Go Above Your Nerve

"How many women wrote beautiful novels and stories and poems and essays and plays and scripts in spite of all the crap they endured. How many of them didn't collapse in a heap of "I could have been better than this" and instead went right ahead and became better than anyone would have predicted or allowed them to be. The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker.  It is not fragility. It's strength. It's nerve. And "if your Nerve, deny you--, as Emily Dickinson wrote, "go above your Nerve." Writing is hard for every last one of us--straight white men included.  Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig." -Cheryl Strayed (alias, Sugar).

Suicide, Jews and Savannah

What I've been reading: 

The Sense of an Ending, by Julian Barnes:  At first, Barnes' slim, Booker-prize winning novel seems like a thematic rumination on memory, nostalgia and personal history.  The  narrator, Tony--captured with equal precision in youth and age--looks back on his life and recounts the story of his first love, Veronica, consistently spiraling back to the same set of uncertain memories.  After an odd weekend with Veronica's family and a subsequent break-up, Veronica ends up dating Tony's boyhood friend, Adrian, much to Tony's childish dismay.  Adrian later commits suicide, but the reader is unclear why until the very last page of the book--brilliantly, at the exact same time Tony understands the weight of what happened 40 years earlier.  As the reader gets enmeshed in Tony's churning psyche, and as Tony uncovers more and more information, the narrative darkens with intrigue, but remains faithful to its initial thematic focus.  Keep at this book; the ending is worth it.

What We Talk About When We Talk about Anne Frank, by Nathan Englander:  Englander's latest book of short stories came out the same week as his modern Haggadah (compiled with Jonathon Safran Foer), and it's hard to say which text is more Jewish.  The stories are diverse, but all come back to an enduring Jewish backdrop: antisemitism on Long Island, settlers in war-torn Israel, drug-induced recreations of the Holocaust.  The stories are dark and complex, but infiltrated with bits of humor and compassion.   My favorite of the eight told the story of a secular Jewish man who finds himself in a seedy Manhattan peep show before returning home to his suburban family.  As he battles between guilt and desire, the women in the show morph into his family members and finally his boyhood rabbi, and the readers gets sucked deep into his neurotic fantasy. Though inconsistent in quality, the stories merge Jewish history and modern Judaism in inventive, surprising ways that definitely warrant a read.

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, by John Berendt: This book was the perfect companion for a recent trip to South Carolina.  During a weekend in Savannah, GA, New York editor, Berendt, falls in love with this sleepy Southern city and takes up semi-residency.  As a trained journalist, Berendt begins poking around, asking questions, meeting people and learning about the city's complex social network, twisted inner workings, racist history, long-standing grudges and sultry underbelly. Although the book centers on a drawn-out murder mystery, its real focus is the amazing cast of characters Berendt meets while living in Savannah.  Through rich and evocative language, Berendt introduces readers to a drug-addled gigolo, a fly-keeper in possession of a deadly poison, a voodoo princess, a sexy black drag queen and the seedy founder of the historic preservation society.  This book is hilarious and dramatic, and one of the few non-fiction books I've had a hard time putting down. 

What We Read

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/12/nyregion/nonfiction-curriculum-enhanced-reading-skills-in-new-york-city-schools.html?_r=1&ref=education

This recent New York Times article hits close to home.  The article discusses the familiar push toward more non-fiction reading in the classroom through the use of a study on the Core Knowledge Curriculum. The article says:

"Reading nonfiction writing is the key component of the Core Knowledge curriculum, which is based on the theory that children raised reading storybooks will lack the necessary background and vocabulary to understand history and science texts. While the curriculum allows children to read fiction, it also calls on them to knowledgeably discuss weather patterns, the solar system, and how ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia compare." 

