Three Cups of Tea

"In Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace . . . One School at a Time , Greg Mortenson, and journalist David Oliver Relin, recount the journey that led Mortenson from a failed 1993 attempt to climb Pakistan’s K2, the world’s second highest mountain, to successfully establish schools in some of the most remote regions of Afghanistan and Pakistan. By replacing guns with pencils, rhetoric with reading, Mortenson combines his unique background with his intimate knowledge of the third-world to promote peace with books, not bombs, and successfully bring education and hope to remote communities in central Asia. Three Cups of Tea is at once an unforgettable adventure and the inspiring true story of how one man really is changing the world—one school at a time."

Greg Mortenson will win a Nobel Peace Prize someday.
I say READ THIS BOOK.

Where we are lacking

It occurred to me yesterday as I spoke on the phone to various members of my family, that even though our bodies may be aged 30 or 60 or 75 years and though throughout those years we may have earned titles such as Mrs., dad, and/or spouse, none of us knows what the hell we're doing, especially when confronted with death.

Saying good bye is never on our lists of things to do; it's never an agenda item or something we practice. I suppose that's a good thing, but the result is that we're incredibly bad at it - all those years of life experience and titles mean nothing all of a sudden. Good byes level the playing field. We're all flailing and helpless.

Substance free is (apparently) the choice for me

I'll never be a true writer.

Or maybe I will, but if it happens, it will be during a time when a.) I'm less of a navel gazer and/or b.) when I actually have something worth saying. But either way, it's frustrating. I want to write something significant - of value and substance. I mean if Jenny McCarthy can write about her vagina, a topic that is apparently extremely interesting to many people, so much so that hers is one of the first books pregnant women buy, then why can't I find my voice?

I take it back. I have a voice. Most people define it as "weird" or "unconventional". I guess that's ok. I mean Gonzo style writing is fucking edgy! Definitely unconventional. And you have to use the word 'fucking' when talking about anything involving Hunter S. Thompson. Except for the constant drug use and random blowing up of shit, I'm secretly in love with him. I'd be more than ok with being called a Hunter Thompson kind of weird.

Unfortunately, I'm certain that people call me weird as in Luna Lovegood weird. She's sweet and all, but she sees things that aren't there and she's constantly losing her shoes.

In spite of my Luna Lovegoodness, I had a couple of ideas for writing projects. I refuse to call them novels because that intimidating word immediately blocks any creative wisp that may float across my brow. But I always dream up ideas during times when I've escaped from my life - in the mountains of New Mexico, for example, or alone in a coffee house. When reality hits, I abandon the projects because honestly, who has time to really focus on anything except reality? And I love my reality - my family and friends, for example, and even my job (most days) - but it leaves no time for dreaming, much less writing.

So, I'll never be a writer, especially now that I have expectations about what it is I need to help me find something substantive to say.

Any suggestions?

Enduring One Aeon Creates Grumpy-gilled Humanoid

It's only Wednesday. The last three days have felt aeonic. Seriously. It's been so slow that I've watched an entire evolution happen. All of a sudden people have grown gills that operate as pollution regulators, and they no longer walk but glide.. or something.

I'm tired.

The first week of school does that to teachers. It doesn't help that my classes are mammoth (as in 32-35 kids per English IV class, except for my Literary Magazine class that kids are dropping in what feels like an effort to actually make more work for the rest of us. I started with 10 kids (a cozy sized staff) and am down to 6. 6 kids to fundraise three thousand dollars; 6 kids to campaign for submissions, judge them, and edit them for publication; 6 kids to design and create a publication worthy of selling. 6 kids to do all of that and more. It's a tall order.)

On top of the extra work loads, today I had students comparing walking through perpetual minefields and explosions to get to school (like Sunshine in Mosul) with being upset because taking today's notes made their hands cramp.

"It's similar. I mean, both are inconveniences. Besides, a bomb could fall on us at any second, so I can totally relate," one said. "This sucks."

