Monday, October 21, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
I'M INVISIBLE
We are walking out of Target after each of the kids spent their $20 and I bought coffee.
Zack has a large nerf sniper gun.
Zoe has cute white shoes.
I'm wishing I'd bought myself something but what I need to do is get us home so I can get writing and finish my report.
As we start to cross the parking lot Zack grabs my hand and asks, "Does this mean you're going to be invisible when we get home?"
What? What? I ask, snapped out of my daydream about the Almond Joy bar I didn't buy.
"Does this mean when we go home and try to talk to you, you're going to put your hands over your ears and shout I'M WORKING! I'M INVISIBLE! I'M NOT HERE, YOU CAN'T REALLY SEE ME SO DON'T TALK TO ME!"
I pat him on the head and agree, yes, Mom has HUGE deadline to meet, but I'll try not to act crazy.
He nods his head then slings his huge weapon into the car, and pulls it across his lap ready for whatever comes next.
Zack has a large nerf sniper gun.
Zoe has cute white shoes.
I'm wishing I'd bought myself something but what I need to do is get us home so I can get writing and finish my report.
As we start to cross the parking lot Zack grabs my hand and asks, "Does this mean you're going to be invisible when we get home?"
What? What? I ask, snapped out of my daydream about the Almond Joy bar I didn't buy.
"Does this mean when we go home and try to talk to you, you're going to put your hands over your ears and shout I'M WORKING! I'M INVISIBLE! I'M NOT HERE, YOU CAN'T REALLY SEE ME SO DON'T TALK TO ME!"
I pat him on the head and agree, yes, Mom has HUGE deadline to meet, but I'll try not to act crazy.
He nods his head then slings his huge weapon into the car, and pulls it across his lap ready for whatever comes next.
Monday, October 14, 2013
The US is not socialist. The US is a country. We have people.
On a particularly gorgeous October Friday, I decided to reward the students who came to my afternoon class by giving them a "can't get it wrong" assignment. Everyone who is in class and submits an answer gets credit, and I use the responses to gauge where to target pieces of my upcoming lectures.
This particular day I asked a two part question:
1) Is the US a Socialist country? 2) How do you know?
15 students nailed it.
Here’s a sampling of the rest.
- I think the US is socialist because the government allows people to do things like start their own businesses.
- I think America is pretty social with other countries and does a better job talking and dealing with them.
- The United States is socialist. We tend to lend things. But we aren’t under a dictator.
- I have no idea if the US is socialist. But I’m going to say yes.
- No idea. I’d guess C. C is always the answer.
- I’m going to go with “no” because I have a 50/50 chance of being right.
- Yes, we are socialist because we get our arms from importing and exporting.
- Yes we are socialist in the US because we talk about things and our opinion is supposed to matter.
- Yes? I’m guessing…. Something about Obama?.... I don’t know.
- US is not socialist. I know this because when someone says “socialist bastards” they’re talking about other countries.
- No, the US is not socialist because we are better than any country since we are not like any other country.
- Yes, the US is a socialist country. We have the public media and what spreads by word of mouth.
- Yes. I have no idea what socialism is but we do it with other countries.
- The US is not socialist. The US is a country. We have people.
- Sure we are socialist. And I’m basing my answer on the firm principle of guessing.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Like a Monet: The Same Love, a Different Life.
Looking at a map of Europe I see another Cuba, another island that is the crossroads of continents, placed near a precipitously dangling boot of a peninsula.
Sicilia. Sicily. Sometimes independent, sometimes split in two, sometimes conquered, never isolated.
This whole journey is making me see that no island is an island, and that I'm ending up all the way over there is not even a surprise at this point.
People on that island (and all islands, even the British Isles) are pushed an pulled by forces bigger than themselves - war, famine, plague, tidal waves, opportunity, hope, and a never ending parade of boats bringing things, taking things.
Sicily in the 1850s was pulsing with the conflict that would result in the unification of small states that would become Italy. Exports were dropping as California began to dominate the US market for citrus and olives and other delights that had once come from this region.
I'm not exactly sure if Jean Soldani family packed up and left because he was destitute, because he feared violence, or maybe because some family tragedy left him unable to live on this small island and keep their sanity.
Or maybe he left after years of planning and saving and writing letters to friends already in New Orleans, epicenter of the Creole Catholic Caribbean, preparing their way for a prosperous future.
In 1883, soon after his 23rd birthday, charming Sicilian Jean had an American son with Clementine Moti - her name tells me she might have had red hair or at least a loud laugh. I can't find their marriage record or anything else about them. They name him Achilles. Quite French, which was quite appropriate in New Orleans during the Civil War. I've been told that they have a daughter, too, I'm told, although I can't find a single record anywhere about her.
I hunt for women with her last name who lived in New Orleans at any time in their lives. She could be Maria, or Eugenie or Isoline or Guiseppina Soldani. Or maybe she was a half-sister or step-sister or a cousin raised as a sister?
What I know, or at least I've been told, is that Achille's parents died in a shipwreck off Cuba.
