Moving Day

The date on this, from a book that is optimistically labeled "Journal" is 7/5/02. Talk about pulling something out of a drawer.

I have a policy to always offer help to a friend when he's moving. If you do it often enough its easy work, you can help and tell stories simultaneously, and its appreciated because its a job you just can't effectively do alone. Also, it always comes back around. Its the closest thing to a barn raising we have in modern suburban America.

Everything about the move today was classic Steve. He didn't call me himself, he rarely has ever called me. Instead he had Tom make the calls, figuring he had more clout. Steve is a classic collector of junk. He collects with a zeal no married man could ever match. He's like many teachers in that he revels in taking anything that's free and rarely throwing anything away. Unlike most teachers, however, he is shameless and persistant in asking for donations on behalf of his many entrepreneurships. As a result, his ohouse and garage were filled with flotsam of his failed endeavors. A two foot high plile of heat reflecting tile for passive solar, 20 pair of women's mucluks in various sizes, a large pile of freee pamphlets inclding no less than 40 on duck identificatio nand 50 on recycling in Dakota County.

His decor and housekeeping would not be called classy by anyone, ut at the same time, it would be hard to disagree that it's interesting. Since he's traveled widely, his walls are covered with pictures of places most people only dream of visiting. A series of a sea turtle being released from a net. A picture of Steve next to a Javan rhino in indonasia. A picture of hazardous waste containers being pulled out of a pubic wetland. A large, authentic african mask. The entire series of Topps National League cards from 1972, uncut and framed.

Peppering these interesting and sometimes museum quality relics are some momuments to taciness. These, when found, always elicited commentary form his sympathetic, but wise ass friends.

A large wicker basket filled with deer antlers: "I saw this on Marth Stewart, its the hot thing this year."

A huge and unweildy, half filled, black canvas bag: "One of his ex-wives, taxidermy was getting expensive"

A large synthetic zebra stripe throw rug: "This can't possibly be REAL?"

There were bottles of screws, piles of lumber, panes of glass and a stack of cinder blocks. "Hey, Steve, instead of buying a new house, why don't we build a new one from all this extra stuff?"

You have to endure this sort of thing when you ask for help, but Steve doesn't deserve it.

Part of the Lore

The adults involved in this story wrote it serially. I just pasted the quotes together, made the prounouns match and put them in a logical sequence.

Quite beautiful, really.

It will forever be part of the Lore, "Dad, remember when you chained that guy up in Winnipeg?"...And the other boy will say, "Yeah, remember? You lifted him up by his crotchstrap."

The beer tent, you see, wouldn't let beer out and it wouldn't let children in. It was Scotto's shift to watch the four boys.

We happened to be in Winnipeg on the same night, each on our way to different trips. And the last star to come into alignment was a fringe festival going on downtown that very night.

The freak bound himself in a straight jacket. Four innocent children who he knew, and countless others who he did not, stared intently, fascinated as the freak asked him to tighten the straps of the straight jacket. Veiled S and M references dripping with experience, desire and a hint of solicitation floated gently over the heads of enamored children and drunken homeless natives as Scotto cinched each strap. Brent took a long sip of his Canadian lager as Chuck said "Hey, the freak has Scotto up on stage!"

The freak had an expression of pleasure as Scotto snugged the straps. Scotto, with his arms crossed, loomed over the tiny gay freak, dwarfing the impish performer. Brent uttered, "Scotto is a big fucker". The lights shone hard on the larger man binding the smaller man. By the time he'd cinched the third strap, the freak was sweating through the jacket.

Scotto stepped back a safe distance and looked at the gay imp with both disgust and dislike. The imp began to twist and contort as if he was performing a mating-dance at a gay bar at closing time. Scotto squinted thirstily past the flood lights toward the beer tent. There stood his grinning friends, bottles raised in toast, looking for all the world like the best beer ad marketers ever conceived.

Part Two

Thanks for the great feedback. Much of it was quite passionate and some of it was very specific!!

I learned so much about people from their responses. For example, I met Chuck 15 years ago and probably know some things about him that even his mother doesn’t (sorry Barb). But when I sent him the first draft with the line “Tattooed, sinewy, and pierced, with rock star hair and a biker beard”, I was surprised when he replied, “For the record, I’m not pierced.”

I would have sworn that he was.

A slim majority of you encouraged Chuck to come out of the closet about his heterosexuality. It’s true and it’s easy and has a chance of moving a kid who is clearly stuck. The student’s attitude isn’t going to change, so why not pick a battle that’s winnable? Why not get the kid’s trust first and work on his bias second? In fact, an almost universal phrase in that set of replies was, “why not?”

You can probably tell by my initial description, Chuck is a “why not” kind of guy.

So I was a little mystified as he was telling me the story why he was resisting coming clean.

Viscerally, it’s because it’s none of the kid’s damn business. I know, we’re public figures, celebrities in our own classrooms, so we lose a bit of the luxury of privacy, but wait a second… did you hear how that sounds? I’m willing to be greeted at the mall and spied on in church, but if I should tell a student my sexual preference…what shouldn’t I reveal? Some things aren’t part of the price of admission.

