Hi Friends:
I'm just back from a two-week rail vacation in Canada. Pittsburgh-NewYork-Montreal-Quebec City-Halifax. You can get there by train! It was wonderfully relaxing; the trains are slow, allowing one to read a lot of books. The most impactful, for me, were In the Garden of the Beasts, by Erik Larson, and The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot. Not new books, but ones I've been meaning to get to. Both nonfiction, both turning over rocks, revealing a real world beneath my nose that I never knew was there. That's one of the great pleasures of reading for me.
I hope you're all having a productive summer. I understand Brian O'Donnell has published an essay in his college mag. Looking forward to seeing that.
Feel free to continue to share and comment and put down what you know that no one else knows. Turn over those rocks. Warmly--Kristin
Monday, July 29, 2013
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Some work from Sonya
Some work from Sonya:
Open Doors
My father died many years ago, on December 23. Before you imagine that this sad
memory mutes my Christmas joy, let me assure you that because my father was a
Hindu, there are actually no warm Christmas memories involving him. In fact, he
scolded us every year for killing a perfectly healthy tree, and wondered how we could
eat that "stinking" meat (turkey).
My dad was the catalyst, however, for the most formative story of my life, and it's a story
that might serve a purpose at Christmas time in particular. My parents met in 1960 and
my mother was immediately smitten with this handsome foreigner, he with a vivacious
young woman looking for adventure. They wanted to get married, but my father was
unsuitable in so many ways. This was the Midwest in 1960 after all, and he was from
another country, not Catholic, and worst of all, the wrong skin color. My mother's
parents tried to have him deported, but my father was a well-educated professional,
highly respected at the large civil engineering firm where he worked, and simply not
deportable.
The family stopped speaking to my mother. She was cut off from her four siblings and
her parents, and during those years of silence she gave birth to me. I was two when my
grandfather lay dying of brain cancer and my headstrong, brave young mother decided
she would go to the hospital to see her father one last time, whether she was welcome
or not. She walked into that hospital room, and into the welcoming arms of her mother.
They never talked about the silence that had ostracized my mother during the early
years of her marriage. Nothing was buried. It was simply forgiven, with actions instead
of words. The family came to love my father, to seek his wisdom, to appreciate his
kindness. For his part, my father never said one unkind word about the family that had
wanted to deport him. He assured my mother during those early years that her parents
were acting out of love for their daughter, and he was never anything except loving and
respectful to my grandmother in all the years that followed.
I learned about these powerful acts of acceptance and forgiveness as a young adult, but
surely they hung over my childhood, indefinably coloring it. As we know, Christmas is
notorious as a time of family squabbles and hurt feelings, and hearing those kinds of
stories makes me especially grateful for the life lessons given to me. The lessons that
taught me to keep the door open to the possibility of change and growth in those who
may have wronged me, and maybe in myself too. Words aren't always necessary.
Forgiveness can be spoken with open arms.
A door was left open to a stable and God was changed into a baby. That baby would
grow into a vessel of forgiveness and love. It can happen.
We the People
I was able to visit that repository of American ideals, the National Mall in Washington,
D.C. one summer evening with my husband and mother-in-law, who is King's exact
contemporary in age and part of that great migration of African-Americans from the rural
south to the urban north. She had fully lived the unique American journey of sharecropper to middle class comfort. We were there to see the latest addition to the line-up
of greatest American dreamers, a memorial dedicated to Martin Luther King. It was
dusk and the lights were just coming on. And it was crowded, but though deep thoughts
were clearly moving behind reverent faces and faraway looks as people moved quietly,
as though in a cathedral.
I had seen pictures in the newspaper and read about the controversies that surrounded
the memorial's creation, and wondered if it could possibly represent all that King gave to
this country, all the while thinking that it certainly hadn't broken any new ground
artistically, and in fact looked rather Stalinesque in the photos I had seen.
How good to be surprised. The quotes were strong and sadly, just as appropriate for
our own time as they were 50 and 60 years ago. My mother-in-law, Aleen, studied the
statue's face for a long time. Maya Angelou's harrumphing criticism of that stony face
had been mentioned in every article. Aleen finally nodded her head and said, " he looks
like a man who doesn't like what he's seeing around him and is ready to do something
about it." We continued around the memorial, reading each of Dr. King's quotes
carefully, and mourned the lack of such soaring rhetoric in our own time.
On the way out a park ranger heard our conversation and stopped to ask us what we
thought about the memorial, and we in turn asked him about his impressions. He told
us that when he had first come, weeks before it opened, he wasn't very impressed. But
as soon as it opened to the public he realized that it had been missing something -
people. People walking and thinking and quietly conversing, as we had just done.
People teaching their children and asking their elders. That's what made the memorial
a success in his opinion.
People make music come alive and people give purpose to the stones of our churches,
just as people give meaning to King's memorial. "From the mountain of despair, a stone
of hope", so the memorial is called. "We the people"...so begins the U.S. Constitution.
