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.

This Train's Year in Books 2011

Welcome to the 2011 edition of This Train's year in books, otherwise known as the Year of Nonfiction and other cool events that are as exciting as fiction but really happened.  This year, in reading and in life, has been full of unexpected surprises and adventure mixed in with the familiar--a winning combination that has left me feeling thankful and blessed, not to mention much more informed on topics ranging from particle physics to rubber duckies and quite a bit in between.  

January: The Disappearing Spoon: And Other True Tales of Madness, Love and the History of the Periodic Table of Elements by Sam Kean

Technically I bought this book last December, but it was the title that opened 2011.  I read it once, then promptly read it again, this time out loud to my mother over the new year while in Belfast, Ireland visiting my sister Sarah and her family.  It is brilliantly written, laugh-out-loud funny and, really, who knew what dastardly lengths scientists will go to in search of new elements? Or what wacky tricks elements can do under various circumstances, some thrillingly technical, some totally mundane. (The disappearing spoon mentioned in the title, for example, is made from gallium, an element that melts at temperatures found in an ordinary cup of tea.  Those wild-and-crazy chemists love to haze the new guy by busting out the gallium spoons at teatime.)

At its core, this book is about the drama, passion and hilarity that often result when people try to bring order to chaos and find answers to life's most fundamental questions. It is therefore appropriate that is represents January 2011, the month I entered into a Pact with four of my closest teaching friends of all time.  Three of us were single, and this Pact was meant to bring order, possibly passion, though hopefully not drama, to our personal lives.  It was not about creating instant chemistry, but about taking the risk of putting ourselves out there--a key component in any scientific experiment as well as in life. 

February: The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos by Brian Greene

The science theme continued with Columbia University professor and lucid writer Brian Greene's book on the physics of the universe.  I wrote a blog about this book while reading it (see "Flights of Reality" from February 2011), so won't repeat myself here.  This book, however, perfectly represents February, in which I threw myself into fulfilling my end of the Pact with a brief and memorably hilarious (though not at all passionate) experiment in online dating.  Particle physics and string theory have nothing on the hidden realities of meeting up with perfect strangers in coffee shops and restaurants and attempting to make conversation based on a brief blurb on a dating website.  Though I paid for a month of this service, I was done after two weeks and perfectly content to put the Pact to rest.  Or so I thought.

March: A Red Herring Without Mustard and I Am Half Sick of Shadows by Alan Bradley, The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith, A Trick of the Light by Louise Penny, The Eloquence of Blood by Judith Rock and V is for Vengeance by Sue Grafton

I didn't read all of these mysteries in March, but I put them here together because they represent the latest installments of several favorite mystery series as well as almost all of the fiction I read this year.  Reading a good mystery, especially those with familiar characters, is like hanging out with an old friend for days at a time.  But familiarity hardly equals boredom since these "old friends" are always knee-deep in intrigue and adventure.  I especially recommend, as always, Judith Rock, novelist and godmother extraordinaire.  Though I'm not the most unbiased source, I will say that her second installment starring Charles du Luc as an intrepid Jesuit rhetorician/dance instructor/detective in the wilds of 17th century Paris, is impeccably plotted and researched--and, dare I say, even more exciting than her debut last year.

I spent time with a lot of old friends in March, reconnecting on a week-long spring break trip to San Francisco.  I blogged about this, too (see "Sitting Still" from March 2011).  What wasn't mentioned in the demure March post was the intriguing and definitely not-dull moment of meeting Anna amidst a whirlwind of familiar faces, including MW, who introduced us.  The moment I'd given up on the Pact, certain that my personal-life plotline would continue on its nonexistent trajectory, the scene shifted, in the style of the very best mystery novels.  I suddenly found myself not in the drawing room with Colonel Mustard, or in a random cafe with a perfect stranger, but in a San Francisco restaurant with Anna at the start of something incredible.

