Coming out and Passing

            It has been a long time since I have had to come out to anyone. So imagine my surprise last week when, at the Y, I was thrown back to earlier days when I a) felt invisible; b) wondered what I would do, take the opportunity to “pass,” or say something.  Here’s what happened:
            I had decided to try a new weight loss group at the Y, looking for some accountability, preferring the camaraderie of group workouts (I am devoted to my spin class!).  I thought a group with a challenge might be just the thing to get me focused on losing the weight I need and would like to lose, mostly in order to feel faster and stronger climbing hills on my bike though there are lots of reasons I really need to lose weight (that’s another blog entry).  I sat in the small conference room, looked around the table at the other women–we were all women–a range of ages, races, body types.  At some point the Assistant Wellness Director, an African American woman, walked in and commented on how quiet we all were, how we didn’t seem enthused for this group.  I grunted something about being enthused but tired–it was the end of the workday, after all (and mine had involved talking with a student who had plagiarized a short story in Fiction I) — when the Assistant Wellness Director said in her cheerful, upbeat voice: “This is your time.  No husband, no kids.  Time to focus on you.“

            So, I’m OK with the “time to focus on you” part.  But the husband/kid comment threw me. Anger boiled deep within, familiar and unwelcome. You might think: c’mon, Patty.  She didn’t mean anything by it. But here’s the thing–most of us don’t, when we make comments like that.  We don’t mean to insult anyone.  We don’t stop to think about it.  And suddenly, I felt invisible.  I was jolted back to those early years when coming out was my burden to bear, when almost every encounter forced me to make a choice–come out or play along and stay unseen.  But as I said, those days have been, thankfully, long in the past for me. The school where I teach, the other gym to which I belong, the various groups I attend–in all aspects of my life here, I am seen. The people in these various groups know me, know Cindy, know we are a couple.  I looked around the table again–most of the women were smiling, nodding.  But who else might have been thinking what did she say?  Who else might have been wondering at the assumptions in that innocent comment, the ways in which we’re all lumped together, the expectation that, because we’re women, we share a common experience? At home, I found myself fuming over a T.V. ad that featured several heterosexual couples discussing their financial needs; clearly, such matters don’t concern gay couples.

            Maybe I should let it go.  But what about the kids who are bombarded with these same heterosexist assumptions?  In 2013, should coming out be their burden to bear?  Shouldn’t we be beyond that?  Every kid should attend a high school like the one where I teach, where gay kids can attend prom with a date of their choosing, or kids can attend prom with no date at all.  Every kid should grow up feeling seen and loved for who they are.  I remember years ago, when I was teaching in Cambridge at the Fayerweather Street School, another open and accepting environment, one of my 5th grade students said to me: “Patty, you must hate going to the movies.”  “Why?” I asked her.  “Because you never see anyone like you.”  Smart kid.  By now, she’s a young woman and I hope she’s out there making a difference in this world, confronting the heterosexism and homophobia that, in spite of the growing acceptance of gay marriage or perhaps because of it, results in a young gay man being murdered not far from Stonewall–the irony is too painful to bear.

 

             

THE GREAT GATSBY

 Of course I wanted to see The Great Gatsby on opening night, but my schedule prevented it — so I saw it Saturday night. (NOTE: Possible spoilers here). I was eager for it, loved hearing Baz Lurhmann’s interview with Scott Simon on Morning Edition:http://www.npr.org/2013/05/04/181053779/the-great-gatsby-retold-again-with-a-distinct-treatment  It seemed that Lurhmann “got” Fitzgerald.  I loved what he had to say about his music choices, his reasons for using 3D, so I went eagerly, excited for the over-the-top effects and visuals.

I didn’t love it.  But I did like it and was/am intrigued by it.