The people, each of us one stone of hope in the great migration forward.
Open Doors
My father died many years ago, on December 23. Before you imagine that this sad
memory mutes my Christmas joy, let me assure you that because my father was a
Hindu, there are actually no warm Christmas memories involving him. In fact, he
scolded us every year for killing a perfectly healthy tree, and wondered how we could
eat that "stinking" meat (turkey).
My dad was the catalyst, however, for the most formative story of my life, and it's a story
that might serve a purpose at Christmas time in particular. My parents met in 1960 and
my mother was immediately smitten with this handsome foreigner, he with a vivacious
young woman looking for adventure. They wanted to get married, but my father was
unsuitable in so many ways. This was the Midwest in 1960 after all, and he was from
another country, not Catholic, and worst of all, the wrong skin color. My mother's
parents tried to have him deported, but my father was a well-educated professional,
highly respected at the large civil engineering firm where he worked, and simply not
deportable.
The family stopped speaking to my mother. She was cut off from her four siblings and
her parents, and during those years of silence she gave birth to me. I was two when my
grandfather lay dying of brain cancer and my headstrong, brave young mother decided
she would go to the hospital to see her father one last time, whether she was welcome
or not. She walked into that hospital room, and into the welcoming arms of her mother.
They never talked about the silence that had ostracized my mother during the early
years of her marriage. Nothing was buried. It was simply forgiven, with actions instead
of words. The family came to love my father, to seek his wisdom, to appreciate his
kindness. For his part, my father never said one unkind word about the family that had
wanted to deport him. He assured my mother during those early years that her parents
were acting out of love for their daughter, and he was never anything except loving and
respectful to my grandmother in all the years that followed.
I learned about these powerful acts of acceptance and forgiveness as a young adult, but
surely they hung over my childhood, indefinably coloring it. As we know, Christmas is
notorious as a time of family squabbles and hurt feelings, and hearing those kinds of
stories makes me especially grateful for the life lessons given to me. The lessons that
taught me to keep the door open to the possibility of change and growth in those who
may have wronged me, and maybe in myself too. Words aren't always necessary.
Forgiveness can be spoken with open arms.
A door was left open to a stable and God was changed into a baby. That baby would
grow into a vessel of forgiveness and love. It can happen.
We the People
I was able to visit that repository of American ideals, the National Mall in Washington,
D.C. one summer evening with my husband and mother-in-law, who is King's exact
contemporary in age and part of that great migration of African-Americans from the rural
south to the urban north. She had fully lived the unique American journey of sharecropper to middle class comfort. We were there to see the latest addition to the line-up
of greatest American dreamers, a memorial dedicated to Martin Luther King. It was
dusk and the lights were just coming on. And it was crowded, but though deep thoughts
were clearly moving behind reverent faces and faraway looks as people moved quietly,
as though in a cathedral.
I had seen pictures in the newspaper and read about the controversies that surrounded
the memorial's creation, and wondered if it could possibly represent all that King gave to
this country, all the while thinking that it certainly hadn't broken any new ground
artistically, and in fact looked rather Stalinesque in the photos I had seen.
How good to be surprised. The quotes were strong and sadly, just as appropriate for
our own time as they were 50 and 60 years ago. My mother-in-law, Aleen, studied the
statue's face for a long time. Maya Angelou's harrumphing criticism of that stony face
had been mentioned in every article. Aleen finally nodded her head and said, " he looks
like a man who doesn't like what he's seeing around him and is ready to do something
about it." We continued around the memorial, reading each of Dr. King's quotes
carefully, and mourned the lack of such soaring rhetoric in our own time.
On the way out a park ranger heard our conversation and stopped to ask us what we
thought about the memorial, and we in turn asked him about his impressions. He told
us that when he had first come, weeks before it opened, he wasn't very impressed. But
as soon as it opened to the public he realized that it had been missing something -
people. People walking and thinking and quietly conversing, as we had just done.
People teaching their children and asking their elders. That's what made the memorial
a success in his opinion.
People make music come alive and people give purpose to the stones of our churches,
just as people give meaning to King's memorial. "From the mountain of despair, a stone
of hope", so the memorial is called. "We the people"...so begins the U.S. Constitution.
The people, each of us one stone of hope in the great migration forward.
New work from the class
And here's a "list" essay from Lara she was working on last week:
The Contents of my Purse
I have a red sparkly vinyl purse everyone comments on. Most people comment on its resemblance to Dorothy’s
slippers, but that’s not why I bought it.
To me it looks just like a red plastic booth in a 1950’s diner, except
with leopard print satin lining. It was
expensive but hasn’t held up well, and at first I tired to fill in the cracks
in the vinyl with red nail polish, but I’ve since given up the endeavor. I
decided the flaws made it look more authentic and hip. It has metal feet, each shaped like half of a
bullet, and they are pointy-sharp and the shoulder strap is just long enough
for the feet to scratch the top of my eldest son’s head if we walk hand in
hand, which we always do.
