Jesus is returning May 21, 2011

Jesus is returning May 21, 2011, according to Raleigh, N.C-based group “We Can Know.” According to its leaders, they have read the scriptures and checked them twice and, sure enough the return flight is scheduled for this coming spring (the weekend before Memorial Day weekend, unfortunately). That’s what the group is proclaiming on billboards across the United States, including two in the KC metro.

Ok, so it’s very easy to laugh at and ridicule groups like these. I mean, the only thing erroneously predicted more often than Jesus’ return is tomorrow’s weather (cloudy with a high of 34). It’s also tempting to shake heads at the thousands of dollars wasted on the billboards in major cities across the country proclaiming their insight.

Their folly, though, is just a humorous, well-advertised example of the folly that many of us commit regularly: spending our energy on anxiety, excitement, and hope for an anticipated future rather than living fully in the here and now. Running through our heads and our conversations are phrases such as, “I’ll be happy when…,” “I can’t wait until…,” “If only…” “What if…” and “Are we there yet?”

When our eyes are always looking forward and our hope is always in tomorrow, discontent robs our peace and anxiety clouds the beauty of the moment.

The danger doesn’t end with a life squandered, for there are other dangers lurking in this folly. An anxious, discontent, fearful people are easy to control and manipulate. Every great dictator, autocrat, and cult leader knows this and leverages it to great advantage. Where there are not obvious reasons for discontent and anxiety, such as the economic depression that Hitler used to his advantage, they can be manufactured: “a woman over age 40 has a better chance of being killed by a terrorist than of getting married!” (false, by the way)

So what about vision casting, goal setting, and dream building? These are useful in discovering one’s guiding intention for daily living, and in fact can help in determining what is important in life and what small things can be released. They become dangerous, though, when they remove focus from daily life, present companions, and joyful contentment.

Nourish your dreams and your visions, but live fully in the present without dwelling on the past or manufacturing anxiety over the future. It’s what Jesus would want- ask him yourself in May.

For my mother, on her 60th birthday

I don’t remember the day when I first realized my mom was a woman and not just my mom. Perhaps it was the day that she went shopping for a new suit to prepare for arguing in front of the Supreme Court. Or maybe it was the day I found, in an old photo album, a black and white head shot from her early 20s and almost cried at the image of such a beautiful, stylish woman. Or it could have been the first time we shared a bottle of wine and laughed long into the night.

Probably it is an ever growing realization. She is a strong woman: of that I have never had any doubt. Defense attorneys would tremble when facing her in the courtroom, and she has never backed down from a life challenge. It was in the midst of battling breast cancer that she set the goal of hiking the Grand Canyon, a goal she accomplished less than a year after her last treatment. No doubt about her mental or physical strength.

And her power of negotiation is a wonder to behold. She possesses an unstoppable combination of complex reasoning, pure eloquence, and endearing charm. People not only give her her way, but come away feeling better for having done so. Though it infuriated me as a teenager, I now find myself attempting to emulate her.

But these qualities weren’t the ones that surprised me when I discovered my mother is a woman. In fact, they may have blinded me to her deeper qualities, those closer to the core of her being: passion and tenderness.

My mother, as it turns out, is not only strong, courageous, and determined, but she also pours her heart into the people and things that she loves. Her children have never doubted

for a second that she is on their side, cheering the loudest and crying even more than we do when we lose. Her friends value her intense loyalty and steadfastness, for they know and feel a love that is full and tenacious where it chooses to love. Professionally, she has consistently chosen the path that follows her heart rather than the money, which is why she has laid aside practicing law in order to teach it. And now she pours herself into her students, whether it is accompanying one to court who has been harassed by the justice system, or bringing one who lived thousands of miles from home to her own home and family for Thanksgiving.

I suppose it is natural that one who is so passionate is also tender, but this is the one I forget the most. It is difficult to remember that this strong, powerful woman can be wounded. And so sometimes I slip and say a harsh word, and immediately see the hurt in her eyes. Or I will hear the pain in her voice when she relays the story of discovering that a few of her best students cheated on an exam. What is truly amazing is that each time her heart hurts, she become not colder or more callous. She does not build impenetrable walls around herself. No, she instead becomes more compassionate, loves even more deeply, and continues to extend herself to those around her.

These qualities combine to make the most incredible woman I know. The day that brought her life to earth is to be celebrated indeed, for my mother has made the world a more beautiful, more joy-filled place, and will continue to do so for many years to come.

Happy Birthday mentor, friend, hero, comfort, mom. I love you.

An upper for the teacher

As a teacher, opportunities for celebration, both large and small, pop up everyday. A few highlights from the last couple of weeks:

1. One of my students walked into my room with a shopping bag full of clothes. “These are for D____,” she said, “because I know he’s homeless and doesn’t have anything. I bought these for him. I know what it’s like to be homeless; I was homeless when I was 10. So, would you please give these to him?”
2. All of the statistics are stacked up against one of my students. His parents are unemployed and have absolutely no money. They live with his grandparents, who also have very little. He spent most of last year in prison. But I have watched this young man fight the odds and rewrite his future. He has been one of our most diligent students this semester, and it looks like he’s going to earn our college’s presidential scholarship: a two-year full ride.
3. Finally, all those college science classes are paying off. A couple of my more ambitious students are reading science lessons on their own. They came to me last week and again this week with questions about cellular biology and genetics. Fun to pull that dusty knowledge off my brain’s shelves. Even more fun to watch their eyes light up every time they learn and understand a new concept.
4. On the last day before Thanksgiving break, I substituted at our family literacy program. We’ve teamed up with the local school district for this program. While their children attend a half-day of pre-school, parents (all mothers in this case) attend ESL classes. I taught both the morning and afternoon sessions of ESL on Friday and loved it. These women impress me beyond words. They have undertaken the task of learning a new language and culture in a new country in order to increase their own and their children’s opportunities. They do so not only with great strength and determination, but also with beautiful grace and humor. Spending a day with them lifted my spirits (which were already fairly high) and instilled a fresh sense of hope in me. Oh, plus I got to watch the kids play in shaving cream, and you just can't put a price tag on that kind of fun.

Even as winter approaches new life springs about me everyday. What a very good place to be.

Using the Bible as a rulebook is like using a Monet as a power drill

You won’t get the job done effectively and you risk ruining both the wall and the Monet.

This article is inspired by the recent decision of an appellate court in Texas concerning an arbitration agreement in a contract between a Christian School and a teacher. According to the contract, employees agree to seek “Biblically based mediation” to address employment conflicts.

I’m not going to address the legal aspects here; that’s my mom’s job. What I am going to rant about is the idea that there can be any such thing as Biblically based mediation.

If you think that the laws of our country can be confusing, open to a wide spectrum of interpretation, and at times even contradictory, the Bible, when used as a rulebook, is a million times more so. Consider these facts:

*The Bible has been used to both defend and oppose slavery.

*The Bible has been used to both promote and destroy women’s rights.