Why they were in Cuba or near Cuba during her 10 Years War is mystery to me. Maybe they were travelling from Sicily or maybe to South America to look for land. Maybe they weren't shipwrecked at all, maybe they died of Yellow Fever and the shipwreck story added a bit of cayenne to story.
The children, Achilles and his sister (Maria? Eugenie? Isolde? Guiseppina?) perhaps were entrusted to an orphanage in New Orleans. I know enough as a researcher and historian to shudder at the idea of an orphanage. Primitive sanitation (no running water, no disposable diapers, babies everywhere) meant no institution was immune from periodic attacks of influenza, yellow fever and scarlet fever.
Achilles Soldani appears without his sister in the 1880 census; he is listed as living with a young couple -M. and E. Rabalais - in Placheville, Louisiana.
There are no additional lines; the household was only three people. For whatever reason -- perhaps it was better she stayed with the nuns? perhaps it was unfit for a young lady to be out on a farm? -- the family did not bring Achille's sister to live with them.
Family legend has it that he visited his sister in New Orleans, often. That was quite a distance before cars and highways.
All we know is that they loved each other, and life separated them.
Achilles became a farmer and had a large family. One of his sons would become my great grandfather.
My parents became engaged on their first date. It was if they re-found each other, remembered each other.
When my father went home he announced he was engaged to Maria. "Maria who?" they asked and he famously replied, "Doesn't matter, it's going to be Soldani."
They have been inseparable since.
Like Achilles, my father has become a modern day farmer, growing delightful crops of Fancy Hibiscus.
My mom has spent a great deal of her life working with nuns, with kids, with refugees and the poor.
When you step back and look at it from a certain angle, like you'd look at a Monet, all the blobs become a picture and the story becomes clear.
The same love, a different life.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But just writing this part of the story gives me the courage to keep going, to tell you the part that I'm 100% sure is not conjecture or coincidence.
Sicilia. Sicily. Sometimes independent, sometimes split in two, sometimes conquered, never isolated.
This whole journey is making me see that no island is an island, and that I'm ending up all the way over there is not even a surprise at this point.
People on that island (and all islands, even the British Isles) are pushed an pulled by forces bigger than themselves - war, famine, plague, tidal waves, opportunity, hope, and a never ending parade of boats bringing things, taking things.
Sicily in the 1850s was pulsing with the conflict that would result in the unification of small states that would become Italy. Exports were dropping as California began to dominate the US market for citrus and olives and other delights that had once come from this region.
I'm not exactly sure if Jean Soldani family packed up and left because he was destitute, because he feared violence, or maybe because some family tragedy left him unable to live on this small island and keep their sanity.
Or maybe he left after years of planning and saving and writing letters to friends already in New Orleans, epicenter of the Creole Catholic Caribbean, preparing their way for a prosperous future.
In 1883, soon after his 23rd birthday, charming Sicilian Jean had an American son with Clementine Moti - her name tells me she might have had red hair or at least a loud laugh. I can't find their marriage record or anything else about them. They name him Achilles. Quite French, which was quite appropriate in New Orleans during the Civil War. I've been told that they have a daughter, too, I'm told, although I can't find a single record anywhere about her.
I hunt for women with her last name who lived in New Orleans at any time in their lives. She could be Maria, or Eugenie or Isoline or Guiseppina Soldani. Or maybe she was a half-sister or step-sister or a cousin raised as a sister?
What I know, or at least I've been told, is that Achille's parents died in a shipwreck off Cuba.
Why they were in Cuba or near Cuba during her 10 Years War is mystery to me. Maybe they were travelling from Sicily or maybe to South America to look for land. Maybe they weren't shipwrecked at all, maybe they died of Yellow Fever and the shipwreck story added a bit of cayenne to story.
The children, Achilles and his sister (Maria? Eugenie? Isolde? Guiseppina?) perhaps were entrusted to an orphanage in New Orleans. I know enough as a researcher and historian to shudder at the idea of an orphanage. Primitive sanitation (no running water, no disposable diapers, babies everywhere) meant no institution was immune from periodic attacks of influenza, yellow fever and scarlet fever.
Achilles Soldani appears without his sister in the 1880 census; he is listed as living with a young couple -M. and E. Rabalais - in Placheville, Louisiana.
There are no additional lines; the household was only three people. For whatever reason -- perhaps it was better she stayed with the nuns? perhaps it was unfit for a young lady to be out on a farm? -- the family did not bring Achille's sister to live with them.
Family legend has it that he visited his sister in New Orleans, often. That was quite a distance before cars and highways.
All we know is that they loved each other, and life separated them.
Achilles became a farmer and had a large family. One of his sons would become my great grandfather.
My parents became engaged on their first date. It was if they re-found each other, remembered each other.
When my father went home he announced he was engaged to Maria. "Maria who?" they asked and he famously replied, "Doesn't matter, it's going to be Soldani."
They have been inseparable since.
Like Achilles, my father has become a modern day farmer, growing delightful crops of Fancy Hibiscus.
My mom has spent a great deal of her life working with nuns, with kids, with refugees and the poor.
When you step back and look at it from a certain angle, like you'd look at a Monet, all the blobs become a picture and the story becomes clear.
