The meaning of service

In honor of the Independence Day, I'd like to dedicate this post to the Americorps program, which you may have heard of but am betting know almost nothing about.  Over the past few weeks, I've discovered every single thing I thought I knew about Americorps was wrong.  Every single thing.  Now in place of all that misinformation, I'm armed with facts that have left me blown away by the depth of commitment, dedication and grit displayed by the over 80,000 Americans (many of them college age or recent college grads) who are serving our country in this way.

Before we get into the particulars, please know this: Americorps, like public libraries and national parks, is one of those 100% good things your tax dollars pay for; something that costs a paltry $550 million per year and pays big dividends in places many of us would rather ignore.  The reading intervention nonprofit I now work for employs Americorps members to staff reading centers in public schools nationwide.  It will be part of my job to train and manage a group of them, something I'm now bursting with excitement about doing.  Keep reading to see why...

Unlike, say, the Peace Corps or Teach for America, Americorps is not an organization that people apply and are accepted to as such.  Instead, a person applies for an Americorps position at nonprofit organization.  Once hired, members are trained on the job and receive health insurance, the promise of an education grant at the end of their service and a living allowance that is almost no money. Seriously.  No money. Unlike the Peace Corps, Americorps members are not living in the developing world (where you can live pretty well on almost no money).  Unlike Teach for America, which is a wonderful organization but not a service program, Americorps members don't earn a full-time professional salary.  Instead Americorps members do full-time, often professional-level work essentially for free. By choice.  They qualify for (and definitely use) food stamps. By choice. In the Bay Area, the stipend is well under $20,000.  I'm still not sure how they live, but they do because service is what they are about in every sense of the word.  I served in the Peace Corps, but it was different than the Americorps process I just described.  For one thing, I was taken care of every step of the way.  Sure, I lived and worked in a small village in Africa for two years, but I didn't have to find my own job or figure out how to pay rent.  Now, I'm not saying Peace Corps service isn't worthy or challenging.  It is. But Americorps, though it's often called "the domestic Peace Corps," demands an added level of social consciousness worth mentioning, since Americorps members choose a life below the poverty line along with their year(s) of service.  In Cameroon, the $200/month living allowance made me downright well off, especially since I only had to support myself.  I could enjoy all the country had to offer, not to mention the inherent privilege of being an American overseas.  Americorps members serve without those perks, even as they collectively log over 65 million hours every year for organizations like the Red Cross, Habitat for Humanity and the Boys & Girls Club.

So this 4th of July, raise a sparkler, a glass and an American flag to a government-sponsored program we can all be proud of, and the members throughout the country who are dedicating a year or more of their lives to helping make this land (from California to the New York islands, from the redwood forest to the Gulfstream waters) a better place.

Let's end with the Americorps pledge. Check it out!

I will get things done for America -
to make our people safer,
smarter, and healthier.

I will bring Americans together
to strengthen our communities.

Faced with apathy,
I will take action.

Faced with conflict,
I will seek common ground.

Faced with adversity,
I will persevere.

I will carry this commitment
with me this year and beyond.

I am an AmeriCorps member,
and I will get things done.

Now Voyager

The Voyager 1 probe is about to leave the solar system, according to a recent spate of publicity.  It will be the first human-made object to do so on its own power with the ability to transmit data back to Earth.  No one knows how long the Voyager crafts will continue to function after they clear the heliopause, that invisible boundary where the solar wind finally dies down and the final frontier begins.  Both Voyager 1 and 2 with their 1970s-era technology and now-primitive radio transmitters have exceeded their shelf life by decades as they've hurtled through the outer solar system, snapping pictures of Jupiter's moons and Saturn's rings.  I love the thought all that analog technology lasting so long--its staying power flying in the face of NASA's perpetual critics.  In my perfect world, well-informed curmudgeons from America's heartland would straighten their John Deere caps reverently at the news of the Voyagers' mechanical prowess rather than roll their eyes at operating budgets and taxpayer dollars. 'Yep,' one would say to the assembled crew, leaning in for effect. 'They sure don't make interstellar spaceships like they used to.'

