On the Way to OK

On the way to Oklahoma, we stopped in Springfield, Illinois. I had no idea it was the home of Lincoln, but Casey said he had studied a lot about Lincoln and the Civil War when he was younger and so would like to see it. Sure! I don't really care much for history and war history especially, be when we got downtown, I really enjoyed waling around the "Lincoln neighborhood." It's two blocks of homes that have been preserved and created into a historic site with museums. We were able to walk through one neighborhood home on our own, but to go through Lincoln's home proper, we had to get tickets (which were free) and group up with a tour guide. Neither one of us were really into that, so we just enjoyed walking up and down the two blocks, reading the markers in front of each of the homes, and then headed on downtown to an art fair going on. The park ranger who took our picture in front of Lincoln's home had told us about it, and we couldn't think of a more perfect way to start our first official vacation together. The weather, however, did not cooperate so well. A steady light rain started, and, had it been our own town, I'm sure we would have stayed, but traveling and knowing we had to be somewhere, the rain was more incentive to get going. A great stop, all in all, completely unexpected and very enjoyable.

Graffiti Me

I love street graffiti. Well, I love most anywhere you can find graffiti, bathrooms, hallway walls, table tops... I'm not talking gang sign graffiti, although that has its place and merits in terms of art and culture. What I appreciate are cool images in unlikely places, subtle graffiti, symbolic, or poetic graffiti that gets the viewers to think. Nothing is cooler than cities who encourage and allow sidewalk art in the summer months. It doesn't have the same appeal of unlawfulness as unsanctioned graffiti has, but it does allow a unique canvas and the time for artists to develop a whole different kind of art. Either way, I'm a fan, and snap it up when I can. Here's a few I caught last time I was in Traverse City. Some of these will definitely be going up on my office door!

Disruptive Thought

I'm battling disruptive thought this week - when something happens that I don't like, and it keeps coming in and disrupting my thought until I can deal with it. Usually it's work-related stuff - a situation occurs, and until I can deal with it and remedy it in some way, it keeps coming into my thinking. Or, it may actually be a memory - something that happened years, even decades ago, and it will come into my thoughts and leave me feeling agitated and uneasy.

I know meditation can help with this, so I've been trying to be sure to include some time for that - short spans a few times a day. Helping or not? Hard to say.

I had worked one issue around and around in my head so much that when I finally had the opportunity to let it out (in a meeting with my colleagues), I have a sneaking suspicion I came off sounding like a raving lunatic. I didn't mean to, and it's not at all how I had envisioned the whole matter going, but there I was, gesturing with shaky hands, having a hard time breathing, feeling as though I was foaming at the mouth (not sure I wasn't), and these people looking at me wide-eyed, probably wondering if my head was going to start to spin.

Okay, so I lost it. And while this will now become the disruptive thought that enters my head (as to why I had to lose it like that), a part of me is okay with it. I just might be that crazy, old lady who goes off at what she perceives as social injustice - and maybe that's not such a bad thing. And maybe, just maybe, having people a little freaked out about someone who is passionate and adamant about what they believe is not such a bad thing. Maybe having people know that I make a better friend than enemy is not such a bad thing. And maybe, just maybe, they will appreciate having me on their side. If not, well, then it's going to be a lonely path to my retirement...

TC in My Veins

I just got back from a very short weekend trip to Traverse City to visit the 'rents. I was only there for two mornings, but for each one, I got up and went for an hour-long walk with the dog down to the bay, then back around through downtown.

I love walking TC year round. Having grown up there, and going back to visit, "off season" is my favorite time of year. It truly takes a 'native' of any area to be able to see the beauty in a place in its off season. The bay wasn't frozen over, but there was still a lot of ice along the sand - creating a cool icy sand cliff all along the shore line.

And even though the water was colder than cold, I stuck my hand in it each day, just to touch it, to feel it. I suppose once you consider yourself 'from' a certain place, you always have a special connection with it. And who, if they are from Traverse City, doesn't have a special connection with the bay - enough to make us walk to it in the dead middle of winter and stick our hands in the water. If we can get through the ice, that is.

Minnows in the Snow

Today was a tease. It was sunny all day. I took an hour-long walk down to the river. There were more people out walking today than I have seen out all winter long. And dogs. So many dogs with their owners. It's as if the thaw of the day released them from their homes, and they all came out to walk the path that was once so familiar to them in the warmer season.