If you’re looking for something noble, it’s that if he tells, it makes it harder for the teacher somewhere in his school who IS gay. What’s THAT guy supposed to do when a student says he can’t learn from a homosexual? He’s got it tough enough without Chuck giving in. You can also bet there’s a different kid in the same class who’ll slump a little lower in his seat when he hears a denial.

The pettiest reason is to not give the parent or the child the satisfaction.

Every teacher dreams of the perfect response, the one that’s funny and biting and doesn’t let the parent or the kid off the hook:

“What makes you think I’m gay?”
“He’s pretty perceptive, but not really my type.”
“I think he’s gay, too.”
“Will you take my word for it, or will you need proof?”

But, alas, neither Chuck nor I are close enough to retirement for that.

In the end, Chuck did exactly what I would have done. He’s not happy with it, but there are a lot of days in public education where you just have to throw up your hands. He let the mom squirm for 10 minutes, then looked her in the eye and said, “It shouldn’t matter one bit, but for the record, I’m not gay.”

The next day, he did the same for her son.

Public Education

The first set of people I sent this commented about how heroic my friend is. My definition of heroic is ordinary people doing extraordinary things in difficult circumstances.

And you have no idea how heroic my friend Chuck is:

I have a true story of public education that has moments of humor and sadness and also ends in a cliffhanger.

My friend Chuck is an EBD teacher at a large high school that lies on the edge between rural and suburban. In a country and in a profession marked by gentle, politically correct euphemisms, EBD is the rare acronym that retains a bit of bite: Emotional and Behavioral Disorder. These aren’t clowns, knuckleheads or pains in the ass. They’ve been medically diagnosed with something serious.

Among these, I believe that Chuck gets the toughest cases. In part, it’s because of he looks like a person that a rough kid would either be attracted to or intimidated by. Tattooed, sinewy, with rock star hair and a biker beard. He plays hockey and sings in a band. He reads Spin Magazine religiously.

He also gets the tough cases because he’s terrible at playing office politics and, I suspect, because he’s volunteered for some of the kids no one else wants to take.

But mostly, it’s because he’s good at it. He’s patient and he’s principled and he’s tough and he knows that it’s important for everyone to laugh every day. I think his love of hockey taught him that there are times for offense, times for defense, and times to play for the tie.

When I say tough cases, I mean this is the end of the line. For many of them, the next step is jail. In fact, for some of them, the previous step was also jail. The powers that be are playing long odds, but they only get longer elsewhere.

There’s a kid in his class who’s a great example. He suffers from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, one of the more horrific disabilities you can imagine. Because the brain is damaged by alcohol in the womb, it is unable to establish effect from cause, unable to control impulses, unable to make new social learning stick. They can be unpredictable and they can be mean and it isn’t because they’re recalcitrant, it’s because they’re physically unable to be any other way.

In addition to his other issues, the kid is refusing to work with Chuck. He won’t talk to him or even look at him, which isn’t a great strategy for success. So, Chuck sets up a meeting with the mother to see if he’s missing information that isn’t in the file. It’s a routinely painful meeting that both Chuck and the mother have played out before, but it takes her 10 minutes to work up the courage to blurt out the issue.

“He has a problem with the fact that you’re gay.”

…

She spent another 10 minutes explaining that she herself didn’t have any problem with his homosexuality, which I would have paid money to see.

I’ll let you in on the dramatic irony.

He isn’t gay.

Something of a stud, if you want my opinion.

I know the end of the story and, in a future installment, I’ll share it with you.

Meanwhile, I’d love to hear what you think. Should he tell the parent that he isn’t gay? Should he tell the kid?

Sienna

Europeans do something that Americans really don't. At major intersections, they build large cobblestone squares and fill them with statues. Usually, the square is surrounded with beautiful buildings from several centuries of European architecture. In modern times, small restaurants have outdoor cafes on the flat sides and traffic has been banned, so they've become large open air museums and gathering places.

Because the streets of these cities are invariably narrow and winding, you can't really see these piazzas until you're 30 or 40 feet from them. The darkness of the streets will suddenly open up to a sunny view of the plaza, usually with some ornate public building, like a church or a city hall dominating one side being illuminated by the sun, or casting long, interesting shadows.

People speaking many languages and on different errands stride, saunter, stroll, wander or shuffle through the center. Old men with old women on their arms. Young men smoking cigarettes on break from their jobs. Women in large sunglasses and festive scarves on bicycles. Tourists in shirtsleeves taking pictures in all directions. Smartly dressed shopkeepers sweeping their sidewalk or hawking their wares. Priests or cops standing sternly or shifting from foot to foot in boredom. Children chasing pigeons with ice cream and smiles on their faces.

