hate, intolerance and the unforgettable influence of one event on a small community.  Plus, if you need a copy, I have 90.

Open City, by Teju Cole: This book isn’t about much, but it’s about something with which I’m very familiar: long walks around New York City.  The protagonist is a foreign doctor living on the Upper West Side who takes long, solo walks around the city, which afford him contemplation, introspection and interaction.  In his descriptions of Manhattan, Cole intimately captures what it feels like to live in a city that draws us in, but leaves us lonely.  Open City offers only a shred of plot, but draws readers in with nuanced description and precise observation. 

Bossypants, by Tina Fey: When this book came out, I was against it for myriad reasons, including but not limited to Fey’s theft of my memoir title.  The other reasons can be categorized under literary snobbishness.  I finally took the plunge when I got a free copy for my school’s adult book club (like, for adults, not XXX). The hype is true enough: parts of the books are literally laugh-out-loud funny.  Fey gives sage beauty advice that I found personally helpful: always wear a bra because you’ll never regret it.  Fey pieces together a coherent book from lists, scripts, drawings, fan mail and childhood stories.  Though self-deprecating at times, the reader never doubts that Fey is proud of her accomplishments and what they mean for the world of comedy. The ending is the weakpoint: a devolution into what it means to be a mother with a high-power career that reads a bit too much like a late-night diary entry.  Regardless, Bossypants is honest, funny and the perfect Subway read.

The More You Know

Sex and the City aired in 1998 when I was 12 years old and knew very little about the city and far less about sex. For better or for worse, by the time I was 14 its 40 minute installments became a facet of my education in both topics. My girlfriends and I were obsessed with the show, devouring it despite parental objections.  We were adolescent devotees of a show designed for women much older than the set who truly adored it.    After calling to check for availability, we’d trek to the video store to pick up the next DVD installment of the latest season. We had neither HBO nor driver’s licenses to aid in our quest.  Enraptured by all we did not understand, we’d re-watch episode after episode in whatever basement offered the least likely chance of a dad popping in during a particularly rousing climax.      

I don’t remember if we found Sex and the City funny. I can’t imagine we got many of the jokes—so dependent on concepts just grazing our consciousness. Only in our delusional minds could we empathize with or relate to the escapades of wealthy single women in Manhattan. And yet we were fascinated with the fairy tale stories because of their glimmer of attainability.  A glimpse into the lives of women who bore little resemblance to us or anyone we knew but also seemed like not entirely inconceivable iterations of our adolescent selves.  Perhaps if life took certain turns, we too could be Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha, sipping cocktails, romping around in dozens of Manhattan bedrooms, then talking about it over brunch. Because my hair was curly, I would be Carrie rather than the red-headed cynic whose character more closely resembled who I would become ten years later.  

In hindsight—and as a middle school teacher—I understand my parents’ objections. We were probably too young to be watching a show that was full of nudity and thematic questionability, but every girl whose mother would let her was watching on similar subterranean screens across the country.  I wonder about the effect of Sex and The City on our early understanding of dating, gender politics and sex itself.  Was watching dozens of raunchy episodes innocuous or influential to our development?  I think of Sex and the City as something of my generation, but in reality, weren’t we a little young to be watching?    

Recently, two girlfriends and I downloaded a season of Sex and the City on iTunes—the modern day DVD for the HBO-less among us.  These are the same two girlfriends—the rotating Samantha and Charlotte to my Carrie—who I watched these same episodes with years ago.  Only now we are twentysomethings living in New York rather than brace-faced teenagers living in Portland. On the surface, the resemblance doesn’t amount to much other than gender and location. We are teachers and students, not media reps and sex columnists. We live in Brooklyn and buy cheap wine. The experience was nostalgic, but also unsettling.  In the most oxymoronic way, Sex and the City seemed more real fantasy or fake reality than ever. 

My roommate remarked as the episode entitled “are all men freaks?” came to its voiceover conclusion: “this doesn’t seem so funny anymore.”  And she’s right.   With more knowledge of both sex and the city, the plotlines are more relatable, but lilt toward depressing.  We laughed at the nineties clothing, but couldn’t find much comedy in the plotlines.  Despite questionable content, maybe Sex and the City is better for girls than women. Girls who wonder if this reality could someday be their own rather than women who worry that maybe it really is.    

Dar Gracias

I am beyond thankful for the same things all lucky people are thankful for: my friends, my family, my job, my health.  My friends are a step above.  The ones in New York make living across the country from home a wonderful, communal experience, and the others who are far flung remind me it's worth traveling and picking up the phone.  My family, too--people who live far away, but talk like me and look like me and love me unconditionally; I am thankful to spend this holiday together.  I am thankful for my job.  Somehow, waking up at 5:30 in the morning feels okay when you get to work with inspiring people, laugh all day long and never doubt that you are doing something important and meaningful.  I am thankful, too, for my youth and health--my only real concern being spots from too much sun. For all this, I give thanks and knock on wood. 