Yet, as I walked along, smiling, nodding, saying my hellos to the suddenly cheerful people, I was reminded of the truth of this month. That it is still Winter. That March is waiting, just around the corner of the week, to come in like a lion and gorge itself on the tasty lamb. The frozen river was dotted with ice fishers. Snowmobilers raced up and down the icy freeway. "The Hill" still had enough snow to entertain the dozen or so children running up and sliding down.

Oh, yes, Winter, today was your flirtation with us poor northerners. Lifting your skirt just enough for us to see dainty petticoats of green grass. But, just like in the cartoons, there's a bear-jaw trap waiting there, should we reach out with our ungloved hands to touch you. Step onto the grass as though it were time to run barefoot through the daisies, and we'll find ourselves frozen into the mud. Let our minds relax into believing this sun could actually warm any portion of bare skin we expose to it, and the next day, I know, we'll find ourselves reddened and frostbitten. You are a tease, oh February Winter, and we are your bait, like minnows in the snow.

It's Cold Where I Live

And barren. For months. Boats don't leave the river. Leaves don't grow on trees. People don't sit in the park and drink beer from paper bags. It's blue and it's gray and it's cold, all day, every day. It can be warmer when the sun shines, but only if the wind isn't blowing. And the wind is almost always blowing, just a little, just enough to need to pull that scarf up over your nose so your nostrils won't freeze. We stay indoors. We make soup and bread and drink whiskey and beer and wine and pull blankets up over our noses when we sleep at night. We wake up in darkness and wish only to not have to pee so bad that we can stay under the covers just a little while longer. Yes, it's cold where I live.

A Contrast Study in Old Men

Old Men Who Give Old a Bad Name

January 4: Waiting at the pharmacy for my prescriptions. I'm looking at the remedies on the shelves for cold sores, chapped cows udders - the salve for which I guess works great on human hands and lips, lice shampoos, etc. I hear an old man come in and start off complaining how his insurance won't cover his prescription. Right away, he blames "Bama" for it all. How he's spending all our money in other countries instead of here. How he's making a mess of health care. How we're all gonna die and it will be his fault. But it won't matter anyway because somebody's gonna shoot him soon enough. What a mess he's made of everything. I don't turn around, and instead examine ear drop solutions. If the old badger were to engage me, I'm not sure he'd like what I have to say to him. The only thing I could think to say would be: "With all you have to complain about, what are you doing to make the world a better place? What do you do that you get out of bed for every day where you think to yourself, 'This will help to make the world better for everybody.'? Because you bitchin' about it isn't doing anybody any good." Cocoa butter lotion. I could use some of that.

Old Men Who Give Old a Good Name

January 5: Waiting room to get my blood drawn. The only other person there is an old man. He smiles and says hello to me. I smile back, say good morning. He comments on the cold. Not as bad as it has been, I say. He says he's been in Kentucky. Tells me about the flea market he went to, "As big as from here to Euclid" he says. That's at least six blocks away. I tell him he had it good. Missed the worst of the weather. He laughs and tells me he's seen plenty in his day. I tell him I hope he sees plenty more. He laughs, and I laugh with him.

We have plenty of role models for our old age all around us. What kind of role model will you be? What kind of role model are you?

January 2010

Walking through Midland Street, Bay City, Michigan
January 1, 2010 at 8:00am

Down to the River Walk with Scrappy. A thin layer of fluffy snow hides the ice patches, catches us on occasion, but neither of us fall. Nobody else around, but the tracks of humans and their dogs. Who else would get up so early on New Year's Day? Dogs, not their people.

The snow on Midland street is trampled through. Outside the Lumberbaron, brightly colored confetti is frozen to the sidewalk, black styrofoam takeout boxes litter the lot, red and white checkered pizza slice papers tumble along in the wind.

Lucky's still has their outdoor speakers on, some inane rock and roll ballad blares as we walk past, then fades to dissonance in the cold. The guy with his chow mix walks on the other side of the street. "Your dog doesn't like mine," he said to me once. His chow barks, snaps and snarls - would attack us if that leash broke - that guy has a skewed perception of which dog has the issue. "Happy new year!" I call to him across the street, over his monster's snarls. He nods and waves, tells the dog to shut up after we pass.