I've re-developed a minor obsession with Voyager recently, ever since hearing about its upcoming break out of the solar system on NPR's Radiolab program (Find a link to the potentially life-changing podcast here) I say re-developed because as a young astronomy buff growing up in the 80s, I followed the Voyager mission as closely as a school kid could in the days before the Internet.  My mom even took my sister, friend and me down to the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena (Voyager mission control to this day) where we toured their small museum, viewed ethereal color snapshots of the gas giants that revolutionized space science and saw a replica of Voyager 1, complete with its golden record (more on that later).

While my sister gawked appreciatively, and my friend (a math prodigy) quizzed the scientist on call in the museum, I wandered around in a poetic daze, my head full of the half-formed musings of a literary nerd-in-training. Primed by the lush language of kid-friendly astronomy books and countless Star Trek re-runs, I embraced outer space for its metaphors: the mystery, possibility and triumph of the human spirit.  The Voyager mission was a beeping, spinning embodiment of hope and optimism (humans reaching ever outward!) along with the melancholy of our loneliness (two little probes so far from home)

Turns out, my feelings haven't changed much in 26 years...

I listened to the Radiolab program while driving a U-Haul truck from Austin to Berkeley and re-entered that 12-year-old daze of awe and admiration.  The world has changed so much since the Voyagers set off in 1977, but in a way, everything that's happened almost doesn't matter.  In astronomical terms, these 35 years have been a mere blink of an eye as Voyager has spanned the tiniest fraction of the immensity surrounding us.  As I thought about my own life--the transitions, triumphs, failures and mundane day-to-day--I added another metaphor to Voyager's list: perspective.  The poets of space science, the late-great Carl Sagan among them, write about our place in the cosmos in a way that makes, say, the end of a relationship, an interstate move and the start of a new career trajectory (all in just three weeks) seem a little less significant.  As I drove through the Arizona high desert listening to Voyager's rendering of the whoosh of solar wind 9 billion miles from home, I found my transition angst lifting somewhat.  When I heard about "The Pale Blue Dot," it lifted almost entirely.

"The Pale Blue Dot" is the last photograph (to date) that Voyager 1 has taken.  It is also a book by Carl Sagan, who was the main advocate for the picture in the first place.  The Voyagers' cameras are no longer on to save power.  But before NASA turned them off in 1990, scientists turned Voyager 1 around and pointed its camera back at Earth.  The resulting photo is called "The Pale Blue Dot" because it shows Earth as a tiny half-pixel of blue light, captured in the slanted light of the distant Sun against a black field of outer space.

Then Carl Sagan wrote, as only Carl Sagan could: 

"Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam." 

Yeah...that kind of puts my little problems into a lot of perspective.

But for those of you tempted to resort to nihilistic shrugging, the Voyagers also offer hope, ridiculous, wonderful, galaxy-sized hope.  That's where the golden record comes in.  Each Voyager probe has a gold record attached to its side--you may have heard of them.  These records encapsulate the very best of the human spirit, and not just because they contain greetings in 55 different languages and 116 sounds and images from our planet, including music by Mozart and Chuck Berry.  Etched on the records are pictures of human beings and an interstellar map to Earth, using big astronomical landmarks like pulsars to guide the way.  It didn't matter to the people who made the golden record that it will take Voyager 1 about 40,000 years to reach the next star.  It didn't matter that the chances of an alien race 1) encountering a tiny craft in the vast expanse of space and 2) being able to play a record, for the love of Pete, are beyond miniscule.  We humans slapped those messages into our spaceship bottles and tossed them into the largest sea in existence because that's how we roll here on Earth.  We screw up all the time.  We're petty and self-important.  We poison our oceans and trash our forests.  We're mean to each other based on all sorts of nonsensical prejudices and assumptions.  Yet when it comes down to it, we have this hope in a future that spans all time, and we'd like to believe we're not alone out here on our pale blue dot.  We don't mean much, but we mean something, and we reach out--to each other and to the universe.  As long as we keep reaching out, I think we'll be OK.  We might even be here in 40,000 years when our new alien friends come calling, even if by then absolutely no one knows what a 'record' is.

Ode to the Lone Star State

"That's right; you're not from Texas.
But Texas wants you anyway." --Lyle Lovett

As I prepare to leave Texas for California (another state that believes it should be its own country), I feel moved to record here all that I've learned and loved about the Lone Star State. As you may recall, the decision to land here two years raised quite a few eyebrows among my Left Coast nearest and dearest.

