Something to write about

I’m staring at the blank page, and I want to write.

I don’t have anything to write about.

I applied for a new job next year. I had to write a resume and interview for the first time in 14 years. No big deal for a veteran teacher, right? I worked for entire days on my resume and portfolio. After the interview, I replayed it 100 times in my head, breaking down each answer I offered up to the hiring committee. After the 100^th time, I knew every word that had come out of my mouth was drivel.

Then I got the job.

I don’t have anything to write about.

I’ll be teaching four different courses to sophomores and juniors. I taught sophomores during my student teaching semester 17 years ago. I’ve never taught the junior courses. I haven’t read any of the books in either curriculum for at least 17 years…some of them ever. I can teach the freshman curriculum blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. I can answer my students’ questions before they get them out of their mouths. Next year, kids will ask me questions to which I do not immediately know the answers.

And that is awesome.

I want to write, but I don’t have anything to write about.

I spent four days interviewing 12 different lawyers. See, what’s even more awesome about this new job is that it’s in a career and technical school unlike any other in Kentucky. I’ll be teaching English in the new Law and Justice Village. I’ll be working with a Social Studies teacher and a lawyer-turned-teacher. The Social Studies teacher and I are on the hiring committee to find the lawyer, so I’ve been interviewing lawyers. Lawyers approach interview questions differently than other prospective teachers. Almost to a person, they talked around the questions instead of answering them directly. I was beginning to think this might be a soft skill we’ll need to teach in our Village. To cure someone of this affliction, you put them in front of high school students, so we did. Have you ever tried to avoid a persistent 15 year old with a question? Hehehe.

I need something to write about.

I’m teaching Romeo and Juliet for the last time…at least for a while anyway. It’s always been my favorite unit. I’m keeping a list of the things the kids say. You know, like the kid who left my classroom the other day asking a girl if she would ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. She smacked him. A little Shakespeare goes a long way, but you have to know how to use it.

I’m writing about that later though. What to write about now?

I saw Lincoln last night. Spielberg, man… He can make a movie. I loved the narrow focus. I loved the way the movie pulled back the curtain to show us that the legend was a human being with the same problems and struggles as the rest of us mere mortals. I was struck by the moral courage demonstrated by not only Lincoln, but by the members of the House, and I was struck by the seeming absence of such men and women today.

I don’t have anything to write about.

Of course, moral courage necessitates an open mind and a willingness to hear the other side. I wonder if anyone else is dismayed by the extreme political polarization I see everywhere. Some days, my Facebook feed looks like one long fist-shaking screed. The sarcastic posters, pictures, and angry links never stop. In this week of national tragedy, you would expect it to lessen, but no. It’s worse. I don’t understand “in-your-face” messages on Facebook. You know who’s reading them? Your friends. 

“Ha ha, Person-I-enjoy-following-and-spending-time-with-in-real-life!! I just made you feel like an asshole for your point of view! Boo ya!”

Surely, there’s something I could write about.

I struggle constantly with what to put on Facebook myself. My teacher-self is always in conflict with my writer-self. Like this morning, I discovered an awesome poem on The Rumpus. They’re sharing a new poem every day for National Poetry Month. The best part of the series is the audio of the author reading his or her poem. This poem drops the f-bomb and contains graphic sexual imagery, and it is everything I love about poetry…smart and musical. The author’s reading is mesmerizing. My writer-self called my public school teacher-self a coward for not posting the link, but I did post it here. Somehow, the extra click to get to my blog is a doorway in my mind. You have entered the domain of writer-Kathy. Yes, I am aware there is no logic to that reasoning.

I really feel like writing.

My youngest son is graduating from high school next month. He’s been accepted to college and has signed his letter of intent to play football.

I let him go to Florida with his friends for Spring Break, and we both survived unscathed. Prom was also a success.

Where we are now compared to where we were two years ago is not just separated by time. It’s a whole different universe, and I’m still too close to it to write about it. I’ll simply say this. I’m proud of him.

Some days the muse is silent. Maybe tomorrow I’ll think of something.

Chasing Daylight

Getting 14 people across the country is an adventure and I have more to tell, but it's 4:30 in the morning Eastern time and I'm delirious. Crossing the continent made me wax poetic. I'll be funny when I'm more awake.

At 36,000 feet, the Earth expands. It grows larger than the ground under my feet, larger than my neighborhood, and even an entire city. It becomes a planet. The sun sits just over the soft curvature where the land disappears into space.

The clock, still set for the east, says 8:30 as the muddy Mississippi snakes like a thin ribbon as far as the eye can see.

10:25 and I can still see the bright red glow of the setting sun. 

The Mississippi is long gone, having given way to a patchwork sea of brown and green. Nebraska, the pilot tells us.

11:00 brings brown hills, big ones because even way up here you can see that they’re hills. I think maybe "mountains" would be a more accurate description. We’re 40 miles north of Caspar, Wyoming.

11:30 and I realize I was wrong. The brown hills were just hills.

Real mountains, and like anything real and wonderful, they don’t need to announce themselves or brag. They just are. They have always been. They will be when we are gone.

Majestic.

Clouds camouflage themselves, hovering over and intertwining with the snow caps.

Mount St. Helens

Mount Rainier

12:35. On the ground, night has fallen. Lights twinkle in the darkness, but up here, the horizon still glows a brilliant red.

A glimpse of the Pacific and then we descend. Even as the Emerald City sprawls, sparkling beneath us, the Earth has become smaller.

A Rose by Any Other Name?