Dorr's restaurant is open for breakfast. Cheese omelet with potatoes is the special today. The waitress leans heaviy onto the counter, looking out the window but past us walking by. Her hair hangs in loose clumps out of her pony tail. Here she is not five hours later, ready to serve the hungover patrons who won't remember playing grabass with her last night, or that they stiffed her on the tip. She's tired, but she'll remember.

A crumpled black jacket lays in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the last bar. It's lightly dusted with snow, and I think to pick it up, but then decide against it. It makes it's own kind of art there: NYD 2010 - The Morning After Sidewalk. At least there wasn't any puke - not on this side of the street anyway. I'm sure on the Mean Chow side there was some - usually by the Westside there's a pile, along with frozen pee that starts partway up the building wall and makes it's way down the sidewalk.

Oh, to think of all the fun I miss by staying home on New Year's Eve, not going to the bars until midnight and then drinking until 2am. I can't remember the last time I side the other side of midnight, let alone 2am. No, I'll take these mornings any day over late nights. The cold, crisp calm of winter morning sunrises. The quiet walk down to the river, frozen over and still. Empty city streets. This is a much better way to start a new year, and hope it stays just as dull the whole year long.

South East Asia

I just got back from a week-long conference in Kalamazoo on South East Asia.

It was amazing how ignorant I was about that area of the world. It's easy to learn a lot when you're ignorant and receptive to learning.

I learned a great deal on the history of the region and on the current state of its role in global economics. South East Asia really is a dominate force in keeping this world going. It is a region rich with cultural history and immense future potential.(This workshop excluded China, Japan, and India which are each studied individually in other week-long workshops.)

One of the most surprising pieces of information I learned is how much better some of the medical facilities are in SEA than they are here in the US. In fact, Blue Cross Blue Shield is actually sending people overseas for procedures that can be done better and cheaper than they can here in the US. Not surprisingly, the majority of doctors were educated in the US.

For the most part, the US education systems holds great prestige in SEA, and students who come to the US return to their home countries. The only country where this is not as true is the Philippines. Cultural differences between generations has led the youngest generation of that country to leave and not want to return.

I also learned a great deal about Muslims in SEA. This is another area in which I had absolutely no store of knowledge. As one of the workshop teachers told us, SEA is where Muslims are going to learn to work out the rich history of their religion with the modernity of contemporary cultures. The two can co-exist and deeply benefit one another, and SEA is where he said it is already beginning to happen.

I have nearly 50 pages of notes to work through from this workshop, in addition to needing to complete research to develop a module to infuse into one of my classes. I had thought the mythology class would be a no-brainer for this, and it is. I'll be incorporating more myths from SEA as well as information about the contemporary cultures, but for my module I have decided to use my developmental class, ENG090.

I finished reading Stealing Buddha's Dinner by Bich Minh Nguyen this summer and didn't think much of it. However, being able to frame that book in the context of SEA studies as well as under the auspices of Delta's Peace Studies Program, I will definitely be using it next year in my classes.

What a great week away. Exhausting, and as always, good to be home, but definitely I've been schooled and will be building on this in my work.

My Neighborhood

New across the street
drug, paternity testing
DUI classes
Lots more vans around
guys on bikes
smokers watching us
Lock the doors
Move

I should know better than to go out and interact with people.
It never works out well for me.

For My Followers

Really? Don't you two have anything better to do?

New Years Day 2009

How the first day of the year begins, so the rest follow.

I woke early and lay in bed for a while, just enjoying the warmth and quiet. The dog nuzzled me to get up, so we were out on the road by 7:30am.

It was cold. Very cold. New snow from days ago did not impede our walk, which after a couple of blocks turned into a jog. As we rounded the park and began to head for the riverwalk, the sky was a deep orange-red. By the time we neared the river, it fanned out into brilliant pink with amber streaks where the sun shone behind the clouds, through the cold.

We met no one as we made our way along the river, though footprints proved other life had passed by there. The snow had drifted off the path, making our progress easy. Chunks of ice flowed through the river, chunks that had only days before been a frozen floor for humans, a ceiling to the fish. No doubt a great lakes ship had come into port and caused the breakup.