"What?" I gasped. "Are you serious? You can't compare the two or possibly understand what it is like to live in a war torn country!"

"Yes I can," he said. "I mean, you never know what could happen, so it's totally the same. You could be walking down the street and get blown up. Besides, it's my opinion and I'm entitled to it."

"Sure, you're entitled to your opinion," I said, "but you're absolutely wrong, and how disrespectful to those who actually have to live through the falling bombs!"

He held his hand up to stop me from talking and then waved it around and said, "Whatever. I'm right and there's nothing you can do to change my mind."

This is the second full day of school.

Frighteningly, this year is already head and shoulders above last year. Despite my grumpiness tonight (sick baby in tow), I have some wonderful kids, too. I'll try to focus on them.. after my pity party.

To my lovely Muslim brothers and sisters,

Ramadan Mubarak!!
May this be a time of peace and blessings for you and yours!

Redefining Education

I wrote the following for a group called Project 2012, a discussion forum of folks who advocate true democracy (and who call for universal human rights) in community form. I'm not sure about how it will be received, or even if it will be, so I'm posting it here. Please pet me in case they don't.. :) Enjoy:

The classroom, like a church, is a sacred place where the teacher, like the minister, has an inviolate commission, not only to be a guide, but to serve. He cannot be a party to the capitalist's idea of prosperity, one that does not equate to abundance. Instead, he has to understand that his investment is one of respect - that the only way to create communitas is to engage in a true learning, a democratic society where all opinions are weighed, where everyone, including the teacher, learns, thus producing profit for all.

Thanks to this list, I allowed myself to think about what ideal education looks like stripped of the confines and/or trappings of government interference: assessments, budgets, rules, and dogma. I looked at Gandhi who spoke in terms of "the village." He spoke about education in relational terms - that the educator is also the student. He believed in educating the whole person and was a proponent of manual labor (and against machinery), insisting that it was faulty to consider that type of work lesser than any other type. I looked at the ideas of the Brazilian philosopher, Paulo Freire, who also promoted education as a relationship - more democratic in the give and take. There are a million philosophies to consider Hegel, Bloom, Rousseau, Marx... Too many.

I decided, instead, to pose the ideal as a question to my colleagues, fellow teachers who have more years of combined experience than they'd like for me to share. I asked them, "What does genuine education look like? Is it possible?"
The thing that all of the responses had in common (though different approaches were offered) was that "kids learn to think." Too often (and to the detriment of society) have we created automatons - robots who can produce the correct answer, but who can't explain how they've arrived there. We have kids who can operate technology, but who don't understand how the technology works. Somehow that's a respect issue.

In the US the modern school system was created to produce factory workers. From there, it has itself become a factory of capitalist production where minimal investment is expected to create a maximum return. Unfortunately, this system is backfiring in a huge way, to the detriment of society.

We have to go back to a place where education is about the exchange, about thinking and experimentation -trial and error and consideration -where getting the wrong answer is ok as long as you learn from the attempt.

I don't know what that kind of school truly looks like, other than it must be divorced of standardized everything. But education is expensive, especially in the investments of time, patience, and money. It also requires a ridiculous amount of trust. I do know that there are many teachers out there who understand this and who attempt to participate in the ideal despite the interference of the state. That's hopeful at least.

Overheard: Teacher Staff Development

A principal, on staffing:

"The On Campus Suspension teacher will not be returning this year. He moved to Oklahoma and opened a night club."

A principal, on dress code:

"Remember to keep in mind that thongs are dangerous."


The school nurse's sage advice:

"If it's wet and not yours, don't touch it."

(And the school year has only begun, darlings!)

Tag is Weird, Philosophically

I got tagged by the very lovely Sandy. Sadly, everyone who has ever played tag with me knows that if I'm ever tagged, the game is pretty much over. I stink at tag. I never tag anyone else. By definition, I'm "it". I will spend eternity being "it" which isn't really a compliment, is it. I mean people run away from being "it". That's the game. Funny how opposite things are in the real world.