"Texas," they said. "Texas..." 

And in that emphasis-not-mine was captured George W, the deep-red politics embodied by wacky presidential hopeful and current governor Rick Perry, big hair and an obsession with competitive sports.  Even in the liberal heart of Austin, there was suspicion that the capital city would merely be Texas Lite, blue-state around the gills, but still decidedly ten-gallon and big-belt-buckled.

I'm pleased to report that Texas and Austin have exceeded my expectations on every occasion.  Although, it's true I have not found a permanent home here, I have found much to love.  Texas deserves much of its reputation. (No one here has forgotten the Alamo!) And, as always, there is more to any place than its list of stereotypes and cliches.

 

What I love about Texas and Austin

People who are honest-to-goodness, unabashedly friendly.  And chatty.

I will miss the socializing that a trip to supermarket in Austin always entailed.  I'd be inspecting a label or waiting at the check-out and inevitably a perfect stranger would strike up a conversation. We'd discuss any number of topics: the items in our carts, the weather, upcoming events or the celebrity scandals in the magazines, just to name a few greatest hits.  Conversations happened other places too. Invariably whenever I'd wear my Northwestern t-shirt between September and December someone would ask me how the football team was doing--and never seemed to care I didn't know.  When a friend from New York came to visit, I warned her about this phenomenon, but she didn't believe me--until we were standing in line at Whole Foods.  "This is unbelievable," she said, tapping her foot Manhattan-style as the man in front of us chatted away with the checker.  "There are people waiting in line."  (i.e.: us)  While I was less of a New York toe-tapper, it also took me awhile to adjust.  I was accustom to my urban bubble-of-personal-space being respected.  When the first Texan burst it my second evening in Austin, I hardly knew what to do.  But now I'll miss it.  There's something to be said about breaching that urban bubble and leaving the store with a smile, more often than not.  I haven't turned into an extrovert in this most extroverted of places, but I've come to appreciate that unapologetic friendliness.

West Texas around Big Bend

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.  Tabled buttes, painted-desert rocks, jagged peaks, big sky...this area of Texas is stunning, nary a tumbleweed in sight.  It is also home to the McDonald Observatory, which transmits Star Date on your local public radio station; the artist haven of Marfa and Guadalupe Peak, the tallest mountain in the state. 

Amazing Bikram yoga studios

If you ever find yourself in Austin and have a chance to take a class at any of Pure Bikram Yoga's four studios, don't hesitate for a minute!  This is the cream-of-the-crop as far as Bikram studios go and nowhere I've practiced anywhere in the world comes close. What makes an amazing Bikram studio?  Excellent teachers, high-ceiled rooms, super-grip carpet and a less-than-pervasive sweaty smell.  (It's Bikram, so you can't eliminate it completely, but Pure Bikram does a good job...)  It's been my home-away-from-home here in Austin.  I'm sad to be leaving right when almost every teacher knows my name.   

Whole Foods flagship store

From the beginning my second home-away-from-home has been the vast Whole Foods flagship on North Lamar.  While the super-pricey supermarket has gone corporate since its humble start in 1980, the flagship store drew me in with its free wi-fi, plentiful cafe-style seating, unbeatable people watching and endless selection of food to eat while working.  Which I did almost every Sunday morning (and some Saturdays) for two years.  I only recently started doing occasional grocery shopping there, preferring instead to treat it as a dining-out location.  The price tag for breakfast or dinner certainly matched any restaurant around. 


The cost of living

First of all, Texas has no state income tax.  'Nuf said.  Second of all, it's possible to get out of a fairly nice restaurant with alcohol and dessert for less than $60.  Not kidding.  Third of all, I paid $735/month during my first year for a two-bedroom apartment.  Seriously.  Fourth of all, gas is currently $3.38/gallon.  Yup.  Lastly, my car insurance is under $1,000/year.  Sigh.  I love that California is my home, and I truly cannot wait to move back.  I still wish it were a little more affordable.

The weather

I've been cleaning out my closets after two years in Austin (and two years before that in Abu Dhabi) and I don't think I've quite come to terms with how inadequately I'm wardrobed for a return to the Bay Area.  Fortunately, this year I've been given or have acquired enough wool/outerwear to keep me going until I can re-acclimate (plus, the gorgeous, unseasonably warm winter/spring has me hopeful). I am relieved to be living in the East Bay, where the sun shines warmer and with more frequency.  But as I listen to the Austin weather report every morning on my way to work, it has slowly dawned on me that Austin's low this time of year (@ 75 F) would be a heatwave where I'm heading.