My purse needs only to contain my sunglasses, wallet and
occasionally my cellphone, if I don’t have adequate pockets that day. It doesn’t need anything else, but it is
often so overflowing that it is hard to snap shut with it’s old fashioned metal
“kiss snap.” It accumulates bits of
forgotten memories, snippets of half-intended dreams and old sticky gum.
Here’s what’s inside, besides my sunglasses and wallet:
Clinique Almost Lipstick in Black Honey, which I first fell
in love with at age eighteen and have recently rediscovered, though I never
remember to put it on before I go or re-apply it while I am out. I keep it in
my purse because I mean to wear it more often.
Chapstick, which I do apply regularly, several kinds of gum
and RedHots. I don’t really like cinnamon candies, but I like how the shapes of
the candies –each with a bite taken out of the corner – mimic the shape of the
container, which was molded to look like something chomped the bottom. They amuse me and sometimes come in handy.
Besides, I got them free from a goody bag one of the children brought home from
a party. The kids don’t mind me having
them; they hate hot things that burn their mouths.
I have a pretty tin of hand crème – Nivea – that smells like
my mother used to when I was a child. She has since changed brands but I can’t
resist buying the round blue tin that smells of love and good things. My hands
are always dry, but I rarely use the cream because if I do my hands will be
greasy on my steering wheel or cell phone’s touch screen. It remains in my purse just in case I need something
to do in a waiting room or boring meeting – neither of which I find myself in
with any regularity.
I have a pen I stole from a fancy hotel and a plastic bottle
of store brand hand sanitizer. I
remember a cousin of a guy I dated once worked for Purell, and promised me all
the free hand sanitizer I wanted. I met
her at a funeral for the boyfriend’s father.
I was sad that the boyfriend and I called it quits before I ever got the
hand sanitizer. I believe the pens in
hotel rooms are allowed to be stolen; I don’t think it’s a crime. This one is from the Waldorf Astoria, and I
keep it in my purse in case anyone ever asks to borrow a pen.
For some unknown reason I have a two-year-old pay stub from
an employer I haven’t worked for in over a year, though my replacement there
still asks me questions via text with some regularity. I don’t know why I haven’t thrown it away.
In the secret zipper pocket I have the things I am
embarrassed for people to see; several tampons of a brand I don’t like but
don’t throw away because they do cost money, and in a feminine hygiene
emergency they will come in handy. I also have a tampon of my current brand. I have another pen, this one just a regular pen
bought in a ten-pack of boring blue pens, and a lighter left over from when I
smoked. It’s orange, my favorite
color. It’s handy to have a lighter, in
case someone else needs one or I decide to smoke again, or for children’s
birthday parties where no one smokes and therefore no one can light the candles
on the cake.
I also have an old single serving foil packet of sexual lubricant,
a free hand out from a gay pride festival I went to years ago. The package is old and starting to split, and
I should take it out of my purse before it leaks all over the pretty satin
leopard print lining of my sparkly purse, but I don’t. I want to be the kind of person who is ready
for some sort of strange sexual escapade without warning, though it has gone
unused for several years now. I am
ready, at any moment, to be more exciting than I am now, to be as exiting as I
used to be. I keep it hidden away in the
secret zipper pocket so my sons don’t ask what it is for.
I don’t carry this purse much when I have the kids anyway –
the straps are uncomfortable and its feet scratch my oldest child’s head. You only need a purse to carry your wallet
and sunglasses anyway. All the little memories and dreams and sexual escapades
are best left safely at home.
Thanks and another essay
Hi Friends:
I so enjoyed our brief time together at Chautauqua. I do hope you felt you've begun some important work, as I certainly feel you did. I came home to Pittsburgh and stumbled upon this lovely little essay from Richard Ford in Sunday's New York Times. Maybe you saw it, too:
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/07/opinion/sunday/the-song-of-the-suburbs.html?_r=0
The quotation that jumped out at me, that I would have brought to class, is this one:
It's a fair measure of ourselves as adults--of our empathy, at least--that we try to achieve a view of our parents' lives more as they viewed them, and less in the ruthless, tunneled vision of childhood (not that our parents' view would necessarily be clearer).
Best wishes for a productive summer. Thanks again for your own empathy and intelligent contributions to our class. --Kristin
I so enjoyed our brief time together at Chautauqua. I do hope you felt you've begun some important work, as I certainly feel you did. I came home to Pittsburgh and stumbled upon this lovely little essay from Richard Ford in Sunday's New York Times. Maybe you saw it, too:
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/07/opinion/sunday/the-song-of-the-suburbs.html?_r=0
The quotation that jumped out at me, that I would have brought to class, is this one:
It's a fair measure of ourselves as adults--of our empathy, at least--that we try to achieve a view of our parents' lives more as they viewed them, and less in the ruthless, tunneled vision of childhood (not that our parents' view would necessarily be clearer).
Best wishes for a productive summer. Thanks again for your own empathy and intelligent contributions to our class. --Kristin
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