I don't know what Trayvon Martin's last words were. I don't know what Tamir Rice said either. I wonder what Breonna Taylor talked about before going to bed that night. I do know what Eric Garner and George Floyd were saying before they were killed by police. I can't breathe. When I started painting masks this spring, it was a way to use up a surplus of cardboard boxes in my house and to do something concrete. Around mask 15, I had this idea to paint James Baldwin after seeing a portrait of him that I liked, and because I want everyone to read him until we live in a time where his words seem like history rather than words needed every day. Then I tried my hand at Frida Kahlo even though I have no illusions that I can manifest her in portraiture better than she did herself. The news crept in, and I learned that Ahmaud Arbery was shot, then Breonna Taylor, and now George Floyd was suffocated, and others who have been murdered without witness or video proof whose names I may never hear or learn. I don't watch the videos in fear that I will become numb to the visual of watching a fellow human be murdered. Repetition is not always a good thing. And the list starts in my head of Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, who am I forgetting? John Crawford III. Who did I forget to name? Names matter. Who did I forget? I painted Breonna Taylor, and I don't think I got her quite right. I put a halo over her head. I got that right. I am thinking about whether to paint George Floyd, and then I wonder how will I keep up with the list. It's as if I think painting will stop the murders. I have this memory that keeps going through my head. It is from July 13, 2013. It is the day that Trayvon Martin's murderer was allowed to walk free and there was another news story that was filling my Facebook feed. In Charlottesville, several young white women won their day in court against the police officers who had tried to stop them. The women were coming from a meeting about sexual assault and were on edge. The police officers were in plainclothes and banged on the window of the car to get the women to stop. I don't remember why, it doesn't really matter now. The women in their fear did not stop. They were not shot and the court found them not guilty. There is more to this story, and I am really happy that it ended in the way that it did. That day all of my white friends were posting this story and celebrating the court's decision. I live near Charlottesville, so this makes sense. However, there was a contrast in the feed. All of my black and brown friends were posting in grief that another black boy's death had gone unpunished. I don't remember a single post from a white friend about Trayvon Martin. I don't think I posted anything about either story, but I remember the day. I remember being really troubled that none of my white friends were posting about the killer of a black boy walking free. Why didn't we? I also remember being completely frozen by what my role should be. I did not know how to process what I witnessed from my little corner. I keep working on that. I still don't know what Breonna Taylor talked about before going to bed that night. I do know that I will run out of gold for halos if we don't figure out how to listen when someone tells us that he can't breathe. “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time. ” – James Baldwin
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I can't even boil water," is an expression that keeps coming back to me as I think of cooking. I know I have left a few pots of water on the stove for so long that any water that was boiling is no longer in the pot. I guess I don't boil water perfectly every time either. You can do a lot with boiling water. Often after we boil, we simmer which means you turn down the heat for a low level bubbling. Sounds a bit like a life lesson is in here somewhere, something to do with cooling off. Before you start: 1, When using boiling water for food purposes, start with cold water. Hot water from your tap has been hanging out in your hot water heater for some time. Not sure you want to be eating that. Also, recipes assume a cold water start temperature. 2. Boiling water produces steam. Be careful when removing a top off of a pot of boiling water or pouring it out of a pot. You don't want your arm/hand burned from the steam. Here a few examples things you might cook with boiling water Hard-boiled egg There are so many methods of this. Here is one way:
Cowboy Coffee *In Panama, in the countryside, they cook the coffee with sugar added - black coffee means no milk, all coffee is served with sugar. Think sweet tea.
Steam Vegetables
This list goes on for uses of boiled/boiling water: Pasta Rice Brown rice in oven (boil the water then add to rice and put in oven in a covered baking dish. Delish!) Beans Getting peels off of tomatoes and peaches Soup Tea Canning Making manjar with canned sweetened condensed milk (dangerous) ... Boiling water is also used for non-food items Fitting a mouth-guard Sterilization of items Opening an envelope - I have never really gotten this to work with satisfying results but all of those mystery novels I read as a kid says it should. This is also steam, not the actual water. Boiling water is a pretty good skill set after all. It started with a handprint. A way to spend some time as a family and do a little something. I don't mind getting paint on me, but full hand immersion into paint is a commitment. It was fun but may or may not be repeated in the future.
Right now lots of project ideas are floating through the world as parents need to keep children occupied enough so that they can do both what is needed around the house while also managing work expectations. Really, what could go wrong? I happened upon one of these ideas. A couple of art teachers posted ideas of a project that could be completed with cardboard boxes, paint, and glue. This looked much more promising than submerging my hand in paint. I had all of the necessary materials along with several xacto knives. It so happens that I recently started getting my fruits and veges from a company that has repurposed from a restaurant food distributor to serving families. They pack their produce in cardboard boxes. This means that my collection keeps getting replenished. Since they are for produce that needs air, all of my cardboard boxes come with ventilation holes. These make for some interesting features. Now I cut and paint shapes out of cardboard and glue them together, getting paint on my hands, of course. Here are my masks. I don't think I am finished making them yet.