I’m still trying to sort out my reaction, and I’m sure I’ll see it again (I have promised students and alums of my American Lit class that we can go as a group and see it together, hang out afterwards and discuss).  So, here are my thoughts on viewing # 1 –

• Leonardo DiCaprio did well by Gatsby.  It’s tough when Robert Redford is forever the image that comes to mind when I think of Gatsby, but DiCaprio handled the role well, exuding both charm and vulnerability.  He captured the essence of inelegant roughness, too, that Nick describes.
• Loved the music.  I especially loved the mix of hip hop and jazz, the lone sax player on the fire escape playing over the soundtrack.
• I think Lurhmann did, in fact, “get” Fitzgerald. I think Fitzgerald’s novel came through in this version much more intact than in the 1974 version.  One aspect of the 3D production that I did like was the superimposing of Fitzgerald’s words right onto the screen.  I’m interested to see how that works in the non-3D version.
• Of course, I love that Nick recites the entire last paragraph of the book, including the famous last line–something that was missing entirely from the 1974 version.  Here, though, the focus is on Gatsby himself and his hope — not so much a linking of Gatsby’s hope with the newfound America. Lurhmann’s Gatsby captures the essence of the American Dream story in a much more satisfying way than Jack Clayton’s version with Robert Redford, which to my mind was simply a love story that missed the boat about the true essence of the novel.
• Presence of African American dancers at Gatsby’s party and in the “valley of the ashes” (in addition to being waitstaff and witness to Tom Buchanan’s racist diatribe) added a lot of the right touch and atmosphere. Few, if any, African Americans in the older version, minus the witnesses to the accident.
• The famous “beautiful shirt” scene — nicely done!
• Visually, the movie was wonderful.  Costuming was gorgeous!
• Loved the emphasis on the green light!

What was missing…?

• Didn’t like Tom’s character.  I mean — I know you’re not supposed to like Tom…but I mean, I didn’t like the way he was portrayed — he came across as much too rough for an upper-crusty type guy — though his bullying did come through.
• OK, I don’t think I liked Carey Mulligan’s Daisy, either.  There was definite chemistry between her and Gatsby — that I liked a lot; the scenes with the two of them were lovely to see — but I didn’t always understand her line delivery.  Her tone seemed “off” somehow to me. She came across as flat, unengaged. It would have worked with the “Sophisticated–God, I’m sophisticated” line, but she didn’t speak that line!
• Didn’t like Jordan Baker.  She was as unappealing in this version as she was totally appealing in the Redford version.
• The party scene with Myrtle in the NY apartment — didn’t like it.  It came across as stylized, clownish to me.  That might have been Lurhmann’s intent, I don’t know– but for me, it didn’t work. In this movie, we don’t get to know Myrtle’s character at all.
• In fact, all the party scenes, including the ones at Gatsby’s, were lacking I thought. One of the things I loved about the 1974 version is the dancing and party scenes. I thought those moments really captured the 1920′s perfectly.  In this version, there certainly was excess, but I don’t know — there was something missing for me.  Maybe I expected them to be even more over the top.
• Plot-wise: didn’t like that Tom tells Wilson at the scene of the crime that Gatsby is (he thinks) the offender.  You miss some of the dramatic tension as Wilson heads out from valley of the ashes to go find Myrtle’s killer.
• I thought 3D was largely unnecessary.  I think I’ll watch it in regular “2D” next time so I can compare the two, but the 3D was distracting to me — except for the words on the screen.
• Gatsby never says “Her voice is full of money.”  I kept waiting for that!
• And finally — Nick in the sanitorium — dunno…I found it unnecessary.  Why couldn’t he have been back West writing a book?  Why put him in a sanitorium? I didn’t see the need for that.

I loved that Lurhmann’s intent (per his interview with Scott Simon on Weekend Edition Saturday a week ago) was to produce for his viewers an effect similar to the one readers of The Great Gatsby might have encountered in 1925.  I loved what he had to say about his inclusion of hip hop music, about Fitzgerald’s interest in pop culture and movies and the most current technology — hence 3D.  I’m not sure what I might have thought about the movie if I hadn’t gone in with Lurhmann’s words in my head, however.  So ultimately, I think it’s an interesting addition to the Gatsby movies and lore.  I’d recommend it to Gatsby lovers-worth a viewing for sure.