I stopped along the rail and watched the ice flow. Anyone who does not believe the continents and landscape were formed by shifting plates of land need only to watch an ice flow. One chunk collides with another, and the seam where their edges meet piles high. What had been edges now become mountains down the middle of the land. And when the ice chunk breaks away and leaves the raised edge, I imagine the coastal ranges, like in Ireland and California and Oregon.

I could have stayed, mesmerized by this flow and formation and reformation, had the dog not whined to remind me we were on our path.

Around the marina, up the hill into the downtown area. Plastic cups began to appear, as if the first signs of civilization. An empty champagne bottle. Coursing through the bar district, other revelers' celebratory activities and their aftermath become evident. Empty cigarette packs, empty beer bottles, broken glass, a slice of uneaten pizza (pepperoni still intact), a woman's broken hair clip, dozens of cigarette butts, splatters of blood, bloody tissues, a splotch of vomit. Yeah, I see what I'm not missing when I stay home on New Years Eve.

Against the wind when we started, it now is at my back (the dog's tail), making the run home easier, faster, warmer. We slow a block early and walk it in. The town is quiet still.

I grab the brush for the dog, taking care of animals is a major part of every morning. Once inside, I will clean cat boxes, make sure cats have food, all animals have water, and feed the dog. Then the water ritual will begin, as I fill the humidifier, the tea pot, wash dishes, take a shower.

The day will move forward slowly, unhurried, peacefully. While all the others that follow will not be exactly like this day, it is an encouraging start - in health, reflection, appreciation, curiosity, observation, consideration, respect, diligence, understanding, ritual, and gratitude. Working both with and against nature, but persevering regardless. And, at the last, coming home, to those I love, and who love in return.

Yes, I would be happy to have even a small percentage of days like these ahead of me in this new year.

As Time Goes By

Sitting at the desk, writing, I look out the front bay window and my vision is filled with burnt umber. The leaves on the oak tree are turning darker each day, now beginning to curl up around the edges. Over the next few days, they will fall to the ground and join the layers of others from neighboring maples. As I look out the window to my left, the tree is bare, having lost her leaves weeks ago. They sit now in piles in the gutter. Raked there, waiting for the street sweeper to make its yearly rounds - sucking them up, grinding, munching, carrying the mess away to the city compost heap. The sky is a cool gray today, having rained itself empty through the night. I remember this same time of year, four years ago. It was a much more dismal time. A much darker and sadder time. The leaves that fall from these trees cannot even begin to match in number the people whose lives have been lost, tormented, terrorized, upset and divided as the result of choices made by one man. I watch him now, on the news, see him curling at the edges, and just wait for him to fall, onto the lawn, into the gutter. Let the sweeper carry him away.

Mean People Suck

They really do.

New Year's Day 2008

Life is what you make it. How many different ways have you heard it said?

I once read somewhere that whatever it is you do on New Year's Day sets the tone for the rest of the year. Now, it actually may have been more mystical like whatever it is you are doing at the stroke of midnight - which is why, perhaps, it is tradition to kiss. Sure, some might think this is going to bring them a year filled with sex and passion, but there is so much more symbolically to a kiss - connection, prosperity, companionship, warmth, sharing, giving, receiving, and - okay, okay - procreation, which in itself can symbolize a wealth and vitality.

I can tell you where I was a the stroke of midnight: just falling asleep and awakened by screams of "Happy New Year!" from the neighbors, along with the cold winter night's muffled blast of fireworks. If that's the tone of my whole year, then I guess I can count on a lot of interrupted sleep, but that's not how I plan to see it. No, I'm going with New Year's Day.

I woke early, feeling well rested and clear headed - my sinuses were nearly clear and not aching. I dressed and stepped outside into about four inches of new snow. My first obstacle of the New Year. Without hesitation, I got a shovel and cleared the back deck and all the sidewalks. I met the obstacle head on and did not let it dissuade me. Not only that, but I was taking others into consideration - even though there aren't many walkers on a holiday, I know it's an important aspect of civil living to keep the sidewalks clear in the winter. Plus, we already got one scolding from the mail carrier, so I'm hyper-conscious of it now.