April: You Are What You Speak: Grammar Grouches, Language Laws and the Politics of Identity by Robert Lane Greene

OK, I realize this whole entry is beginning to resemble one of those cheesy episodes from an 80s TV show made up of "flashback" clips from previous episodes.  I promise this is the last time I will shout out a book I have already written an entire post about (see "Speaking Truth to Grammar Grouches, April 2011), but I can't help it.  This was one of the best books I read in 2011, and one of the best in its genre.  Once again, don't let the lengthy academic title throw you off--this book is as delightful and necessary as it is readable.  And I'm not throwing around the word "necessary" lightly.  The way we speak as well as perceive (and judge) the way others speak is one of the most fundamental ways we decide who to trust, respect and take seriously.  Greene utterly demolishes the notion that there was ever a "golden age" of any language when all people spoke the "correct" way.  In so doing, he intellectually legitimizes the way all languages (including English) evolve and change.

May: In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family in Hitler's Berlin by Erik Larson

Those of you who enjoyed Larson's Devil in the White City and Thunderstruck won't be disappointed by this departure from his technology-meets-modern-crime theme.  Or perhaps his research into the rise of Hitler bears witness to the most horrific crime in history.  In this riveting book, Larson tells the story of the Dodd family's years in 1930s Berlin.  He focuses mainly on the professorial William Dodd, American ambassador to Germany, and Dodd's fun-loving, sexually liberated daughter Martha, who immerses herself in the Third Reich party scene and discovers much more than she bargained for.  As a reader, it is alternately agonizing and fascinating to watch Hitler's rise to power through the eyes of two Americans who have no idea what is coming.  Larson's excellent writing and detailed historical context keep the suspense high, even when the tragic outcome is a foregone conclusion from the start.

June: The Passage by Justin Cronin

I couldn't put down Cronin's skillfully written thriller about an America devastated by a biological weapon gone awry that turns every tenth infected person into a scary, vampyric superhuman.  Good times, if you are (as I am) a sucker for post-apocalyptic tales involving a few remaining humans battling the evil result of militaristic hubris against all odds.  I read this while in Costa Rica learning Spanish, and it was perhaps not the best choice for bedtime in the sleepy town of Turrialba, nestled in the rainforest and full of insects, small creatures and various other things that go bump in the night.  Though not for the faint of heart, I highly recommend The Passage not only as a page turner but as a glimpse into the hearts and minds of some wonderfully rendered characters that will be returning in the much-anticipated sequel due out in March 2012.

July: The Ascent of Money--Niall Ferguson

Understanding the economy with or without a MBA takes close reading as well as courage these days.  The decisions made on Wall Street (whether by the fabled 1% or not) often seem based solely on myopic greed and the herd mentality.  Turns out it's always been this way.  Ferguson's clearly written account traces money, markets and investing back to its origins and contextualizes a lot of the historical currents that have been battering us lately.  I wasn't exactly reassured, especially given how deeply these currents are affected by psychology rather than the "rational" rules we learn in Econ 101, but I did feel a lot more informed. 

August: One of a Kind: the Rise and Fall of Stuey "The Kid" Ungar, the World's Greatest Poker Player by Mike Sexton and Nolan Dalla

As a teacher, I often plug reading by telling students how it will open up worlds they've never dreamed of before.  I felt this way while reading about Stuey Ungar, a career gambler, drug addict and poker genius who won the World Series of Poker not once but three different times, and then died, virtually penniless in a Vegas hotel room at age 45. As single-minded a gambler as any dedicated artist, musician or executive, Ungar probably won about $30 million over the course of his short life, yet never had a bank account or home address.  His story is a intriguing peek into the world of professional gambling, bookies and bets, and is ably told by Sexton and Dalla based on hours of taped interviews with Stuey before his death.

