Lament for an underprivileged violin

On Valentine's Day, two other young women and I braved the cold and the, um, whatever you call that particular form of precipitation, to enjoy the Kansas City Symphony. As a special treat, violinist virtuoso Karen Gomyo graced us with a heart-stopping rendition of the Sibelius violin concerto.

The Canadian, though only 27, commanded the hall from her first note. I admit, I harbored unfair doubts when I first beheld this young, sweet-looking woman, but she played with passion and technical precision beyond her years.

As I sat there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, a curious thought danced in my head. "My poor, poor violin," the irrational portion of my brain lamented, "it will never know what it is like to be played like that. Its body will never participate in those sweet notes, those impeccable runs, those soaring melodies. The closest it has ever come to keeping company with a real violinist is sitting within bow's reach of Chris Takeda in high school orchestra and youth symphony. I think he may even have picked it up to play a lick once, but that may just be one of those fantasized memories.

Anyway, the point is, my violin is underprivileged. What more can it expect? Gomyo plays a stradivarius on loan to her permanently. Its name is ex-Foulis. My violin doesn't have a name. It's worth millions of dollars. Mine is worth, well, significantly less. Gomyo never lets her instrument leave her sight. I abandoned mine in my car's trunk overnight once (ok, maybe twice). The strad is a Porsche. My violin (its maker's name escapes me) is more of a Honda: reliable, long-lasting, higher-quality than a Ford (don't argue with me), but it's not going to woo any hot chicks.

At this point the rational part of my brain pipes in and asks, "how much of a difference does the instrument make to the quality of the music?" Now, I know that it does make a difference. When I was 14, after I had proven to my parents that I really was going to stick with the violin, they invested the money to upgrade me from my cheap student violin from Sears and Ro. to a real instrument. Robertson and Sons Violin Shop sent me home with countless violins and bows to audition, and the sound quality between them varied wildly. I discovered that even a different bow can altar the sound- it wasn't only for the shiny pearl and glittering oyster shells that I selected a bow as valuable as my violin. My only question is: how much? If Gomyo had taken the stage with my Honda, would she still have received a standing ovation?

I'm not suggesting for a moment that she and other masters should not be playing their priceless treasures. Violins, though sometimes works of art, are meant to be played. It's just a question to ponder, as well as an analogy that alert readers have clued into by now. What do you think?

pssssttt! This is Dagney's violin. As much as she claims to love me, I think it's a disgrace that she has never given me a name. Loyal readers of Dagney's blog, please suggest a name for me. If I choose your suggestion, I promise, with my owner's cooperation, to serenade you.

Sitting at the feet of Dr. Terrence Roberts of the Little Rock 9

Just one more reason I love teaching on a college campus- amazing opportunities drop in my lap, like attending a lecture given by Civil Rights legend Dr. Terrence Roberts, who was one of the 9 brave students who desegregated the high schools in Little Rock, Arkansas. With an eloquent, engaging story-telling style, Roberts shared about his decision to volunteer as one of the 9, what he endured that year, and what lessons he learned from that experience and the life experiences that followed.

When the Little Rock school board asked for volunteers to desegregate the schools in 1957, initially 150 Black high school students indicated interest. As a result of parents' fears for their safety, threat of violence, and promises of job loss for family members, most of them withdrew, leaving only 9 brave students willing to attend the previously all white Central High School in Little Rock Arkansas.

I have seen pictures of those 9 entering the school the first day, seen the angry crowds held back by the National Guard. What I didn't know, though, is that Roberts, along with the other 8, was beat up at school every single day that year. He admitted that he learned to run very fast.

Many of my students were baffled about why he would continue to face that persecution day after day without retaliation. According to Roberts, he didn't know how historic his actions were, but he knew that he wanted an education and that they current system just wasn't right. "Race as we know it is an historical construct," he said, "but America is dedicated to segregation."

The experience increased his passion and drive to pursue an education, but what is especially amazing is that he did not come out of that year of high school with any desire for vengeance or a defeatist attitude. Although he also faced daily verbal abuse, he said that, "what others say or think about us is none of our business. I don't want to fitter away my life force on anger. If others know they can make you angry, they have control over you." Roberts instead has chosen to continue steadily, almost stubbornly, on the path that he desires, never allowing others to determine where or how far he will go.

His clear focus on his purpose in life is amazing. He said, more than once, "You have to decide at times in life the hill you're willing to die on and focus on that." If we allow ourselves to be distracted by skirmishes along the way, we will never make it to the top of the hill that really matters most to us.