The same love, a different life.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But just writing this part of the story gives me the courage to keep going, to tell you the part that I'm 100% sure is not conjecture or coincidence.
Friday, October 11, 2013
AMH 2020 11:15 class rankings as of 10/11/2013
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 99.56% |
| 99.56% |
| 99.56% |
| 99.11% |
| 97.78% |
| 97.33% |
| 96.00% |
| 95.11% |
| 94.67% |
| 93.78% |
| 92.89% |
| 92.89% |
| 92.44% |
| 90.00% |
| 89.78% |
| 89.33% |
| 88.89% |
| 88.89% |
| 88.44% |
| 88.44% |
| 87.60% |
| 87.56% |
| 87.56% |
| 86.22% |
| 86.00% |
| 84.44% |
| 84.00% |
| 83.20% |
| 81.33% |
| 80.44% |
| 79.60% |
| 78.80% |
| 78.67% |
| 77.33% |
| 77.33% |
| 76.40% |
| 74.00% |
| 72.00% |
| 70.40% |
| 67.56% |
| 65.78% |
| 65.78% |
| 65.60% |
| 57.00% |
| 55.60% |
| 55.56% |
| 54.80% |
| 52.80% |
| 50.40% |
| 48.80% |
| 48.80% |
| 47.20% |
| 46.40% |
| 41.33% |
| 37.20% |
| 32.89% |
| 11.20% |
| 8.00% |
| 4.00% |
| 0.00% |
I Don't Know what Socialism is But Here is a Drawing of a Cat
Before my 11:15am lecture on the New Deal today I asked students to write a few sentences explaining what they they think Socialism is.
I haven't covered this in class yet, so what the students write comes from previous teachers, the media and .....?
In a class of 80, about 20 students nailed the answer. Here are some of the rest.
In communism there is one crazy guy with all the power. In socialism there a group of crazy people running things.
Socialism is where immagration is excepted.
I have no idea what socialism is but here is a cartoon of a cat. ;-)
Socialism is a country where people have some sort of opinions.
Socialism is when you agree with the government.
Socialism is where the government doesn’t control the people. The people are allowed to vote for president.
Socialism is the idea that conservation saves the earth, not war.
Socialism is where people provide input and laws are based on the majority.
Socialim is where the government assigns people food and jobs and monitors everything they do. Basically.
Socialism is where the government makes people from different backgrounds come together and make one culture.
Socialism = Government controls your LIFE
Socialism is being able to talk to other countries without having to go to war.
Socialism is a country that socializes with its people very well. They’re always on the same page, no disagreements.
Socialism is no classes, ie: Fuck the social classes, everyone is on equal playing field. Socialist countries fail because there are all ways snobs who want to be snobs.
Socialism is the believe everyone should receive equal treatment from the government. Example – if everyone in class takes an exam, everyone gets awarded the class average, not what they earned on their exam.
Socialism is different from communism because of the people.
Socialism is when two countries have a good agreement and can stand each other. Communism is different its when they are all about taking over.
Socialism is the idea that the government should be based on social policies and not political ones.
I know what socialism is but I didn’t have my coffee today.
Socialism is a government and peace.
Socialism is where people are valued by the government.
Socialism is like Obamacare, right?
Socialism is when the government rules over every aspect.
Socialism is when countries like Cuba and China don’t have communication with other countries.
Socialism is where a bunch of Hindus go to a Japanese wedding and learn to make spicy curry.
Socialism is when the government is the most important aspect of the country.
Socialism is where the government runs based on what the people choose.
Socialism is a party of people who come together.
Socialism is where people can assume a separate style of life and can co-exist amicably.
Socialism is where you can expect equal pay for your job. Unlike capitalism.
Socialism tries to eradicate poverty.
Socialism. (entire answer)
Socialism is where the government allows the society to make all the rules. So instead of having a government to tell you what to do, you can vote on laws you want to follow.
WW2: Fill in the Blanks #Pretest
Pretest Question:
WW2 started in _____ when ____ and _____ declared war on _____ for invading ________.
No joke, about half the students knew this answer quickly.
Others were a little less certain.
Some weren't even grounded in reality.
WW2 started in the late 1900s when Europe and Asia declare war on the 1900s for invading them.
WW2 started in _____ when ____ and _____ declared war on _____ for invading ________.
No joke, about half the students knew this answer quickly.
Others were a little less certain.
Some weren't even grounded in reality.
WW2 started in the late 1900s when Europe and Asia declare war on the 1900s for invading them.
WW2 starts in 1900 when France and Spain declare war on the world for invading Cuba.
WW2 started in 1940 when Japan and the US declare war on treaties for invading peace.
WW2 starts in 1962 when America and Russia and Korea declare on Japan for invading Japan.
WW2 starts in 1842 when Japan and the US declare war on 1843 for invading Japan.
WW2 started in Germany when Germany and the US declare war on Germany for invading Germany.
WW2 started in 1942 when the US and Germany declare war on Japan for invading Pearl Harbor.
WW2 started in the 1920s when Germany and Russia declared war on the US for invading Germany.