Buddha's Brew cranberry kombucha, Texas barbecue and breakfast tacos

The cuisine of Texas is as distinct as the state itself.  While I've enjoyed my share of Tex-Mex, I've actually spent more time longing for a real California burrito (virtually non-existent here) than digging into enchiladas, tamales or bowl of queso (which means cheese in Spanish, but melted cheese product here).  The Austin foods I will miss most are not replicable anywhere else in the world.  I haven't even left yet, but the cravings have already begun.

Buddha's Brew is a local brand and their cranberry flavor will forever be synonymous with kombucha.  (For those of you who don't know, kombucha is wonderful slightly fermented, though non-alcoholic, yeast-based pro-biotic drink that, I promise, is a lot more appetizing than it sounds.)  Cranberry is the best flavor by far, and I would import it to the Bay Area if I could.  Instead, I'll make it my mission to find a California equivalent.

I'm not the first, nor will I be the last to extol the virtues of smokey, saucy Texas barbecue, so different than its cousins farther and deeper South.  From brisket to ribs to the accompanying stacks of squishy white bread and pickles, Texas barbecue is hard to describe but impossible to forget.  Shout out to both Franklin's and The Salt Lick.  If you are ever in Austin, don't miss either spot.

Before I moved to Austin, a friend sent me a New York Times article about the breakfast taco phenomenon.  Allow me to say, this town has lived up to the hype, so much so that I can hardly conceive of a breakfast now that does not involve a tortilla.  Breakfast tacos are available everywhere here, from the whole-wheat-and-avocado veggie variety to the mound of potatoes, bacon and eggs as big as your head at local restaurant favorite Juan in a Million.  Add a little salsa, and you're set for the day.

As excited I am to be heading home, I will never regret the two years I spent in Texas, and I don't plan to make a secret of the fact to anyone in the Golden State who'd like to throw down with me about it.  Apparently, it's taken living in one of the most conservative states in the union to make me more open-minded--just another example of the paradox Texas offers, whether it means to or not.  I'm definitely looking forward to returning for a visit.  After all, I never did see it...

Instant cure for the transitional blues

Mom and baby elephant in the Serengeti

I've been dying to write about baby elephants.  Now seems to be the right time.  Is there a wrong to write about baby elephants, you may reasonably ask?  Of course not.  However, now is also when the school year is winding down accompanied by typical short tempers, final testing days and  alternate-schedule stress.  There's also a "lame duck" transitional vibe, the middle school version of "senioritis" when the next grade seems close enough to touch--and yet so far away.   Teachers could get rich if we had a dollar for every time we asked, a little more wearily with each repetition, for focus, attention and quiet.  It's no mistake that Teacher of the Year awards are handed out before May.

Add this to personal transitions like, say, moving back to California, just to name one, and you have a perfect storm of stress with an 80% chance of full-blown angst by evening.

So, now is the perfect time to write about baby elephants.

As baby animals go, baby elephants wouldn't rank on a scale of pure cuteness.  They are not fluffier, softer or more dew-eyed versions of the adult model.  In fact, they look remarkably like the adult model, only miniature, right down to their miniature wrinkles, sags and head bristles. But baby elephants have something that other baby animals don't, namely a really big brain and a personality to match.  There is tons of research out there that shows elephants are among the most intelligent of animals, complete with their own  language and a complex social structure.  Baby elephants gestate longer than any other mammal. (Elephant moms are pregnant for 22 months!) That, combined with the fact that most female elephants are fertile only a few days a year, makes the arrival of a baby elephant a very big deal in the herd.

I've been lucky to observe elephants in the wild, once in Cameroon and several times in Tanzania.  Each occasion has been a memory of such unmitigated joy that I call it up anytime it feels like the world is ending. Which is why I want to share them with you.   Baby elephants absolutely shine with intelligence and carefree exuberance, as any youngster would who is long-awaited and lovingly nurtured.  And they spread that joy to anyone watching them.

