The Rising

Today is the ninth anniversary of 9/11, and people continue to feel pain, grief, outrage, and anger over the loss of loved ones and an attack on the city that embodies so much of what Americans love about their country.  No American — and no citizen of the world — has remained untouched by the after effects of 9/11.

Before I became friends with D. I hadn’t known anyone who’d been in New York when the Trade Centers were attacked, and after we became friends I hesitated to ask him because I didn’t know what he’d experienced, and I didn’t want to stir up painful memories.  A year ago, I worked up the courage to ask D. what it was like to be in New York City on 9/11.  I asked him to write about it, if he could, and he told me he would.

I don’t remember how long it took him to write out his memories or what he told me when he sent them to me.  The only thing I remember is sitting at my computer, sobbing openly as I read his account of the events of 9/11 [and the days following it].

D.’s writing is a perfect example of the mixed emotions that so many Americans felt, and still feel, about 9/11.  His language is clear, concise, and absolutely devastating in its raw emotion — and he does not offer any answers or simple solutions.  Instead, he lays it all out there and leaves it up to the reader to draw their own conclusions.

After I’d read this piece several times, I asked D. for permission to share it with my students and my family, and he agreed.  I am sharing it here, today, in hopes that this powerful piece of writing will serve as a reminder that when working toward tolerance and understanding, we need to consider not only the communities, but also the individual experiences and feelings that were the result of this tragedy — on all sides of the issue.

Since I didn’t write this piece myself, I have created a separate page for the essay and the photo that D. took last year of spotlights aimed into the inky New York City sky, illuminating the space where the Trade Centers used to stand.

9/11: DMT’s Story

May peace be with you — and with us all.

Voices Carry

 

Subway platform. Photo by DMT

 

People say some crazy things.

This summer, while laying by my apartment complex swimming pool I overheard the following exchange between a 20-something couple.  The guy was in surfer shorts, and the heavily tattooed young woman was wearing a very small black bikini.

Guy [confused]: Just tell me why you’re mad.

Girl [annoyed]: Remember when I was down in county jail last year, and I lost all that weight and got really skinny?

Guy [hopefully]: Yeah?

Girl [accusingly]: Well, I expected you to notice!

Guy [slightly relieved]: Okay. [20 second pause]  Are we still going to the fireworks tonight?

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.  Ever since then I’ve listened more closely to the conversations that people have when they think that no one is listening, but of course, there are never quite enough of those in the Motor City where everyone commutes in their cars — while pretending to be a rock star.

And then I found the website “Overheard in New York,” a website that collects the conversational snippets overheard by folks in coffee shops, on subways and sidewalks.  The results are both laughable — and a little horrifying.  So far, my favorite has to be this one:

[Overheard on the 6 Train on Labor Day]:

Four-year-old boy: Daddy, why is there no express service today?

Father: Because the government invests all their money in war and killing people and doesn’t wanna invest in public transportation!

Four-year-old boy: Oh. That’s so unfair!

While I’m amused by these overheard conversations, I’ll admit that they’ve got me thinking about the things I say while out in public – sometimes even before I blurt them out! Some might argue that this is a step in the right direction.

Dreams

 

 

Photo by Sandra Arduini*

 

I love my students.

A few weeks ago, I had a student come into one of my classes, sigh heavily as she sat down, and state in an exasperated tone, “Ms. G, I wish you taught my math class!”  Before I could ask why, a young male student in the back of the room said, “I don’t.”  As the female student turned around to read him the riot act, he held up a hand and said, “Wait! All I mean is that if Ms. G taught math, we’d be in hell.”  I stood at the front of the room and smiled as I asked, “Why is that?”  The student responded, “Because if you taught math, we would not only have to calculate stuff like how long it takes Joe to get from Detroit to Chicago traveling 60 miles per hour, we’d also have to stop and analyze why he decided to go in the first place!”  As soon as I was able to control my laughter, I told the student, “Many people feel your pain.  Many people.”