The Day After

This morning I am thinking, of course, about Boston.  I am thinking about all the Boston Marathons I have attended, many of them right there at the finish line, others along the route — in Wellesley or near Hearbreak Hill — how for two of them, right before I moved away, I worked in the timing booth, rushing out to watch the elite runners cross the line and then back inside to register the times for the crush of runners, the ones who would have been crossing when the bombs hit — the “regular” athletes, many running for charities, others to mark a personal milestone — a fitness challenge, a step in healing, their families and friends gathered to cheer them on, proud.

I am thinking of all the athletes, the ones who have spent hours training, how, for so many of them, this is the ultimate achievement –to run Boston. I’m thinking of everyone I have known who has run this marathon over the years, of the time we shuttled Kathleen to the start in Hopkinton, met her in Wellesley and then yelled ourselves hoarse at the end.  And I am thinking of one eight-year old boy, there at the finish line with his mother and sister, waiting for his father to come across, to cheer him on, the excitement growing, soon, soon, his mother would have said.  He’ll be coming along soon.

I’m thinking how any number of my friends or family members could have been at that finish line yesterday, about how many friends were scattered along the route, but about how it could have been any of us.  In any city.  Anywhere in the world.

I’m thinking that when the violence strikes your city, when the streets are your streets, the pain is a bit sharper, the wounds a bit deeper, but how the sadness touches us all, how it could have been any of us. In any city. Anywhere in the world. I’m thinking about how the Marathon turns us all into neighbors, how runners and spectators come from all over the world, how in the spirit of that competition we are all simply human.  I’m thinking of all the Patriot Days and all the marathons,how I clapped and cheered, calling out numbers – Keep running 950!  You’re doing great! – tearing up each time, inspired if not to run then to take on my own big project and see it to the end, how I couldn’t imagine ever running that far but  how maybe it was the Marathon that planted the seeds, how maybe the first time I heard of the Boston to New York AIDS Ride I saw again all those runners on Boylston Street, headed to the finish line and how I wanted to be like them, how I wanted to feel that I had worked my body that hard. 

I’m thinking of the responders and of everyone who, hearing the blasts, ran towards them and not away,and how minutes after the news broke and then for hours later, my inbox was flooded with worry for my friends and family, Facebook awash with concern and messages of support.

I’m thinking of how the human spirit is resilient– if sports teach us anything, after all, isn’t it that?  And don’t Bostonians know this as well as anyone else – Wait til next year, our famous refrain? — We know what it means to bounce back.  To fight on.  We know the invincible spirit that brings thousands each year to Boston, to run the Marathon. 

Pan-Mass Challenge– Why I Ride

 I’m posting something I wrote three years ago when Cindy and I first rode in the PMC.  For those of you who don’t know –the Pan Mass Challenge is a 2-day 192 mile ride to find a cure for cancer.  Beneficiaries are Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and The Jimmy Fun.  One hundred per cent of money raised goes directly to cancer research.  One hundred per cent.  Three years ago, we lost Jay and Gran Gran.  This past year, we watched our friend Brian battle non-Hodgkins lymphoma.  We watched Brian and Jason go through a year that no one should have to go through — the chemo treatments, the infections, all the back and forth to the hospital for Brian’s treatments.  Luckily, Brian is healthy now and they are new homeowners!  But for too many, the battle continues.  And until we find a cure, I’d like to do something about it.  And I can ride.  Read on to see what the experience was like three years ago:

How to describe this experience?  Maybe I should start at the beginning — waking  at 3:30 so we could catch the first shuttle to the  start line.  No real breakfast, grabbed a cinnamon roll (great fuel for riding 111 miles don’t you think?) and coffee…ate a few bites of bagel with peanut butter, a banana, but really, who is all that hungry at 4 a.m.? 

The view at the start was incredible — cyclists as far as the eye could see, all waiting, all wearing the PMC 2010 jersey.  Five thousand of us.  A couple announcements were made — I was too nervous to listen — and then a young woman sang the National Anthem, her voice clear and sharp in the cool morning air.  The sun was just beginning to rise and we were off!

An endless line of cyclists in front, an endless line behind.  What a sight we must have been to the hearty people who stood in their sweatshirts or wrapped in blankets to watch us go by — five thousand cyclists pedalling into the sunrise.  At least in the beginning we might have resembled our own kind of peloton. 