His lessons were both for individuals and for our community at large. While he repeatedly admonished us all to take our education and lives into our own hands, he also recognized the role that our society plays in perpetuating hatred, anger, and violence.

"This country is in trouble because we are wasting energy maintaining the walls that surround us. The rhetoric is that we are dedicated to integration, but most people live mono-racial, mono-cultural lives."

Surely there are better places to spend our energy. Surely there are ways we could live our lives so that we leave this world a more beautiful place than we found it.

Prostate cancer: a daughter's perspective

I received the text message on Christmas Eve:

"Your dad's biopsy came back positive for prostate cancer. lu- mom"

I was standing in line at a Wal-Mart in Florida with my six year old daughter, Aliyah, buying a sun hat and sun screen for a day at the beach.

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed (I may have said something else, but I'm not admitting it). Aliyah looked up at me and said, "What's wrong, mommy?" I gave her my best fake smile and said, "Nothing, sweetheart. I just thought I lost something, but I found it. Everything is ok." I turned my head and fought back the tears. I was hundreds of miles away from home in order to enjoy a relaxing Christmas break. Now what?

The next text message came a few hours later:

"More 'good' news. Vicki [my mom's sister] has breast cancer."

At this point I seriously considered blocking my mother's number. Seriously, what the hell?

Turns out I had it easy. My brother later told me that when dad called him with the news that the cancer was aggressive, my dad's voice broke and he had to hand the phone to mom. I've only seen my dad cry once, when his father died. He's just too machismo for tears. And I've never, ever seen him scared before. At least, not until the weekend before surgery.

In the weeks leading up to the surgery, I visited my parents several times. Dad would smile, we would find things to laugh about. I even took him out to dinner once and listened to him share more candidly about himself than he ever had before. When he mentioned that he had lost focus a few times while teaching, I asked whether he had considered counseling.

"After all, dad, this is a major life event."

"Yeah, your mom said the same thing. Really, I'm fine."

Damn machismo.

Grandma Velazquez flew into town a few days before the surgery. My sister flew in from Houston. We all spent most of the weekend at their house, eating more Puerto Rican food than anyone ever should, laughing, hugging, making plans for the future. Dad continued to try to hide his apprehension, but all of us could see it.

"Do you think dad's scared?" I asked my sister.

"Oh, yeah. And so is mom. But dad's trying to hide it and mom's trying to be the strong one."

Mom is a strong woman, no doubt about it, but dad had always been the rock. Nothing ever frightened him, and all three of us kids had always depended on that. Dad would, and probably could, take on all the forces of darkness for his children and grandchildren. He is the reason we have so much confidence. With dad at our backs, we could face anything. And now he was scared?

It was time for us to finally step us and have his back. My brother met my parents at the hospital the morning of the surgery and waited with mom for hours. We've all taken time out to spend with them. Most of all, we've carried the family courage for a little while, until dad can take it on again.

No fear in our eyes, dad. We always believe in our hero.

Read my parents' ongoing story of battling cancer here.

But I don't think there really were dragons...

Before we get started, I have a quick message just for my students: you’re not as sneaky as you think you are. I can see when you’re texting, even though you hide your phone behind your notebook, beside your book, in your lap, or in your coat pocket. Stop it. This is your last warning.

Ok, back to our regularly scheduled program. Yesterday I asked two of my classes to write an in-class essay on the question, “if you could choose to live in a different historical time period, in America or another country, which one would you pick and why?” Here are a few of their answers with a quick summary of their reasons.

1. Medieval Europe
1. To be a king and have all the power, comfort, and women that come with that position
2. To maybe see a fire-breathing dragon
2. Central America during Aztec Empire
1. Witness their advanced technologies
2. See great things being built such as pyramids
3. Beautiful and interesting culture
3. Germany in the 1930s
1. For the opportunity to build up an army to stand against Hitler
2. Help the Jewish people become stronger
3. War time is an excellent time to seek fame
4. America in the 1920s
1. Beautiful clothing
2. Men were romantic
3. Life was more relaxed
5. Miami in the 1940s
1. Booming economic time in Miami, so great time to become rich
2. This is when their football team won the Superbowl
6. Time of the dinosaurs
1. Opportunity to watch life-cycle of dinosaurs
2. Research their interaction with one another
7. America in the 1970s
1. Time of love, peace and drugs
2. Jimi Hendrix was a big influence during this time
8. America in the 1960s
1. Great fashion period for women (though not men)
2. Cars were beautiful
3. Fun dancing styles
9. Victorian England
1. Beautiful fashions
2. Women held themselves to high standards
3. Great literature written

And me? I would choose the here and now. There's nothing like it.