September: How to Live, Or a Life of Montaigne in One Question and 20 Attempts at an Answer by Sarah Bakewell

I dipped into this book throughout 2011, but finished it in September.  Montaigne was essentially the first blogger 500 years before the Internet existed.  A Renaissance man (literally and figuratively), he pioneered the personal essay, writing about life, love, land, family, politics, plague and anything else that came into his head from his "writing tower" on his estate near Bordeaux.  Just like the bloggers of today, Montaigne had avid fans who felt he was speaking to them alone--as well as vehement detractors who disliked his chatty style and secular, self-referential world view.   Each chapter in the book attempts to answer the question "How to live?" with an essay by Bakewell that puts Montaigne's life and thoughts into context. My favorite chapters were "Question Everything" and "Philosophize but Only by Accident." Though marketed as a biography, this book is much more.  It was also an excellent book to finish as I was starting my second year teaching in Austin, getting ready to through myself into the daily routine of 70-hour work weeks while keeping that question "How to live?" always at the back of my mind.

October: The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness Industry by Jon Ronson

Ronson starts this book attempting to solve an intriguing hoax.  Someone was sending select neurologists a cryptic, expensively produced book, but no one knew who, or why s/he had been chosen.  On his way to uncovering the (crazy?) book sender, Ronson stumbled upon the study of psychopaths and the test mentioned in the title, a roster of 40 questions designed to uncover the psychopaths among us.  Turns out a surprising number of people "qualify" as psychopaths, some proven violent offenders and others successful in business, politics and even law enforcement.  Ronson's thoughtful (and at times unsettling) book casts a critical eye on the test, its profound affect on the mental health professionals who are taught to use it, and a handful people who find themselves labeled.  No one questions that psychopaths exist, but Ronson makes sure his readers get a complete picture of the industry of mental health diagnosis and treatment.

November: Moby Duck: The True Story of 28,000 Bath Toys Lost at Sea and of Beach Combers, Oceanographers, Environmentalists and Fools,  Including the Author, Who Went in Search of Them by Donovan Hohn

Chart the currents of the ocean and the currents of global trade in this wonderful book about a container of plastic bath toys that fell off a cargo ship in 1992 and captured the imagination of every single person mentioned in Hohn's lengthy title. And Hohn interviews all of them, from the quirky beachcombers of Alaska's Inner Passage to environmentalists studying the infamous Pacific Garbage Patch to a blind oceanographer to the whole crew of a Canadian ice breaker plowing through the Arctic Circle.  I cannot recommend this book highly enough.  When he's not roaming the oceans on a quest for knowledge, Hohn teaches high school English, and it shows (in a good way). His writing is clear and grounded in his knowledge of American lit as well as his own musings.  I especially loved the quotations from Moby Dick at the beginning of each section.

December: State of Wonder by Ann Patchett

Anything by Ann Patchett is worth reading, and her latest novel is no exception.  It has made the Best Of lists of many reviewers and with good cause.  Like all masters, Patchett communicates perfectly with words.  She has an amazing ability to move her characters through time and space without bogging down her descriptions or rushing her expositions. She sets this latest book in the Amazon jungle among a tribe whose women continue to have babies well into their 70s.  An American pharmaceutical company smells a profit, but the scientist in charge of uncovering the secret of this medical marvel has gone native in more ways than one.  Enter our heroine, sent by the CEO of the company (who also happens to be her lover) to find out what's going on after his first emissary dies of a mysterious fever.  Patchett's stories are never simple morality tales of good vs. evil, yet there is never any doubt what is at stake ethically for all involved.  Her 2001 book Bel Canto was my all-time favorite before Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell took its place.  (If you haven't read either of those books, go out and get them immediately!) State of Wonder has an equally compelling cast of characters, though its premise is much more global in scope. 

It was also an excellent book to wrap up 2011 and start 2012, a year that I hope will include much more fiction in my reading life, but no less startling, wonder-inspiring reality.  As always, please write or post recommendations of your own here.  I would love to hear what you have loved reading this year...

Keep Austin Rolling

Anyone who was anyone was at the Austin Convention Center Saturday night for the finals of the Texas Roller Derby Lonestar Rollergirls season.  'Anyone' in this case being tattoo-ed and leather-clad 20-somethings, preppy couples on dates, senior citizens, mid-sized kids with brightly colored signs, babies, toddlers, their parents and at least one brown-cloaked Jedi complete with glowing blue light saber.  We all gathered to see the Rhinestone Cowgirls face off against the reigning champion Cherry Bombs on a banked track.  The girls on wheels came ready to go, sporting grungy green  tank tops, ripped fishnet stockings and black spandex (Cherry Bombs) or Texas-flag-inspired short-shorts and red spangled work shirts (Rhinestone Cowgirls).  Everyone had a nickname, of course, from the skaters to the refs to the announcers.  More on that later...