Despite a personal bias toward everything literary, I know reading non-fiction is important.  As a result, I have probably doubled the amount of non-fiction we read in my class, and I feel good about my students' overall comprehension.  The majority of information for which people are held accountable in daily life comes from a variety of non-fiction sources: newspapers, the internet, magazines, work emails, even restaurant menus.  Kids must be exposed to non-fiction in order to discuss, compete, analyze, synthesize and, of course, meet pesky benchmarks. Unless you are an illustrious English major, success in college depends on the ability to read and process a wide variety of informational texts. The new national standards for Language Arts (The Common Core) emphasize non-fiction reading skills and, as such, states are pushing their evaluations in that direction.  In an effort to remain at the forefront of urban education and see our students become better readers, there's an increased focus on non-fiction in the reading department at my school.  How can we best use non-fiction in the classroom, and what specific skills can we teach kids to be successful when reading dense, informational text?

I support the non-fiction focus 98%, but a few things in the article made me bristle, like the mild insinuation that "children raised reading storybooks will lack the necessary background and vocabulary to understand history and science text."  The lack of nuance in this statement devalues storybooks, a child's earliest exposure to literature.  This undermining of picture books subtly devalues story, voice, imagery and figurative language--the stuff, the beauty, of fiction.  Of course, kids must be exposed to non-fiction texts early in order to process harder ones later, but the statement suggests we discard storybooks entirely, replacing them instead with cold hard facts, graphs and history. This is sad.  I also bristle at the verb allow: "While the curriculum allows children to read fiction..."  This simple turn of phrase makes fiction out to be a child's guilty pleasure--one that grownups will allow as long as its secondary to things like weather, Egypt and planets. A reading curriculum should not allow fiction; a reading curriculum should uphold, teach and treasure fiction.

I don't think anyone's actually suggesting we remove literature from reading and English curricula, but I do worry about slippery slopes and subtle messaging.  With increased emphasis on how to teach non-fiction, I worry we're losing sight of how to teach and read fiction.  I'm concerned literature will gradually depreciate in value until novels, stories and poems become an afterthought, secondary to more important pursuits in the classroom.  Fiction and non-fiction exist in concert.  Good readers must know how to process and appreciate both genres with equal aptitude.  In the past, perhaps English curricula has favored fiction, leaving non-fiction in the dust.  This new focus could be compensating for lost time, but as we reinvigorate non-fiction in the reading classroom, we have to be extra cognizant that we continue to elevate and teach literature.

Number Crunching

I'm consistently surprised that I'm a teacher, but even more surprised that I'm a teacher at a school that spends one day every quarter analyzing data and crunching numbers--just the things I'd been trying to circumvent since wading through my math credit in college. I like words because they're malleable and nuanced and tap nicely on my tongue.  I get words and words get me.  Numbers, on the other hand, stare me in the face, mocking my inability to see the way they work.  My own fear convinces me numbers are only useful when calculating my 15% teacher discount at J.Crew or how many hours of sleep I'll get it if I stay for one more drink. 

But I'm starting to think numbers aren't all bad; maybe even I can hang with digits and data. Once a quarter, my students take an interim assessment from which we gather and assess data on their performance and overall readiness. The data is meant to target certain deficiencies and inform our instruction for the next quarter. While this makes good sense, it goes without saying that my pals on the left coast probably cringe at the idea of so much testing.  But what about the child?  How can you reduce seventy children to a blinding Excel spreadsheet? Have you no heart?

The fact of the matter is that I'm a teacher, and my job is to teach children to read better.   When I open up my Excel spreadsheet full of data, I get to see something concrete. I get to see percentages, broken down by class, by passage, by skill, by standard. I get to see who's rocking it and who needs tutoring.  I have numerical evidence that lends credence to hastily-conceived inferences I've made about proficiency and ability.  I can create plans that make sense and avoid ones based on nothing.  I've come to really like Data Day even if it forces numbers on me.  Data doesn't reduce students to percentages, but it does help ensure they're getting the instruction they need at school every day.  That's something I can geek out about.

Have You Read?

 Last week, I proctored tests for three days straight.  This means hours of time when I can’t get work done because kids have questions and kids need tissues, but I also can’t possibly circulate purposefully for two hours straight without freaking the kids out.  These stretches of undirected time beg the perennial question: What did people do before Al Gore invented the internet? Were they more productive? Happier and more focused? Bored and less informed?  