Anyway, I'm not sure why I'm bad at tag; if it's because I don't want to actually decide who to tag next for fear that he/she might hate me later, or if it's because me running is more like watching any dance move by Martin Short - awkward, and too much like the pee pee dance under a very tiny sombrero.

Anyway, I got tagged which means you guys get to endure six random things about me:

1. John Lennon and I share a birthday.

2. I worked security at the Atlanta Olympics. I wore kelly green pants, a starched white shirt, and a pith helmet. My job was to “wand” the folks who failed the initial security metal detector test. I had to actually say to the person… er ..failure? customer? field hockey venue attendee? Random man in line whose penis stud would soon set off the alarm, embarrassing both him and me, but more me because I was young and far less snarky at the time? (sigh) Anyway, as I was saying, correct procedure according to the Olympic committee per the instructions on my official Olympic volunteer security video was to say to that person before the wanding commenced, and I quote:

“Excuse me sir. May I wand you?”

Pith helmet and security wand aside, I felt pretty bad ass since I had a birds’ nest of army snipers at my beck and call. All I had to do was point and nod, then step aside.

3. I attended the 50th anniversary of the alien landing event in Roswell. This event happened while I was in college, aka the years of stupidity spent in academia. Several of my friends stuffed ourselves into a minivan and drove from Lubbock , TX to Roswell, NM, a three hour, spur of the moment trip down a highway that’s best and only good quality is that it is a straight shot. We arrived at the International UFO Museum and Research Center , and found ourselves in the midst of a serious convention. Among the tourists were ..uh.. others who were listening to the walls near displayed “artifact’s” and taking notes. There were some that were promoting their conspiracy agendas via handouts and shouting, and of course there were panel discussions of those who had been abducted and, I assume, probed. All in all it was a fascinating experience. We bought our alien fridge magnets and headed back.

4. I was recently assaulted by a two man conga line. Yet another karmic consequence of irrationally hating Gloria Estefan.

5. “Janet Reno’s Dance Party” still freaking cracks me up, but it still comes in second to “More Cowbell!” Though we have to give Reno props for actually showing up for the awkward last sketch, the weirdness quotient is always compounded where Christopher Walken’s face and Will Farrell’s belly are involved. Add in enthusiastic cowbell thwacking, and it’s TKO – “More Cowbell” wins. Hands down.

6. Things that everyone else can do but me include:
* Hula-hoop. Never could. It gives me cramps.
* Float on my back in a pool. I sink right to the bottom.
* Be hypnotized. I'm too controlling.
* Write a G in cursive. Dude! I know!
* Dribble a basketball without looking at it.
* Stand up straight.
* PLAY TAG.

And now, in a free-for-all tag attempt (so that no one is excluded), imagine me (like Martin Short dancing), running behind you, yelling "TUWANDAAAAA!"

Tag. You're it.

People in Common - Democracy in Action

The following gives voice to a lovely message and movement going on in London. Please enjoy this from my friend, Mark:



I think I'll go for a picnic next week end..

Overheard: Man Crush

Sitting in a group of folks, desperately trying not to talk about work (and having already exhausted topics such as "What's your porn star name?" and "What's the weirdest thing you've ever done, the PG version?"):

Her, to the men in the group: SO. Who is your man cru..?"

(Before she could finish the question)

Man in the group, the same one whose porn star name is Richard Concord: ANTHONY BOURDAIN! ANTHONY BOURDAIN!!!

Her: "..ush?"

Others in the group: Wow. That was a fairly enthusiastic and odd response..

Dick Concord: Yeah. This has happened to me before. I hear the word "crush" and I'm all,"ANTHONY BOURDAIN!!!" and they're all "No. I wanted crushed ice," and I'm all, "Oh. Ok. That's cool."