It is so wonderfully natural, but also so alien, like feeling at home in a strangers house. On one occasion, I was sitting on the largest piazza of Siena, laying on the cobblestones and soaking up the sun. Its said to be among the best in Italy, though it would be impossible to ever see them all. Its pretty wonderful. 600 year old buildings in all directions and perfect light

We've been hitting it pretty hard and this is our last day in the Tuscan countryside before we go into Rome. Rachel is checking the guidebook for recommendations on drinks. She points to the end of the square opposite the government center. Two floors up is a 2 foot balcony over which hangs a sign that says, "Pub Sandwiches". “That's it right there."

We go. Its in the a tunnel like, English pub on the second floor overlooking the square that I had my first beer of the trip.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and so I had been drinking wine. In moderation, but with passion. Wine gives a slow buzz, a warm buzz, a pleasant buzz.

For me, though, its not like a beer. I order a British bitter in an Imperial Pint. Cold on a hot day, with the ability to wash away salt and grime. The first sip makes me excited, euphoric, enthusiastic. Makes me feel young and ready, strong and well loved.

So, with the sun setting and the sounds changing, we enjoyed the view from the balcony.

Little Bit of Fence

I don’t know enough about ornithology to tell you much about these birds. Their individual identity is lost and it’s hard to say if they are relations, lovers, acquaintances or friends. Together, but apart; apart, but together.

In this moment, they share a little bit of fence and a whole lot of sky.

And what a sky!

Broad and mysterious and endless with possibility.

The picture is filled with secrets and here is one. The picture is taken at a zoo and the fence is an enclosure.

Sophia Loren

People are under the universal impression that Italians are beautiful. I was expecting it when I took my recent trip to Italy, looking forward to it. But I’m not so sure. Maybe I was overwhelmed by a country whose art and countryside are simply breathtaking, I wasn’t impressed by the Italians themselves.

Sophia Loren probably contributes to the mythology. There is no question, she keeps a man’s attention. She defines sultry, drawing you in with mystery and keeping you with the suggestion she knows about the things you want her to know about. Something about her makes your eye rove all over, it never falls anywhere for too long, desperate to see the next bit.

But if you look at her too long, any one of those bits by itself doesn’t hold on its own. I guess it might it you were into big. Big eyes, big hair, big teeth, big boobs, HUGE mouth. Maybe that’s why so many people loved her on the big screen.

The other thing she embodies, as do so many other Italian women, is a sense of being overly made up. Lots of eye makeup, lots of hairspray, perfectly and fashionably dressed in every photo. Even the turn of her hips, the angle of her face, the cast of her eyes seems contrived. Its what I like to call framing. She’s certainly very good at it, but in photos, when you can spend a good long time looking, it falls apart. Not unnatural, exactly, but not totally natural either.

I thought about Italian woman at the time that they were like an incredibly beautiful woman in the moment they wake up on their 40th birthday. Slightly tired, but fresh for the day. In need of some practiced art to make things seem slightly different than they really are. I think that pretty well sums up Sophia Loren for me.

St. Pat's

This contains some language that can't go out in my normal newsletter...

heh.

I count myself one quarter Irish on my Dad’s Dad’s side. I’ve never seen conclusive evidence to support this, but that is his claim and he sure is happy when you call him on St. Patrick’s Day and that’s good enough for me.

Growing up, my parents often had party on the weekend of March 17. On at least two occasions this event took the form of a foosball tournament/ beer tasting affair much beloved by their friends. No Irish beer or food was served, but everyone wore green and the rosy cheeked revelry lasted to the wee hours. My German mother absolutely loves it and in recent years they always choose March as their month to host their card party. I am always invited, but we usually find an excuse not to go.

I didn’t eat a traditional Irish meal until I was married. My Puerto Rican mother in law also loves the holiday and pulls out all the stops. Irish beer, Irish whiskey, corned beef and cabbage and a reel in the background. Immigrants seem to love celebrations of culture, even it its not their own.

So, both by genetics and experience, I’ve always looked for some family fun on this hallmark holiday. We now make our own boiled meal and both my boys love it. Of course I have a mix of both traditional and modern music for the occasion and, whenever possible, we invite an uninitiated friend over to join the party.

The A list was universally unavailable. Do you have an A list? Those people you don’t really need to plan for or worry about and who will, inevitably make you feel satisfied and loved at the end of the night?

The B list requires a bit more effort, but still plenty good when you have a theme that includes strong drink. However, something seemed to go awry with even these friends. Remembering the immigrant’s love for this holiday, I invited a local Norwegian, who enthusiastically accepted. The next day, he sheepishly called back. He had overstepped his bounds with a spouse who has a weak GI. The spouse of another invitee, a blood relative, was overheard to say in the background of the phone call, “you couldn’t pay me enough.”

That’s why they’re on the B list, frankly.

The C list is a bit too difficult for an intimate, casual family event and the D list can kiss my shillelagh.

Something may still come together. I don’t care. I still have my meal and my music and my family. I’ll amuse my children with brogue and maybe even indulge in a jig. Later, I might stop by the home of a Scotch neighbor for a final pint or a neat glass of Jameson. With any luck, I’ll dream in poetry of the land of magic and green hills. The Irish believe in ghosts, did you know?