The students I have the privilege of teaching are some of the most amazing people in the world.  They are creative, insightful, smart, funny as hell and unflinchingly honest. I frequently take my students down challenging learning paths, because I not only want them to learn the material presented in the class, I also want them to learn how to use it to improve their lives.  My method of doing this is rather unconventional at times, but because my students and I trust each other, they are always willing to go along for the ride – sometimes just to see where we will wind up!  I pose theories, present ideas and ask for their take on issues, and while my students have strong opinions, and don’t always agree with my take on things, they never fail to open their minds and engage in the discussion.

Many times, I think I learn more from them than they do from me.

Last week I posed my theory on how people don’t dream enough, and shared my dream of becoming a rock star with them.  I started by asking them what their dreams were, but for some folks sharing those dreams with classmates was a little more than they were willing to risk.  So, as usual I jumped in and said I’d share mine since it’s my job as their teacher to practice what I preach. Even thought I’d already blogged about it, I still felt a little embarrassed to be spilling such a wild and unlikely fantasy to my students – some of whom are young enough to be my children – but, as usual, I forged ahead and painted a picture of what I envisioned in order to show them that they, too, have the right to dream even the most unlikely things.

When I finished sharing my rock star dream, I felt a little self-conscious because in the back of my mind I knew that what I’d shared with them was not something that would ever be a reality, and I didn’t want them to think I was completely delusional about that.  So, I laughed at myself, cracked a few jokes about my aspirations, and explained why this was not something that was likely to ever come to fruition.

I started undermining my own dream.

As they usually do, my students showed me where I was missing the obvious as they took the lesson, and ran with it.  I was flooded with positive feedback, as students exclaimed, “Oh Ms. G!  You would make a great rock star!” and “I can totally see you in a band!”  One fashion student blurted out, “I know exactly where you can get those boots, Ms. G!” as she began doing a quick web search. Soon, from around the room, students were tossing out suggestions about how I could become a rock star — albeit on a smaller scale.  They suggested taking guitar lessons or playing Guitar Hero or going to karaoke night – but thoughtfully added that I should probably have a few drinks and then wait until two or three other people bomb before I perform.

As students brainstormed ways to make my fantasy a reality the conversation began to shift, and I listened to them allowing their own dreams to begin to hatch.  As they tested out their budding wings, their classmates jumped in and encouraged them flap harder and aim higher!  The discussion continued for quite awhile and I listened to my students urge one another to investigate and research their dreams.  Some even shared the resources they already had, and, like a good teacher, I pointed out the ways in which they were actively applying the research skills we’ve been studying this term.

The lesson was important for all of us in some way or another.  We each contributed what we had, we each took away what we needed, and in the process we fed our dreams.

And that makes all the difference in the world.

*”Choose Happiness” photo by Sandra Arduini for sale on Etsy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday in the Park

 

 

Downtown Chicago. Photo by MAG

 

If I can’t be in New York City, then Chicago is the next best place to be.

This past weekend I traveled to Chicago to visit J. and to get a little taste of a big city. As I’ve said before, J. is a serious foodie, so I know that when I visit her I can count on taking a break from my usual fare — protein drinks and frozen dinners — the food itinerary this Labor Day weekend was amazing, as usual!

On Saturday, we started the day with an amazing baked squash and onion tart that J. had made the day before, and then headed out to power-walk through an outdoor mall. J. and I don’t mess around when we shop because neither of us has the patience for browsing. We stop in stores that interest us, do a quick sweep of the entire place, and can be out in under 10 minutes – unless one of finds something to try on, then we’re out in 15.

After our trip to the mall, we headed to the Edgewater area and picked up lunch from Gaztro-Wagon. Owned by Matt Maroni [yes, he's heard all of the requisite jokes], this little restaurant offers the most amazing naan-wiches. I had the Braised lamb with queso Panela, apricots, walnuts and padron peppers, and J. tried the Fingerling Potato with fennel, mushroom puree, and goat cheese. We also tried an order of the plantain chips and split a real Oatmeal Cream Pie [these are not at all like Little Debbie makes them!].