*Faithful Bible followers embrace the use of alcohol, even using it in religious ceremonies, while other Bible followers condemn alcohol as an evil tool of Satan.

*Reformed theologian John Calvin, mister sola Scriptura himself, watched on approvingly as a man was executed for heresy. The man’s crime? Suggesting an alternative theory to the nature of the bread and wine used in communion.

*The Bible commands people to “love your enemies,” while also instructing specific groups to annihilate their enemies.

*Biblical law requires that a man who rapes a woman marry that woman.

*The Bible is used by both rich and poor to prove their favoritism in God’s eyes.

So, if you want to risk inconsistent, unjust, possibly oppressive and most likely sexist mediation, then go ahead and sign an employment contract with such an arbitration clause.

If, however, you would like to work toward a life that is life-giving and freeing, appreciate the Bible for what it is- an ancient document containing the history and tradition of many cultures and several people including beautiful poetry, rich tradition, and even some enduring wisdom- and don’t try to use it as something it’s not- a rulebook, life guide, legal standard, or moral ideal.

How do you translate that?

Last week I substituted in our ESL program for the first time. These students are awesome, by the way. They were all eager to learn and hard-working, and they had amazingly positive attitudes.

Ok, back to the lesson. They were learning to conjugate verbs in the present perfect tense, and to help them practice this as well as their listening skills, their instructor left a handout with the lyrics to Pink’s “Glitter in the Air,” with blanks in place of many of the verbs. We listened to the song a few times so that they could fill in the blanks.

After listening to the song twice, we went over the lyrics to ensure that everyone had the right verbs in the blanks. I then asked the class if there were any other words or phrases that they didn’t understand.

One young man raised his hand and asked me about the song’s phrase, “Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?” After I explained the word “gently” he asked, “Why would you cry if someone touched you gently?” A very good question indeed.

I looked over to the women’s table (for some reason they tend to segregate themselves by gender, and all of the men looked clueless) and asked, “Can any of the women answer this question?” One looked at me with understanding in her eyes and answered, “It would make you cry if you had never before been touched gently.”

Yes, that would make someone cry. Yes, that would melt a heart. Yes, that would break something open that needed healing.

And so I started to wonder how many people in the world need to experience a gentle touch that would make them cry; how many people need a gentle word to relax their spirit; how many people need an embrace that feels like home.

The next line of the song is, “Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?”

Covered in elephant spittle

A friend of mine is an elephant trainer at the Kansas City Zoo. From her stories, I’ve deduced that a person must absolutely LOVE elephants to work this job. If you’ve ever changed a dirty diaper, multiply that by 2,000 and you will have an idea of her daily routine. As her fiancé said, “When she comes home and says things like, ‘one of the elephants had the runs today,’ I just can’t even begin to picture the mess.

Tuesday night she shared another lovely story with us. At work that day, one of the elephants spit on her. Yep, that’s right, just like that annoying boy that sat behind you in 7^th grade, only much, much, much more so. She said her back was turned to the elephant, so when she first felt the wetness she thought the beast had just sprayed some drinking water on her. “She likes to do that sometimes. She’s a jokester.” But then she turned and saw that the elephant hadn’t been drinking, and then she touched the thick, sticky fluid covering her body, and she knew that this wasn’t mere water; it was pure elephant saliva.

How would you have reacted? Yeah, me too. But here’s the thing. My friend said that she had to pretend that nothing had happened. “If we react when she does stuff like that, it’s like a reward, and that encourages her to do it again.”

So I’m thinking, how does a person pretend that weren’t just slathered in elephant spit? That level of nonchalance sounds nearly impossible. Her self-control and tolerance for ick are certainly amazing to behold.

Elephant loogies make me think of Fred Phelps. When his son Nate Phelps spoke in Topeka this past summer, someone asked him what would be the most effective means to discourage Fred and his tribe. Nate responded that if it were possible, the most effective means would be to completely ignore them. Media coverage, outraged crowds, taunts thrown back, all only reward and encourage them.

Now, I’m not suggesting that we always tolerate bad or destructive behavior. A woman in an abusive relationship needs to take action. A teacher with a student who disrupts class, thus hindering the other students’ learning, can not simply ignore the behavior.

I’m talking about all those people in your life and mine that do or say really annoying things to get our attention, push our buttons, make us angry, or disgust us. What happens when we give them attention? It’s a reward, and they are encouraged to continue the annoyance. (By the way, it’s important to acknowledge that all of us at times are the elephant).

So give this a try. Do what my friend did. Turn your back on the elephant, walk away, shower off the spit, and go out and have a beer with your friends. The next day, you may choose to give the elephant another chance, or you may choose not to. Me? Well, I’ll order another pint then sleep on it.

Night at the museum

As luck would have it, I'm a friend of a Friend of the Museum, so Friday night we indulged in cocktails at the Young Friends of the Museum 2nd Fridays event. There we met two lovely people, one of whom writes the relationship column Kiss & Tell for Ink Magazine. (sidenote: as much as I love my job, and I do love my job, I was sooooo tempted to ask him how one lands such a fun, cush assignment. I could get used to hanging out in my PJs all morning and writing. Much like I'm doing now, only I soon have to get dressed and report to work).

After cocktails, the four of us headed to one of the Nelson's new exhibits, "Through African Eyes." The exhibit was amazing, sobering, and too much for the hour we had before closing time. One of our new friends commented, "I could easily spend an entire morning in that exhibit." At least.

Read my review and watch a cool video here.

Critical Massing: obnoxious or just plain silly?

It happens every last Friday of the month.

No posters, no Facebook invites, no traditional publicity, and yet it happens every month like clockwork.

Well, not exactly like clockwork, because there is no official start time. It begins when enough people feel like it’s time to begin (Kairos time keeps creeping into my life experiences and my blog).

It’s called Critical Mass and it’s the most obnoxious bike ride Kansas City offers. On the last Friday, around 6:00 or so, the cyclists begin gathering at the Westport Sunfresh. About an hour and several beers later, someone starts riding around the parking lot and people gradually join him. They are massing.

It’s pretty much impossible to not fit in with this group. The ages range from 5 to, well, up there. There are dirt bikes, mountain bikes, recumbent bikes, road bikes, cruisers, and a few that I don’t even know where to begin with description. Cyclists dress in jeans, athletic gear, dresses, sweats, and just about everything else. The only thing missing is neckties.

When the mass is large enough, someone leads the group of nearly a hundred cyclists out of the parking lot and down the street. For the next couple of hours, the mass rides through Westport, The Plaza, Westport again, The Plaza again, downtown, and the river market. Traffic lights and lanes hold little meaning for this band of merry bikers. At major intersections, a few riders stop directly in front of potentially oncoming vehicles to ensure that they don’t enter the intersection while the mass is riding through.

The reactions from motorists and pedestrians are mixed. Many smile and wave back to the cyclists calling out to them, “Happy Friday!” A few, not used to KC’s urban traditions, get annoyed and blare their horns or scream obscenities. This 5 minute delay in their lives’ plans is more than they can tolerate.