On this holiday that asks for reflection and thanks, I want to thank a few other things as well: 


The B62 bus: I take this bus to work every morning at 6:26am. I get on at the beginning of the line, and although I know the exact time of departure, I am thankful that if the bus driver sees me crossing the street a minute late, he'll hold up traffic to wait for me.  I'm thankful for the gossipy, Christian ladies who get on 10 minutes later to entertain me, and I'm thankful for the sleepy kids who ride it all the way to school.

Hummus: Because it comes in many delicious flavors, and I'm not sure I could be a vegetarian without its protein-y goodness.

Down comforters: My mom taught me years ago that the best way to sleep is beneath only a down comforter. We live in a household free of top sheets.  I am thankful for a blanket that provides cozy warmth in the winter and comforting weight in the summer.

Coffee: For ritual, warmth and the ability to talk to adolescents at 7:30 in the morning, I am eternally thankful.

The bagel guy: I am thankful for this guy who wears gold chains and a velour jacket and tells me to "have a great day, babe" when he gives me my fresh-outta-the-oven bagel at 6:15 in the morning. 

Gchat: Some may try to swear off techy addictions, but in fact I'm thankful for mine.  Though a powerful tool for procrastination, Gchat allows me to chat with friends across the country during the work day. I can look at bridesmaids dresses with Julianne, talk about weekend plans with Claire and make fun of Ian all while "getting work done." I am also thankful for my worrisome but useful ability to multitask.

My students: The best and worst part of every day. I am thankful for 75 kids with all different personalities, one of whom asked if he could come to Texas with me because he's always wanted to ride a horse.


Paul Simon: I am thankful for music that never gets old and fits every occasion besides Saturday night.  From roommate dance parties to morning productivity sessions, I am thankful for "Graceland."

Happy Thanksgiving!

Don't Mess

Every person could have been many things she is not. Who you end up is the result of the choices you make, but also choices others made long before your birth.  To this end, I sometimes remind myself I could have been a Texan.  A card-carrying member of that most prideful, contentious state.  My almost identity is equal parts dodged bullet and missed opportunity.  Disturbing, yes, but also intriguing.  A very different fate that so easily could have been my own.

My mom is a Texan living in Oregon.  There are probably more Texans living in Oregon than there are Oregonians living in Texas, but she is a rare breed nonetheless.  Generally speaking, Texans don’t leave Texas. A fierce loyalty dictates you stay in state.  People simply see no reason to leave its expansive boundaries.  My mother, the loveable black sheep, did exactly that: packed her bags for faraway places like Colorado, Massachusetts and ultimately Oregon where she landed and would not leave.  And because of those choices made years before my birth, I am not a Texan but instead its antithesis: a first-generation Oregonian. 

In Oregon, Texas is not well-liked. Texas is everything Oregon abhors contained in one land mass: the Bush family, SUV’s, beef far from free-range, beer far from micro, sticky air and flatness.  There’s a widespread dislike of Texas, particularly among those who have never been and never plan to go.  The haters consider Austin the exception, a liberal oasis in a desert of belt buckles and homophobia, but prefer not to sully its name by association with the nation’s most despicable state.  Texas is the scapegoat for all that’s wrong in our country; Texas has encroached on us before and it could happen again at any time.  Cue hysteria, phobia.  Oregonians and liberals nationwide just don’t like Texas.  

When I was a kid and sometimes still today, I’m often met with thinly-veiled distaste when I tell people I’ll be spending a holiday in the land of Texas.

“Really?? Why?”

“Does your family own guns? Do they hunt?”

“Do you actually like it there?”

The answer is yes, I do like it there, but not in the way I like trendier locales like New York City or San Francisco.  I like the way Texas smells, like humid air, pinto beans cooked long in animal fat and my grandma’s Cover Girl foundation. I like driving a gigantic, gas-guzzling SUV high above the freeway even though it goes against every liberal sensibility I swear by.  I like that my cousins listen to country, and that my cowboy boots are actually from D&D Ranch and Supply. I like salty, fatty Tex-Mex from places that start with El and La. Places that are neither clean nor vegetarian.  And I like that I know how to ride a horse and elongate my vowels. 

So I staunchly defend Texas, but I do not wish I were from Texas. I like too many things about being an Oregonian, so I'm content to call Texas home once removed. Still, though, had my mother done what was expected of her, I would be a Texan. No questions asked, most likely there to stay.  If you change something crucial about your identity—the state from which you hail, for example—how much of you really changes?  That, I do not know.  What I do know is that tomorrow I'm getting on a plane heading South not West, and it's exactly the direction I want to fly. 