After I binge on Facebook for a while, I get deep into internet territory—from the very lowbrow to the very highbrow.   At first I’m looking at a list of where to get the best fries in the city, then suddenly I’m reading up on controversial teacher evaluations, letting my favorite sites take me to other sites in a manic whirlwind of Tweets and hyperlinks. Part of me feels guilty.  My eyes scan across hundreds of pages, and my fingers scroll errantly, while my saturated brain tries to synthesize more information in less time. As a product of my generation, does my mind only function if I’m clicking fast and skimming as I scroll? Have I lost the ability to enjoy the long-form, the deliciously dull, the arduously good?  The way I obtain and process information is fast and schizophrenic.  I wonder if it’s really taking me higher, or if I’m just reveling in the cache of having “read”the right things.  And by read, of course I mean skimming quickly and then gchatting links to (non)interested friends in order to prove I've done my reading. But, would our grandparents call this reading?

   

One of the only Portlandia skits I liked was called “Have You Read?” The camera panned over a coffee shop conversation of three twenty-somethings competing over who’d read the most from a pre-approved list of pretentious publications. They don’t discuss ideas or news, but merely trade titles and names, ensuring a certain communal level of intellect while sipping Stumptown coffee.  But with the internet, the competition is endless and irrelevant; we can all read everything at warp speed with very little focus required.  Where is it getting us? 

While part of me feels guilty about my internet dependency, another part feels happy.  I’m amazed by the quantity and accessibility of high quality journalism, photos, news and jokes.  It’s only 8:45, and I’ve read an archived New Yorker expose about the LRA from 1998 and a funny piece by an unknown about the downfall of PBS’s much-loved pup, Wishbone. The internet makes the world feel smaller and more available.  It gives us every possible bit of information at the tips of our fingers.  The internet confirms good journalism, but also allows us guilty pleasures.  Last week, when I was bored stiff during proctoring, the internet was welcome relief.  I’ll suffer the consequences later in life, I’m sure, but for now: Bring on that delicious guilt.

Worthy

I haven't been blogging much, and everyone's  noticing.  People across the nation have sunk into deep depressions without weekly entries, and Obama fears we may have a national mental health crisis on our hands. I feel equal parts guilty, elated and relieved about this new development--or rather, lack of development. I told myself when I started that if blog entries turned from folly to burden, I'd stop.  The thing is, I really don't want to join the disheartened masses of blog quitters, promising ideas so quickly lost to the labyrinth-like Interwebs. Rather than wasting time on my self-indulgent blogging crisis, though, let me share two things.

I was at the gym last night doing a pretty half-assed workout, but I still felt good about myself and even better that I was rocking Nike shorts in early March.  As I was leaving the YMCA--a bastion for hipsters and low-income families alike--I noticed a woman moving slowly up and down on the stationary bike.  Ever-so-slowly because she was daintily pulling shoestring French fries out of a McDonald's bag.  And suddenly, I felt even better about myself.

That's blog-worthy, and so is this:http://gothamist.com/2012/03/08/spotted_goat_eating_pizza_in_midtow.php

I Like my Bike

The Top Ten Reasons Why I Like my New Bike:

1. The prime acquisition. Ever since I moved to Brooklyn, I've wanted a bike. I come from the bike capital of the country, bikes make the world feel smaller, and all cool girls have bikes. However, I'd made very little headway in terms of putting my money where my mouth is. Majken, who is more of a doer, bought a cute little vintage silver bike on Craig's List that turned out to be a few inches too small for her.  So, although I feel guilty, I got a sweet bike by doing absolutely nothing.  Rest easy: Majken got a matching blue one from a man in Queens the next day AND I paid her back.

2. It has those cool vintage gears and curved handlebars.

3. I have a new friend at the Bike Shop on Atlantic Ave: a short guy with a buzz cut in grimy jeans who knows about gears and brakes and that I'd want a helmet to match my bike. 

4. I biked around Prospect Park in February with a boy who also has a bike and, even though my hands were freezing, my body got a little sweaty.

5.  My bike turns 45-minute sedentary subway rides into 20-minute bursts of exercise.

6. I like my bike because I know that once I get a white basket, a bell and a clip-on light, it's going to be that much cooler.

7. My bike cost only $100, which is an amount of money I have also thrown down for less useful things like designer jeans, an impromptu trip to Target, an overpriced dinner in Manhattan and red shoes I never wore.