What’s the point? There is no obvious political agenda. If they were seriously trying to promote a “share the road” attitude between cyclists and motorists they would respect traffic laws. No common social or religious thread binds these people together.

So maybe there is no point.

Or, rather, the point is exactly what they say it is, “Happy Friday.” The point is that a large group of people gather once a month to laugh, act silly, and Puckishly defy the guidelines and norms that rule over us the rest of the month. The point is to intentionally not take life so seriously, even if only for a couple of hours. The point is that an impish young woman and her bike holding back a monstrous black Hummer is a beautiful sight.

Flying blindly

It was an atypical Sunday morning in the Dagney Velazquez household last weekend. Instead of sleeping in as long as possible before finally shuffling into the kitchen for a big pancake brunch (but I’d rather have mac ‘n cheese!), I drug my daughter out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6:00. Yes, I had to literally drag her body out of bed, because she insists that if the sun isn’t up it’s not morning. Being the obedient daughter that she is, though, she dressed herself and climbed into the car.

The whole ride to the Great Midwest Balloon Festival in Overland Park she ranted, “It’s still the middle of the night. Why did you make me wake up? We’re not even stopping for doughnuts?” So far, not our loveliest morning.

Fortunately, the sun appeared before we made it to the fields. The friendly parking attendants guided us to the perfect spot, and we leapt out of the car ready to watch some hot air balloon excitement.

We waited for quite a while because, even though the published start time was 7:00, balloonists, lik

e ultimate Frisbee players, operate on kairos rather than khronos time. Fortunately, the cinnamon roll vendor had a half price sale, so my little princess was c

ontent while we waited.

Sunday morning’s competition was simple. The pilots were to launch from a location of their choosing at least a mile from the field. At a radio signal, they would launch at the same time and race back to the field, where two very large “Xs” had been marked. The pilots would fly low over the “Xs” and toss bean bags out of their baskets, trying to land their beanbags as close to the centers of the “Xs” as possible.

Now, hot air balloo

ns’ racing is nothing like cars’ racing. It’s also nothing like sprinters’ racing. In fact, it’s even a far cry from the county fair turtle race. At the mercy of the whim of the winds, balloon pilots move their crafts up and down, trying to catch currents blowing the desired direction. The first balloon we spotted nearing the field appeared to remain in the same location for 10 minutes, and

then it shrunk as it moved further away. And this, ladies and gentlemen, was the fastest balloon. Eventually the pilot made it to the field amidst loud applause, hovered just a few feet above the “Xs”, tossed his beanbags, then landed a few hundred feet down the field.

He was the only pilot that made it to the “Xs” that morning.

About 10 minutes

after this excitement, we spotted 5 more balloons converging toward the field. Then they all disappeared. The fog that had begun as a gentle morning mist had thickened into white- out conditions. The event director announced to the crowd that the competition was canceled and that the pilots had been instructed to land as quickly and safely as possible. Not easy instructions when the pilots couldn’t even see the ground.

I can not imagine what it was like for the pilots, flying blindly hundreds of feet in the air in an aircraft that steers about as well as a blowup raft in the middle of an ocean, only more so. For those of us on the ground, the experience was exciting, scary, and mysterious.

Since the balloons were already airborne, and since they couldn’t see the ground (or power lines, or treetops, or tall buildings) the safest option for most was to head for the fields. A GPS could get them close, but finding the precise location of the landing field proved nearly impossible. To guide the pilots down, the event director asked the crowd to make as much noise as possible.

Yep, that’s right. The pilots were navigating by the sound of our whistling, shouting, and clapping. Eventually someone found a fog horn, and the

n a few police and fire vehicles parked close to the fields and turned on their sirens.

So there we all were, staring into the thick white cloud surrounding us, seeing nothing but hoping the balloonists were out there somewhere. And then we heard it- the unmistakable sound of a hot air balloon’s furnace. The crowd’s volume ramped up a few notches as we continued to stare into nothingness. We couldn’t see a thing, but we knew the balloon was close, not more than a couple of

hundred feet by the sound of it. He was just a hundred feet above us when we finally saw him. In fact, he was directly above us and descending quickly when we finally saw him.

“Run, mommy! He’s going to land on us!” shouted Aliyah.

After snapping a couple of pictures (I lived in Oklahoma for several years, where a tornado siren is a call to stand out on your

front porch and watch), I heeded my daughter’s warning and ran clear of the balloon’s landing.

It was an excellent landing, and by excellent I mean it was safe and everyone survived without injury.

This episode repeated several times while the fog continued to thicken. We didn’t see the next balloon until a few seconds before it hit the ground. We cheered them all in, and they landed not only safely, but with smiles on their faces.

Two big thumbs up to all the balloon pilots who participated in the first Overland Park Balloon Festival. You displayed courage and an admirable sense of adventure. I’m already looking forward to watching you fly next year.

On the way home, I asked Aliyah what her favorite part of the day was.

“The cinnamon roll,” she replied.

So, a big thanks to the food vendors. We’re looking forward to seeing you next year, too.

Monday morning pie dividing blues

Monday morning I received an early morning phone call from my boss. **EDITOR’s note: early morning for Dagney on the day that she doesn’t go into work until noon is 8:00 a.m.** One of the math teachers had called in sick and she wondered whether I could come in early to take his morning classes. Not one to turn down the opportunity to teach math, I said, “OF COURSE,” threw on some clothes (not my best put together outfit ever, but hey) and headed off to work.

Now, this math teacher for whom I subbed is one of the most organized, conscientious teachers I know, and I know some pretty fine teachers, so when I arrived and there weren’t lesson plans for the week e-mailed in, I knew he must be truly sick.

No problem. Our program is full of on the ball students. I simply walked into the classroom and asked them what they were studying.

Ok, I didn’t really expect that to work. But it did! “We learned to multiply and divide fractions last week and he said something about adding and subtracting fractions this week.”

Are you kidding me?! I LOVE fractions!! **EDITOR’s note: this is more caps lock than Dagney has ever used in a blog post. We don’t know what’s going on, but, frankly, we’re a little embarrassed and would like to apologize on her behalf.**

What’s so great about fractions, you ask? Well, for starters, almost all illustrations of fractions involve food. You simply cannot teach fractions without involving pies, pizzas, cookies, and M&M’s. My students did mention that the pies I drew looked more like eggs, but I quickly reminded them of my lay/lie lesson from English class and the nightmarish chicken and egg involved in that fiasco, and they were pleased with the pies.

The best part of the lesson was a direct result of my not having time to adequately prepare. I understand the importance of using real life problems when they’re learning a new skill, but on the spot I couldn’t come up with anything beyond the pies. So, after introducing the lesson and working a couple of problems, I asked them, in groups of two, to come up with their own real life word problems.

The initial groans were inevitable. “Really Ms. Dagney? You want to make our lives miserable?” But after a little encouragement (do it or I’m taking back the badly drawn, fake pies), they complied. And then they started smiling. And then, a couple of minutes into the assignment, they started having fun.