Hat Hazard

"Pink polka-dot panties, a black lace bra, and a cowgirl hat," she mumbled to herself the next morning. Then she smiled.
..............................................................................
Three days before, she sauntered into the camp castle, relieved after a hot day in the adobe city where she and her cohorts had found what would soon be known as the infamous cowgirl hat. They had wandered aimlessly about the town, stopping briefly to visit the oldest church in the country and to peruse the sparkly trinkets in shop windows. They stumbled into and out of little side-street bazaars and nooks, where natives laid out their wares and promised handmade authenticity for every piece: necklaces from Chiapas, rugs from Pakistan, stained glass wind chimes from Texas, baseball caps poorly stitched with the town logo in the colors of the local flag.. and on and on and on.

It was among the scarves and bags that she found the hat shop. She had almost given up on buying anything until the shopkeeper knelt down to the lowest shelf and dug out one last dusty item - the hat.

It was inexpensive, as far as hats go, but had a little bit of flair and a lot of moxy. "I want to feel free this week," she thought as she pushed the hat down on her head. "I want some dazzle in my life - some turquoise and whimsy." She felt that wearing a new hat might alleviate some of the drudgery of her life, some of the monotony and heaviness that having responsibility brings. "Yes. A hat might be just the thing to help change a person's outlook," she thought. She adjusted the brim a little and then shyly turned to her friends for their honest appraisals.

Their faces lit up. "That's the one," the first said, the other nodding in agreement. "A very nice pairing."

Two men walked by and turned their heads.

"I'll take it," she declared.
.............................................................................
The camp grounds were stunning. After a long journey, it was pleasant to see what would be home for the next week. The main building - the castle - was perched mid-mountain among the fragrant pine trees and weathered rocks. Beautiful, parturient rain clouds crept across the sky, heavy and confident.

"Here is where God lives."
...........................................................................
They were there for work. At least that's what their employer paid for. Truly, the day sessions were great- alive with collaboration and nuance. Each member of the circled group shared their varying ideas - good ones, ones that could logically be implemented into any strategy. Each supported the others, and a bond of friendship and trust enveloped the group. Work definitely got his money's worth that week and more. The members of the group were natural friends - all of them - which meant that after the work, playtime beckoned with her coy little index finger and a smirk! What could they do but heed her invitation? Yes. Of course they had to go.
..............................................................................
Each evening was it's own entertainment, as is likely to happen in a place where God lives with clouds and trees, rocks and camaraderie. Dancing, games, frolicking and hiking, and all around revelry claimed each night. "It's Carnivale!" they cried, understanding both the frivolity and danger of making such associations. Everyone was wearing proverbial masks. Everyone embraced the freedom in their spirits. Everyone danced for the first time in years.

That's why she had to do it.

There were natural hot springs down the trail. Until the last night she had successfully resisted them. She had been envious of the ones who went the night before, who had been caught in a torrential rain storm, but who were tucked snugly into the warmth of the springs, enjoying the juxtaposition of the earth's sulfury pools and the sky's refreshing version of the same . The last tie of responsibility - of being married to an expectation - was wearing thin. This was her last chance to be frivolous this week. Plus they were begging her to go, and they were being very persuasive.

Perhaps it was the intoxication of being wanted that sealed it.

Under the light of a glowing moon in an electrified air, she ran to her room to find something to wear. She hadn't brought her swimsuit. She hadn't brought any shorts. Really, it wasn't a huge leap to put on what she did. At the last second she grabbed her hat - confidence in turquoise and straw - and skipped out of the room to meet her friends at the hot springs.

She felt a little giddy at her own bravery as she shimmed out of her jeans revealing the pink polka-dots to them. Even more brave was the moment when her shirt came off, the black lace an adornment over her illuminated skin. Her last bit of resolve came from the moment she pulled the hat down on her head.

They were looking at her, men and women alike. She didn't care.

And then she eased herself down among them, smiling and brave, into the welcome arms of nature.