 

Otom dining area. Photo by MAG

 

Many hours later, we dressed up and headed out to Otom, Joseph DeVito’s restaurant down in the Chicago meatpacking district. Otom is a quiet spot that focuses on New American cuisine with a Southern flair, and its interior might just make even the most hardcore graphic designer smile as it combines Paul Smith’s iconic stripes with exposed brick and sleek modern furniture.

What really shines at Otom are both the food and the impeccable service. The staff was friendly, attentive and incredibly knowledgeable about the food, and it seemed as if DeVito had addressed all of the biggest pet peeves that diners have! The courses were served efficiently without being rushed, and when the server boxed up our leftovers she didn’t bring them back to the table. Instead, the bag was kept in a side area until we paid our check. This solved the problem of having leftovers sitting on the table during coffee – or under the table and being forgotten.

We started the meal with green tea smoked octopus served with grilled cherry tomatoes, fennel, and pie pan squash. For the main course, I ordered the Chef’s Fish Special, which was a combination of mussels, crayfish, and marlin on a bed of wilted spinach and fingerling potatoes, and J. had the Duck Breast with somen noodles, miso dashi, baby bok choy, green onion and duck egg. And we had to split an order of the “Mac & Cheese” made with trofie, sweet corn, white cheddar and accompanied by a corn fritter that could actually have been called dessert. We agreed that next time we’re going to hijack the server and demand a plate of the fritters to start.

 

Photo by MAG

 

Otom is pricey, but we had a Groupon that deducted $60.00 off of our meal, so the entire dinner ended up costing $50.00 with tip.

On Sunday, we put on our walking shoes and took the El from Lincoln Park to North Avenue and had lunch at Epic Burger. The burgers here are outstanding – fresh, perfectly cooked and on the best buns ever! The menu is limited, and as a result, they do burgers right!

After lunch, we walked from North Avenue down to Michigan Avenue, and strolled the Magnificent Mile in search of Garrett’s Popcorn. Garrett’s is an iconic Chicago snack shop which specializes in – you guessed it – popcorn. Year round, the line in front of Garrett’s Michigan Avenue store stretches down the block, and Labor Day weekend was no exception. We waited patiently in line with fifty other folks, only to find out that they were out of cheese popcorn just as we reached the front of the line. Since I was bringing it back for a Garrett’s junkie in Michigan, I made an executive decision and settled for a large bag of caramel corn.

 

Nine West. Photo by MAG

 

We also had to do the obligatory stop at what those who know me would call “The Mothership” – Nine West – to browse the shoe sales and see what they were carrying for fall. I didn’t buy anything because I couldn’t justify the cost/use value [the cost of the shoes divided by the number of times they will be worn], but just being in the store was enough — this time.

In the Michigan Avenue Gap store, I passed another milestone in my preparation for New York City. I bought a skirt – size large. For many folks [who are not women fighting with their weight], this will have no significance whatsoever, but for me it was a glorious moment as I stood in the dressing room modeling the first skirt I’d put on in fifteen years that wasn’t marked “1, 2 or 3X.” You’d better believe I bought it! I did not push my luck and try on pants, though. I’ll save that for the next trip.

 

Gap skirt. Photo by MAG

 

By the time we caught the El back to Lincoln Park, we’d been walking [and/or waiting in line] for about five hours, and were hungry – again! We made a quick stop at Nhu Lan Bakery on Lawrence Street, and picked up the best banh mi sandwiches in the city. If you go there, I highly recommend the #11. It’s a mixture of tofu that has the texture of cooked meat, sweet and sour pickled slaw and hot peppers on a freshly baked baguette. It’s a delicious and inexpensive meal, and tastes wonderful with a nice cold Brooklyn Lager.