Sidewalks cleared, I leashed up the dog and we headed out for our first run of the new year. We ran in the road - since at 6:30 AM I couldn't well expect others to have been up to shovel yet. It was clear and easy to find footing in tire ruts. I was running against the wind into a light snow. Okay, so the year will start with some opposition, but, I knew on the way home, the wind would be at my back, so that would mean the year will get easier as it progresses.

I went to 7-11 to get a newspaper for my husband. Start the year doing something nice for others. I didn't see a single car on the road on my way there. Not one. I may be the last person on the planet in 2008? No, not quite, but perhaps some peace and tranquility from the usual grind. That would be nice.

At 7-11 I bought three papers. Start the year reading; that has to be good. The run home was a bit challenging, as I haven't run in a few days, but I persevered and it felt good to finish. Again, a tougher year to start, but I will push through and find it rewarding to have done so.

Once home, I started a load of laundry - keeping life clean - and cleaned out the cat boxes, taking the used litter directly out to the garbage. No "waste" in the house to start the new year. This was followed by more taking care of animals. I find a good portion of my morning is spent on that: walking the dog, letting the cat in and out, filling up food and water dishes, cleaning the cat box, brushing the dog, petting cats. But none of this is a "chore" since I am so appreciative of these creatures in my life.

There's also a lot of water in my daily morning rituals: laundry, pet water, drinking water, teapot water, bathroom, shower. I am very conscious of and grateful for all the water we have, especially knowing how desperate others are for it.

I straighten up the house a bit and do some more exercises and some yoga before I make my first cup of morning tea and settle down to the computer to write. Writing. Great New Year's Day activity. I'm hopeful this one activity will prevail through the new year (yes, Casey, even though Pima says hope ain't so great).

What else today? There will be healthy food - mother's bread to start the day followed by a turkey dinner with middle east side dishes and fresh vegetables. There will be quiet time and the Parade of Roses and football all day.

Most importantly, there will be the man I love here with me - my best friend, my family - sharing in this New Year's Day. He's sleeping now, but not for long. No oversleeping on New Year's Day. That would set the wrong tone for the new year.

Things I Forgot I Knew :: Winter Nights

We went to Traverse City this past weekend to visit parents. I took the dog outside to wait for my parents to arrive at the in-laws - a pre-holiday get-together, since we won't be there for Christmas.

It was only six o'clock, but it was dark already. The ground was covered with several feet of snow that had been dumped the week before, and teensy cystals were sifting down from the night sky - a step more frozen than the drizzle it would be if it were warmer. I stood and looked into the dizzying swirl of snow; in the street lights, it sparkled like glitter.

As I stood there, in that moment of silence and nature, I remembered how much I loved being outdoors on winter nights. I was run through with a feeling of comfort, like being wrapped up in a cozy blanket. It seems contradictory, I know, to be out in the cold and say it felt like that, but the winter nights have always had that affect on me. With no traffic around, there is such a deep silence in a night where people are all indoors, having shoveled and salted their walks earlier, no one comes out at night unless they have to. No one is barbequing on back porches, no kids riding their bikes up and down the streets, no late night walkers - or at least very few - and their crunching steps become swallowed up into the night air as soon as they pass by. The blanket of snow upon the earth must act like some kind of giant sound absorber, but it's also what gives me that sense of being wrapped up inside of it all, comforted by its thickness, regardless of the fact that it's as cold as a popsicle.

Not something you'd want to wrap yourself up in, you might say, but as a child, I loved to dead-drop onto my back into a fresh fall of snow, watch the plumes of cold crystals swirl above me and settle back onto my bare face. I would sit unbreathingly still and watch the icy flakes rest and then melt on my lashes, feel the trickling transformation of ice to water on my cheeks. I loved that moment of stillness, of quiet comfort wrapped up in the snowfall, just before my arms and legs would swing robotically back and forth and I would try as gracefully as possible to rise and step out of the angelic impression I had created.

When I was older, I walked the snow lit streets late at night, especially around Christmas. Even during my I-loathe-Christmas phase, I still enjoyed walking alone at night (usually sneaking smokes) and seeing the holiday lights. There is no other time of year those lights are more beautiful than in the winter, and never as beautiful as when seen against and through the feet of snow that inevitably will fall each season.