Do you know the story of your name? Your parents went through a process and maybe even a long list to arrive at the eventual winner. If you've had the privilege of naming a child, then you know it is a huge responsibility. The story of your child's name may be more dear to you than the story of your own.

The story of your name is special, not only because it makes you feel loved and connected, but also because you carry that name with you the rest of your life.

Why am I thinking about names? It's that time of year when I ask my students, "What's in a name? Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? Would you still retain that dear perfection which you own without the title affixed to you at birth?"

Juliet wants to believe that names don't matter, that they don't define us in any meaningful way other than to keep us from being referred to as Hey You.

My students and I beg to differ. Our names matter. They matter a lot. I might go so far as to say we are defined by our names.

Family Ties
Our names connect us to our families, and while this is problematic for Juliet, it's a positive thing for most of us. More than half of my students have first or middle names they would describe as family names. A few of them cringe at something archaic or unusual, but most like the connection the name gives them to their heritage.

Both of my sons have family names. My oldest carries the name of his father, his uncle, and both his grandfathers. We Irished it up, but it's essentially the same name. My youngest carries a version of my maiden name. Both of them know the origins of their names, and both are proud of those origins.

It's not unusual for a student to have a different last name than his or her parents. In fact, I NEVER assume a parent I meet has the same last name as the kid. The kids deal with it, but my discussion of names always reveals their hyper-awareness of it. One of my eldest son's best friends was at the courthouse on his 18th birthday to change his surname. That need to be identified as kith and kin is powerful.

Get it Right!
It is a universal annoyance to have your name spelled or pronounced wrong. I grind my teeth when people spell my name with a "C." That's not my name. It's not who I am. I can't identify with the word when I see it written out. (Notice that I refused to even write it out.)

The same goes for Brittany and Britney, Sarah and Sara, John and Jon, Kirsten and Kristen, Lucas and Lukas. And oh holy cow, if I say Brianna like fawn instead of like fan, I get my head bitten off and handed to me.

I can't really get mad when Brianna corrects me. What I said isn't who she is. The incorrect pronunciation is as foreign to her as that "C" name is to me. Most of us are outwardly polite about it, but it bothers us. Almost every student I polled has received an award or a trophy or a jersey with their name spelled wrong. They may have smiled, but it was a bitter disappointment. When someone gets your name wrong, they get you wrong.

A student with a particularly unusual name believes she has become more assertive over the years as a result of correcting authority figures in the spelling and pronunciation of her name. Her name has shaped her personality.

Last but not Least
Some students believe the placement of their last name in the alphabet has some bearing on their personality. What happens when you are perpetually last? Perpetually first? Does it inform self-perception? One student whose last name begins with a "W" said he works harder to stand out because he doesn't want to be perceived as last or at the bottom. When a list of names for awards or recognition is called, no one listens past the F's or G's, so he makes sure his name is called often. People eventually notice.

My maiden name was a "W," so I can identify. I hated always being at the end or in the back. Subsequently, I arrange my own seating chart so that a student has an equal chance of being in the front or the back regardless of the alphabet.

So yeah, Juliet was wrong. I don't think we would perceive a rose as smelling as sweet if we named it cat poop, and I don't think our self-perception would be the same if we had a different name. We experience the world through language, and the names we assign both objects and people are the means through which we understand them.

Shakespeare thought so too. Romeo and Juliet couldn't escape the definitions placed on them by their names. And really...neither can we.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious...

Ok, I'm a long way from glorious, and discontent is still skulking about waiting to rear its ugly head, but winter is over.

Winter is over.

Take a deep breath. Fill your lungs with oxygen, and then let it out slowly. Now do it again. And again. Winter is over.

Spring is more than a date on the calendar. It is embedded in our consciousness as humans. Whether we acknowledge it consciously or not, we feel the movement from death to rebirth.

Our pagan ancestors couldn't run to Wal-Mart in January and buy fresh strawberries from Guatemala or wherever they come from in the dead of winter. Spring was a big deal. They ate what they could grow or kill. When the earth became fertile again, they could eat. So they celebrated big. They danced and feasted and re-enacted the most ancient and enduring fertility rite.

The pagan world gave way to religion, but Spring still loomed large. Easter, Passover, the birth of the Buddha...birth, rebirth, escape from death...all celebrated in Spring.

I've performed my own Rites of Spring this weekend. I took 95 kids to the University of Kentucky library, an annual event I love. I drove with my windows down. I got my first pedicure of the season and wore open-toed shoes. I feasted with my family and sang and danced with my friends.

I feel lighter. In spite of the chaos in the world at large and in my own world, I feel the rebirth of hope. After today, the scale measuring the darkness and the light shifts, tipping to the light. The problems aren't fixed, but I can face them.

Winter is over.

Welcome Spring! Damn glad to see you!

Karma

What goes around comes back around. ~~ Justin Timberlake

For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. ~~ Galations 6:7

You get what you put in, and people get what they deserve. ~~ Kid Rock

He had it comin’. ~~Cell Block Tango, Chicago

John Lennon, the Bhagavad Gita, Boy George…I could quote versions of this idea ad infinitum. Although it is kinda fun to keep listing incarnations of the concept, I’ll illustrate it instead.

Last Friday night, Bruce and I stopped by our local Hibbett Sports store. I needed a new pair of athletic shoes. My shins and calves recently started hurting during Jazzercise, cluing me in that my shoes were dead. You only have 100 hours of workouts in any pair of athletic shoes. I had surpassed that mark and then some.