The spectators waited by the roadside in Sturbridge, in Charlton, in Franklin. They waited in Bellingham, in Wrentham, in Attleboro. They waited on the Cape.  They cheered us on and said, “thanks for riding.”  They were small children clapping: “Go cyclists!” the little ones yelled.  “Keep it up!”  THey were older people.  They were cancer survivors holding signs: “I’m ten years old because of you!” People held parties to cheer on the PMC riders.  Or they sat alone in a folding chair at the edge of the driveway.  Or they held their children. They sat in their p.js. and drank coffee.  The spectators handed out bottles of water.  Baggies of grapes.  They high fived the riders.  They always said, “Thank you for riding!” 

I was touched.  THey’re thanking me.  But I’m the one having the amazing experience. 

 Al the policemen at the intersections holding up traffic: “Thank you for riding,” they said.  “Be safe.” 

“Thank you,” I said.  Did they know how much more pleasant they were making our ride?  Did all those spectators know just how much they were helping us as they cheered and blew whistles and rang bells?  Did they know how much easier a hill can feel when you are serenaded with bagpipes (not kidding)?  How much you stop complaining about being tired and sore when you see a young girl holding a sign that says “I”m a survivor?” 

 I was overwhelmed by the kindness.  By the obvious appreciation.  And yet — wasn’t I benefitting too?  Wasn’t I getting as much, if not more, out of this ride?  

I knew that I was a bit undertrained, but the first day went pretty well over all.  I was riding slowly, that’s for sure — probably pretty near the back of the pack.  But the hills felt OK – I felt OK — and Cindy was riding strong too. Still — 111 miles makes for a long day in the saddle when you’re not a speedy rider.  And the ride was hilly.  But you stop complaining pretty quickly when  the guy with one leg pedals past you. Or you overhear a conversation between two riders in front of you and one guy admits, “Today is my 78th birthday.”  And you crest another hill, you see another spectator wearing a sign that says “survivor,” you think of the people you’re riding for in the first place — Jay, Gran Gran, Emyl, Barbara — and you push on.  You think climbing this hill is nothing compared to a cancer diagnosis.  You think I can do this. 

Day  Two started a tiny bit later — we woke at 4:15, climbed on the bikes and pedalled off by 5:30, the sun rising as we made our way over the Bourne Bridge and then along the Cape Cod canal. I was tired, hadn’t slept well at all.  My neck and shoulder were already achey and I couldn’t get comfortable on the bike.  But for a while the terrain was flat and I wanted to enjoy that.  You might think most of Cape Cod is flat — but you’d be wrong.  It’s very rolling– and though in many cases the downhills can help propel you up the next ascent, there were plenty of flat-out climbs left as well (and horrible headwinds, but they were much later). 

Cindy’s knee had started hurting about halfway through Day One, so we knew we’d have to take it slowly.  She iced her knee at the rest stops and swallowed ibuprofen.  She was determined to continue on, to pedal the entire course, and refused the offer from one PMC van driver to get her just to P-town where she could then climb back on the bike and ride to the finish line.  I was worried for her but so incredibly proud of her too — really, she had just started cycling in the spring (May?) and here she was, tackling the Pan Mass Challenge, a tough two day ride that challenges even experienced riders.  Her determination was fierce.  And I was thrilled to be sharing this experience with her. 

I should say, too, that our friends Mary and Carrie were part of our “team,” and they were riding so well, far ahead of us!  They had two great days on the bike, riding strong.  We saw them each day at the first rest stop, but that was it until the day’s end where they greeted us with big smiles (and cold beers).  Our goal is to be able to keep up with them in future rides 

The last few miles of the PMC were brutal — fierce headwinds, the lonley, barren landscape of the dunes.  You think: aren’t I done yet?  You think: really, I made it to Provincetown; can’t I just get off my bike now?

Along Route 6, there were no more spectators.  Just cars whizzing past at 60 mph.  And the dunes. 

But then there were the banners.  “We Ride For…” and all the names added by all the riders.  “We Are the PMC…”  Banners in bright colors flapping in the wind.  I smiled as I rode past them.  Yes, always a reminder why we are doing this in the first place (you mean this isn’t just for me?  Not just a crazy ploy for getting into shape.