Three blocks from our house was the local skate rink - the Thirteenth Street rink - right next to Thirlby Field - the high school sports area. It was a grass lot that, thanks to days of carefully channeled water, transformed into a large oval rink each winter. A rickety wooden warming house sat at the nearest end, with outside benches where we could change out of our boots into our skates. The warming house had an "In" door on the right, worn wooden floors, benches along the wall, and an "Out" door on the left, so we could enter, walk through and exit in an orderly fashion. A black iron wood stove sat in the center with a worn wooden rail being all that separated children walking unsteadily on their skated feet from falling in and becoming a sizzling ice cube against the hot metal. There was also a very fat man who tended the fire, harrassed you a bit if you sat too long, and joked around with the parents and older kids who weren't afraid of his largeness.

While I loved going to the rink during the day, I also loved to go at night, when the warming house was closed, and the rink lights were off. Even with the traffic of Thirteenth Street just over the snow bank, there was a vast silence in the night sky, which seemed to hover black and starry so close to earth. I would skate for hours, until my feet and fingers and thighs and butt were all completely numb. Only then, reluctantly, would I fumbly unlace the skates and slip back into my ice-cold boots. I would have to shuffle-walk all the way home, the circulation never quite returning to my extremities until I had been inside for at least a good half-hour. And still, I would wish I could have stayed longer.

I practice creative visualization with my students - especially my developmental writers - as I try to help them find ways to relax when faced with writing assignments or exams. It also helps them work on their descriptive writing, as I have them "go to a place" where they feel totally comfortable and safe. One of the places I visualize is a skating rink out in the middle of a wooded grove. There are snow banks pushed up all around it, but I can see pine trees surrounding the area. It's night. It's quiet. There's a gentle snow falling and all is dimly lit by the light of the moon. I am skating, effortlessly gliding around on the glassy smooth surface. And while I feel the cold on my face and in my lungs, I am warm. Through and through, I feel a sense of security, of comfort, of calm and of belonging.

Casey Tells Me

Casey says I should blog at least once a week here. Casey tells me meditation is good for me and I should do it every day. Casey tells me I should watch this or that yoga video. Casey tells me I should eat broccoli/fish/beans/squash. Casey tells me I should plant flowers. Casey tells me I should pull up the hosta that has gotten overgrown. Casey tells me I should do more work for NewPages. Casey tells me I do too much.

You Can't Tell, You Just Can't Tell

I wanted to see the house where the old woman died. Two blocks over and four blocks down. Past the park. I didn’t know her. I was out walking the dog and decided I wanted to see the house. I told myself it would be like paying respects to walk past it, from across the street. Stop a moment, bow my head as though I am saying a prayer to the god she believed in.

That’s what I read. That she was very involved with the church. Went to mass every day. Helped out with church events. It reminded me of my own mother who does the same. At least I think she still does, the mass every day part. The other I know she does, the helping with events and such. Only this woman was 82 years old. That’s ten years older than my mother. Only ten years. Now that I think about it, it’s not that much.

I walk one block past and think it will be okay to go back and circle the block with the terrace on my right. That way, the dog won’t be peeing on trees or pooping on the terrace lawn while I am doing the paying respects thing. The funeral service is at ten today, and I imagine there will be a lot of people there who didn’t even know the woman, but are so upset by her having been murdered in their quiet little town that they will show up. They will want to show their support for her having been alive, or to show how upset they are about her being murdered, or maybe it’s just because it’s something to do when you don’t know how else to respond to something as totally out of control as two teenage boys breaking into her home and murdering her.

I look around the neighborhood as I walk. I would say it’s no different than my neighborhood, being only a few blocks away, but it is. It’s more run-down. The houses are smaller and not as neatly kept. There are more crappy cars in driveways and on the streets. It’s a little bit different, but not much.

I hit the street corner and I can see her house from where I stand. It’s 402, so it’s only the second house in. I don’t stop walking. It’s a simple little bungalow style. It’s tan. It’s close to its neighbors on either side. Someone from inside the house called 911. That’s how the police knew to come. The boys were still in the house, with credit cards, cash, jewelry. She must have been dead then. They were still there while she was dead on the floor, or wherever they left her.