My shoes are Rykas, and I love them…or I did before my legs started hurting. I order them through Jazzercise and getting a new pair takes a while. After Friday night’s workout and pain shooting down my shins, I was unwilling to wait.

I tried on two pair of Nikes and a pair of Asics. My reaction to all three pair…meh. They were okay, but not as good as my Rykas when they were new. I refused to even try on the pair touted as “the best.” They were traffic-cone orange, yellow and gray. Call me superficial, but I don’t care if they made it possible to walk on water. I’m not wearing ugly shoes. The three pair I did try cost as much or more than the Rykas. The cheapest pair, $60.

The salesperson was also the store manager. He could tell I was less than thrilled, so he started asking questions. Based on my answers, he decided I might not need new shoes. Gel heel inserts or new insoles might do the trick. I left the store with the gel heel inserts after he told me I could bring them back if they didn’t work.

And holy cow! They did! Saturday morning’s workout was all it took. I felt like I was wearing a brand new pair of shoes. Instead of paying $60 for a pair of meh shoes, I paid $12 for a pair of inserts. I’m still ordering new Rykas, but the inserts will hold me over until they get here.

What do new shoes have to do with the price of tea in China? Two days later, when my eldest needed a new backpack for school, I went back to Hibbett’s. No shopping around…no off-brands…I walked in and paid for an insanely overpriced Under Armour model.

They had it comin’.

I don’t know if the sales guy’s helpfulness was part of Hibbett’s corporate culture or his own moral compass, but because he/they didn’t take advantage of me on the shoes, I was willing to pay their price on the book bag.

Shoes and a book bag are small in the grand scheme, but what if we felt like we were getting a fair shake on a bigger scale? Would we be more willing to pony up when we had to? What if our discourse was civil and respectful? Would we be more willing to listen and really hear each other?

Karma means “deed” or “act” and is one name for that idea of cause and effect, action and reaction. Every action has a consequence. Every positive word and deed lands somewhere. Affects somebody.

And so does every negative word and deed.

In spite of my snarky writing voice, I am an optimist at heart. I see good in people every day. I see a student lean over and help the new girl log on to the computer for the first time. I hear women of all shapes and sizes encouraging each other at Jazzercise. I see my colleagues staying after school and working with students when they aren’t getting paid.

Positive discourse is alive and well, and we all have a responsibility to see that it rings louder than the inevitable negativity.

Karma is a beautiful thing.

Karma is a bitch.

Smart People Rule the World

I had a head-spinning, fly-completely-off-the-rails moment in my classroom yesterday.

Not because students were misbehaving. No...the students in that class are awesome kids. I went berserk because more than half of the students in the class said they don't think of themselves as "smart people." Then, they went further and said they don't want to be labeled as "smart people." It's just not cool.

This from advanced English students...pre-AP kids who jumped through rigorous hoops to be in the class...kids who are reading and discussing Plato's Republic.

Are you kidding me? Are you FREAKING kidding me?

Let me take a few deep breaths and back up.

As I said, we are reading Plato. After each reading assignment, I prepare three or four questions that serve to illuminate the reading and bring the concepts into the 21st century. I lob those questions into my classroom like conversational grenades. These kids are tremendous readers and thinkers, and they lob their responses right back at me. The discussion is always vigorous, and one of my goals is to teach them how to listen to a different point of view and disagree respectfully (a lost art these days).

So yesterday, we reached the section in which Socrates says that philosophers should be kings. The first grenade I tossed out there was this: Should the smartest people in a group or community be the leaders? Turns out that question wasn't a grenade. It was a thermonuclear weapon of mass destruction.

Overwhelmingly, the kids said no, the smartest people shouldn't necessarily be the leaders of any given group or community. I pointed out that a room full of smart people were arguing against smart people being in charge. That's when they started denying being smart.

"Oh, Ms. Owens, there's lots of people smarter than us."

"We're not really that smart."

"I don't think of myself as a smart person."

WTF? My goal of teaching respectful disagreement went out my nonexistent window, and I flipped.

"What do you mean you don't think of yourself as a smart person?"

I heard myself getting loud, and I knew my tone had changed from calm facilitation to righteous indignation.

"It's not cool to be smart."

"Says who!?!"

Shrugs all around. "You know...everybody."

"Oh. Everybody. Of course. Everybody says it."

Yes...now we were firmly in the land of derisive sarcasm.

"I've got news for Everybody. Everybody is going to wake up when he graduates from high school and realize he needs the smart people. Everybody is going to need a smart person when he gets sick. Everybody is going to show up in a smart person's office with his hat in his hands when he needs legal help. Everybody is going to be a slave to the next must-have gadget that a smart person designed. Everybody is going to be punching the clock in a company a smart person runs. Everybody is going to realize that he is just a cog in a big machine that has a smart person at the controls."

I think I might have slammed my copy of Plato on a kid's desk at this point.

"Or even worse...maybe Everybody will never figure it out. Maybe he'll just be an ineffectual, frustrated underachiever who stays stuck in a rut his whole life and never figures out why he's so unhappy. Or he'll find a scapegoat to blame for his stupid choices...the government, his boss, his teachers...and the BEST part...he won't even be cool anymore. Because while Everybody has power in the halls of a high school where he preys on the inherent insecurity of his fellow students, once he graduates, he realizes the smart people have moved on. They are doing important smart people things, and he is nothing more than a dim, unpleasant memory."

A moment of silence descended when I stopped to breathe. I knew my blood pressure was up because I could feel my pulse in my forehead.

The kid sitting right in front of me said, "You really don't like stupid people, do you Ms. Owens?"