The twins in the flowers

Two memories come to mind, and they happened within minutes of each other in Tarangere National Park in Tanzania.  The first involved two baby elephants who looked about two or three.  They were playing in a field of white flowers that stood about five-feet tall (just over their heads).  The guide said they were twins, rarer and more special than even a solo baby. These two were a long way from full grown, but big enough to not need constant supervision--and they were making the most of it.  Using their trunks, they would bat down the white flowers then--I'm not making this up--squeak adorably when the flowers bounced  back into position, usually smacking them on the forehead.  They did this tirelessly, as kids do, sometimes bopping each other, sometimes bopping themselves.  At one point I swear they both collapsed with laughter, falling onto the ground and rolling over, crushing the plants and knocking into each other.  Then they bounded up and started again. It was so delightful I forgot to take a picture until the very end. 

The second memory I don't have a picture of. It happened just down the road from where the twins were playing, perhaps sent away to amuse themselves so the following scene could take place. Five or six full-grown elephants stood in a circle, facing out on the banks of a small river.  I didn't understand why they were hanging around like until I saw what they were surrounding.  There in the center of the circle was a very small elephant, no more than a few months.  Now, grown elephants in the wild have almost nothing to worry about as far as predators are concerned.  (We humans are their biggest threat by far.) But babies, especially when they are very young, are vulnerable.  So, for example, when the baby takes a bath in the river, then wants to roll around in the mud (who wouldn't?), the adults indulgently form a barrier while the kid is defenseless on its back.

This baby was going to town, kicking up small puffs of dust as it squirmed with delight.  It was also squeaking preciously as it bounced up and flopped back down.  Finally, one of the adults (mom?) nudged it a little (time to go...).  It bounced up, but before the circle could break up, it tumbled back down again for another round of adorable wiggling, causing one or two other elephants to exhale pointedly.  Another nudge got it on its feet, then the herd formed up in a line with the tiny baby in the middle.  (And, btw, you might be surprised to learn that a herd of elephants (I've witnessed one as large as 40 in Cameroon) travel in absolute silence, demolishing the "loud as a herd of elephants" cliche. If you closed your eyes, you wouldn't know they were there.)

It's no surprise elephants symbolize wisdom and memory.  In children's literature, they are often the smartest, most community oriented characters, solid in their beliefs and ready to offer support. (Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss!  Babar!)  If you ever get a chance to observe them in the wild, take it.  (Not that you need convincing...)  You will feel immeasurably happier and grounded for the experience.  As for me, I'm keeping my elephant memories extra close these days, knowing they'll last well beyond the May blues...

Only connect

Stuff has been on my mind lately.  My Stuff and our collective Stuff that is currently cluttering our homes and apartments. This weekend, I started packing for my move back to the Bay Area, which will occur in a terrifyingly short amount of time.  I have reserved a U-haul and am psyching myself up to drive said truck with my car hitched to the back. (Stay off I-40 during the weekend of June 8.  Just saying...)  I'm sorting my closet and packing my books. (Thank you, Kindle!  The 115 books I've acquired in the past two years weigh less than a pound and all fit into my purse!) This is what we do when we move.  We pay money to transport our Stuff from one place to the other.  We sort and purge--and keep only what is "necessary."  Yet we still find ourselves becoming a hazard to road-trip vacationers everywhere driving a truck we have no business operating, not to mention the hitch trailing behind.

My relationship with Stuff has been always been somewhat aloof, more so in the past than now.  For an unusually long time as an adult, I owned hardly a stick of furniture and could (and did) move across the world with a couple boxes and suitcases.  I liked it that way.  I now find myself in possession of a couch, table-and-chairs, bed, dresser and various smaller accoutrement like end tables and Ikea lamps.  I've thought about leaving it all in Austin and starting fresh in Berkeley, but I'm not going to.  Abandoning this load will only mean I have to acquire another set, which leaves me just as cold.  Moving or not, we own Stuff.  When people come to my apartment, they will expect to have a place to sit, vessels to drink out of, a table to rest their plate on--and I, as their host, want to provide this for them.  This is a perfectly reasonable expectation, but it is one that requires advanced planning and an outlay of funds in a way we hardly think about (or at least until we have to pack it all up and move it somewhere else).  