Each group presented its word problem to the class to solve. The problems included hungry boys consuming a large quantity of hot dogs, a birthday party with a large cake, a quarter tank of gas, and a drive to the gas station. Really, these students could have written the math book themselves.

So now my students understand fractions a little better, and I have been enlightened to possible word problems that do not necessarily involve food. I don’t like them as well, but I guess they might work for some people.

I would have to say that 5/5 of the morning was fantastic.

Second grade immigrants

When I picked up my daughter at school yesterday, she ran up to me with irrepressible excitement (we don’t repress in our home, anyway).

“Guess what guess what guess what??? You’ll never guess!!! Guess what’s going to happen tomorrow???”

Really, I hadn’t a clue. Was Hannah Montana coming to their school? No, it must be bigger than that. Maybe a field trip to World’s of Fun? Nah, I would definitely have signed up as a parent sponsor for that one (insisting, of course, that I only be assigned kids tall enough to ride all the coasters). Obviously, I was never going to guess.

“Courtney and Caleb are moving into my class! And not just Courtney and Caleb, but all the kids from their class!! Their teacher is moving to a 4^th grade class and since we had room in our class they’re all going to join us! I’m so excited.”

She then went on to tell me, taking only one breath every 5 minutes, about all the preparations on which her class had been diligently working. They had colored a welcome sign AS BIG AS OUR CAR!!! They had rearranged the desks. And most importantly, their teacher had been training them on hospitality. Here are a few of the basics as well as I could gather:

1. Welcome them all with a spirit of kindness, using only kind words.
2. Remember that they don’t know all the customs of their new class. Take time to teach them the games, songs, and rules specific to this classroom. (Aliyah thinks this will be HUGE fun, and because she believes this, it will be).
3. Remember that they bring with them songs, games, and rules that we don’t know yet. Give them an opportunity to teach us, too, which will increase the fun for all.
4. Be sensitive to the fact that they will miss their former teacher and classroom.
5. Make an extra effort to include them at recess and lunch.
6. And again, do everything with an attitude of kindness. (Aliyah reached her arms forward, palms facing up, every time she said the word “kindness.” Her teacher must have taught her this welcoming gesture).

There was, of course, a letter to the parents in the backpack. It covered all the important, adult facts such as class size remaining within district standards, the increased enrollment in 4^th & 5^th grades necessitating the shifts, the consideration for maintaining gender, ethnic, and reading ability diversity when forming the new classes, the school’s continuing dedication to academic excellence. All very important stuff, yes, but somehow not coming close to communicating the joy that this occasion inspired. There was not a single “woo-hoo!” or “guess what??!!” in the whole letter.

Her teacher is some kind of genius. She has taught her class to find the positive in a necessary reality. The negative could have easily prevailed- the classroom will be more crowded, you’ll have to share your books, this will disrupt our routine, you will have fewer opportunities to be line leader. These are all true, but why dwell on them when there are so many more wonderful things that come with welcoming new people?

The first thing my daughter did when she jumped out of bed this morning was fish a marble out of the pocket of the pants she wore yesterday.

“I’ve been saving this to give to one of the new girls as a welcome present today. I can’t wait!”

What does test taking anxiety look like in the virtual world?

In order to expand my repertoire as a teacher, I signed up for a class at my college this quarter: "Teaching Online." In just 8 weeks, I will be fully qualified to teach an online course.

It makes sense that, in order to teach us to teach online, we ourselves have to take an online course. Yep. Complete with reading assignments, deadlines, tests, and a final project. We should feel the pain that we will be inflicting on our students.

Actually, I love it so far. As we were warned, an online course requires at least as much, if not more time as an on ground course, but it has the inherent bonus of flexibility. I can read my assignments, engage in class discussions, and take tests any day of the week at any time I want or can.

But, with great flexibility comes great responsibility. Or something like that.

We don't meet regularly as a class where I can be reminded of upcoming due dates and where I will be missed if I don't show up. I have to make my own schedule and stick to it. I have to take the initiative to look for what's coming up.

And I have to pay attention.

It's going to take me a little while to get back into the groove of concentrating on one thing for an extended period of time. I was halfway through my first online lesson with embedded quizzes when I was distracted and left the website to carry on with that other oh so important something else, though what it was I can't remember for the life of me. Imagine my consternation when I returned later to discover that I had to start the lesson all over again! I mean, this lesson was likely going to take the better part of an hour! And the instructor expected me to do it all in one sitting??!!!!

Oh, yeah, just like school. Just like what I expect from my students. Dang. This could get ugly. But it will be so worth it.

Oh for god's sake, let them build their mosque in peace

Seriously, are we a country of religious freedom or not? The fact that this has become such a huge deal is absurd. What's really pathetic is that we have a Kansas politician out there saying incredibly stupid things. He's an embarrassment to the midwest.

Read my story here.

Billionaires for BP

A couple of weekends ago, a small band of us headed out to First Fridays in the Crossroads District of Kansas City to have some fun and stir things up a little. The calamitous oil spill in the gulf was our motivation, and the long-standing performance/demonstration organization Billionaires for Bush was our inspiration. We were Billionaires for BP.Thanks to some very creative souls, we were quite a sight. Dressed in silk, satin, and sequence, brandishing oil-tinis (chocolate syrup in a martini glass), we waltzed around Crossroads chanting things like “more blood for oil,” and “drill, baby, drill.” Some of us carried signs proclaiming such niceties such as, “how many species do we really need?” and “today’s disasters are tomorrow’s dividends.”

Two children joined our crew, but as they are innocents, they chose to be our counter-voice. Aliyah dressed as a sad mermaid, face smeared with crude oil (more chocolate syrup- I had the hardest time keeping her from eating it), and carried a sign that said, “homeless mermaid, will work for fish."

According to one of our leaders, it was not really a protest, as we didn’t have an agenda. It was street performance whose purpose was to generate conversation. There we succeeded. We received strange looks, laughter, honked horns, many thumbs up (especially from the group selling “BP sucks” t-shirts), and several questions from passersby. I also learned the valuable lesson that high heels are not the footwear of choice for a demonstration, even if you are in an evening gown.

It was fun, to be sure, and it served as an outlet for us to express our frustration over the continued violence committed against the earth and its creatures resulting from our insatiable appetite. I

suffered slight discomfort, though, expressed best in a sign that one of our members carried. “Is it BP, is it the government, or is it us?”

Yes, I believe that the greed of corporations and the top echelon of society contribute significantly to our nation’s ravenous consumption of energy that rapes the earth, but none of us is free from guilt. Most of us benefit from a seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy, whether from fresh fruit in November, cheap shoes produced overseas, or a weekend of boating on the lake. The economy that supports our lifestyles, even the most modest of which is luxurious compared with much of the world, is largely driven by energy consumption. It’s almost impossible to opt out.