The rules of roller derby, for those not already in the know, are fairly simple.  The four quarters of a bout (yes, it's called a bout!) are divided into two-minute "jams." During a jam,  two skaters from each team face off as "jammers."  Skating ahead of them is "the pack," a group of 10, five from each team.  The pack takes off and three seconds later the jammers start, skating like crazy women toward the pack.  The goal of the jammer is to make her way through the pack (aided by her teammates, blocked energetically by her opponents). The first jammer to make it through is called the "lead jammer." Once through, the jammers try to lap the pack.  For each opposing player they pass on the second time around, they earn one point for their team.  The jam ends when the two-minute clock runs out or the lead jammer calls an end by putting her hands (as sassily as possible) on her hips. The latter is much more common because it's good strategy to end the jam once your team has collected points but before the other team's jammer can make much headway through the pack.

What this looks like in practice is a bunch of scantily clad women in knee pads and helmets, jockeying for position while roller skating at top speed.  This alone explains much of the appeal of the sport.   It turns out, however, that there are other aspects to a roller derby that add even more verve to the proceedings. 

Now would be a good time to talk about the noms de derby, which are clearly a huge part of the identity of each skater and no doubt carefully and lovingly chosen.  These nicknames tend to include, according to the Wikipedia article on the subject, "elements of punk, camp and third-wave feminist aesthetics." In other words, they are intentionally provocative, ironically trashy and totally hilarious.  (And isn't Wikipedia adorable when it gets all intellectual?)

Last night the Cherry Bombs were led by super-jammer Rocky Casbah, backed up vigorously by teammates Sacra Licious, Roller Gazm and Veruca Assault.  On the Rhinestone Cowgirls, Katagory 5 (a Norwegian transplant, former speed skater and true hurricane indeed) dominated the track, supported by the likes of Dusty Double Wide, Abbey Roadkill and Allie Bamazon.  The head ref, Dee Toxin, kept it real by calling penalties on both sides in equal measure.  She was supported by line refs Chicken Dinner and Major Problem.  You get the idea.

Speaking of penalties, there do seem to be no-nos during a jam, but the consequences simply add to the show.  Major penalties result in the offending player being placed in a penalty box (a la hockey) and the jam is done over.  Minor penalties, however, are another thing entirely.  In Austin, the emcee (aka Mighty Aphrodite), spun the "penalty wheel" after each minor penalty.   On the wheel were challenges such as tug-of-war, pillow fight and long jump, that are just that much more interesting when performed on roller skates.  The skater who got the penalty faced off against someone from the opposing side.  If she lost the face-off, her team lost a point.  If she won, nothing was lost.

As you've probably gathered by now, a big percentage of roller derby, while legitimately athletic in nature, is a lot about show.  In Austin, everyone from the announcers (Wesley Page and Wundamike) to the officials, coaches and skaters contribute to the entertaining campiness of the bout, where a spirit of "all in good fun" prevailed, even during the finals. (And despite the bad-ass reputations promoted by reality shows like A&E's Rollergirls and Drew Barrymore's movie Whip It!, both set in Austin.) At the convention center on Saturday there was no blood, a minimum of trash talking and very little you wouldn't want the posses of seven year olds snacking on Dippin' Dots to witness.  The nicknames, after all, are over their heads, and every time a player flipped off the announcers, the response was always, "Oh look, they're saying we're #1."  The biggest hazard probably came from the noise level of the heavy metal half-time bands.  Most of the senior citizens sitting near me put Kleenex in their ears and kept on smiling.