WW2 starts in 1942 when US and France declare war on Germany for invading Hawaii.
WW2 started in 1941 when England and the US declare war on Spain for invading Pearl Harbor.
WW2 started in 1936 when Germany and Austria-Hungary declare war on United States for invading Austria-Hungary.
WW2 started in 1940 when US and Britain declare war on Germany for invading Russia.
WW2 started in 1939 when England and France declared war on Germany for invading Berlin.
WW2 starts in 1942 when America and France declare war on Japan for invading the US.
WW2 starts in 1830 when Germany and Russia declare war on Japan for invading them.
WW2 starts in 1940s when England and Spain declare war on France for invading Germany.
WW2 starts in 1950 when Europe and Asia declare war on the US for invading Russia.
WW2 starts in 1812 when Spain and America declare war on China for invading China.
WW2 starts in 1992 when France and Russia declare war on the US for invading Spain.
WW2 starts in 1910 when France and Britain declare war on Japan for invading the US.
WW2 starts in 1850 when England and Russia declare war on China for invading France.
WW2 starts in 1948 when the US and Holland declare war on Germany for invading Israel.
WW2 started in 1940 when France and Russia declare war on Britain for invading Germany.
WW2 started in 1995 when Germany and Russia declar war on Great Britain for invading Czechoslovakia.
From Acapas to Watamala
Pretest: Name 5 Countries in South America
About half the students answered this question perfectly.
Some students struggled.
Here is an alphabetical list of non-South American nations that, in some imaginations, have joined us in the Western Hemisphere:
About half the students answered this question perfectly.
Some students struggled.
Here is an alphabetical list of non-South American nations that, in some imaginations, have joined us in the Western Hemisphere:
- Acapas
- Afghanistan
- Africa
- Alstralia
- Antarctica
- Armenia
- Asia
- Blahblah
- Chili
- China
- Coda Rica
- Debrish
- Ecodor
- Ecru
- Egypt
- Erop
- Ethiopia
- Europe
- Filipines
- France
- Fyomzuilla
- Germany
- Guam
- Guatado
- Iran
- Italy
- Liberia
- Maracas
- Namibia
- Pakistan
- Potwatamie
- South Africa
- Spain
- Taliban
- Valencia
- Wadoo
- Watamala
Thursday, October 10, 2013
PreTest: Please Name 5 Cities in Europe.
Question #4: Name 5 cities in Europe
About half the students correctly identified 5 cities that actually are in Europe.
16 students wrote Manchester. I think they like soccer?
12 students think Holland is a city.
Here are some of the other answers in no particular order.
If indeed Myniz, Amandam and Voma are European cities, please let me know*
- Voma
- Myniz
- Zaelms
- Amandam
- Europeon
- ChiTown
- Nancy
- Asia
- Vicarce
- Murvik
- Guadalupe
- Gadolfi
- Belize
- Italy
- France
- England
- Asia
- China
- Mexico
- Munch
- Moscoo
- Tokyo
- Napoleon
- Montreal
- Sissily
Mysterious Communism (Revised)*
I make it a practice to give my students pretests so I can find out what background knowledge they bring to the classroom.
Many students perform well; their answers would bore you with the steady drum of succinct, correct answers.
Some students are perplexed by a question or two.
DEFINE COMMUNISM
(answers include.....)
* Communism is everything that is going on
* Communism is where the people are in charge of the government
*Communism is where the government takes money from all and gives it back evenly
*Communism is people that speak for the people of a city or state
*Communism is where the government is there to tell you what is right and wrong.
Many students perform well; their answers would bore you with the steady drum of succinct, correct answers.
Some students are perplexed by a question or two.
DEFINE COMMUNISM
(answers include.....)
*Rule by a dictator (x13)
*Rule by one person (x7)
*A bunch of shady people. Maybe terrorists?
*A country with a dicktator
*A bunch of shady people. Maybe terrorists?
*A country with a dicktator
*When an entire country has the same economy
* Group oriented goals
* A country that has very little money
* Group oriented goals
* A country that has very little money
*Communism is finding common ground between nations
*Communism is a country that invades other countries.
*Communism is a country high on religion
*Communism is the belief the government has control.
*Communism is where people aren’t allowed to do what they want to do; the president tells them what they can do.
*Communism is prejudice views of the world
*Communism is when there is strict rules
* Communism is everything that is going on
* Communism is where the people are in charge of the government
*Communism is where the government takes money from all and gives it back evenly
*Communism is people that speak for the people of a city or state
*Communism is where the government is there to tell you what is right and wrong.
Name communist countries
Most students wrote China, North Korea, Cuba.