What continues to run through my head is a phrase from my first Calculus class, “simplify, simplify, simplify.” It’s not an easy or effortless task, but it’s the new direction we must head if we want to live in peace and harmony with the earth that existed millions of year before us and will continue on for millions of years with or without us. I think I would prefer that we learn to get along before it jettisons humanity for its own sake.

The ultimate summer

Last Saturday was the end of summer league tournament for KC Ultimate. And what’s a summer league tournament without a heat advisory? Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. By the second game some of us (especially those of us over 30, I’m just saying…) felt like we were running in molasses. And yes, we probably looked like it, too. But! We had a great time. A beautiful day with beautiful friends. Here are some of the highlights.

• The Karen Marcus Interiors team defeated some other team (what was their name again? Not worth remembering) in the mixed team championship game. In their final huddle after the game, they dedicated their win to the memory of Karen Marcus, who ended her battle with breast cancer earlier that morning. This team is to be admired not only for their awesome disc skills, but for their big hearts. “This is a family team,” captain Barrett Davis said.Not only did the team sport several married couples and a mother/daughter combo, but week after week their sideline was filled with team members’ children. They even borrowed children from other teams to boost their family-friendly image. You guys rock.
• Team Gotham Printwear walked away with the championship in the men’s open division. Pictured here is the second place team, MWM Consulting, because, frankly, they were cuter.
• Completely disregarding child labor laws, we hired a fewchildren to walk around the fields pulling a wagon full of ice water, splashing those who looked like they were on the verge of passing out. Experts estimate that up to 10 incidents of heat stroke were avoided thanks to these hard working kids. All they requested for compensation were Cheezits and Gatorade.
• My own team, Walsh’s Corner Cocktails, won the spirit award. League directors assured me that this wasn’t just a pity award handed to the team with the worst record. I’m going to believe them on this one. My pride demands it.
• Lunch was catered by one of our sponsors, Westport Flea Market. The hamburgers and chicken sandwiches were good, but the pasta salad was to die for. Thanks!

If you weren’t there, I know you wish you were. The good news is, you don’t have to wait until next summer to join the fun. Fall league starts in just two short weeks, and beginners are welcomed and encouraged to join. There’s no better way to get an incredible workout, meet a ton of wonderful new friends, and enjoy this sunshine while we still have it. Your body and soul will thank you.

Let Loose in the Park

Driving to Loose Park this past week for Ultimate Frisbee pick-up, I noticed, for the first time, the full name of the park: "Jacob L. Loose Memorial Park." Well, I figured there just had to be a story behind this Jacob guy, and sure enough, there is, and of course I have some commentary to go along with it.

What Loose Park, biscuits, and the pyramids share in common

Mountains talk to me. No, I'm not crazy.

Last week I ventured into the wilderness. Ok, I guess since the trailhead parking lot was full, the path was well trod, and we passed more than a dozen fellow hikers, wilderness is not exactly accurate. It was, though, far from the sights, sounds, and smell of the city. We hiked up to Conundrum Springs, natural hot springs at the peak of a valley (do valleys have peaks?) not far from Aspen, Colorado.

One of my aspirations for this trip was to leave behind me, even if temporarily, the stress and anxieties of the daily grind. Is that really possible? Can we shed our worries as we shed our tailored clothes, makeup, dress shoes, and all the other accessories of life back home? Is it truly that simple?

Yes, yes it is. With each foot of elevation gain my heart felt a little lighter, and it wasn't just the thin air going to my head. As we approached two miles above sea level, my worries may as well have taken up residence on another planet.

Day two of our trip afforded us several hours of silent contemplation while relaxing the the hot springs overlooking the valley on one side and lofty mountain peaks on the other. It was then that the mountain spoke to me.

"I will remain here forever," it said, "or at least forever in

comparison with your brief life. No matter what mistakes you make, what troubles befall you, what riches find you, I don't care. Year after year I will stand here. You may come back to visit, you can even bring your children. Or, you may never return again. Either way, it doesn't matter to me, because here I will stand."

This reminder of my insignificance, instead of sobering me, relieved me. What I had thought so important, so life altering, now seemed puny. This freed me to breathe easier, to take in all that surrounded me. It allowed me to relax in the mountain's gentle cradle. It asked nothing of me but my presence, and I took nothing from it but its peace.

In one week I will return to the classroom. I look forward to another year of teaching, of the laughter, frustration, joy, and weariness it will bring. Yes, I anticipate helping my students move toward discovering and achieving their goals and dreams, but my life will not depend on it.

For I know that no matter what, the mountain stands there still, waiting for my return. Or not waiting. It doesn't really matter.

General McChrystal: major blunder or brilliant strategy?

Along with the basics of reading and writing, I try to teach my students the rules of the game- those unwritten rules that your employer, banker, parole officer, professor, expect you to know and to follow.

Recently one of my students asked me to proofread a document she had written. I suggested one addition. “But I don’t really feel that way,” she protested. “It doesn’t matter,” I explained, “it’s the rules of the game. They’ll expect this to be in your document, and no matter how good and sincere the rest is, without this, it won’t work. I don’t care whether you really mean it, and frankly, they don’t either. They just want you to say it. It’s the rules.” In the end, she discovered how right I was, and was able to include the suggestion and achieve her desired results.

She faced a critical decision. She could play by rules she didn’t completely buy into for long-term benefit, or she could refuse to compromise her integrity and leave the organization. Either choice presented its own challenges, and I would have supported and respected her whichever she chose. What was important to me was that she was fully aware of the situation, that the choice was truly hers so that she was not a powerless victim to the system.

Which brings me to Gen. McChrystal. What we have on the surface is a highly decorated, highly experienced officer with tremendous responsibilities and under a great deal of stress who, unfortunately, made a few off-hand, stupid remarks that lost him his official position: in charge of the war in Afghanistan.

I have a hard time swallowing that story. Here’s a man who, better than 99.999% of the population understands the rules of the game. And anyone who’s served a minute in the military, or knows someone who has served in the military, or has heard anything about the military, knows that in order to achieve the rank of general, a person must demonstrate time and again an extraordinary measure of discipline, self-control, patience, and strategic thinking.

So what are the chances that one of the most highly respected generals in the U.S. military, with enough experience and success that he led an entire war effort, oops, slipped up and said something stupid during an interview with Rolling Stone magazine.

Is it possible that McChrystal knew exactly what he was doing? Was this a strategic move rather than an amateurish blunder?

If so, it was genius. He was removed from a position of responsibility with which he was completely frustrated, but removed in such as way that he was able to retain his rank and his honor with no disciplinary action while bringing to the nation’s attention the major challenges our military faces in Afghanistan. Heck, he was even commended by the president for all the good work he’s done up to this point.

I can’t help but admire him as a strategist. He didn’t just play by the rules, he owned the rules. He made the rules submit to his authority. Assuming, of course, that my humble theory is correct.

I think I’ll invite him to be a guest presenter to my class.

Is name-calling necessary?