Which brings us back to the bout.  This year, the Rhinestone Cowgirls walked away with the championship, thanks mostly to the Scandinavian-ice-inspired maneuvers of Katagory 5, who may as well have been wearing one of those sleek body suits for all the Cherry Bombs were able to get an elbow on her.  Next year, though, it could be anyone's season.  Rumor has it that Rocky Casbah might be retiring and Katagory 5 returning to Norway, leaving the track clear for a new crop of ironically campy, fish-net-wearing, kick-ass skaters.  Stay tuned, sports fans...

Extras: peewee football, singing and the universal Coke

This weekend I spent a chunk of time attending the extracurricular events of several students.  This time-honored tradition is always a good idea at the beginning of the school year, especially when it is prompted by cute invitations whispered at the end of class or hand-written notes.  Believe me, it's almost impossible to say no, regardless of the request--which is why some former colleagues have still not forgiven me for dragging us all, en masse, to a three-hour performance of Il Trovatore to see one of our students play Child #11.

This Saturday evening I found myself about as far away from "The Anvil Chorus" as you can get.  Instead of listening to Italian lyrics, I sat on the bleachers of a local sports park with the math teacher ES and her fiance watching a peewee football game.  I had not previous attended a peewee football event (an actual term, along the same lines as 'little league', for under-14 tackle football) and I'm so glad my first experience occurred in Texas.  Because I suspect--and I don't think I'm going out on a limb here--that Texas does peewee football unlike any other state. 

The first thing that struck me was the sheer amount of equipment and infrastructure involved. Of course, the boys all had full uniforms and gear.  But then the coaches had those head-set things.  The bleachers were packed with parents and families, and the scoreboard rivaled any high school field in the country (though perhaps not in Texas).  There were cheerleaders, too (naturally?), with matching uniforms and pom-poms. (Another student of ours was on the cheer-leading squad, which we didn't know until we showed up.) At halftime, they did a little show on the 50-yard line.  The only thing, frankly, that didn't look right out of Friday Night Lights was the level of skill on the field, which was age appropriate, shall we say.  Though I was impressed with the variety and level of plays, as narrated to ES and me by the fiance.  (He was relieved to at least be at a sporting event, having been pressed into watching three students at a ballet folklorico performance the weekend before.) 

It was at this event that I was pleased to witness another time-honored Texas tradition: the asking for a "Coke" and the receiving of a completely different soda because it is understood that "Coke" really means any carbonated beverage from a can.  As a college graduate, I'm aware of the wide variety of synonyms for soda used throughout the country.  But I had never suspected that when ES asked her fiance to bring her back "a Coke" from the snack bar that he would somehow know to return with Dr. Pepper. (Much to my chagrin, after I asked for a sip).

Me:  OMG!  This isn't Coke!

ES: Umm, no, it's Dr. Pepper.

Me:  But, but...I distinctly heard you ask for a Coke!

ES: I didn't ask for "Coke."  I asked for "a Coke." A Coke means anything.

Me:  But how did he know it meant Dr. Pepper in this particular case?

ES: He just did.

I'm sure they will have a long and happy marriage. 

Our student's team ended up being victorious, despite the fact that their opponents ran through a Go Spartans sign as their contribution to the halftime festivities and had a player called Blaze Murphy (for real!)  Most of the touchdowns were scored by Number 8, who couldn't have been more than 4-feet tall, but must have run at least 120 yards during the game.  In the end, our student smiled shyly, then remembered he was cool and ignored us as he and his teammates whooped up their victory.  Again, very age appropriate. 

The second student was singing in the youth choir at church.  I have never before attended the same church as one of my students, but it makes for a nice connection, and we rarely attend the same service. But I made it to the 9 a.m. to hear the choir.  After the service, she not only smiled, but acknowledged my presence and, in a rare middle school move, even introduced me to her friends.  

Attending events after hours can get overwhelming as the word gets out among the kids and even more invitations flow in.  I don't want to pretend I go to everything because I don't.  But like anything that takes extra time and seems like a dubious idea when it's 6 p.m. on a Saturday night and you have groceries in the car and have been out all day--it's always worth it in the end.