We Will Not Be Shaken

Tonight I went to a play called "We Will Not Be Shaken" starring my History professor Mr. Walsh, or "Walsh" as we are so chummily asked to call him. :)

Normally, I wouldn't take time out of my day to watch a professor act unless extra credit was involved or unless I really liked him.

Walsh is probably one of the best professors I've ever had. He's hilarious and innovative and unconventional and utterly relational with every single student individually.

Instead of taking tests, quizzes and notes like all the other classes, Walsh's methods of teaching rely heavily on class discussion and theatrical participation.
Instead of testing us on the books we read, he has us write a reaction essay, applying the books themes to the world today. Additionally, he assigns a group to each book and that group must make a theatrical production.

So far, the group presentations have been amazing. They are hilarious. They are personal. People share their own life stories. And they are moving. People cry in almost every group while telling their stories or just from the emotional impact of the themes.

Example--there's an older lady in the class who was a nurse in the Vietnam war. After we read "The Things They Carried" she gave a presentation on her experiences. She started crying when she told a story about holding a young man's hand while he was dying and begging for his mother. The whole class was tearing up.

As a result, our class--of various ages, backgrounds, majors, and beliefs--is so incredibly bonded. I walk into class and the hippie guy who looks like Jesus winks at me asks me if I have written the latest great American novel.
The blond pageant queen sitting behind me wants to continue the discussion we had last week about our siblings in California.
And Walsh asks how I'm feeling, as I missed class last week and e mailed him to tell him I was sick.

Class begins and everyone gets to talk. Everyone has a part of their lives to throw in.

That's the experience I've had in Walsh's class. And I've learned more about the history of working class America than I would ever learn from a textbook based curriculum.


Unfortunately, Mr. Walsh's unconventional methods have given the deans reason enough to ask him to not return next semester.
The news was devastating to our class. Because Mr. Walsh teaches taboo books, because he has us act out the books, he has been asked to leave.

His play tonight was about education reform. It was about teaching students things that matter. Not just CSAP preparation material.
His play was beautifully autobiographical. And inspiring.

After the play, fliers were passed out, advertising a protest to keep Walsh as a teacher. There is a demonstration on April 2nd at the campus, and I'll be right there along with hundreds.

For those of you who regularly read my blog--I believe Zack, Josie and Joy are the most regular--I just want to urge all of you to teach with Walsh's attitude. Do something that really makes kids get the material.
Josie, I know you teach and I'm sure that staying in a governmental-designed box is frustrating.
Zack, I know that teaching kids about God is hard, especially when they act like robots in a classroom or won't listen.
Joy- you may not get paid, but you ARE a teacher. To me, to other art students, to the world.

I personalize this blog because I think we all need to take a different approach to how our generation and generations after learn.

Walsh's words on the first day were:
"If I haven't convinced you to become a teacher after you are done with my class, I haven't done my job."

Being in Walsh's class has given me a new career path.
Not teaching (I haven't caved yet! lol) But activism.

I want to be an activist when I grow up.

That's a scary thing for a republican to say. I know that. But I also know that I believe in justice. Justice for education, justice for workers, justice for women, justice for minorities in every aspect.
Walsh's class has brainwashed me with that attitude. It may not fit in to my political agenda. But I don't care. I want to protest. I want to write letters and make a difference.

One thing that myself and the other members of my class have jumped on board with is Colorado Jobs For Justice. It advocates janitors and waiters and all kinds of people who are treated unfairly. The link is on my blog list. Anyone who is interested, let me know. We can go to a protest together. :)

Finally, I hope I don't sound fickle. Anyone who knows me knows that I already know who I am. I have had my mind made up about what I believe since I was a child, and I am never shaken.
A teacher like Walsh who shakes ME....now that, my friends, is a teacher.

Standing Outside the Fitting Room

Normally, I don't voluntarily accompany my mom and sisters to the mall--especially when I don't need anything myself.

So I'm not sure what came over me yesterday when my mom said "the girls need to get swimsuits and shorts for spring break. do you want to come?" and I said sure.

The first thing I should have remembered was that "swimsuits and shorts" never means just those things.