Last weekend, a friend of mine celebrated his birthday at a local eating establishment. I thought Aliyah and I would just stop by for a short while since none of her friends would be there. Little did I know…

We found our party sitting on the outdoor patio that faces a large, open, fenced area built as a concert venue. It took Aliyah all of 2.5 minutes to find three other kids close to her size, and then only 1.6 minutes to establish a close enough friendship with them that allowed them to run around and play together for the next 3 hours. Anyone watching would have thought them life-long friends.

Eventually, one of the other children’s mother came over to introduce herself and her son to me. Of course, the first information we exchanged was our names. “I’m Elizabeth,” she said, “and this is Xavier.” This boy’s name was obviously new information to Aliyah, and when asked whether he knew her name, Xavier looked confused.

Initially I laughed at this. They had been playing together like old friends for 3 hours and didn’t even know each other’s names? Ah, those silly children.

Later, it occurred to me that this is regular behavior for Aliyah. For weeks now she’s been playing with a few children at Ultimate Frisbee, and she still refers to them as her “Frisbee friends,” because she doesn’t know any of their names. It’s not that my child is strange; another mom told me that her daughter referred to Aliyah as “that girl I was playing with at Frisbee,” and has no idea what her name is.

Being the responsible parent I am, my first thought was that this is a skill I need to teach Aliyah. Introduce yourself in the beginning. Learn names. Remember names. Names are important.

But then I took a step back and considered further. Who really has something to learn here? Aliyah forms fun, satisfying friendships quickly and easily. She and her friends skip over all those initial pleasantries which adults find necessary. Not only do they not exchange names, but they also don’t share which schools they attend, family of origin data, outside hobbies and activities, what kind of car their parents drive, where they live, or what kind of music they listen to. And the assumptions they make! You’re my size, you’re here, you obviously want to play with me, and you’re going to be the tiger first while I’m the princess who is lost in the woods.

Yet we saavy adults, who know the correct stages of friendship and have mastered small talk can spend weeks or months forming a friendship in which we are comfortable enough to act silly or laugh without restraint.

But at least we know each other’s names, right? Seriously, what’s the point? And at what age was the natural ability to form bonds with one another trained out of us?

The Buddha in you

Last Sunday I attended Buddhist meditation at Unity Temple on the Plaza. I had no idea what to expect, really, though I figured it would be a fairly quiet service, what with meditating and all.

What a wonderful experience it was. You can read my reflections here.

Cinderella was a pathetic loser

It started as an innocent literary assignment. I read my class the Grimm brothers’ version of “Cinderella,” then, in groups of two, they chose versions from different countries, identified the differences in their version, and researched the country.

It had been a long time since I’d read the Grimm version, and though I wasn’t expecting any kind of feminist ideals, I still found myself rolling my eyes more than a little. I mean, really Cinderella. Anytime you wish for something under the hazel tree the birds bring it to you, and yet you haven’t bothered to wish for the items or resources to allow you to leave your cruel stepmother? Wus. And perhaps rather than crying over her mother’s grave three times a day she should have bucked up even a modicum of courage and done something with her life.

And seriously, her mother’s dying request was that Cinderella (whom the Grimm brothers never bother to give a real name) be pious and good. Come on, mom. I can think of a lot of words I would give my daughter on my deathbed, and “be sure to remain pious and good,” are not among them.

Humility, obedience, piety, small feet- these were the desirable qualities in a woman, passed down from generation to generation, and the fairy tales enumerated the prizes available to women who met these standards: beauty, a rich husband, and the ability to speak to birds.

The sexism of classic fairy tales is not earth-shattering news, but its insidious hold on our social consciousness has struck me this week. Last weekend one of my cousins told her mothers that she wanted to watch a romantic movie with a strong female lead. Not such an easy request to fulfill, as it turned out. Even where piety and obedience have been expunged, helplessness, neediness, and stupidity still reign supreme.

Which reminds me- this Saturday night some local theaters are showing all 3 Twilight movies in a row for one low price!

There was a time when mothers passed down these virtues to their daughters as a matter of survival, but that time has passed. Cinderella, while an interesting study in literature and culture, no longer holds value for women.

Except for the talking with the birds bit. That’s pretty cool.

Q:What happens when a bishop confuses himself with god?

A: He makes god look like an asshole.

I had to read this story a couple of times for it to really sink in. A Catholic bishop in Phoenix, AZ, excommunicated a nun who, in her role as an administrator at a local hospital, approved an abortion for a woman who, doctors agreed, had 0% chance of survival if her pregnancy wasn't terminated immediately.

One priest, defending the bishop's actions, equated the nun's decision with priests who molest children. Except, of course, the priests aren't excommunicated, because they have penises.

Read more here.

fake sun and artificial community

Wednesday morning the sun raced ahead of my alarm clock, beat down my curtain of darkness, and shook me awake. Instead of responding grumpily (do you have any idea what time it is?), I leapt out of bed. Well, ok. I have a bum knee, so really I hobbled out of bed. With a burst of energy, I quickly dressed for the day, left the apartment an hour earlier than usual, and tackled some business. This is typical summer for me: boundless energy, bright spirits, big plans.

I blame the sun.

Nothing compares

with solar energy. We have tried, for thousands of years, to reproduce the positive effects of sunlight on the human body and psyche. Artificial light dates back almost as far as the human race, and as technology advances so does our efforts at reproducing sunlight. We have electric lights that contain every wavelength as sunlight, lights so intense they are blinding, lights that bake our skin just like the sun. We’ve isolated and replicated vitamin D, one of the vitamins that our bodies produce when exposed to sunlight.

And yet, and yet. None of it can replace good old natural sunlight. Fakies may keep us limping along, but we have yet to create light that can energize and sustain us as well as the sun can. After tens of thousands of years of human evolution, we can’t replicate something as simple as this. (Maybe not so simple- is it a particle, or is it a wave? Yes!)

What is truly remarkable about humans is that, even though we can’t even reproduce the first day of creation, we go on to try to reproduce even more complex phenomena. We discover, though, that just like sunlight, our desperate efforts fall miserably short. Such as…

Desire. I can’t create for my students the desire to learn. I can help them direct it, focus it, channel it. I can even help them amplify it. But it can not be created, though believe me I have tried. It must already exist on its own somewhere within their hearts.

Community. What great irony there is in the idea of creating community. We build towns, erect housing additions, establish organizations, even birth families. But the truest, deepest communities are organic and natural. Artificial community, like artificial sunlight, lacks something essential.

It may contain all the necessary wavelengths and all the identifiable ingredients. It may work in a pinch to see a person through the winter. But at the end of the day, it is fake.

Why do we continue pouring resources into replication?

From the desk in my classroom I can look through glass doors to the outside. Out there is all this beautiful sunshine, but we have built opaque walls around ourselves to shut it out, and then installed artificial lights. Why so counterproductive?

It’s about control. The sunlight comes and goes at its leisure. It is not scheduled, is not reliable. And so, though it offers great joy and happiness, we opt for something thousands of times less effective and less true so that we can gain control over it.