Others offered up a bouquet of nations:
Germany (x35)
Japan (x30)
France ( x7)
Iran (x17)
Iron (x1)
Iraq (x2)
United States (x4)
Mexico (x2)
Afghanistan (x2)
Mexico (x3)
Europe
Asia
Pakistan
Coup
Monday, October 7, 2013
Grade Distribution AMH 1041 - Running Total*
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 99.62% |
| 99.23% |
| 99.23% |
| 98.85% |
| 94.62% |
| 94.23% |
| 93.85% |
| 93.85% |
| 92.31% |
| 91.92% |
| 89.62% |
| 89.23% |
| 89.23% |
| 88.46% |
| 88.08% |
| 87.69% |
| 86.92% |
| 83.46% |
| 81.15% |
| 78.85% |
| 75.77% |
| 75.00% |
| 74.23% |
| 72.69% |
| 70.77% |
| 70.77% |
| 67.31% |
| 65.77% |
| 60.38% |
| 59.23% |
| 58.08% |
| 56.54% |
| 41.15% |
| 40.00% |
| 36.54% |
| 28.33% |
| 28.08% |
| 21.92% |
Grade Distribution - AMH 1041 Exam #1
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 100.00% |
| 99.00% |
| 94.00% |
| 93.00% |
| 92.50% |
| 92.50% |
| 91.50% |
| 90.50% |
| 90.00% |
| 88.00% |
| 87.50% |
| 85.00% |
| 85.00% |
| 85.00% |
| 84.00% |
| 78.50% |
| 77.50% |
| 75.50% |
| 74.00% |
| 72.50% |
| 70.00% |
| 69.00% |
| 67.50% |
| 67.50% |
| 67.50% |
| 65.00% |
| 57.50% |
| 57.50% |
| 55.00% |
| 47.50% |
| 45.00% |
| 28.50% |
| 27.50% |
| 22.50% |
| 12.50% |
| 0.00% |
Monday, September 30, 2013
Sunday, September 29, 2013
One semester a student mentioned one of her co-workers said to tell me hello. It was a student from a previous semester who I knew as soon as I heard her name. The student offered, "she said she was in your class the semester you got new jeans."
A little bit of me died.
I don't want to become that professor that wears the same jeans for years, that wears the same shirts or shoes either. I don't want to be that professor that routinely takes the elevator from the first floor to the second (and, worse, down from the second floor) because they're too tired. I know that doesn't have much to do with jeans, but I had to throw that out there to the universe.
Anyway, I knew exactly what semster she was talking about. I had one pair of Lucky jeans that I loved and wore to death, so much so that they ripped in lecture class during a reenactment of the Schlieffen Plan (....Germany mobilizes towards Russia...then BAM surprises France through Belgium). To replace them I got 2 pairs of jeans from the Gap. Neither of them were as wonderful as those Lucky jeans, but also they were cheaper.
I've hated them for the past 5 years. Or has it been 6? All together it looks like a war but really it's been a thousand small battles of putting them on, feeling not quite right, then wearing them anyway because there was nothing else.
OK, I exaggerate. I have 3 pairs of jeans. The third pair is from Target (did I just admit to that?) and fit awfully.
The are too big in the waist and baggy at the knees and I bought them for my Mom's 60th birthday which I'm realizing was years and years ago. Don't ask my why I haven't
A little bit of me died.
I don't want to become that professor that wears the same jeans for years, that wears the same shirts or shoes either. I don't want to be that professor that routinely takes the elevator from the first floor to the second (and, worse, down from the second floor) because they're too tired. I know that doesn't have much to do with jeans, but I had to throw that out there to the universe.
Anyway, I knew exactly what semster she was talking about. I had one pair of Lucky jeans that I loved and wore to death, so much so that they ripped in lecture class during a reenactment of the Schlieffen Plan (....Germany mobilizes towards Russia...then BAM surprises France through Belgium). To replace them I got 2 pairs of jeans from the Gap. Neither of them were as wonderful as those Lucky jeans, but also they were cheaper.
I've hated them for the past 5 years. Or has it been 6? All together it looks like a war but really it's been a thousand small battles of putting them on, feeling not quite right, then wearing them anyway because there was nothing else.
OK, I exaggerate. I have 3 pairs of jeans. The third pair is from Target (did I just admit to that?) and fit awfully.
The are too big in the waist and baggy at the knees and I bought them for my Mom's 60th birthday which I'm realizing was years and years ago. Don't ask my why I haven't
Saturday, September 28, 2013
X Marks the Spot
I come back from my 5 day trip to Cuba around noon on Saturday.
Stacks of exams I thought I’d tackle before the leaving town wait for me (patiently?). My mind is too full of what just happened to explain it clearly yet.
I take great pleasure acting out the iPhone “incident” for my students, but then keep us all on track – we have to cover the Vietnam War, the 1980s, and all that comes after the Cold War. I don’t write much.
Summer settles in and I think about writing some of this story up for you but then I feel very urgently that I have to help a student write a book. He falls ill and I stop writing and sit very, very quietly.
When the chapters do start coming out I feel better, but I am working so hard on writing the ENTIRE story that I don’t stop for some lingering stories along the way.
I didn’t tell you the rest of the story of what happened at the airport on the way in, and I didn’t tell you the shocking story my relatives did NOT want me to ask around about. If there’s anything else, let me know. Soon. I want this book done; I have a deadline for it, and it’s rolling up quickly.
Meanwhile, my Mom loves every chapter I send her and giggles when she reads them.