The class erupted in laughter, and so did I. The tension was broken, and I was able to answer his question like a reasonable person.

"I have no problem with people who are ignorant because they haven't been taught yet. I'm a teacher. That's what I do. My problem is with people who not only choose to remain ignorant, but who revel in their ignorance...wear it like a badge of honor."

The dumbass has become a staple of American TV and movies. Watch one episode of The Jersey Shore, and you'll believe with certainty we are doomed. Really. Is it any wonder kids think stupid is cool? But I didn't say that to my class.

I told them to be happy they could be counted among the smart people. I told them to believe it and to own it. Philosophers might not be kings, but smart people are captains of industry. The big problems our country faces will be solved by smart people, not pundits, talking heads, or self-serving politicians. Smart people are doing all the work that truly matters.

Like it or not, smart people rule the world.

No Music? No Thanks.

In my first piece of posted fiction, I imagined a scenario in which music is unwittingly traded away by my protagonist. I called it horror because a life without music sounds pretty darn horrible to me. It got me thinking about what I would lose if I made that bargain.

Without music, I would not have sung Eminem's "Lose Yourself" with one of my former students at a karaoke party last week. He's all grown up now, a college graduate and contributing member of society (Yeah, I've been teaching that long), but there was definitely an "Oh, Snap!" moment when I agreed to be his hype man...er, woman on stage. How many people get to rap in public with their ninth grade English teacher? The crowd, of course, went wild...me, Chad, Eminem...why wouldn't they?

A high moment. A good night. Music was at the center of it.

Without music, I would not be addicted to working out. I would still be carrying around extra pounds and huffing and puffing when I climbed more than one flight of stairs. Jazzercise is exercise choreographed to music, and I love it. Most of the time it feels more like fun than work, and when it does get tough, I sing to distract myself from the pain. Subsequently, I know every word to Lady Gaga and Beyonce's "Telephone".

Sometimes, I sing for the sheer joy of endorphins kicking and oxygen hitting my brain like a drug. And that's my excuse for knowing every word to Christina's "Candyman." Why wouldn't you want to know lyrics that include "He's a one stop shop. He makes my cherry pop?"I like singing along to that one because the music sounds so 1940s wholesome, and the lyrics are...not.

I've discovered new songs I love at Jazzercise....Madonna's newer stuff, Melanie Fiona's "Bang Bang," Idina Menzel's "I Stand," One Eskimo's "Kandi"...and so on and so on. Today, we did new routines to covers of two old songs. LeAnn Rimes' version of "Swingin" is fun. The remake of Jefferson Airplane's "Don't You Want Somebody to Love" is strange. The link is to the original. Some songs should just be left alone.

Without music, sports would lose something. "Welcome to the Jungle" and "Back in Black" will always make me think about football. Kid Rock's "All Summer Long" came out one summer when I was driving Eldest all over the state to baseball games, so it's a baseball song in my head.

Bruce and his colleagues have XM radio in the football offices. Not surprisingly, they listen to the headbanger channel on game day. What did surprise me (and cracked me up) was finding out they listen to the reggae channel during the week. According to Bruce, the Jamaican vibe chills everybody out. Whatever works, right?

Without music, driving wouldn't be nearly as much fun. Who among us doesn't like to roll down the windows and crank the stereo on a beautiful sunny day. I tested the speakers on my new car today with the Foo Fighters' "Let it Die." While not on par with my son's massive subs, I found them sufficient to my needs. :)

Ironically, the one thing I cannot do to music is write. I follow many writers who say they use music as a way into their stories. I find that music almost always pulls me out of my story. The story of the song is usually pervasive enough that it interferes with the plot thread in my head. I do use music during non-writing activities to get me started when I sit down later to write. A song can solidify a character in my head or help me establish the mood of a scene. So without music, my writing would suffer.

I can think of situations where I might be tempted to make a deal with Erebus. To magically attain those things that seem very far out of reach, I might give up something. The problem with those deals is that you always lose something precious. In a classic deal with the devil, you lose your soul. Losing music might seem tame by comparison, but I wonder. What kind of soul would you have without it?

Summer's End

I woke this morning feeling melancholy.

Maybe because the college football season is starting without me this year. The Tigers open in Florida today, and I stayed home to watch my youngest play last night in his high school game.

Maybe because my youngest lost last night.

Maybe because I let my youngest go to an after-game party, I got up at 3:45am to go get him, and I'm really freakin' tired.

Then, I turned my iPod on shuffle while I was messing around the house this morning. The Foo Fighters (who I love) began to sing about summer's end, and I realized that was it.

I'm mourning the end of summer.

"But, Kathy?" You say. "School started four weeks ago. Your summer ended then."

Not really. School or no school, August is still summer, especially when the temps are hitting the 90 degree mark every day. I was working, but it still felt like summer. Plus, I started back to work the week after RWA. I was still on a high from my Orlando adventure.

Labor Day weekend and the opening of the college football season mark the end of summer for me. Warm summer nights spent with friends are swept away by autumn's cool breezes, and I can't help thinking that cold winter winds aren't that far behind.

Change is inevitable, and every ending marks a new beginning. I am tired of the suffocating heat, and you can't truly appreciate summer's carefree days without living through the responsibilities of winter.

I wish you a happy Labor Day. It's beautiful here, so I'm going to leave you with the Foo Fighters while I go out to enjoy the last weekend of summer.

Fading Light

Light, or the lack thereof, is the lens through which we view the world. My favorite lens is the hour just before sunset.