I don’t turn down the street. I don’t want to walk past. I turn and go the other way, cross the street, and realize I’m right in the neighborhood where a woman was murdered. It’s a murder neighborhood now. I won’t tell my husband I’ve been here. He didn’t want to ride past on our bikes the other night. He didn’t really want to read about it in the paper. He can turn off that morbid fascination and honestly not want to know. But still, I think he wouldn’t be happy to know I had walked through the neighborhood. He gets upset when he looks at the weekly crimestoppers map in the paper and sees that there have been street assaults where I go running every morning. “It could be two drunks fighting over the last beer at a party,” I say, “not muggers attacking strangers.” He wants to see police reports to be sure.

There’s no way you can tell that a neighborhood has had a murder. Or a rape. Or houses a child molester. Not just by looking at it. There’s no way. How can a person know? Maybe that’s why I came here. Just to see if I could tell. If I could be the one to say, “Oh yeah, right there. Right there you should have known this could have happened in your neighborhood.” But there’s no way.

The sky is grey and sunny at the same time, which means the rain will move in after sunrise. The morning birds are singing and flitting from one green leafy branch among the canopy of trees to the next. Children are shuffling their way to the final days of school. And I am here, a woman out walking her dog, so that anyone driving by can see me and know what we all don’t know, just how something like this could have happened here and why we didn’t see it coming.

Promotion: Step One

Winter Semester 2007. No snow. I'm okay with that. There are enough other things to have to worry about on a daily basis that not having to deal with icy, slippery roads is quite the bonus. Still, I am holding out hope for a snow day this year...

Back in the classroom, focusing on teaching and my students. I'm in my second year here, and I realize now, my fifteenth year of teaching. Yow. I was really excited to think that now I could finally just bury myself in the pedagogy (uh, I guess that would be the theory of how I actually teach and why) and caring nothing more about how to make myself a better teacher so my students can all have better learning experiences. But, nooooo.... I find out it's time for me to start putting together a committee for my promotion.

Promotion. Yes. Committe. Yes. I have to go around and ask people - my colleagues, who are already overburdened with their own work and pedagogy, to sit on a committee to review all my materials and make a recommendation for me (or not) for promotion.

Okay, so step one shouldn't be so bad. Just ask people, right?

No.

Come to find out, I have to be careful about who I ask, what kind of credibility they will have in the department, and whether or not they would even consider doing it at all. Because this is my first promotion, to Assistant Professor, I'm told not to pick people who are full professors. What? Why? Too heavy-handed for my first promotion. Huh? Okay, well, too late. I already asked two people who are full professors, and I didn't even care that that's what they were. I asked them because I thought they would be the best people to evaluate me and give me feedback that would help in certain areas of my continued professional development.

Excuse my practicality. It's been trumped by politics.

Then there's the "third." This has to be a person outside of the department. Well, good luck knowing a whole lot of people outside of your department after only being here a year and a half! Lucky for me, I guess, I do, but then as I mention their names, I hear, "Not much credibility in our dept." "Nobody knows that person." "He won't do it; he never sits on these things." Etc.

So, as per usual, I didn't listen. I have gone ahead and done what I wanted to do for my own reasons, the politics be screwed. If what I have done isn't good enough, what difference does it make if it's presented by a full professor or an associate, by someone known in our department or not known. Cripes, it's maddening. And at the same time, I want to do it. I want to participate in the process.

Everyone says it's for the money. There's a pay raise for every promotion. But that's not why I would do it.

Money is nice, sure. But what matters more to me is just simple recognition. I feel like I do a lot both at the school for my students and outside of the school for my community. I don't do it thinking it's going to help me get promoted or help me get tenure. I do it because it's just what I do. I came from a school with no system of recognition - no promotion, no tenure. No matter how much I did, or how much someone else didn't do, it didn't matter to the school. They never recognized us for it. No pay raise. No titles. All I'm asking for is recognition. A pat on the back. Something that says, we appreciate what you're doing and recognize it's integral for your continued growth as an educator, and as such, here's a title that recognizes that growth.

I will do this thing. I will ask people. I will put together a portfolio of my work. I will half listen to the political advice. But in the end, it should really come down to whether or not they will recognize me for what I have done, since I have no doubts I have done all they would require of a person to advance, and more. The recognition here, while it seems like it is them looking at me, is just as much me looking at them and saying, "What kind of school are you? Are you earnest in what you will recognize, or is this a game of politics?" I would like to think this school is worth all that, and more. I guess we'll both find out.