If you had asked, and you probably wouldn't have, I would have said that I have the computer skills I need for my current job with maybe a little bit extra. That was before.
In March, I embarked on a intensive, on-the-job training, with a live studio audience. Some things went better than I thought in the transition. And some things did not. I won't worry you with the details. I made a video to try to capture some of what I learned to share with my colleagues. Figuring out how I wanted to organize this video and screen cast this took time. Then I recorded it and realized that headset microphone picked up my every breath. It sounded like Darth Vader was trying his hand at online teaching. I decided I should probably fix that and back to my recording studio I went. Instead of a quick conversation over lunch, I found myself spending a few hours making a five minute video. I remembered why I stopped making videos after my last attempts about five years ago. Cost-benefit analysis said it was not a good use of my time.
This week, I decided my students needed to take a test. Usually, I stick with paper and pencil tests. Usually, when I need to give a listening section of a test, I cue up the sound clip I need and play from speakers in my classroom. Usually, I spend no more than an hour writing a test even when writing a long exam. I have been teaching for over twenty years. I have my systems. That was before.
I spent a good part of Tuesday writing a test for one of my classes and a good part of Thursday writing a test for another class. I had to upload sound clips and record others. Unlike a test I might administer in class, it needed to be beyond perfect. I want the students to be able to take it without needing to second guess any part of any of my directions. I always try to write clear directions, but I usually will be in the room to answer any questions. Did I mention that there are only thirty points on this test? Who knew that creating a thirty point test needed such patience with oneself? It would not be a school if there weren't clubs. Aside from a few emails, I have never considered any of the clubs I advise to be in the technical realm. I usually am in charge of buying food and drinks, and helping students figure out who to talk to about an event they want to organize. That was before. We Zoomed like the champs we have now become. We almost got stumped by how to take part in the Day of Silence, an annual event for the GSA. How do you organize a Day of Silence when there is no one on campus? My new technical over confidence told me that I could figure it out. I like my final product, but I think the people who work in communications are not in any danger of me taking their jobs any time soon. A week ago I was worried about lots of tasks on my to-do list. That list has been abandoned and most of those tasks forgotten. They seemed so essential once upon a time.
What does it mean to be essential? I am a teacher. Is my job essential? If it is not, how is my ego dealing with that realization. Jobs that seem essential to me these days are those in the post office, sanitation departments, and grocery stores and their supply chain. Those are the ones I am noticing a lot these days. But then I remember that I really need those invisible services such as electricity and running water. Definitely essential. Of course, the healthcare system and scientists are essential, but not in my direct line of sight and daily living. If I can’t see your profession, is it essential? My relationships are all more essential than ever. I find myself reaching across decades to dust off old friendships and reconnect, holding on tighter to the ones I have developed in more recent years. Other than food, shelter, clean water, and friendships, what else am I finding essential these days? Open spaces, spaces to walk in, beauty, card and board games, jigsaw puzzles, internet, books, humor. How will this list change during the next few weeks and what will remain essential, I wonder. As I have mentioned in prior posts, verbs can be a challenge in Spanish. Over the years, I have discovered that contrary to popular belief, there are a finite number of spelling rules and irregular verbs. It is hard to convince my students that this is true. This weekend I had quite a bit of grading to do. Procrastination being what it is, this is what came of it. The first document is verbs with patterned spelling changes. The second document highlights the irregular verbs. There were a couple that I keep going back and forth about where they best go, namely oler and -ducir verbs. It's a classic. The documentary opens with the Golden Gate Bridge, complete with the motorcyclists in their bell bottom jeans and leather jackets. You are immediately centered in time and place. 1970s, San Francisco. The title pops up, San Francisco: The City that Waits to Die. Scientists warn of the eminent doom of San Francisco due to the omnipresent threat of movement along the San Andreas Fault. A highlight is when they show a school yard with a crack caused by a recent quake going right through it. This is contrasted with the city map that shows the fault line take a quick jag around the school yard. This map allowed them to build an elementary school over the fault line. This was one of my first introductions to the government at work/not at work in an academic setting. If you are imagining the narrator right now, you are right. Now you've seen the film without watching it.
There are many cities that easily could fit San Francisco's ominous tagline. Any city on the west coast for starters. Earthquakes are not the only natural threat. When we look to water and wind, we can expand the list. New Orleans: The City that Waits to Die Miami: The City that Waits to Die _______: The City that Waits to Die, you get the idea This title pops into my head from time to time. Recently I have been wondering what would come after the colon for other cities. I have come up with a few. Palm Beach: The City that Waits for You to Die Victoria, BC: The City that Waits for You to Die if you are Canadian Richmond: The City that Waits for the Civil War to End Charlottesville: The City that Waits to be Named World Largest Mall New York City: The City "I like those rings for the shower curtains," my mom remarked casually. "Perfect," I thought. "Now I have something to buy her." They had the metal balls to make the rings roll over the shower rod in a smooth fashion, plus they are an upgrade from the plastic rings currently serving the purpose of holding up the barrier between the water from the shower and the rest of the bathroom. Simple, practical with a touch of whimsy. She did not really need them, which made them the perfect kind of gift.