Driving on a narrow country road, the landscape, having baked all day under the unforgiving August sun, becomes pastoral. The yellow-gold light transforms everything. Green is deeper and richer, the tassels on the corn gold instead of brown. Even the rusting hulk of an old trailer becomes aged and venerable instead of the monument to rural poverty it was in the bright light of day.

I slow as a deer crosses the road and watch her white tail disappear into the woods. In these golden moments before the light glows orange, the softness of the world outside my window is mirrored in my heart.

"It's beautiful."

But even as the words cross my lips, a wistful longing tempers my happiness. Nothing gold can stay. The light is already changing, the yellow tinged with orange. The shadows have stretched out stealthily while no one was watching and the spaces between the light, the low places where it can't reach, have grown dimmer.

I sigh with relief when I top the hill, but it is short-lived. The sinking sun catches in the windows of a white clapboard house and blinds me. Fire shimmers in the glass.

This red-orange lens is different, less friendly...not the harsh reality of midday, but the precursor of the darkness to come. Red is passion, anger, lust, pain burning up the light, extinguishing it, so they can perform their rites in the dark.

I reach the end of the country road at true dusk. Headlights dot the interstate, artificial light to ward off the night. The effort is futile. The false light can't bring back the green or the gold or the orange. Technicolor has reverted to black and white like the Wizard of Oz gone horribly wrong.

The darkness should inspire dread, and in fact, before the light disappeared, the deepening shadows made my heart beat faster...in anticipation.

I used to be afraid of the dark. Now, I find myself embracing it, using it to tease out an idea or a story. The gold light softens the world, but the darkness hides it, morphing it into indistinguishable shapes, or blotting it out altogether. When the world outside my window is unclear, I can impose my will on it and remake it into whatever I want. Sometimes, that's not a bad thing at all.

God Bless America

My family is home from Ocean City. We had a nice time, but I don't know if we'll choose that particular destination again. The crush of people was nuts, and my biggest complaint is there was no good place to relax and just be. Everything was geared toward doing. Of course, that suited my boys just fine. They loved the hustle and bustle of the Boardwalk.

The holiday weekend probably drew larger than average crowds, and if you could find a spot to sit, it was an excellent opportunity to people-watch. I did a lot of people-watching. The mass of people on the beach, by the pool, on the Boardwalk, at the parasailing place...everywhere we went...was incredibly diverse. I heard every imaginable variant of English being spoken (as well as several other languages), saw every shade of skin God makes, and smelled the foods of other cultures (the Asian family on the balcony next to us broke all the fire codes and cooked over an open flame).

It was chaotic, and honestly, a bit overwhelming. At the same time, I felt enriched by the experience. Bruce and I struck up a conversation with another couple at the bar of a restaurant one night while we waited for our table. They were from Washington, DC via New York. They had lived in big cities all their life. They marveled at our "southern" habit of speaking to strangers. The lady told us where she's from, people tend to mind their own business. I told her in my small town, we all mind each other's business. We talked for a long time, and by the time we were finally seated, we were great friends (helped in no small part by Bruce buying them shots of Kentucky bourbon).

Later that same night, Bruce and I sat on the beach with a million other people and watched fireworks. The mood was festive, and no one seemed to mind being packed in like sardines. A very nice lady even shared her blanket with us. The music accompanying the fireworks was patriotic, and the finale was "I'm Proud to be an American." The massive crowd on the beach started singing, and it brought tears to my eyes. In that moment, we truly were the melting pot we are supposed to be. My experience had been chaotic, overwhelming, and enriching, but I realized that this chaotic, overwhelming, enriching experience is America.

America is not a geographic location on the globe. America is an idea summed up beautifully by Emma Lazarus in "The New Colossus." You may not recognize the first stanza, but the second will be familiar.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
with silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Unless you carry 100% Native American DNA in your blood, you are the wretched refuse of some other teeming shore. Those of us whose families have been here a long time forget that sometimes. My grandmother was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, so I can claim a heritage that goes back to that very first Independence Day. But here's the beauty of America; the person who raised their right hand this past Fourth and took the Oath of Citizenship is just as much of an American as I am. (Okay, constitutionally, I can be President, and he or she can't, but otherwise, our rights are equal. Since I've never aspired to be President, we really are equal. :)

On our way home, the GPS got a wild hair and decided to take us straight through Washington, DC instead of around it. The detour was pretty cool. We drove right down Constitution Ave and saw the Capitol Building, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the White House. I was glad to see those great symbols of America, but without that melting pot on the beach singing "I'm Proud to be an American," those symbols are just brick and mortar.

God Bless America.

A Northeast State of Mind

When Bruce and I decided to hit the beach this year, we wanted to try someplace new. Our family has gone to the Outer Banks, NC for years, but rentals there have skyrocketed, and they've priced us out of their market. Our first plan was to check out Gulf Shores, Alabama.

Yeah. That didn't work out. Thanks a lot BP. Waiting until the last minute to book something worked in our favor. Unlike some of our friends, we didn't have to fight with BP to get a deposit back.

So where did we end up? It had to be the Atlantic coast...again, thanks BP. We didn't want to drive all the way to Florida. North Carolina was just too expensive. We looked at several places in South Carolina and Georgia, but nothing grabbed us. Then Bruce remembered a trip he took as a boy to Ocean City, Maryland. Mapquest told us it was only an 11 hour drive, and a hotel right on the Boardwalk was having a "red, white, and blue" special. We had a winner, and I am now writing this from my hotel room in Ocean City.