8. I can bike across bridges, which reminds me of the Portland Bridge Pedal, the Willamette River and my family.

9.  I can run red lights on my bike and sometimes even go faster than cars, but I'm outside and haven't spent any money on gas.

10. When I put my bike in my living room, It transforms the space into instant urban-cool.

Flop Like a Champion

There are few things I do better than flop.

Webster defines flop in two ways. 1. To fall or plump down suddenly, especially with noise; drop or turn with a sudden bump or thud; and 2. To be a complete failure. In Of Mice and Men, brothel workers charge a pretty penny for a nice flop.  Recent headlines tell me that Newt Gingrich is flip-flopping on his position on the Middle East.  My definition of flopping is more nuanced, more personal, though not entirely divorced from any of these connotations. Flopping is something I've been perfecting from cradle to college, but I've only recently come up with the semantics necessary to precisely capture the art of flopping.


Humans have flopped since we were primates.  Cavemen flopped and so did the Victorians; the hippies flopped with an unrivaled precision and grace. Flopping is an intensely lazy, but also necessary, form of relaxation.  You may flop in your bed or on your couch, on your floor or in your roommate/boyfriend/best friend's bed.  You may flop alone or with other, like-minded floppers.  Flopping is best done after a long day of work, on a rainy Saturday or hung-over Sunday. A snow-day flop is an experience of pure beauty.  Flopping may be accompanied by food (mostly of the take-in, pre-made variety), alcohol, books and movies, or it may be free of props. Flopping can last hours, but the craving can be satiated in mere minutes.  Flopping attire is important and must be comfortable--real experts flop in something stretchy.  Flopping is a highly personal and fluid art form, but it hinges on a deep desire to do very little in a comfortable setting.  Though flopping takes almost no skill, it does require genuine dedication to the practice.  You must recognize and take pride in the fact that you're going to be a lazy, worthless human being for the duration of your flop. There is no room for judgment in flopping.


I am a productive person in most areas of life, but I cannot deny myself a good flop.  On a particularly difficult day at work I might text one of my flopping partners: "all I wanna do right now is flop," and the message comes across loud and clear.  People who deny themselves a flop on the basis of self-improvement or productivity are denying themselves one of life's simplest, most rejuvenating pleasures.  Take it from a modest master: To flop is to live, and to live is to flop. 

Family Flashback

When my family got in a fight over winter break, my mom threatened, only half-joking:  you better not write in your blog about this.  While a revealing family feud narrative is far from my intention, the yearly—the unavoidable, the predictable—family fight is an experience common to those who travel long distances to see our kin. We do so with a mix of eager anticipation and mild trepidation because, for so many of us, visiting family has big highs and big lows.  Lofty ideals of familial perfection often lead to unmet expectations, and we find ourselves falling into the same old patterns. Despite a grass-is-always-greener mentality, no family is more perfect than the next.  An argument may be as traditional as your honey baked ham or grandmother's menorah. 

At a quarter-century, my life is mostly on track in terms of development and maturity, yet when I go home I’m met with a steep and instantaneous regression to a moody former self. This reverting back manifests in big, small and varied ways, but it always happens.

While I mostly clean up after myself in Brooklyn, I haphazardly discard clothes and dishes around my Portland home—a throwback to the teenage years of battleground bedroom.  Maybe it’s muscle memory or maybe it’s dependency on parents who still retrieve stray mugs from my nightstand. Whatever the reason, it’s still happening seven years and three states after I moved out.  In my adult life, I spend 50 hours a week mediating adolescent arguments, but when I’m in Portland I find myself enmeshed in similar debates myself. Feuding with my brother over things that don’t matter or things that still matter just a little bit too much.  Two grown-up people split up in the mini-van because proximity provokes argument. When I get irritated, I elongate my syllables like a preteen and, just like that, the mature rationality I work to maintain is shattered.  I might as well put my braces back on.