Since I can remember my parents only ever used a plastic liner without a second decorative curtain and so she probably did not need the double hanger, but that is what she pointed out and that is what I bought her. After this purchase, I paid some attention to the bathroom. Being that it was a bathroom, I had honestly not given it much thought regarding its decor. It occurred to me that it was unusual by many people's standards that they did not have a shower curtain. I assumed that my parents only ever had the shower liner because it was an extra expense and an unnecessary one at that to purchase a curtain. I even had hypothesized in my mind that they did not buy a curtain because the bathroom is bit narrow and the curtain would take away some of the valuable, usable square-footage between the bathtub and the sink. At this point, I am sure some of you more modest readers are feeling uncomfortable about the thought of taking a shower with only a clear sheet of plastic between you and the rest of the bathroom. And, yes, the lack of a curtain caused some concern for me as I moved into puberty, especially since neither of the upstairs bathrooms have locks on the doors either. But, there must have been some unwritten rule, and we did not barge in on each other very often. Not until the purchase of these rings that I found out the real reason why there was no external curtain on the shower. Economics and space considerations may have played a role. However, it is the lack of a light inside the shower was the reason my mother revealed over the holidays. She explained that she wanted to be able to see while in the shower. When she said this, I first realized that I had made up the other two reasons in my head without knowing I had done so. It is good thing I bought those shower rings so that I could get to the bottom of the mystery I did not know I was trying to solve. About fifteen years ago, a black friend of mine asked me, "Don't white people talk about being white?" I think that my answer of "no" was as surprising to her as the fact that the question had never occurred to me was surprising to me. Over the years, this question has followed me around.
This fall I had a hiatus from work in order to enjoy a three month sabbatical. While I was on sabbatical I volunteered at the Virginia Center for Inclusive Communities (VCIC). I attended some of their workshops, facilitated a couple of breakout sessions, and got a peek into the inner workings of the organization. And, of course, like any good volunteer, I happily stuffed a few envelopes. Aside from taking part in the day to day of the workings of VCIC, I caught up on some reading that I kept meaning to do. No one read is perfect explanation or a perfect analysis of race in America. But here are some that I found thought provoking. With the end of the summer at my back, I started with Born a Crime by Trevor Noah. Yes, he is from South Africa and in his narrative he reflects the racial divides that also exist in America. Then I went for a classic: Why are all the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Dr. Beverly Daniel Tatum. I had given this book a glance a year or two ago and put it down. I am glad I picked it up again. The book highlights, among other things, the conflicting messages students of color, in particular, get around race and identity. I will reread. Over the years, one of the topics that has gone in and out of focus for me is white racial identity formation. Some days I see clearly how race fits in my life, and other days I am overwhelmed by how little I understand anything about the racial dynamics in the US. I found some good groundwork with two books. I first read White Fragility by Dr. Robin DiAngelo. This one I may need to read again. It is relatively short and packs a punch. If I had read it even five years ago, I probably would have kept saying "yes, but" in my head instead of allowing the thesis its own space. Then I dove into Waking up White by Debby Irving. It was helpful to read both of these books in part because these two authors come from the two ends of the economic spectrum in America and both of them are white people writing about what it means to be white. Growing up I learned how to keep track of contact information in an address book. Along the way addresses got crossed off, but never fully erased until was time to transfer everything into a new address book. I have never really set up a good system my contacts in the new world of perpetual data. I know that I have been in the digital age for a while now, but keeping track of people is something I thought I would be better at doing despite proving myself wrong time and time again. Somewhere in my computer I have a spreadsheet that I started. It only lists family members from a singular attempt to send holiday cards. Probably half of those addresses are now out of date, but I keep the list just in case. I have a lot of addresses in my phone contacts, of course. Others are hidden in an email trail. No ragged pages tell me that I need to take stock of my contacts and figure out who gets transferred and who gets left behind. No one system keeps them all in one place. I am not sure I can really call what I do a system. It is my version of throwing my hands up in the air. The result? This means that my grandmothers' addresses are still on that spreadsheet even though their eyes will never again read a card. A few days after my father died, I picked up my phone to text him something or other. It was probably something about his funeral which makes no sense but grief is like that. Is there a protocol for what to do with these digital reminders? To delete them causes discomfort yet to keep them seems morbid. Even when I do hit delete, I know that they are still with me and they leave their echoes. One of those moments happened today. When mom didn't pick up on her cell, I called the land line as one does. Dad's voice is still on the answering machine. He told me that he was not available to come to the phone right now and that I could leave a message. |
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