I Like The Way You Move

My teacher training program drilled the moves of classroom management into my mind until I was dreaming in teacher-speak.  I mean moves in the most literal sense.  Plays like in Football, moves like in chess, calculated game at a bar.  It was a packaged deal: learn to control a classroom of hormonal adolescents in nine easy steps (no money back guarantee, though).  This precise method to managing the madness is progressive and mostly effective, a hallmark of the “no-excuses” classroom.   And for this method, my sanity is forever grateful.  Distill something massive into an exact, replicable science and practice, practice, practice until the impossible becomes second nature.  Like a puppet master, use non-verbals and hand gestures to make kids sit up, turn around, face forward.  Modulate your voice while delivering consequences.  Stop and stare.  Self-interrupt.  Be emotionally constant. 

I had a reunion dinner this week with several of the people who completed the teacher training program with me.  We talked about the endless perks of being a second-year teacher.  My friend Andrew mentioned that he lets his personality show through a lot more in the classroom—that he actually uses his personality as a management tool.  While this move was never taught in our teacher training curriculum, I got what he meant.  My teacher-self is no longer at odds with my normal-self, she’s just a slightly more-in-control version with frumpier clothes.  No longer a manic Sybil, my unified self is contented.  My classroom is also a much saner place.  This is probably not a coincidence.

This prescribed method of classroom management can look like a robo-teacher conducting a tiny military, but this doesn’t have to be the case.  What my program failed to emphasize—or maybe a nuance I failed to internalize—is that within this disciplined framework, there is ample room for personality and modification.  That, in concert with a firm background in these moves, your personality is the single greatest classroom management tool you’ve got.  Conversely, if you’re lacking in the personality department, these moves may lose their effectiveness. 

More than anything, kids long to see humanity in their teachers.  To know that you make jokes and laugh when things are ridiculous. To know that you do things (sub-free things) on the weekend, have interests and hobbies and brothers and sisters.  To know that you are quirky just like them. Kids respect personality more than much else.  A shared understanding of what’s happening around us makes the classroom a happier space.  I faulted my program for removing the humanity and personality from the profession.  It seemed to clash so irreconcilably with my West Coast sentiments.  I see now, though, that with a firm grasp of the moves, you free up space to layer on personality and use it to your advantage.  Within reason, imbuing your teacher self with your normal self yields great results. 

Why We Slide

I spent many years of my life under the impression that I loved art museums.   Those monoliths of culture, those labyrinths housing the relics of our time, those places where I belonged and felt inspired.  I knew museums were important, the type of thing I was supposed to love, and so I dutifully visited their hallowed hallways. I traipsed through museums in several continents and dozens of cities—with friends, family, boyfriends and strangers—until they turned into a giant unrecognizable blob of oil paint and gift shops.   But I didn’t admit that to myself.  I was a proud museum-goer, pretentiously soaking up culture and loving every ounce of artsy cred I was getting.  

It wasn’t until recently that I started to wonder about me and the museum—coincidentally, the pending title of my upcoming instructional manual on how to pretend you like museums.  As my already-pathetic attention span dwindles down to close to nothing, I find it increasingly difficult to buy into the idea that I love museums.  I have loved specific museums and specific exhibits, but I’ve begun to realize that I might not be the museum type I once assumed I was.  Huge buildings that require quiet contemplation without definitive end time are not exactly my thing.  This realization is mildly disorienting.  Have I changed as a person or was I lying to myself all along?

My best friend Majken is a graduate student in museum studies.  Not only is she a museum lover in the purest sense, but she’s interested in what museums say about society, what role they play in our communities, how they function in a much broader sense.  Majken’s totally genuine interest in museums is awesome.  Talking to her about this field, I’ve realized a few things that shed light on me and the museum. Not all museums are for everyone. It’s okay if I like some museums—read: small, interactive ones—and would rather avoid others.  It’s okay if I don’t want to look at 16^th Century Italian art for very long. Or ever.   In some ways, this helps legitimize my budding identification as a non-museum lover. I can pick and choose which museums I visit and for how long.  This is a relief.  I can casually like museums.   Love some, abhor others, spend no more than an hour in any one.   

This brings me to the slide.  I’ve always liked the New Museum—small, modern, close to Brooklyn, with a sweet roof-deck and bookstore attached.  When I heard the New Museum was installing a 40-foot slide I was as excited as most 24-year-olds get when they hear the word slide.  I went to the exhibit—Carsten Holler—on opening weekend and waited an hour to race down a three-story tunnel slide on the Bowery on a strip of canvas.  In addition to the slide, there was a mirrored carousel, a nude sensory deprivation-tank and upside down goggles.  I’m not sure if any of this is art. If it is art, I’m not sure it’s any good or what it means. Moreover, I'm not sure I care. What I do know is that the exhibit was really fun.  Kids and adults were chatting, laughing, experiencing the odd dissonance between playground and art museum.   As I left the museum, I didn’t feel that faux-sense of cultural validation—thank God that’s over and I can eat—but I did feel happy and intrigued.  Maybe, for me and others in my camp, that’s exactly what we need from a Sunday trip to the museum.