She corrects little things, helps me with names, and instead of accepting her help I ask her to tell me later, please, when I have a pen etc. In order to finish the story quickly I have to keep looking ahead I can’t keep going back and fixing things up. If I do that I’ll never finish.
She understands. She’s easy like that.
The more I write, the more she reads, the more we remember, the happier we both are.
I didn’t mention earlier that before we even checked out the hotel in Cienfuegos I told Mom I wasn’t sure I’d need to come back to Cuba, that maybe I’d seen enough.
She agreed. She hadn’t wanted to be the first to say it but maybe she’d seen enough too, maybe we didn’t need to come back, not here, not soon.
Later that day, after the whole “holding my underwear up” incident and while eating the most fabulous ham sandwich ever at the Cienfuegos Airport we looked around and said goodbye Cuba.
Maybe we’ll be back. Maybe.
But if not, thanks, this was good.
Fast forward to last week when I finished writing the first draft of the book.
Mom calls me, and with Dad in the background she says she loved it and then says this and that about Abuelo and her day.
A minute later I hear her close a door behind her.
Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “I miss you! I want to see you! We had so much fun! Let’s do it again, but somewhere different.”
OK fine, I agree.
Life seems shorter and shorter, and the years that we can do things like this are precious.
We half toss out ideas. Go to a conference? California? New Mexico? Santo Domingo? New Orleans? Puerto Rico? Orlando?
I don’t know, and it didn’t seem the right juncture to make a commitment.
At that point one of my kids appeared and pulled me from my Mom and back into the reality of my kitchen on a long busy school day.
Days pass, we let it go. I have classes and hours of carpickup and dinners to cook and laundry to do and more exams to grade (of course) and Mom has a more than full life of her own.
Then she calls me and has my father on the phone. They are giddy.
She tells me they are going to ----- for 2 weeks, and they want me to come for a week of it. They will show me this, and that, and take me there, and of course to see that.
It’s not somewhere I’d ever thought I’d needed to go, and now all the sudden it’s the only place in the world I feel like I must see before I die (not that I’m dying, but really and actually everyone is always dying and seeing that brings a deep freedom from boredom and sins of that such).
It’ll be different traveling with them both, a different kind of wonderful.
Dad’s work phone rings and he has to run off, and I also want to get of the phone so I can research where we’re going.
I google it. Awesome, Rick Steves has been there. I’ve even seen the show on PBS on a day they weren’t holding me hostage and asking for money repeatedly.
Living on the Florida-Georgia border means I have 2 PBS stations that beg for money with “for just what it takes to buy a cup of coffee a day you can support programs like RICK STEVERS ***AND**** get this mug OR for the cost of dinner once a week you can get all that AND a DVD collection”
So whenever I’ve watched Rick Steves navigate small villages in Greece or drink in dark Pubs in Dublin, I never once thought, “pay attention Melissa, you might go there one day, too.”
I never paid attention, not for real, because I’m not the sort of person who travels, not far away to places so completely foreign.
For most of my life the idea of ever going to the forbidden and closed island of Cuba was so huge it shaped my heart and imagination. I never thought there’d be a time in my life AFTER I’d seen Cuba, after I’d written stories about Cuba. Now I’m there and I have to step into what comes next.
Google earth drops me in a narrow street where a moped and a fiat looking car are frozen blurred zooming by.
I go up a block and up another block but nothing makes sense so I go to satellite view.
There, there they are. Built by Rome.
There, there it is, not built by Rome but just as delicious.
I switch to the street view and go past wide steps to the front door. From there I can click on pictures and get art that I stare at until my eyes go dry.
Yes, yes, my parents were right. Everything I’ve ever studied, all my coursework, all my reading, all my writing, takes me to this exactly place.
This is ground zero for every story I tell, every bit of my family, of all that came afterwards. Here, right here. So yes, I need to come and see it, touch it, sit there and breathe its air.
I don’t want to overstudy it, I’d rather be surprised by the art when I get there, be captivated by the images and architecture, then come back and research what I’d seen.
This is probably the opposite of the scientific method. I’m OK with that.
I change the view and, oh, yes. Oh, it’s gorgeous.
I take a screenshot.
When this building was made no one was in the sky – no pilots, no satellites, not even hot air balloons drifting casually among the fluffy clouds.
Whoever made it might have considered it from an angel’s point of view, from God’s or perhaps Mary’s, and taken great care that it made a statement. Well it does.
When I see it the statement is clear.
X marks the spot, as obviously as treasure on a pirate map.
Come here, RIGHT HERE, there is more treasure to find, more stories waiting to be hunted down and told.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
5 Days in Cuba; Thursday - In Vino, Veritas
Mom's cousin Mila stands up to greet us. Where have you been, I've been worried, she says and my Mom looks guilty.
The two of them fall quickly deeply into a conversation and I take these pictures for you.
I'm in a sofa, set apart from them. There's no need for me here, I think I'll go check my mascara and leave them alone for a few minutes.
I whisper to my Mom that I'll be back.
I go upstairs and play with my hair some and fix my lipgloss.
Really I have nothing to do up here but I wanted to let them talk, they looked so serious.
had a feeling what it was about and I wanted to step outside of that conversation, but after three minutes in the hotel room I knew I was hiding from it, leaving my Mom alone.