Someone has thought about it, though.  His name is Daniel Suelo, and journalist Mark Sundeen has written a book about him called The Man Who Quit Money.  Suelo is neither homeless nor possession-less, yet he doesn't use money in any way. Consciously.  On purpose.  When he's not house-sitting for friends, he lives in a cave on federal land within walking distance of Moab, Utah. He dumpster dives, works in a community garden, forages and volunteers.  He doesn't accept any assistance (like food stamps/welfare) or handouts.  At this point, he doesn't even carry an I.D. Yet his life, as recounted by Sundeen, is abundant in a way that is hard for us to imagine.  For example, people visiting his cave don't expect to have somewhere to sit, but they find places. He eats well from discarded food and garden produce.  Found items like sleeping bags, clothing and tarps keep him warm.  Like the hunter-gatherers of old (and some tribes in the Kalahari to this day), he has plenty of free time after his foraging is finished for the day (or week).  He isn't a hermit, and he doesn't have a political agenda.  (He's not on a "money strike" like a hunger strike to make a point.)  He has chosen to live outside the economy because it aligns with his carefully reasoned ideals and allows him to do the work he chooses.  Not surprisingly, his life is centered on doing good, in the tradition of Buddhist sadhus. He is certainly not the only person in the world who considers the current flavor of American hyper-capitalism to be spiritually bankrupt and soul-crushing.  But his solution is remarkably unassuming and totally non-violent in every sense of that word.  According to Sundeen's account, Suelo is deeply content and at peace, and the way he fully lives his beliefs brings a sense of peace to those he encounters. It's wonderful to read about. 

What's most striking about the book is actually not the fact that Suelo lives without money (but like any good journalist, Sundeen knows a good hook when he sees it).  I mean, the whole book could be about the mechanics of not having a dime in your pocket (This guy uses no money! OMG! How does he do it?!).  The most striking thing about the book--the thing that makes it a literal page turner--is the difficult and fascinating journey Suelo took to arrive where he is today.  Hint: it involves a lot more than closing a checking account.  It touches on so many aspects of life that we all struggle with: identity, relationships, family expectations/influence, the meaning of work, the meaning of money, developed world vs. developing world, religious ideals vs. religious dogma, the list goes on and on.  I have a feeling that anyone who reads Sundeen's book will take something different away from it. 

So what are you waiting for?  Seriously, go read it now.

What has stayed with me most is the way we all remain connected under the surface of our fractured, pay-for-services-rendered modern world. Time and time again, Suelo recounts acts of generosity and community by complete strangers from all backgrounds and walks of life.  When the things that keep us apart--and money is a big divider--are subverted, as Suelo has done, it doesn't take long for these connections to become visible. They have not been gobbled up by partisan politics, Great Recessions, housing crises, the 1% or the bugaboo of the moment.  They are there, just waiting to emerge when the artificial barriers we create are broken down. Suelo is a living, breathing subverter of one of these barriers.  When he refuses payment or direct handouts and instead gives away his found bounty rather than return it to the dumpster as so many of us do, he interrupts the system.  What takes its place is stunning in its genuine depth.  When you can't pay someone, what do you do?  You thank them sincerely.  You smile.  You feel lighter and freer.  They smile back.  You establish a connection that would not have existed otherwise, even if it is short-lived. Exposing and building these connections is the way Suelo lives--all the time.  Living without money allows him to do it. 

It is a profoundly hopeful message, and it is so important to keep in mind, whether you are living in a cave or moving from Austin to Berkeley in a few weeks.  It has made me start looking for other ways to subvert the system in personal, meaningful ways, to break down what divides us and allow all that humanity to come to light. 

Hey girl...

When I first came across pictures from the blog Hey Girl, all I did was giggle appreciatively.  The site, managed ostensibly by a nameless student teacher, features alluring stock photos of celebrities (Ryan Gosling is a particular favorite) with homemade captions praising any aspect of the teaching profession you can think of.  From IEPs to writing portfolios; intervention groups to late-night lesson-planning, the hard work of teachers is extolled by Hollywood's most beautiful.  Most captions begin "Hey girl..." though there are plenty of photos to meet the self-esteem needs of teachers of any gender and orientation.