You can not schedule and regulate real community. It has a mind all its own, and may grow, shrink, love, and play at its own leisure. And so we shy away from it, abandon it, even despise it, in favor of a knock-off of our own creation that will follow our bidding.

My students read Plato’s allegory of the cave yesterday and they agreed. No matter what others may say, the fire and its shadows in the cave just can’t compete with the warmth and brightness of the sun.

Poison Ivy vs. Tulips

I’ve been contemplating poison ivy recently (don’t ask). Actually, a friend and I were discussing the plant and its unique qualities. Our conversation ended with the inevitable questions, “Does poison ivy serve any real purpose? Does it bring any goodness to the world?”

Sure, it produces oxygen and feeds herbivores, but many other, kinder plants do that, too. Really, poison ivy, what’s the point? Is a plant that causes so much suffering really necessary?

I know many plants have developed poisonous fruit, leaves, and roots as a defense mechanism, but here’s the thing about poison ivy. It’s only poisonous to humans! Yeah, that’s right. All other creatures can munch it, frolic in it, build nests in and with it, with no ill effects. Why on earth would a plant develop such a specialized defense against just one species?

Michael Pollan suggests the intellectual exercise of viewing the world, includin

g humans, through the perspective of plants and animals. So, from the poison ivy’s perspective, what possible advantage could it achieve through a defense against humans?

The answer is clear. Humans have caused more damage to life on Earth more than any other single species. If a plant were to defend itself, this would be the animal against which to do so, and this strategy has worked remarkably well for PI. The mantra, “leaves of three, let it be,” has saved millions of PI plants from the destructive forces of hikers, gardeners, and explorers, so that the plant thrives across all of the many climates and temperature zones of North America and beyond. PI has free range over any habitat it desires without asking permission or begging for support. No wildlife preserves or protected areas necessary for this rebel, no sir. It grows wherever it damn well pleases.

Then there’s tulips. Ah, tulips. Who doesn’t love these beautiful flowers? Although they do have a natural habitat, and there is such a thing as wild tulips, the lovely flowers which we all know and love are asexual, requiring careful cultivation and long-range planning. Tulips spring up in flower beds around the world only because humans work hard to make it so.

You have to admire the tulips’ strategy, too. Taking a radically different course of action than PI, it has made itself so beautiful, so desirable to the dominant species that we go to great lengths to ensure its survival and proliferation. Very, very clever.

Which plant has chosen the better path? A disadvantage accompanies every advantage. Poison ivy, though seemingly unconquerable, plays a dangerous game antagonizing the most powerful, or at least the most destructive, species on earth. Humans have driven plenty of other species to the brink of extinction, even species with whom they had no quarrel. It’s a bold move, PI, but watch your step.

Tulips, on the other hand, have relinquished much of their freedom in befriending the human race. Their domesticated varieties, now in greater abundance than their wild ancestors, grow only where humans desire, and their habitat is much more limited than PI’s. That’s the trouble with powerful friends; you easily become totally dependent on them.

So if you were a plant, which would you rather be? The rebel with great freedom but great risk, or the beauty living in security but almost total dependence on another?

Thank you nurse

This week is national nurses’ week, an opportunity for all of us to honor and thank those women and men who have dedicated their lives, or a portion of it, to caring and serving in a capacity that requires great strength, compassion, intelligence, patience, and fortitude.

Nurses have played pivotal roles in my own life. One of my favorite aunts is nurse extraordinaire. I call upon her for her expertise on a regular basis. The night I gave birth to Aliyah two nurses were my closest friends for a few hours. Because of their steadfastness I was able to endure the worst of labor while maintaining my sense of humor.

But what I will never, ever forget is the day a nurse saved my life. It was The Worst Day of My Life. I awoke early. No, I hadn’t slept the night before, but it was early in the morning when the dangerous thoughts first crept through my mind, “I want to stop the pain. I would do anything to make this pain go away.” I had just enough sanity left to recognize my danger, to know I needed to call someone immediately, but at first I couldn’t think of whom. Who would listen to my shame, embarrassment, fear, and pain without judgment? Who would know just how to stop me from following through with my dangerous thoughts?

The answer was suddenly clear. There was only one person to call, and this person was a nurse. I called her before the sun had even risen, and when she heard my voice on the phone she asked for no explanation, but came to my house immediately. She was not my best friend, not a family member, but she embodied all of the qualities of the greatest nurse. She had, and still has, a passion to bring health and healing to the human body and soul, and she did so that day by sharing from the very depths of her own soul. She stayed by my side and nursed me back to a place of safety.

This amazing woman isn’t a nurse because it was a lucrative career choice. Instead, her profession springs from a heart, mind, and soul of gold.

To help celebrate this week, do you have a story of a nurse who has touched your life?

To care or not to care, that is the question

Believe it or not, not every day in the classroom is a bastion of inspiration and exhilaration for a teacher. It’s true. There are those days where the students and the teacher look at one another, and the same thought is running through all their heads, “I can think of at least 100 other places I’d rather be.”

The difference between teacher and students is that the teacher still has to fake it. I have to smile and reach into the depths of my being is search of reserves of energy to pour into today’s lesson. The students, on the other hand, can sit there, stare back at me with empty eyes, and ask inane questions like, “Why do we have to read Shakespeare?”

Although this charade can drain my soul of its very last drop of verve, it can also trick my mind into believing the lie. The irony is that if I can trick my mind into believing that today’s classroom experience carries excitement and pith, it is no longer a lie. Yep. I have that much control. It doesn’t matter whether my students ever buy into it. It becomes the truth, and they can choose to benefit from it or not.

I did see a couple of students paying attention and nodding today. Either they were believing it, or they too were faking it. Days like today, I’ll take either. If they pretend long enough that they enjoy Shakespeare, they may actually talk themselves into it.

Don't tell me you don't have an opinion

We examined editorial cartoons in class today. Most of my students had never spent any time with them, so we covered some of the necessary basics to understanding their message. I fielded some interesting questions:

Q: Why do they always draw Obama with such big ears?

A: Have you ever taken a good look at those things? They're ginormous!

Q: Why does the donkey always represent the Democrats and the elephant the Republicans? Do they represent attributes of the party?

A: Most likely, yes.

Q: This cartoon could offend some people.

A: Yes, most do.

I assigned each group one cartoon, and they were to write down:

1. The issue addressed in the cartoon.

2. What each character represented.

3. The artist's opinion on the issue.

4. Their opinion on the issue.

About halfway through class, while they were working diligently, I received the most disturbing question I've ever heard in the classroom:

"What if we don't have an opinion?"

Now, this is a state of mind with which I simply can not relate. I was raised in a family where an opinion on anything and everything was an absolute imperative, a matter of survival. Those without an opinion were mocked and shunned. By the age of 3 I had learned that if I didn't have an opinion, I had better quickly come up with one. By age 4 I had learned to defend that opinion with diligence and fervor. Of course, one was always allowed to change opinions, and in fact we often did, but only if the new opinion was held with even more passion than the original.

What if we don't have an opinion? I answered the only way I knew how.