I pushed the elevator door to take me to the first floor, then remembered to take the stairs.
I raced down and arrived before the elevator doors opened. Score.
Mom and Mila were still sitting there in the hotel lobby still in a serious talk.
I'm not sure who the guy is, but considering that later that night I'll have a huge revelation about being stalked, I wonder why he was standing there, listening.
I take this picture, breaking every rule of polite society regarding when pictures should be taken, then politely interrupt.
Can I have some of that water? Right there between you two?
They say yes then I offer, or WAIT can we go outside, by the pool and talk there?
Heads nod. We go out there and sit at a table in the shade, right next to the bar, facing the gorgeous empty pool that is guarded by statues of lions.
Mom and Mila fall back into their conversation and I look around. Over there is a man with plaid shorts and no shirt, reading a thick book in English. I'm very aware of wearing a long sleeved shirt and long jeans. My daughter always tells me I wear burqas and right now I feel like a nun. No part of me would feel right in a bathing suit, just swimming in a pool in Cuba like that's a normal and OK things to do.
The waiter comes by and we order wine, white wine, and Mila orders a coke.
She's very serious and we are on vacation.
Before the wine arrives Mom tells me in English that Mila wants to come to the US.
I knew this, I understood their conversation, but I only nod, tight lipped.
The wine arrives, along with the cola for Mila. One sip, two sips, small talk. Then Mom asks me in English and repeats herself in Spanish, "What do you think?"
I nod, sip sip. Maybe there is magic in this wine, maybe it will help me not say what I'm thinking, because what I'm thinking sounds like Rush Limbaugh.
I answer that I think it would be a lot of money -- thousands of dollars -- and that money would be better spent, here.
Mom translates. Mila answers by shaking her finger and saying she wants to come and work.
Sip, sip, sip, almost finishing the wine. I ask her what it is she plans to do.
Clean houses, she offers and no, sip sip sip, I finish my tiny glass and say in Spanish then English so my Mom can say it again in 'good Spanish" that she can't come to the US and just work. There are people far ahead of you who speak English, who drive, who are just more familiar with the US. Also, she can't stay with me, she can't stay with mom, she can't stay in Abuelo's new place, so we weren't sure where she intended to stay. Again, this isn't who I want to be. But also, this isn't someone trying to flee a revolution, violence, civil war. The pressure to make difficult decisions between helping close family and distant family just isn't "there."
She scowls a little bit.
I scowl too, because I can't believe this is coming out of me.
I swear to you I think in my heart this is the best country EVERRRRR and this country should be open to refugees and immigrants, that new Americans are some of the most productive economic engines.
But no. When faced with an actual person who wants to actually come the US I might as well be wearing Sarah Palin's red pumps. I'm against it, 100%, deflecting her optimism like a bully stomping on cupcakes.
Mom listens and listens to Mila's plans and I interject clarifications. Where does she think she would stay? How would she get THERE from there? Things like that.
More wine arrives.
Mila asks if she should call her daughter to join us for the evening and I shrug. I know my time with Cuban relatives is new and precious but I really really want more time with my Mom. Mila has no choice but to accept that.
After spending the better part of two hours telling her that she had no place to stay in the US, that she would be lost and confused in the US, we also told her if she just wanted to come for a small vacation, maybe we could swing that.
This was the wine talking. And love. Love of family and love of country together - how could we, more American than Cuban, keep the awesome US from her?
We take more pictures.
Mila pretends to be happy but I think she hoped for a different answer. In my heart and soul I genuinely thought I'd be a person who gave a different answer, who was more like Jimmy Carter giving his speech where he welcomed Cubans "with open hearts and open arms" in 1980. Oh well.
After three glasses of wine Mom and I start to settle the bill and discuss what we will be doing next.
I suddenly want to watch the sunset on water, I *need* to see the sunset on water, and she agrees that would be the perfect ending to our day.
As we are waiting for our bill, Yamila re-appears. I thank her again for my earrings (I'm still wearing them as I write this). She giggles and I remember I promised her a book, so I leave them and race back up to our room. I grab two copies of "Four Days in Cienfuegos" and carry them down the stairs with me.
Before meeting up with everyone I put one book on the kiosk in the front of the hotel. This is the same kiosk where I realized the Russians spelled Cuba "KYBA" and thus caused Cubans to suddenly interject the letter "Y" into names, marking a generation of Yaisy's and Yasser's and Yamila's and Nateley's. You get the picture.
I take a picture of my book there, surrounded by communist-approved literature.
Then I sign a book for Yamila and take a picture with her.
After that Mom and I say goodbye to Yamila then say a much more awkward goodbye to Mila.
We silently agree we want to help her, and also agree, equally silently, that coming to the US isn't the answer to everything that is wrong in Cuba.
She goes home and we go off into the street to flag down a Cubataxi to take us to the water, to the sunset, to where I'm called to be.
(continued)
The two of them fall quickly deeply into a conversation and I take these pictures for you.
I'm in a sofa, set apart from them. There's no need for me here, I think I'll go check my mascara and leave them alone for a few minutes.