As time went on, however, and more posts started turning up on friends' Facebooks, I stopped giggling and started pondering.  After I found the site myself (rather than just hitting "like") and read more of the submissions, I actually got a little choked up.  The pictures are silly, yet they fill a pretty gaping void.  Simple, unconditional praise is a rare commodity in education these days, especially where teachers are concerned.  Much more common is the "black coffee in a pretty cup" as we say here in Austin.  Or the sh%$ sandwich as my friend MW used to call it.  It goes something like this: Well, that lesson was very effective but how could you have reached all learners? Sure, those kids might have aced the quiz, but was it really rigorous enough? Oh, and have you planned your next field trip/unit/intervention yet?

To be fair, we teachers are always hardest on ourselves, throwing out the "pretty cup" altogether in favor of a strong dose of unadulterated critique.  When the school year is in full swing, there is rarely time to think of anything other than the next 20 minutes.  Reflection of any kind, but especially the "expendable" positive kind, is the first to go.

Which is why it's oddly moving to have the most dashing, dazzling of our cultural icons dishing out specific, teacher-related compliments with the knowledge of a 25-year classroom veteran and the sex appeal of, well, Ryan Gosling.  Or Natalie Portman.  Or Rachel McAdams.  Or Orlando Bloom.  It's the specificity of the praise that I find the most touching.  It's not the vapid oh-I-admire-you-so-much-not-that-I'd-ever-do-that of strangers. It's the creative, photoshopped fantasy of people who know exactly what we're all going through: beautifully prepared coffee just the way you like it AND the pretty cup.   Check it out at Hey Girl Teacher!


(This one, I'm pretty sure, was written just for me.)

Loving Lady Bird's legacy

This year the welcome spring rain in Austin has brought not only green grass and a huge sigh of relief from farmers, but seas of blooming wildflowers on the side of almost every road and major street.  These wildflowers, all native plants, are the legacy of Lady Bird Johnson, former First Lady and (it turns out) avid environmentalist, city beautification advocate and all-around incredible woman.

(I pass this beautiful patch on the way from work to yoga.  Brings a smile every time.)

The only thing I knew about Lady Bird before doing some wildflower-inspired research recently was that she was married to our 36th president Lyndon B. Johnson and had (in my opinion) a totally absurd nickname. (Her given name was Claudia.)  I didn't know she was one of the few women to graduate from the University of Texas in the 1930s with degrees in journalism and art.  I didn't know she bought and ran a network of radio and TV stations on her own in the 1940s and 50s as LBJ was ascending the political ranks. And I didn't know that she inspired the first environmental/beautification legislation about the same time that the Interstate highway system was being built.  This bill cleaned up the new highways, promoted scenic landscaping, combated littering and limited advertising.  Although it was called the Beautification Act, Lady Bird hated the term 'beautification' because to her it sounded superficial and trivial.  She was much more concerned with the environmental aspects of the bill, especially the native-plant landscaping, open space preservation, and safe waste management.  Lady Bird, it seems, was much more than a political wife with a quirky Southern name.

I have always admired LBJ a ridiculous amount and love that there was a time when Real Men from Texas did things like ensure voting rights for minorities (the Civil Right Act), advocate for the poor and fund public education, public broadcasting and public healthcare (Medicaid and Medicare).  Ahhh, those halcyon days... Turns out, Lady Bird was right there with him, drumming up support for Head Start along with the Wilderness Act of 1964, the Land and Water Conservation Fund and scores of others.  In perhaps the sweetest presidential gesture ever, LBJ gave Lady Bird each of the 50 pens he used to sign the 50 pieces of environmental legislation she helped bring to fruition along with a plaque that read, "To Lady Bird, who has inspired me and millions of Americans to preserve our land and beautify our nation. With love, Lyndon." 

Lady Bird died in 2007, but her tireless work continues to bloom, literally and figuratively.  Here in Austin, in addition to the gorgeous flowers sprucing up the roadways, she founded the National Wildflower Research Center (re-named for her in 2006), which promotes the benefits and beauty native plants throughout the country.  She also made sure that beautification projects, especially those funded by the government, reached all neighborhoods and areas, from the Interstate to the inner city.

It would be enough if central Texas burst into color every spring with bluebonnets and native azaleas bobbing in the gentle breeze. But it is even more amazing that these wildflowers are the ground-breaking work of a woman who made sure that every one of us could enjoy the beauty that surrounds us for years to come.