Ocean City is an entirely different experience from the Outer Banks. I could point to the obvious differences like the Boardwalk, a 24/7 circus right on the beach. My boys each brought a friend, and they're all loving it. An amusement park on the pier about half a mile down the beach boasts a roller coaster, slingshot, and giant Ferris wheel. Ripley's Believe it or Not (the 15 yr olds loved the hall of mirrors, while the 18 yr olds found it lame) sits next to a shop making saltwater taffy. In fact, every touristy restaurant and retail shop you could imagine adorns the 3 mile strip. Hooters is right next to our hotel, and the boys have already logged time there.

The Outer Banks are quiet. You have to get in a car and drive to find a souvenir shop or a restaurant. It's all about the ocean there. Here, the ocean almost seems like an afterthought. Even the places I've been in Florida don't measure up to the Ocean City Boardwalk in terms of pure, in-your-face tourist traps

Those differences are significant, but we chose Ocean City intentionally because of the Boardwalk. We can cut the boys loose, and they'll never get bored, AND they don't have to get behind the wheel of a car to find something to do.

The thing that really jumps out at me here are the people. They are almost exclusively northeasterners. When you go to Florida or the Carolinas, you see some folks from the northeast, but there are just as many, if not more, mid-westerners and southerners.

You wouldn't think a different demographic would matter all that much, but wow...just wow. A northeasterners' natural state of mind is just different than that of a southerner. The pace among northeasterners is faster, even on vacation. Everybody's in a hurry. People were scurrying up and down the Boardwalk like the henna tattoo place was gonna go out of business before they got there. You're on vacation people. Where's the fire?

In a Dunkin Donuts today, I saw a man taste his frozen coffee drink and explode, "I asked for DARK roast. DARK roast."

The poor girl behind the counter was from some Eastern European country and could barely speak English, but I believe the word "asshole" is universal. When our eyes met, I rolled mine, and her half smile told me she was thinking it.

My eldest and his friend told me they felt like they were in an episode of "The Jersey Shore." It's all good, though. They think it's cool, and so do we. Bruce talks to everybody. He's always curious about people. And in truth, most of the people we've talked to in the restaurants and the hotel have been lovely...once you get past that "why are you talking to me" thing northeasterners do.

Tomorrow, I'm going to take a book out to the beach...down by the water where the boardwalk sounds are drowned out by the surf. I'm going to park myself on my towel, slather on some sunscreen and read until I feel like doing something else. "Hurry" will not be a part of my vocabulary. I'm surrounded by a northeastern state of mind, but I'm from Kentucky, and I'm on vacation.

Our Tax Dollars at Work

Today is tax day, and instead of complaining (like I did all day Sunday when I was finishing mine), I'm going to be thankful.

I'm thankful for public libraries.


I'm thankful for interstate highways.



I'm thankful for the inspectors who make sure my food is safe to eat.



I'm thankful for the National Weather Service.



I'm thankful for Mammoth Cave National Park, The Wright Brothers National Memorial, Gettysburg National Military Park, and The Great Smokey Mountains National Park.





I'm thankful for the Library of Congress, the National Archives, the Smithsonian, and Independence Hall.





I'm thankful for the Center for Disease Control.



I'm thankful for the NASA scientists who developed the technology that made medical imaging, fire resistant fabrics, and shock absorbing helmets possible.



I'm thankful for air traffic controllers.



I'm thankful for the men and women who serve in our armed forces.



I'm thankful for the University of Kentucky and California University of PA where I acquired part of my education.



I'm thankful for the public school system.



I'm thankful for my fire fighter friends.



I'm thankful for the police officer that lives two doors down the street.



Tax dollars make our lives better a thousand times every day. I've heard a lot of angry rhetoric in the last couple of years about the hundred ways that government has failed us. Governments are made of people and people are fallible. Could we do better? Sure. We can always do better. But when I look at the short list above that doesn't begin to cover the services our government provides, I realize I've gotten a lot of bang for my buck.

Expectation is the Root of all Heartache

I have a new favorite app for my iPhone...Shakespeare quotes. You can do one a day, or you can shake the phone and get a new one anytime you feel like it. Some days, I limit myself to one. Other days, I just keep shaking.

I took a class in college devoted entirely to the works of Shakespeare, and I enjoyed it. I think maybe I was too young then to really appreciate the man's genius. Forget the lyrical combination of words and the plots we've been rehashing for 400 years. Shakespeare had the soundbite mastered before it was even invented.

I'm amazed at how often a single line taken out of context makes me stop and ponder. Take the title of this blog post.

Expectation is the root of all heartache.

Of course it is. The very definition of heartache is when reality fails to live up to one's expectations. We don't often think of heartache that way, but there it is...

Does that mean if I lower my expectations, I can avoid heartache? Probably. Should I lower my expectations to avoid heartache? Probably not.

Heartache beats expectation out of some people. They experience something so painful they're unwilling to expect very much out of love, work, family, friends, or anything else that gives life meaning. Expectation is risky.

However, if expectation is the root of all heartache, then it's also the root of all joy, right? Heartache happens when reality doesn't live up to expectation. Sometimes, reality meets or even exceeds expectation. So, while expectation is risky, it's also absolutely necessary for happiness. How can reality exceed our expectations if we don't have any?

Deep thoughts on a Saturday, courtesy of a shake of my iPhone.

January Random: Jazzercise and Joe Biden

Few things make a writer happier than reader appreciation. Yesterday, a colleague stopped me in the hall and said, "I went to your blog yesterday. I thought with the snow day, you would post something new." I have to admit to a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness. Not only does someone read my blog, they look forward to it.