We did it.  Mary, Carrie, Cindy and I finally rode in the Pan Mass Challenge.  We were among five thousand riders who raised (so far) over 21 million dollars for cancer research at the Dana Farber Cancer Institue.  I think it’s safe to say that we had the ride of our lives.  Cindy’s knee is still causing lots of pain, so we have to check that out — but she has no regrets about riding.  And the next time — because there probably WILL be a next time though maybe not next year — we’ll be even more ready to tackle those hills — with a bit more speed and strength. 

This year, I’m riding again with three friends.  If you’d like to donate to my 2013 ride (each rides must raise $4300 in order to ride — I’m 20% there — ), go to pmc.org and search for rider PS0170.  Any amount is appreciated!  

 

AWP Round-up!

Back one week now from the sprawling and fascinating AWP–Association of Writers and Writing Programs–Conference in Boston.  I try to go every year.  Like a super-sized high school reunion (I go to those too), AWP is that crazy mixture of anxiety and old friends, an enormous get-together (this year, over 11, 000 of us!) that inspires both ardent naysayers (many of whom still attend, mind you) and devoted followers.   I happen to love it.

I wanted to gather my thoughts on what I got out of this year’s conference.  I found myself taking good notes and am going to try to make sense of them for you here.

The first panel I attended was called Bearing/Baring Race in the Creative Writing classroom, a topic I’m very interested in for a lot of reasons–the main one being that I teach many kids of color and am always concerned about their place in my classroom, and the ways in which I draw them in or alienate them.  Panelists talked about experiences of feeling challenged by white students when they walk into the classroom and see a non-white teacher.  I experience that same feeling from my African-American students though the challenge isn’t about my worthiness to teach in general, my authority, or my credentials, something these panelists do experience.  My challenges seem to be about my ability to teach these particular kids.  Their faces seem to say: what do you have to teach me?  What is it I can possibly learn from you?  I have had African American students from Petersburg, VA (where they have attended previously all-black schools) tell me they’ve been taught not to trust any white people, and here they come, into our “white” school, into this classroom with a white teacher who asks them to sit in a circle and talk about a myriad of things they’ve never talked about before. They are used to authority and a teacher up in the front of the classroom telling them what to do.  I wanted to hear about the structure of the creative writing classroom–usually a kind of workshop setting–but no one addressed that and I didn’t have the opportunity to ask the question.

The point that stuck with me came from Kwame Dawes, about the failure of empathy being a failure of imagination.  How true.  And perhaps the most important reason right there about why arts education matters.

The next panel I attended addressed the issue of Zombies and Genre Fiction. Panelists discussed whether or not to allow students to write genre fiction in creative writing workshops.  It seems a generally accepted “rule” of most creative writing classrooms–mine included–not to allow students to write genre fiction.  What I tell my students is that I’m hoping to teach them to write well period.  And by learning to write well, they can write whatever they want.  While I was hoping to be convinced to change my policy, I wasn’t.  Much of the discussion revolved around the problem of creating a convincing world in genre fiction — which rings true in my experience, at least for the type of genre fiction my students prefer: zombie apocalypse or vampire or other-worldly type stories.  These stories require the building of an entire world, and as one panelist suggested, if you can’t take a character on a drive through your own hometown, or write a compelling dinner scene, chances are you can’t create an entire world yet either.  Point taken.

Other panel highlights included Women in the Literary Marketplace and Women Writing the Wild–both of which focused on the particular struggles of women writers and the VIDA count: http://www.vidaweb.org/the-count.

I was most taken with Meg Wolitzer, (and can’t wait to read her new novel The Interestings) who raised the issue first in a NY Times Book Review essay “The Second Shelf” –http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/01/books/review/on-the-rules-of-literary-fiction-for-men-and-women.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

But one the most fabulous moments for me was hearing Jeanette Winterson — who was supposed to be featured in a conversation with Alison Bechdel (who got stuck in the snow and couldn’t make it to Boston) — but who held her own and captivated the huge audience with her humor.  Reading, she said, is a democratic act.  “The scariest thing for people in control,” Winterson told the audience, “is that they can’t know what is going on in your mind when you read.”  She read from her memoir Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal and encouraged us all to get out there and read and write.