But let's back up. My sisters are like hangers. Any type of clothing you drape over them looks perfect. So when they see shirts and tank tops, they of course MUST try those on too. Just to let you know early on, our shopping trip was not short at all.

When I shop, I know exactly what I need, and I find it and leave. Period.

Anyway,

We went to Zumiez first where they got their swimsuits.

The problem I have with my sisters trying on swimsuits (other than waiting and listening to them whine and them demanding I go get them different sizes/styles)
is how oblivious they are to the look of their own bodies.
Emily, for example, is a sporty tomboy in most of her stylistic choices. Most of her clothing is baggy and casual.
When she tries on a swimsuit (especially a bikini from Zumiez) she is a bombshell.

When she swung open the dressing room door to show us, the two pervs working there were standing there too.
Now, I realize they're trying to make sales. Cool. But making comments like "looks nice!" and "I like the fit!" are not appropriate for a cornucopia of reasons. some being:

1. she's under aged
2. her MOTHER is right there
3. you're a punk
4. you're a guy who's a stranger. your (unsolicited) opinion is invalid. period.

And then there's Natalie. When she tries on swimsuits now, it's hard to believe that in six years she's going to be seventeen, six feet tall (according to our doctor) and wearing something like this suit--that looks a little more like underwear the more you consider it.

Since she's 11, I feel sort of okay with her swimsuit choice. But it just reminds me that I won't feel comfortable for long.

And I realize I'm a nostalgic person by nature. I hate change. But the reality that my sisters are growing up is still hard. I've never looked like them. I've never had guys all over me during spring break. I have no idea how to be the older sister in this case.


The rest of the mall trip was more whining, more derailing from our goal of shorts, and more of me standing outside the fitting rooms.

Standing outside the fitting rooms. That's an interesting place to me. Metaphorically speaking, for one. Kind of an illustration for life. That's where I've always been. Giving the opinions, getting new sizes, waiting, waiting, waiting. But never IN, never doing any of the trying on.

Literally speaking, I don't like being outside the fitting rooms either. Because it never fails. No matter what store--Zumiez, Pac Sun, American Eagle--one of their genius, 16 year old employees asks me "do you need a fitting room too?"

At some point, I am going to keep the blank expression on my face and say "Yes. I thought I'd walk in, empty-handed, and just look at myself." Or "Yes, I'd like to try on my purse."

Genius.

I'd also like to add that the adult employees of stores are obsessed with busting shoplifters. They ask me (a young, "hippie-looking" girl with a huge purse) if I need any help at least 6 different times.
I wish I could just yell at them: "I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE ANYTHING! YOUR CLOTHES DON'T FIT ME ANYWAY!"

Malls suck.

I like what my Political Science professor said once about a shopping mall mall proposal in Iraq: "You can't build a mall in a terrorist country until you establish peace. They will SHOOT the mall. They will shoot each other IN the mall!"

Malls really are a stupid invention no matter where you build them. Any place that attracts large groups of preteen girls can never be good.

Next time, I'm bringing a book and sitting at Orange Julius.

Vexed

Today in math class, I was there early (as most squares are) and waiting for the professor/rest of the class to arrive.

In the desk to my left, there's a guy named Lance who sits there. He's not gay (contrary to his name being Lance) and we don't ever really talk, but our professor is a really goofy guy so we always grin at each other and roll our eyes. We share pencils and calculators occasionally. Neither one of us are very talkative anyway.
We have a very non-verbal, close relationship. ;) I like to think that because he is just SO cute.

Okay so today Lance comes into class. He sits down very slowly. His face is twisted in pain. He finally comes to a seated position and tries to straighten himself.
He's wincing and holding his lower back with both hands.

It's kind of awkward, but also scary for me to watch. When we make eye contact, I asked him, "Uh...are you okay?"

He nods, but is still holding his lower back and making faces that indicate pain. "My back just hurts."

and I say "Oh geez...I'm sorry."

after a second I ask- "What happened?"

He says "Oh...my mom's boyfriend...." and trails off.