I did take advantage of the snow day to write, but all my efforts were spent on my WIP. I've been floundering around trying to find the voices of these new characters in my head. I made some headway Tuesday, but spared no time to blog. So now, when I should be grading Animal Farm tests, I'm blogging on random topics.

I started exercising this week. I've wanted to get back in shape for a while, but I was looking for the right opportunity. I hate running. It's too cold to walk outside, and I'm not interested in going to a gym by myself. Last week, one of my co-workers who has been waxing lyrical about Jazzercise, invited a group of us to come along. Something about the herd mentality made it easier to say yes. Everybody else was doing it, so I might as well go along for the ride.

It was fun. No, really. Jazzercise incorporates dance moves into the cardio portion of the workout, and I was with a big group of my friends. It's kind of like vigorous line dancing, without the alcohol. (Although when my friend, Pam in Iraq, heard Linda and I were jazzercising, she wanted to know if they were offering free wine with a membership.)

I've gone three days in a row now. Somebody told me you have to do something at least ten times before it becomes a habit, so I'll let you know how it goes. When I get tired, I start writing in my head to distract myself. The first night, I was behind a woman with "John 3:16" emblazoned on the back of her t-shirt. Brittany Spears' Three was playing. The incongruity of those two inputs cracked me up. Listen the words sometimes. Three is not referring to the holy trinity. I imagined a character who would think Brittany's three was a religious experience. I might use him in my WIP.



On a separate and totally random note, I watched the State of the Union address last night. I'm not going to comment on the speech or politics, but if you missed it, watch it on YouTube, paying particular attention to Vice President Biden in the background. My fifteen year old was watching as an assignment for his social studies class and pointed out something interesting. Our Vice President is an animated man. His unusually wide smile prompted my son to compare him to the guy on the cover of Mad Magazine. We missed a whole section of the speech because our son had Bruce and I laughing hysterically as he narrated our VP's facial expressions. I think there might be a writer's soul in that boy.

Snow Days

At 6:15 this morning, I sat in my bed, enjoying the last few minutes of warmth before attacking the day. My eldest son poked his head in the room and said, "I think we might have a snow day."

"I didn't think it was supposed to snow that much."

"Seriously. The street is completely covered."

I immediately clicked on the television. A covered street in a Kentucky county that is more than 50% rural almost always foreshadows a snow day. Most Kentucky counties haven't made the same kind of investment in snow removal equipment as our neighbors to the north. I watched the closed counties scroll across the bottom of the screen. Sure enough, there we were. My son went happily back to bed, and I stared at the ceiling for while before I dozed off too.

I have mixed feelings about snow days. When you first see your district scroll across the list of closings, there is elation. For one glorious moment, you are a kid again with all your responsibilities postponed for a day. Then you remember you are an adult, and reality kicks in. (Unless it's the Monday after Super Bowl Sunday which should ALWAYS be a snow day.)

As nice as it was to snuggle back into my covers this morning instead of facing the single digit temps outside, I know I will pay for it later. That's how the system works. Pay me now, or pay me later.

Now, the kids are all resigned to being back in school. They've just had a long holiday break, and they aren't burned out. Actual learning would have happened today. Instead, they're all at home sleeping or playing video games. There isn't enough snow to do anything fun like sledding or snowman building. Really. There was just enough of a covering (combined with the frigid temps) to make the powers that be nervous about putting kids in those big yellow buses. The grass isn't even covered. Plus, it's too darned cold to go outside anyway.

Later, when we tack this day onto the end of the year, it will be June. June is beautiful in Kentucky...lots of sunshine...temps in the mid 70s. The kids are done by mid-May. It doesn't matter when the last official day is. They are done in mid-May. Everything after that is cat-herding.

One school day of actual learning traded for a cat-herding day in June.

Another universal truth...it's better to pay as you go because when you wait, you pay with interest.

Endings and Beginnings

Another school year is over, and I'm grateful.

I read what I've just written, and I know how it comes across. Another teacher who only works 10 months out of 12 is grumbling about her job and gloating that she has two months off.

Nope...not by a long shot.

One of the things I love about my job is its cyclical nature. The year starts with hope and promise. You get a brand new batch of students, all shiny in their new school clothes, scrubbed and pressed, and as eager as they'll be all year. I teach 9th grade, so my students all have that deer-in-the-headlights look. High school is a new experience. Every year without fail, at least one student starts the first day in tears, but most kids are cautiously optimistic.

As the year progresses, the newness wears off. The honeymoon phase ends, and high school isn't intimidating anymore. Some kids hit their stride and cruise along with ease. Others struggle academically or socially or both. Through the fall and into the winter, I approach these students with energy and a can-do spirit. Somewhere in mid-winter though, when the sky is dreary and the air is cold, my spirit begins to sag. The same thing happens to the kids. I think it probably happens to everyone (unless you're a ski instructor maybe). When my energy is the lowest, I have to push the hardest, and that's often when the kids are most likely to push back.

Winter always seems interminable, but spring finally returns. Scheduling for the next school year is a wake-up call for both the cruisers and the strugglers. Students see the finish line ahead, and my strugglers realize they have to kick it in gear if they want to pass for the year. My cruisers are worried about GPA's and admission to advanced or specialized classes. State testing also brings a burst of energy for everyone. After testing, the race to the finish line is on, and the last couple of weeks are more like cat-herding than educating.