Just-right rituals

"Ritual is necessary for us to know anything." --Ken Kesey

Rituals are on my mind this week.  Not the ones that come before words like 'sacrifice' or  after words like 'New Age,' but the ones designed to rally large groups and build positive momentum in a way that can look frankly ridiculous to an outsider but makes perfect sense to the people whose ritual it is.

I'm thinking of Texas Longhorns, here.  Longhorns and garden gnomes.

Allow me to explain.  I'll start with the garden gnomes. 

After the winter break, we teachers got together and decided to motivate our advisory groups to achieve greater heights of behavioral excellence than second semester of 6th grade typically inspires.  To do this, we proposed a contest among the groups based on the students' weekly behavior progress report, which takes the form of a paycheck.  The advisory group with the most high paychecks would host a trophy in their room for that week.

Oh, but not just any trophy, protested the theater teacher (who else?)  No plastic, gold-colored column with an abstract figurine on top would do.  Our trophy should be (wait for it...) a garden gnome!

And "Own the Gnome" was born in the 6th grade.  Of course before we could roll it out to the kids, we had to find a gnome.  Which is how I spent almost an entire Saturday a few weeks ago scouring the garden stores of Austin for a suitable trophy.  Let me tell you: there is a definite lack of trophy-quality garden gnomes for sale out there.  I would call ahead and be promised a vast selection, only to arrive and find that the gnomes in question were all solid concrete, or covered in a winter's worth of moss, or one solid color from head to toe, or in one startling example, riding a pig.  The salespeople at the stores were a bit confused by my utter rejection of what, to any discerning gardener, were no doubt excellent examples of gnome-hood.  I didn't bother to explain what I actually wanted the gnome for.  Like most rituals, this one was so culturally specific I knew it wouldn't translate.  

In the end, we ended up ordering the classic Travelocity gnome over the Internet (they come in 13-, 15- and 18-inch varieties, in case you're interested).  The kids were thrilled, especially when the first group who won dressed it up like a pirate (the mascot of their teacher's college).  Who knows if it'll inspire better behavior or just amuse us all no end.  Either way, it's a win.

Which brings us to the Texas Longhorns, the men's basketball team in particular.  Our school sometimes gets free tickets to weekend games, and I was on the list to take some students to a recent match-up against the University of Kansas Jayhawks.

No place on Earth does sports quite like Texas.  The Frank Erwin Center, where the Longhorns play, looks as professional as any NBA arena with an enormous Jumbo-tron and three tiers of seats.  On game day they were packed with orange-clad fans set off nicely by the royal blue of a sizable Jayhawks contingent.  Sitting there, I felt a little bit like an archeologist investigating a large, vigorous tribe rather than a spectator at an athletic event.  There was the marching band, the cheerleaders, the dance troupe, the mascot (Bevo) and, of course, the team.  There was a whole roster of fight songs, hand motions and call and response cheers.  When the Jumbo-tron flashed "On your feet," every single fan in the place leapt to.  When the Jumbo-tron instructed "Make some noise," the cacophony was deafening.  The number of free-throw shots missed by the opposing team was significant, and I lay it at the feet of the entire wedge of seats behind the Jayhawk basket (both halves of the game) who had a coordinated waving motion meant to distract the shooter. 

In the end, the Longhorns lost by three points in the last minute of the game, which made a lot of orange-wearing diehards unhappy.  But leaving the arena I didn't see many frowns.  Instead, people were still humming the fight song, recounting amazing plays and looking ahead to the next game against in-state rival Texas Tech.

Because, of course, being a Longhorn fan, just like owning the gnome, is about more than a single result.  It's about being a part of something that makes perfect sense, win or lose.  That, to me, is ritual at its best.  Not dogma or a myth or something slightly cult-ish, but a way to bring people together and teach them something while they're there.  On the surface the lesson may be something like: if you mind your manners, your group can dress up a 13-inch plastic representation of a garden spirit for seven whole days.  Or: if you shape your fingers into the suggestion of longhorn steer horns and wave them around for an entire game, your team might win.  But scratch a little deeper, and the real meaning of ritual emerges: if you work as a team, you inspire others to do the same.  Sometimes it takes garden gnomes.  Other times, you need a Jumbo-tron and a marching band.  In every case, it's the ritual that gets you there and keeps you learning--Longhorns, 6th graders and the rest of us.