I whisper to my Mom that I'll be back.
I go upstairs and play with my hair some and fix my lipgloss.
Really I have nothing to do up here but I wanted to let them talk, they looked so serious.
had a feeling what it was about and I wanted to step outside of that conversation, but after three minutes in the hotel room I knew I was hiding from it, leaving my Mom alone.
I pushed the elevator door to take me to the first floor, then remembered to take the stairs.
I raced down and arrived before the elevator doors opened. Score.
Mom and Mila were still sitting there in the hotel lobby still in a serious talk.
I'm not sure who the guy is, but considering that later that night I'll have a huge revelation about being stalked, I wonder why he was standing there, listening.
I take this picture, breaking every rule of polite society regarding when pictures should be taken, then politely interrupt.
Can I have some of that water? Right there between you two?
They say yes then I offer, or WAIT can we go outside, by the pool and talk there?
Heads nod. We go out there and sit at a table in the shade, right next to the bar, facing the gorgeous empty pool that is guarded by statues of lions.
Mom and Mila fall back into their conversation and I look around. Over there is a man with plaid shorts and no shirt, reading a thick book in English. I'm very aware of wearing a long sleeved shirt and long jeans. My daughter always tells me I wear burqas and right now I feel like a nun. No part of me would feel right in a bathing suit, just swimming in a pool in Cuba like that's a normal and OK things to do.
The waiter comes by and we order wine, white wine, and Mila orders a coke.
She's very serious and we are on vacation.
Before the wine arrives Mom tells me in English that Mila wants to come to the US.
I knew this, I understood their conversation, but I only nod, tight lipped.
The wine arrives, along with the cola for Mila. One sip, two sips, small talk. Then Mom asks me in English and repeats herself in Spanish, "What do you think?"
I nod, sip sip. Maybe there is magic in this wine, maybe it will help me not say what I'm thinking, because what I'm thinking sounds like Rush Limbaugh.
I answer that I think it would be a lot of money -- thousands of dollars -- and that money would be better spent, here.
Mom translates. Mila answers by shaking her finger and saying she wants to come and work.
Sip, sip, sip, almost finishing the wine. I ask her what it is she plans to do.
Clean houses, she offers and no, sip sip sip, I finish my tiny glass and say in Spanish then English so my Mom can say it again in 'good Spanish" that she can't come to the US and just work. There are people far ahead of you who speak English, who drive, who are just more familiar with the US. Also, she can't stay with me, she can't stay with mom, she can't stay in Abuelo's new place, so we weren't sure where she intended to stay. Again, this isn't who I want to be. But also, this isn't someone trying to flee a revolution, violence, civil war. The pressure to make difficult decisions between helping close family and distant family just isn't "there."
She scowls a little bit.
I scowl too, because I can't believe this is coming out of me.
I swear to you I think in my heart this is the best country EVERRRRR and this country should be open to refugees and immigrants, that new Americans are some of the most productive economic engines.
But no. When faced with an actual person who wants to actually come the US I might as well be wearing Sarah Palin's red pumps. I'm against it, 100%, deflecting her optimism like a bully stomping on cupcakes.
Mom listens and listens to Mila's plans and I interject clarifications. Where does she think she would stay? How would she get THERE from there? Things like that.
More wine arrives.
Mila asks if she should call her daughter to join us for the evening and I shrug. I know my time with Cuban relatives is new and precious but I really really want more time with my Mom. Mila has no choice but to accept that.
After spending the better part of two hours telling her that she had no place to stay in the US, that she would be lost and confused in the US, we also told her if she just wanted to come for a small vacation, maybe we could swing that.
This was the wine talking. And love. Love of family and love of country together - how could we, more American than Cuban, keep the awesome US from her?
We take more pictures.
Mila pretends to be happy but I think she hoped for a different answer. In my heart and soul I genuinely thought I'd be a person who gave a different answer, who was more like Jimmy Carter giving his speech where he welcomed Cubans "with open hearts and open arms" in 1980. Oh well.
I suddenly want to watch the sunset on water, I *need* to see the sunset on water, and she agrees that would be the perfect ending to our day.
As we are waiting for our bill, Yamila re-appears. I thank her again for my earrings (I'm still wearing them as I write this). She giggles and I remember I promised her a book, so I leave them and race back up to our room. I grab two copies of "Four Days in Cienfuegos" and carry them down the stairs with me.
Before meeting up with everyone I put one book on the kiosk in the front of the hotel. This is the same kiosk where I realized the Russians spelled Cuba "KYBA" and thus caused Cubans to suddenly interject the letter "Y" into names, marking a generation of Yaisy's and Yasser's and Yamila's and Nateley's. You get the picture.
I take a picture of my book there, surrounded by communist-approved literature.
After that Mom and I say goodbye to Yamila then say a much more awkward goodbye to Mila.
We silently agree we want to help her, and also agree, equally silently, that coming to the US isn't the answer to everything that is wrong in Cuba.
She goes home and we go off into the street to flag down a Cubataxi to take us to the water, to the sunset, to where I'm called to be.
(continued)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)