A surprise highlight was the panel on Contemporary Writers on Hawthorne and The Scarlet Letter. Since I teach American Literature and The Scarlet Letter, I was eager to hear what contemporary writers thought of it.  Panelists included Jennifer Haigh, Amy Wright, and Megan Marshall, the author of a new biography of Margaret Fuller — which I bought.  The conversation and presentation fascinated from start to finish, ranging from the recent NPR story about online shaming that features The Scarlet Letter:

http://www.npr.org/2013/01/07/168812354/online-shaming-a-new-level-of-cyberbullying-for-girls

to Hester as a feminist heroine.  Megan Marshall suggested that Hawthorne modeled Hester Prynne after Margaret Fuller, a tidbit that made me even more interested in reading Fuller’s biography. Panelists also discussed the ideas of illicit love that fascinated Hawthorne — according to Marshall, Hawthorne kept his engagement to Sophia Peabody a secret; Amy Wright discussed the idea of all judgment being self-judgment, a kind of blasphemy, especially in Puritan society; and Jennifer Haigh focused on the writerly lessons she learned from reading The Scarlet Letter–the cinematic quality of the story and the dramatic, theatrical language; the narrative voice. I left renewed in my enthusiasm for teaching this classic.

Finally, I attended a panel on Place in Fiction, with Jennifer Haigh and Richard Russo. I’m always drawn to writing in which place figures heavily.  One of my earliest impetuses for writing was figuring out what “home” meant to me.  After living in Paris, France as a college student where I immediately felt at home–and then spending a year teaching in Senegal, West Africa where I also felt a sense of home, I wanted to explore what home is and how we’re influenced by those places where we live.  Now, living in Virginia, I feel more than ever that I’m a true New Englander at heart, that I’m irrevocably marked by my childhood in New England.  Richard Russo said that when the world is new, things get imprinted in your brain.  He said that this is why the place(s) you live in prior to age 18 have a profound influence in how you see the world.  Of his own exploration of place, he said that writing taught him “[he] could only be who [he] was” and not escape his origins or become who he wished to be.  Isn’t this the lesson of The Great Gatsby, the tragic lesson that Gatsby never learns but that we readers do?  Both Russo and Haigh talked about the connection between geographic place and a way of thinking, the way in which the physical world interacts with the interior mind.  This is a goal of my own writing and a phenomenon I’m hoping to demonstrate in my novel-in-progress, The Year of Needy Girls. 

And — of course, no AWP round up would be complete without a discussion of the non-literary parts–the conversations with old friends, the book fair, the run-ins I only seem to have at AWP, the book signings (I was thrilled to meet Elizabeth Graver and to have her sign a new copy of The End of the Point  – I cannot wait to begin reading.  Here’s a link to NY Times book review: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/17/books/review/the-end-of-the-point-by-elizabeth-graver.html?ref=books):

the dinners– one with ARGS alums, a real delight, at Towne, a trendy restaurant attached to the Hynes Auditorium, and another with new and old friends at The Elephant Walk, a French/Cambodian restaurant that was a favorite when I lived in Somerville and Cambridge.  I walked in and talk about feeling at home–the smell of jasmine rice and lemongrass brought me back immediately both to my time in MA and those long-ago days in Senegal.  I ordered from the prix fixe menu–crispy spring rolls rolled in basil and lettuce and dipped in fish sauce, and loc lac, spicy and tender beef chunks dipped in a lime sauce, and a French salad of beets and goat cheese that I couldn’t pass up.

And the best thing of all about my time at AWP–I got to spend time with my dear friend Connie Biewald and her family in Cambridge, MA.  On the first day of the conference, I walked from Connie’s house to Harvard Square in light snow, reveling in the winter landscape and enjoying the walk through familiar haunts.  Friday brought a blizzard that was less fun to travel through, but what else can we expect from a winter conference in New England?  I left Boston on a sunny day with temperatures in the 50′s, cyclists and runners clogging the path along the Charles River.  I came home excited to be part of this enormous group of writers and readers.  How wonderful that so many people care deeply about language and stories.   Now, let’s get to it!