So, of course we had a family fight.  We each play the same roles as we argue about the same things.  We make up in the same ways and eat the same take-in when it’s all said and done. Each fight is like an uncanny flashback, a melancholy song left on repeat.  We say things to family members we would not say to others. Because we love more deeply, we judge and critique with more severity. We express and emote with an abandon reserved for only those closest to us.  Shortcomings are amplified, made enormous through microscopic lenses we turn only on our own.  This winter, just like every winter, everything was okay in the end. It really always is. Family seems to have a unique ability to bounce back. 

I flew back to NYC with three of my close friends.  In the airport, each casually mentioned a fight, an annoyance, a spat, an argument--all involving moms, dads, brothers, sisters. We commiserated knowingly.  Despite these minor or major difficulties, everyone had a great trip home; we agreed it was hard to say goodbye to our families.  Fighting is part of what sets family apart from the rest of the people we interact with everyday.  Maybe we fight because we can't help it, but maybe fighting reinforces bonds that need a little fine tuning.  

Seeds and Ramen

There are countless reasons New York is worth the price, but if you’re not taking advantage of those reasons you might as well move to a city with a few reasons for being cheap.  

When I used to visit New York—as a kid with my nostalgic parents and then as a college student enviously visiting friends—I packed every minute full.  The city shone with culture and people, fashion and food. I wanted to see and shop and eat and sniff until I was soggy with the weight of a place that lacks for nothing but quiet.   So saturated I needed to wring myself out before coming back for more.   I should have known better than to think life as full-time resident would be so action-packed, but still I hoped.    

Now that my full-time bed is in New York, it’s harder to make the time.  I suppose this is both obvious and counter intuitive.  As a person with a packed schedule and groceries to buy, it’s harder to take advantage of the dynamism surrounding me.  Being here should make me do more, but somehow I find myself doing less.  The temptation to order Thai food and eat it on the floor can be difficult to overcome on many Friday nights, but wasn’t I doing the same thing in Suburban California?  I’ve fallen into routines.  I go to the same restaurants, visit museums infrequently and go to shows even less.  I submit to Starbucks because it’s on the corner.  In a way, the routines reflect the comfort of reality over the illusion of vacation, but sink too far into routine and the reasons for living here are diminished.  Someone once told me: do things.   

Last weekend, I was proud of two things I did that were distinctly New York.  On a bizarrely warm Saturday morning, my girlfriends and I trekked from Huevos Rancheros in the East Village to a gallery in Chelsea where we took in one million hand-painted ceramic sunflower seeds spread out across the floor of a sky blue room.  They were pushed into a perfect rectangle.  If you squinted, the individual seeds became a flat gray island. I knelt down and resisted the temptation to push a stray seed back into formation.  I didn’t know if I could touch, but maybe also the stray was art. The next day, a boy and I resisted the temptation of the familiar and went to Chinatown for ramen.  The tiny restaurant was lit with neon and featured a few dingy tables, economy-sized bottles of Sriracha and a menu with the English in parenthesis.  We walked up to the kitchen and ordered two bowls of ramen and pork dumplings.   Standing in the doorway of the open kitchen, we watched a young man thwack a giant piece of dough onto the counter until it became skinny shoe lace noodles threaded expertly between his floury fingers .  I sacrificed vegetarianism for experience and had a bite of the best dumpling ever.  

A sustainable life in New York relies on balance. I love that life here seems normal every day. I change my sheets and clean my bathroom; I rely on the same delivery and spend weekends never leaving my neighborhood.  The banality of life can make it seem more livable, but this year I want to complement that with a little more New York.

Good Things Come in Threes

On New Year's Eve, we hosted a 4-course dinner party featuring a double dose of parsnips, chocolate mousse and unlimited seltzer from our new eco-friendly machine (apparently, either the key to sobriety if you're alternating or the ultimate downfall if you're mixing).  Our group of friends has a penchant for going-around-the-table -- an awkwardly meaningful tradition in which everyone's gently required to speak on some topic.  On birthdays, we sing praises; on Thanksgiving, we give thanks.  On New Year's Eve, of course, it's resolutions.  One way or another, people feel strongly about resolutions.  The introspective among us spend December contemplating the best path to self-improvement while the hedonistic spurn the idea of resolving to do much of anything. The optimistic consider the possibilities while the pessimistic wonder: Why make a resolution I'm only bound to break?