The last grades have now been entered into the computer. The faculty and departments have met. Pacing documents and common assessments for the upcoming year have been written. My classroom has been cleaned and closed. I'm done in every sense of the word. Burnout among teachers is high, and 1 out of every 3 new teachers leaves the profession in their first 5 years. I'm not gloating about my two months off. I'm closing my eyes in quiet gratitude. I'm taking a deep, unencumbered breath.

I'm going to write again. Writing a book is a bit like the school year. You start strong, the characters are all shiny and new, as eager as I am to explore their world. There is a mid-winter to every novel as well, and I've been there for the last couple of months in the sagging middle. I'm finally excited about tackling it again because I know I have whole days stretching out in front of me to push through it.

I'm also rewriting the first three chapters of Sapphire Sins. I hit my stride later in that book, and having some distance from my last revision, I realize I did too much telling and not enough showing in the beginning. I've got a new reader all lined up to test it on.

I'm having one of those wildly happy early June moments. Close your eyes and imagine Elton John belting out The Circle of Life. Every ending is a new beginning. I love that about both my vocations.

Inside Outside Upside Down

Who are you?

Are you the person everyone thinks you are? Are any of us? I've had occasion recently to reflect on that question. I believe all of us have two lives, the outer life we move about in everyday...the one the world sees...and the inner life we live in our heads. Our inner lives consist of our hopes and dreams, our fantasies, our fears and insecurities, our true opinions and beliefs about the world around us.

Finding the courage to share our inner life is hard. It requires trust. We know if we give a piece of our inner life away we become vulnerable. We give that person ammunition to hurt us.

In the world of my novel, my hero and heroine can each walk in the other's dreams. They each hear the other's thoughts even across long distances. Of course, this isn't an original idea in paranormal romance, and there's a reason it shows up as often as it does. The idea of having a true soul mate is powerful. It's the driving force behind all romance. Yeah, the sexy alpha males are fun, as is the chase and the overcoming of obstacles, but the real fantasy is finding that one person to whom you can reveal your inner life. All of it. Every wonderful, horrible, embarrassing truth. To know and to be known.

If you have a relationship like that, then you are well and truly blessed. Whether it's your significant other or a trusted friend, a person who accepts the pieces of your heart and soul without judgment is a treasure. The longer you live, the more you appreciate it. Sometimes in youth we are cavalier in giving those pieces away, and we are inevitably hurt. We learn to be cautious.

When a friend trusts you with a piece of themselves, guard it with your life. Don't carelessly toss it out as grist for the gossip mill. If you do, then your relationships will quickly become nothing but a glossy veneer. I can't imagine anything more lonely.

Long Shots

If you watched the Derby yesterday, you saw that amazing finish by Mine that Bird, a 53-1 long shot. He was in last place 3/4 0f a mile in. He was in 12th place a mile into the race. He won by more than 6 lengths. Simply incredible. ESPN reporter, Bill Finley called it "the most inconceivable result in the 135-year history of the race. An impossibility." In a field of million dollar thoroughbreds, Mine that Bird was originally sold at auction for $9,500. He won a purse yesterday that exceeds $1 million.

Mine that Bird was too small, boasted less than impressive parentage, and had never won a race prior to the Derby. Yesterday was his trainer's debut appearance in the big race. In the sport of kings, he beat the kings...literally. (A couple of horses in the race were owned by Dubai royalty.) Mine that Bird threaded the gaps in the final stretch because he was small. No pre-race hype meant no distractions. All the factors that could have been considered deficits worked in favor of horse and trainer.

For anyone with a dream, Mine that Bird's improbable win should provide ample inspiration. Keep plugging away. Figure out how to make what you have work for you. Ignore the naysayers. Don't allow rejections, losses, or other bumps in the road to deter you.

Sometimes the long shot wins.

Songs in a Minor Key

So I'm folding laundry, a never-ending task in my house. I have the ipod playing in the background, and I'm singing along like I do. My mind is wandering. I'm thinking about my day at school, my boys driving to conditioning in this high wind, and the transition between scenes that I've been struggling for almost a week to write. As I'm mulling it all over, the music seeps into my consciousness, probably because a song I really like has started to play. It's in a minor key. I don't know why this occurs to me. When I let my mind wander, it roams to some pretty random places.

The song ends and the next one begins to play. This one is in a minor key as well. Now I'm intrigued. I stop folding laundry and just wait for the next one. I have my ipod on shuffle because I like not knowing exactly what's coming. Sure enough, the third song is also in a minor key. I scroll through my ipod, and although I didn't count (but I'm interested enough that I still might) the majority of the songs are in a minor key. What does this say about me?

I'm not depressed or angry. I've never been particularly angsty. But my favorite songs, going all the way back to the '80s are in a minor key. That led me to think about my reading tastes. Definately dark. I love, love, love paranormal romance and urban fantasy. My favorite authors are Laurell K. Hamilton, Kim Harrison, JR Ward, Charlaine Harris, and most recently Rachel Vincent. My favorite scene in literature is in A Tale of Two Cities when Sydney Carton goes to the guillotine and distracts the young girl in line in front of him so she won't be afraid. Dark.

My books are dark. What does it mean that my idea of an alpha male is a vampire? I'm sure a psychoanalyst could have a field day with my psyche. Some of the scenes I've written make me wonder.

Maybe it's catharsis, the idea that you can experience a dark emotion safely through ficiton. Both reading and writing take me places I don't normally go. Why relive your daily life in fiction? Although in really good fiction, even the wildest paranormal, you recognize truths about life.

Anyway...I'm rambling. I'm a happy person with a fairly normal life, but I like dark stories and songs in a minor key.