"You have 10 minutes to come up with one."

Now, I'm not promoting arbitrary opinions. I want them to research an issue, consider both sides, weigh the facts, project the consequences. They do need to increase their critical thinking skills (who of us doesn't), but what they need even more is a cure to their apathy.

They are not apathetic by nature. They impress me everyday with their deeply held concern for their friends and family. The reason they are in school now is to improve life not only for themselves but also for those they love.

All they need is for someone to help them see the connection between politics and local, national, and world events, and their own inner circles. How does America's response to the energy crisis affect their children? How does the government's involvement in corporate spending affect their own wages? Who can help them draw these lines?

That is my job. I'm not just and English teacher, I'm a line drawer.

The good seed of Fred Phelps

Last Saturday, my aunts Vicki and Janice and I zipped over to Topeka to hear Nate Phelps. The second son of the infamous pastor of Westboro Baptist Church (Rev. god hates fags), Nate escaped from his violent, hate-filled home at midnight of his 18th birthday.

Nate has shared his story in many places, but last Saturday was the first time he spoke out in his hometown.

Read about it here.

Gov. Jan Brewer can kiss my big, strong Puerto Rican ass

Every Monday morning, I greet my first class with the brightest smile possible, even if I haven't had the day's first cup of coffee (which, fortunately, is rarely the case).

"Good morning! How was your weekend?" I ask enthusiastically. Sometimes they even respond.

"What did you read over the weekend?" is my next question, which often meets curious glances. I'm still trying to instill the idea that not only is reading outside of class acceptable, but it can often lead to further enjoyment and enrichment. It's a work in progress.

Never one to shy from controversial issues in the classroom, I then asked, "what does everyone think of the new immigration law in Arizona?"

Blank stares.

So, I pulled up a news report and filled them in. Their initial response was confusion.

"Why would anyone make a law like that?"

"How are they going to get away with that?"

The confusion quickly gave way to frustration and hurt. They knew, without my suggesting it, that this would lead to racial profiling. Most of my students have at one time or another fallen victim to profiling, and some face it on a daily basis.

What weighed heaviest on my heart, though, was the eyes of my students who are first generation immigrants. Hurt, betrayal, frustration, anger. One wrote in her creative writing assignment that day, "Why do they treat immigrants like criminals?"

According to the new law, a legal immigrant who is caught without immigration papers could be charged with a state crime. Yep. That's right. It will be illegal to leave home without their papers.

I looked into the beautiful, gentle face of R___, one of my top students, and a scene flashed before my eyes. I saw her hurriedly racing from school to work (the young woman is always in class, at work, or studying), and being pulled over by a police officer because she looked suspicious. What if she had rushed out the door that morning without her papers? I saw them arresting her, processing her, charging her a fine that she most certainly couldn't pay.

Even if she were not arrested, even if she produced her papers when they were demanded, I can not imagine the humiliation of being singled out, pulled over, and questioned to prove that she belonged in the country that she has made her home, that she has worked feverishly night and day to make her home. She does not deserve to be treated this way in her own home, nor does a visitor deserve this treatment. It's demeaning, demoralizing, and downright cruel.

My father is still searched more thoroughly in the airport than his fairer skinned friends and family. This is only one example of the times I've seen him singled out or left out because of his skin color. I cringe when I see this proud, loving man treated as less than. Even a college education and a lifetime of white collar work has not rescued him from insidious racism.

We wonder why we still struggle so much with race relations in this country. Really? It seems that we are going out of our way to bolster the mistrust between people, to damage tenuous relationships.

Shame on you, Jan Brewer, for giving into the fear and overreaction of a few of your constituents. This was an unwise move that reflects poorly on your state and sets us back decades.

Because who hasn't at least wanted to flip someone off?

I absolutely love stories like this one. There is so much that is funny and silly about it, and yet there is pith, if one is willing to dig deeply.

An Olathe man flipped off the police officer who ticketed, received a second ticket for disorderly conduct, then enlisted the aid of the ACLU to teach the Olathe police that flipping off authorities is an expression of our first amendment rights. Yep. So go for it.

Oh, and the pith? Read here.

Plaza flash mob part 2: students' reactions

The flash mob in the Plaza this past Saturday was the main topic of conversation in my classes today at Kansas City Kansas Community College. Of my 80 students, approximately 70% are African-American, 20% are Hispanic, and 10% are Caucasian. Their ages range from 16-40s.

Yesterday I told them to stay up-to-date on the latest reports about the incident and come to class today prepared to discuss it. I was pleased that most of my students did just that, and was not at all surprised that they were full of ideas and opinions.

What did surprise me was that one student revealed that he had received a facebook invitation to the mob. He said it’s called a “flood,” and it’s not the first invitation he’s received. He decided to ignore this invitation, since he was afraid it was going to spiral out of control.

Another student said with absolute certainty that he knew what incited the mob; it was a reaction to the massive school closings planned for this upcoming fall in the KC, MO school district. I asked him if he was absolutely positive this was the reason, and he said that he was. When I asked him how he knew this, he looked at me long and hard and simply said, “because I know.”

To launch our discussion, I asked the students to answer three questions:

1. What assumptions did the news reporters make?
2. What assumptions do you make?
3. What assumptions do you think others might make?

Below are some of the most popular answers to these questions.

What assumptions did the news reporters make?

1. This event was planned through social media channels.
2. The teens started the incident.
3. This will likely happen again.
4. Teens were labeled as “unruly” and “violent.”

What assumptions do you make?

1. The teens need something to do, somewhere to go, and Kansas City has very little for them.
2. Next time will involve even more teens.
3. This was racially motivated.
4. Those involved were acting out of ignorance, and ignorance breeds more ignorance.
5. People will stop patronizing the Plaza.
6. Someone will be killed next time.
7. The Plaza area will begin to enforce a curfew for teens and a dress code for everyone.
8. This will lead to greater profiling by the police.
9. Many of the teens were high on something.

What assumptions might others make?

1. Parents are to blame.
2. The teens were all black.
3. Teens should not be out at night without adult supervision.
4. The city will be better prepared in the future for this kind of event.
5. This was racially motivated.
6. The Plaza is a dangerous place now, and this will hurt tourism.
7. Drugs were involved.
8. It was gang related, because when black people fight, it’s always about gangs.

An overwhelming majority of my students believe this will continue to escalate. One student remarked that the inevitable increase of police presence in the Plaza might lead to greater security, but could also lead to an increase in volatility and hostility.

My students were very divided on how this could or should be addressed. While they did not defend the actions of the mob, they were fairly pessimistic about whether authorities and community leaders could successfully address this issue. Many were also concerned that this will lead to greater racial tension in Kansas City.

I hold great respect for my students, and I love them dearly. They, in turn, respect and trust me. Whatever the future of the Plaza and other Kansas City hot spots, I hope that our classroom, at least, will continue to be a thriving community where we build bridges, strive to understand and support one another, and live out the kind of peace and cooperation that we desire for our city, our country, and our world.