At this point I am confused, but utterly concerned. Because he doesn't look like the kind of guy who would ever be in real pain. He doesn't look like a guy who can be easily beat up. He's tall and toned. So whoever did this had to be pretty brutal, which is scary to think about too.

I say, "So did you call the cops?"

Suddenly, his pained expression is gone and he smiles and says "no," like it was a naive question.


Maybe it was.


What I realized tonight is that I really don't know what goes on everywhere. I really don't know the way that some people live. I don't know the complications of Lance's situation.
And yet I try and identify.
Hell, I try and write stories.
But I am a sheltered kid from a small town.

I asked him if he wanted any advil and he said no thanks. Probably another naive question.

I am one of the most empathetic people I know. When I was a kid, I'd cry about this Hallmark commercial about an old lady who never got any mail.

Sitting in class, I wanted to cry.

I don't have a right to, most likely. My compassion doesn't do any good for people. But our minute long conversation made me feel sick to my stomach. MY back started hurting. I couldn't concentrate in class.

In one class period, a casual classmate became someone I love.
And I hate that.
I hate that I so easily love people and hurt for people.
It sets me up for so much drama and heartbreak.

Now that I know this about Lance, this class is totally different for me.

And what sucks the most is that I can't do anything to help.

Character-Driven Short Story

Another assignment I did last semester for creative writing.

Based on my actual friend Shelby/times with Shelby.
Pics are of her.

Not the Car

Shelby never wears anything but dresses and skirts, and her elegant feet are always trapped vertically and contorted in her beloved high heels. She prefers to drive in heels. She does everything in heels. She has a habit of constantly tapping the heel of her shoe whenever she is on tile, confirming with each tiny ding that these shoes were far more expensive than yours. Her platinum blonde hair is never up, just down, rolling to her chest in soft waves, or jetting straight down her back, depending on her mood.

She stands tapping her heels at the Starbucks counter inside Barnes and Noble. I’m there too. I’m Shelby’s friend. Against all odds, I might add, because Shelby is everything I’m not. I’ve been at Barnes and Noble waiting for her to show up. By the looks she’s getting, I guess I’m not the only one happy to see her. She’s too busy chatting up the barista as he makes her latte that she’s forgotten she’s tapping her heels again. I consider telling her to stop, but I suddenly don’t feel worthy of approaching her. I’m saving the table. Her boyfriend Sean stands next to her in his white suit, the one she told him would match her dress perfectly for this outing. Standing next to Shelby, even in Barnes and Noble, makes you feel like you’ve been invited to a dinner party and forgotten to dress up.

She continues to talk to the barista. She talks with every stranger like this, perfectly timing a perfect conversation, oblivious to her ability to make his day just by discussing a book.

“I love that author,” she says to him, “His commentaries on existentialism fascinate me.”

But no one, not even her boyfriend Sean in all his white-suited glory has the heart to tell her. But everyone knows that no one is really listening to her, only trying to look down the v-neck of her dress. This tall barista succeeds easily.

You don’t have to go into Shelby’s closet to know that she spends an awful lot of time and money on her undergarments. She’s the kind of girl who not only lives at Victoria’s Secret, but Victoria herself probably whispered her secret into Shelby’s ear. Because it’s obvious that Shelby knows something that we don’t. Namely, how to glide through life on torturous shoes and still smile without getting red lipstick on her teeth.

I’m still waiting for her so I watch the barista guy smile like he has a clue what she’s talking about. But my guess is—he’s really thinking about what’s underneath her dress and rhinestone bra. Several images probably cross his mind but none will include a 143 IQ. But that is what’s hidden under Shelby’s sparkly lingerie, pink dresses and gold jewelry.

Shelby was named after the car that her dad was obsessed with when she was born. And like the GT Mustang, she has been an object of lust in the eyes of all men. Those fortunate enough to get behind the wheel are often too rich for their own good. Just like Sean. She’s kept him around for eight months because he’s a good accessory.

Shelby and I played Barbies as kids. She played the brand new, evening-gown blonde. I played the brunette whose hair had been scissored to the skull and whose face had teeth marks from the dog. As a consolation prize, she gave me a Ken doll. After all, hers didn’t need one. Even then she explained to me, “Barbie never needed Ken.”