A case of the Mondays

I haven't had a case of the Mondays in a long time. Maybe it was the snow. Maybe it was anxiety over my father's surgery (he's doing fine). Today, though, was a Monday kind of Monday.

First it was the whiteboard markers. I'm used to one or two drying out on the same day, but today all five of mine were dried out. I stole a few from the teacher next door. All of his were bad. I stole a few from the teacher down the hall. His red one worked great, too great. It wouldn't erase. So then I had to wash my board before setting off to look for more markers.

Then one of my classes was one book short, so I ran down the hall to copy a couple of pages. The copier malfunctioned after just one copy, and I couldn't fix it. So I went back to the class, told them they'd have to share, then turned around and started cleaning the board. After a few minutes of cleaning one of my students finally cleared her throat and asked, "Um, are we supposed to be doing something?" I had forgotten to tell them their assignment. So they all had been sitting there waiting for instructions while I was cleaning my board, blissfully unaware that they were not hard at work.

And then, and then, I forgot the word, "continent." I actually stared off into space for a moment, my mind blank, and finally said, "you know, those bodies of land made up of many countries." (yeah, I know, except for Australia, Antarctica, and Greenland) One of my students looked at me strangely and said, "continents?"

And what did we learn today, class? Yes, that's right, I have off days, too. Sometimes I even misspell words, dangle my prepositions, and split my infinitives. But rarely on Tuesdays.

Is that a bald eagle in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Today we talked about figurative language, which my regular blog fans will immediately recognize as one of my favorite lessons. I always learn so much.

This time, along with similes, metaphors, and personification, we talked about symbol, something that represents something larger than itself. Students brainstormed several familiar symbols: bald eagle, heart, arrow, Nike swoosh (they ridiculed my drawing again here), cross, and flags. We briefly discussed what each symbol represented.

Then we returned to some of the symbols and I challenged them. "This symbol means something specific to you, but is it possible that it represents something very different, perhaps even the opposite, to someone else?" We identified various symbols that may represent love to one person but fear and hate to another, national pride for one but oppression to another, freedom for one but slavery for another.

I told my students that symbols, because the ideas and ideologies they represent, can be incredibly powerful. They can be tools of freedom, justice and empowerment, or tools of destruction. We can not use symbols lightly, but thoughtfully, keeping in mind their unique histories and connotations.

And by the way, my drawing of a butterfly DOES NOT look like a shoe. It doesn't look like a butterfly either, but still...

Ultimate Frisbee and Synthetic loyalty

Saturday night/Sunday morning, I partied at an indoor soccer arena for six hours with 71 other crazy people. We were all there for the "Everything's up too late in Kansas City," Ultimate Frisbee tournament. The action, laughter, food and music was nonstop, and even though it was painful to walk the next day (I had also moved Saturday morning), it was well worth it.

To kick off (pull off?) the evening, we checked in and they handed us each a headband, the color of which indicated the team. My headband was yellow, so I looked around the room for fellow yellow headbanders. It didn't really matter to me who they were, since I only knew one other person there. My team was inevitably going to be all new friends.

We yellows found one another. Our first game was against the blue people. So, along with the rest of my teammates, I cheered for every good play and point our team made, gave them high fives when appropriate, and felt a little disappointment at dropped discs.

Why was I so emotionally invested in this small group of strangers? Because someone had arbitrarily handed me a yellow headband? (alright, not completely arbitrary. There was method behind the team selection) It struck me that night that often our loyalties and emotional investments in real life are just that arbitrary.

Why are you proud of your country? Because you were born there.

Why do you love your family? Because you were born into it.

Why do you cheer for your school? Because it's your school, and it's your school because you live in its district.

Why do you hate that race? Why do you dislike that music? Why do you lock your gates? Why do you go to that church? Why do you avoid that part of town? Why do you kill that stranger?

Fortunately Ultimate, much like curling, is a game that is all about sportsmanship, so no one was upset at a loss, no fights or arguments broke out. People were just there to play and have fun.

But what about our other arbitrary loyalties? How safe and healthy are they?