Historically, I don't take resolutions very seriously. After vowing to leave my fingernails alone for close to 20 years, I'm starting to wonder about my ability to stick with it.  Needless to say, I hadn't thought much about resolutions until the round robin got going.  I sipped my seltzer, half listening to the speaker and half thinking of a passable resolution.  I was impressed by my friends' thoughtful vows--to spend a summer abroad, to clean up a foul mouth and to eat more fresh produce.  When the time came for me to speak, I mumbled something ill-conceived and washed it down with parsnip. 

When the proverbial talking stick reached my friend Zoe, she mentioned a coworker's resolution formula: resolve to stop doing three things, start doing three things and continue doing three things.  At first I thought this was trite and overly complex--a three-part cocktail for guaranteed failure come February--but later in the night I became less cynical and realized the formula makes good sense. It recognizes that you're doing things right, while leaving room for stops and starts in the new year.  So, here's my cocktail:

Continue Doing...

1. Continue taking long NYC walks with or without destination.
2. Continue having dinner parties with good friends, food and drink.
3. Continue teaching vocabulary because kids really use it.

Start Doing... 

1. Start trying a new recipe every week.
2. Start writing more fiction.
3. Start making phone calls to parents when their students do good things. On the topic of phone calls, call my grandparents because it makes them insanely happy (that was 3.5).

Stop Doing...

1. Stop buying things on sale for no reason except that they're on sale
2. Stop losing credit cards
3. And because maybe someday I will succeed: Stop picking my fingernails

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Growing up, my relatives were far-flung: a set of grandparents deep in Texas, another in Virginia and outcrops of cousins across the Eastern Seaboard.  No one but my nuclear family lived out West in Oregon and so, to me, seeing family meant long plane rides and winter delays all for brief weekends with people I loved without knowing very well.  My parents built a life in Portland far from their original homes—a life that was worth the distance. We existed as a four-person unit miles away from anyone else who shared our blood. From my point of view, a generation removed, this cross-country family situation was normal; I knew nothing more intimate.  We saw each other when we saw each other.   Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles were an occasional, special presence—not every day, never ordinary.  

This is the norm for many people, but in the past few years I’ve started to wonder whether it needs to be mine.  I come from a city I love, one whose cool factor develops much faster than my own, and my family is not one from which to run.  But in spite of every reason to stay put, I find myself very far away.  My motive for distance is not linked to escape.  There was no boring suburb, no great familial dysfunction that I needed to mediate with miles, but from a young age, I knew I would leave home. My parents did it, and so would I. My first move was mild and contained: a 2-hour flight or 20-hour drive to Southern California for four short years. At the end, though, a country full of new cities opened up and I found myself in Boston then New York. Three years later, I still find myself a day’s worth of travel and three time zones away from my beloved city and beloved family.  In most every way, this is the right choice for right now, but around the holidays—the most family-oriented time of year—I take pause.  

I start thinking about distance when seeing my family a few times every year means two $50 cab rides, a $500 flight, a possible delay because of weather, bad airport food at Newark and a pit in my stomach when I have to say goodbye after a week. This is when I start to question whether it’s worth it.  Right now, the answer is resoundingly yes, but I wonder if this yes will expire.  The more enmeshed you get in a city—its jobs, its friends, its men, its beauty—it becomes harder and harder to leave.  But the solution can’t be to leave somewhere before you start to love it too much. That’s low-level depravity.  Then again, if you do want to move back home, the window of opportunity might not be forever open. The Internet, iMessage and Skype give those of us living far away a false sense of closeness--like maybe we could do this forever.  Even with cellphones, 4,000 miles is still 4,000 miles. 

It’s hit me recently that I can make the choice to live close to my family, to make relatives a year-round presence, not a holiday rarity. It’s weird to think that the decisions I make now have the power to reverse a trend for the next generation. My parents don’t pressure me, but I know it’s on their mind, too.  While they’re proud to have a daughter living in the big city, they’re also wondering when she’s coming back. When I mention a new boy, my mom always asks, half-teasing: “Is he Jewish?” Now she’s added on a more-pressing query: “Is he from the West Coast?” If not, “How does he feel about Portland?”

 

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.