“But who was going to stand next to her in a matching outfit each time she saved the world?” I wondered. Sean is her Ken doll at the bottom of the toy box. She doesn’t care for him. She’s even, on occasion, tried to hook me up with him, much to my repulsion. But his tie matches her Prada bag, so she’ll dig him out when there’s a party.

At the end of the day, she would much rather be with someone like the guy at Starbucks. Someone into music, who wears square glasses and has an antiestablishment plan to revive the hippie culture. That’s Shelby’s dream guy, the one she talks about when I’m sleeping over and we’ve run out of things to say while staring at her ceiling in bed. That’s always been Shelby’s dream guy. They never made a Ken doll with shabby hair and a tye-dye t-shirt.

I bet right now she’s imagining Mr. Barista in tye-dye. She is imagining him and her running off to Africa to cure AIDS orphans. She has this obvious, contagious, love for humanity.

So Shelby talks to everyone. And she thinks everyone takes her seriously. She thinks she can tell them she’s on the Dean’s List at medical school and they’ll believe her. Worst of all, she thinks the renegade latte boy has pure intentions. So she flirts at the counter, tapping her high heel on the tile floor. But the latte boy only sees a Mustang GT with Sean, the lucky owner.

Shelby leaves behind a cloud of exhaust that he must choke on while he watches her peel out his sight.

Shelby doesn’t realize that she is a classic. She doesn’t know she’s a ’65 model with standard Koni shock and an engine painted black. All she knows is how much she’s worth.

But Shelby is not the car. Shelby is the intelligent nursing intern. She is the friend who drives to the airport at 2am, without complaining, to pick me up. She is the daughter who stuck around to help her mom and dad. She is the brain surgeon who settled for being a trophy girlfriend.

But to me, most importantly, she is the friend that grasped my hand and whimpered as she got her sexy tattoos. She is the little girl who didn’t want her evening-gown Barbie to get married. She is the friend whom I have seen without any makeup.

And I know that even though she doesn’t mind being the car, she is, most definitely, not the car.

A Lie Is Like

Ok so I just wanted to tell a funny story that happened yesterday when I was in Vegas with my parents.

We were going to a clinic on Tuesday morning, so after checking out of the Mandalay Bay Hotel :), we had breakfast at a McDonalds. It was only 7am or so, and the only other people in there besides the 3 of us were 2 old men. One was considerably older.

I went to the bathroom after ordering and when I came out and began to sit with my parents, I hear the considerably older man say "....and she has on a negligee and is all horny. and this guy is like 'oh no i'm (bad word!)"

And I am just like oh my gosh.
AWKWARD.
slash weird.

But it gets better. The older old guy then starts lecturing the other guy. My parents and I are basically forced to listen. And we're trying not to laugh. My dad whispers, "I guess there's some drama going on this morning..."
From what I could gather, the younger old guy wants to buy a boat, and his wife is against it. His buying the boat could end the marriage. So he's thinking of just buying it and hiding it so she won't know. (Genius plan, by the way. If it's a bathtub boat.)

But the older guy, in his scratchy, old man voice, starts telling him why it's bad to lie.
However, he does so to the tune of ridiculous comparisons and every cliche in the book.

Example: He says, "A lie is like a (insert stupid inanimate object here) (insert far-fetched connection here.)"

Some of my favorites were: "A lie is like a stop sign. You can look at it and stop, or you can choose to ignore it and go out into the intersection and get t-boned!"

"A lie is like a bear trap. You can play on it, but eventually it's gonna slam shut on your leg."

and the ever-relevant: "a lie is like a boat with no water under it." I can't remember how he explained it but it was absurd.

His cliches were equally entertaining:
"Once you tell one lie you have to tell another."
"When you tell the truth, you don't have to remember what you said."
"The truth will find you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it will find you!"
"When you tell a lie, you dig yourself a little deeper."

Unfortunately, we had to leave before his lecture was over and we didn't find out if this other guy had changed his mind.

But when we got in the car, my parents and I were just rolling our eyes and laughing at that guy.