Work-in-Progress Week

Thank you, Beth Kephart, for instituting this Work-in-Progress week that began as Work-in-Progress DAY but got hijacked by the rest of us latecomers who wanted to join in.

First, a disclaimer (that I expressly forbid my students from ever making): I know I have neglected my blog.  I hereby affirm that I am back for good.  I will write here regularly, both about teaching writing and the training that I am doing for the Pan-Mass Challenge.  But for now, to get started, here is my contribution to Work-in-Progress Week.

This excerpt is from my novel-in-progress, The Year of Needy Girls.  It is a work that has LONG been “in-progress” but soon, I hope, to be done.  I’m posting here an excerpt from a recent chapter which comes towards the end of the book:

Fear still permeated the air in Bradley.  Worse now that the bright sunshine seemed to be permanently gone, replaced instead by grey skies and that cold, piercing wind.  Mickey Gilberto still had not been brought to trial, but he had been formally charged at least.  That fact might have been enough to put people’s minds at ease but still somehow an uneasy tension lingered. You could feel it woven through conversations, an invisible string linking everyone together. SJ thought of it like an old house–a stately Victorian, nicely painted and detailed but on closer inspection, in desperate need of updating, peeled ceilings and drafty windows, leaky with terrible plumbing.  It was hard to tell whether folks felt scared for their children still–it wasn’t as if fewer children appeared out of doors, not that SJ noticed. And it wasn’t as if the after-school kids stopped coming to the library, though SJ did feel a kind of distance from a few of the parents who picked them up, real or imagined she couldn’t say.  There was no way to determine what they knew, if, for example, they knew that SJ had been teaching Mickey Gilberto to read and so therefore was contaminated by close proximity, or whether they knew that Deirdre Murphy-the-child-molester-teacher was her partner, a fact that would make SJ suspect in their minds also.

SJ felt marked, branded with an expiration date, past due.  “I think we need to move,” she had said to Deirdre and then realized what that meant, that she was suggesting to Deirdre that they stay together.  She watched the hope on Deirdre’s face, heard the careful monitoring of that hope in her voice when she answered: “But I love this house don’t you?” and then, “I’m open to it. Let’s see.”

A Christmas Memory

My apologies for not blogging lately.  I’ve been under the weather — and then, happily consumed with Christmas preparations. I was prepared to wish you all Merry Christmas and leave it at that — but I read my friend Valley Haggard’s blog and was inspired to write the following, about one of my favorite Christmases ever, one without all the glitter, gifts, or any expectations.  I hope you enjoy —  and Merry Christmas!

In 1988 – 89, I spent the year living and teaching in Senegal, in West Africa.  Over the holiday break, I travelled to Mali with three new American friends, professors in Dakar. Christmas morning, we set sail for Timbuktu, four of us wedged into two small bunk beds, the last available spots on the General Soumaré. We had eaten dinner at a Chinese restaurant near the boat’s dock — the Chinese waitstaff wore little party hats and played American Christmas music on the tape deck.  We toasted with cold beer and ate nems and found ourselves sitting next to a middle-aged couple, the man wearing a YALE sweatshirt. They were visiting their Peace Corps son.  A large bearded man — African santa we called him — entered the restaurant and in a booming voice, sold Malian wedding blankets “for a nice price.”  My friend Fiona and I each bought one, well aware that our “nice price” was probably triple what a Mailan would pay, but later, on the boat, in the chilly night, we were all grateful for the warmth. 

I was acutely aware of it being Christmas, nostalgic, maybe, for not being at home, but also happy to be on this boat, on my way to the magical city of Timbuktu that had previously only existed on cartoon signs and in my imagination as the very end of the earth — happy to be with these new American friends on an adventure so far from home.  Our present to each other and those who would share with us?  Fresh watermelons, bought on Christmas Eve.  

The presents we received?  Hippos in the Niger River, sandcastle-like mosques and villages dotting the water’s edge, camel-riding Tourags that appeared, it seemed, from nowhere, their blue turbans in dark relief against the endless sand; young girls dancing with joy on the boat, comfort in knowing our immense good luck to be living this life, to be in each other’s company, to be traveling up the Niger to Timbuktu on this glorious day.