We capped off the meal with a slice of J.’s freshly made Pistachio Cake with Fig Jam and Cream Cheese Frosting as we watched Inspector Lewis and Detective Hathaway solve yet another murder mystery.

I might still be a year away from my New York City experience, but in the meantime, Chicago will stand in quite nicely.

Magic Power

 

Photo by DMT

 

I don’t think most people dream nearly enough.

I’m not talking about dreams that come during the night and help us make sense of all of the information our brains store in our subconscious mind, I’m talking about the big, bold daytime dreams.  The dreams in which we are the courageous hero or the daring adventurer; the dreams that take us to the outer reaches of our ambitions and desires; the dreams that, if uttered out loud, would probably cause people to shake their heads and tell us we’re crazy for even thinking such things.

I dream of becoming a rock star.

One of my favorite things to do on my half hour drive to and from work is to plug my iPod into the car stereo, crank up the volume and imagine myself as the lead guitarist in a stadium-tour band.  In my fantasy, I wear black jeans, a black tank top, and a killer pair of stiletto boots as I rip into solo after solo, belting out the lyrics to whatever song fits my mood that day.  I thrash my little heart out along side the real guitar heroes – Petrucci, Emmett, and Malmsteen – matching them chord for chord as the crowd roars for more.   No matter what else is going on in my life, for sixty minutes each day I am a strong and powerful stage performer, a skilled musician — a total badass with great hair and a screamin’ guitar.

The first person I ever mentioned my rock star fantasy to was D.  It was scary to let someone else see a dream that was just starting to flourish.  For months, I’d only allowed myself quick peeks at it, and then one day while listening to Triumph’s “Magic Power,” I saw it all with perfect clarity.  I saw myself wailing on the guitar as my bass player sang,  “She’s young, now/She’s wild, now/She wants to be free!” Impulsively, I sat down at the keyboard and quickly pounded out my vision of the entire performance.

It should have been enough just to have written the scenario, but being the control freak I am, I added “listening directions” and instructed D. to crank up the song and while reading my writing. While I was excited to have him read my dream, I also cringed when I thought about how I had exposed my secret and opened myself up to potential embarrassment. After all, D. is a musician himself, and actually knows what it feels like to be on stage.  I, on the other hand, could only imagine what it would be like, and I was afraid that my description wouldn’t be accurate.  I was afraid that he’d be able to see all of the flaws and, that when he pointed them out, the budding rock star in me would be smashed like one of Pete Townsend’s guitars.  However, being the wonderful friend that he is, D. not only followed my instructions, he also quickly wrote back and told me that not only did he love the writing, but that he could actually feel the performance as he listened and read.  I was thrilled that, as a real musician, he had taken my silly little daydream seriously.

Later, I thanked him for believing in me, and exclaimed, “You never tell me any of my ideas or dreams are impossible!”  In his usual way, he calmly replied, “And I never will.”

We all need someone who supports our dreams, but more than that, we need to believe that we have the right to dream.  We need to believe that no matter how impossible it seems, we have the right to entertain the notion that we could be or do or say anything at all. We need to believe this because being able to dream the impossible dreams can lead to action on other, not-so-impossible dreams.  For me, being able to envision myself as a rock star motivated me to maintain my workout schedule, helped me shed many of my insecurities, and has made my commute something I actually look forward to every day.

I don’t harbor any illusions that I’ll ever actually be a rock star, and it’s not because I’m a pessimist.  I’m simply pragmatic.  I understand the reality, and while I do think that I could probably do just about anything I set my mind to, I also recognize that in order for me to become a rock star I would not only have to learn to play the guitar, but I would also have to kick my shoe buying habit in order to tour dive bars in a cramped vehicle.  Oh, and then there’s the small matter of learning how to sing on key.  The reality is that I don’t have the time, energy or motivation to devote myself to the task of becoming a rock star, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dream about it.

And I can definitely buy myself a pair of kick-ass stiletto boots.