My dad started mocking him and in an old man's voice was saying, "You gotta rob Peter to pay Paul. A lie is like a cell phone. If you flip it open, you gotta answer it....unless you hang up. But lying is like hanging up because you can't face the truth."

It was funny.


Oh and we had a lovely 1 1/2 days in Las Vegas. It was not crowded at all---yay bad economy :)
We got to shop and look at the cool hotels. The 3 of us never really hang out. When I was a kid I always wanted to be an only child. :) I mean now, of course I couldn't live without the other kids but it was cool to pretend for a while.

Latest Writing

Ok so my writing instructor for my independent study is helping me make a lot of summaries and excerpts to send to magazines.

NOTE- it's not the whole story, obviously. It is an excerpt, and then a summary.



I can't think of a title yet, so if any of you can think of anything, let me know. Feedback is needed as well. Thanks!






He pressed her up against the locker and kissed her once more before the bell rang, grabbing a handful of her spiraling brown hair. They pulled apart in time for the crowds that came bursting out of their classroom doors. Soon, they were walking separate directions, caught in the sea of all the other members of Walsh High School. After school, she pulled him aside.
“Ander,” she whispered harshly, “that was close. We can’t make out in the halls. I’m going out with Jameson.”
“You’ll be in science class tomorrow, right?”
She smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
When science class rolled around the next day, Daphne smiled at Ander at her desk. When the other students filed in, they broke their gaze.
“Daphne?”
She looked up. “Yes Mr. Garrison?”
“Can you please read page twenty-two?”
She nodded. Twenty two. His age. “Mr. Garrison” was still much easier to say than Ander, even after two months, she decided.

“I should have never taken a job in a small town,” he tells himself continuously. As the new Physics teacher, twenty-two year old Ander Garrison from New Jersey was not prepared for the Southern-Baptists, Neo-Nazis and scandalous affairs in Trembles, Alabama. Nor was he prepared for a student with the intelligence and beauty of senior, Daphne Borrows. After witnessing Daphne’s abusive relationship with her quarterback boyfriend, Ander’s advice and comfort turn to something more.

Daphne has never seen anyone like Ander before. His blonde hair and crystal blue eyes are something only the movies have. In his classroom and in his arms, Daphne finds a trust she’s never experienced. Something about Ander is pure and genuine.

The two begin a secret, fearful affair in a town where secrets are deadly.

Does love have laws? Can a school, a town, prohibit an adult student from dating a teacher? Can a man’s love cost him his job? His reputation?

Justified?

Riding public transportation for a semester+ has given me a lot of grief, despite it's convenience.

Normally, the light rail is a marvelous place for people watching. Sometimes, though, I am outraged by what I see.

Well...one particular thing outrages me.

Sometimes the light rail is PACKED. During rush hour and such. And there are people who have to stand in the aisles and hang on to the bars and handles and such.

Standing isn't what bothers me. At least not in and of itself.

What bothers me is that on the packed light rail, men are sitting while women are standing.
In my world, that would never happen.
In my world, every man would give up his seat until there were no more women standing.

I will always teach my sons to do this.

No, I don't think women are weak and need to be seated. I just think that the principle of the matter is that women having "equality" has taken them off their pedestal. Christian men--you CANNOT let this happen!

A little hope came back to me the other day.

A young, 8 foot tall muscular guy with tattoos and a bandanna was standing and holding the handle above him. A girl around my age was standing in front of him, holding onto a handle too.
The guy leans forward to the guys in the seat. He says, "Hey, can I ask you guys something kinda crazy?"
They look up.
He says, "can one of you give your seat to this young lady? She has a foot cast on."

A GIRL in a FOOT CAST and she was standing.
One guy did stand up and apologize and let her have his seat.
So that was cool.

But the girl seemed so surprised--too surprised. That was discouraging because women in our culture have adapted to being treated "equally."

Women SHOULD be treated differently! I wish people would stop thinking chivalry is sexist. Women contribute to this idea. We as women need to EXPECT to be put on a pedestal.

Men: be chivalrous.
Women: expect and embrace chivalry.
Parents: teach your sons chivalry and teach your daughters what to expect.

As the hot guy on the light rail proved, there are still people out there doing the right thing.