We were talking about Johann Strauss. I can't remember which one, the Jr. or the Sr. Point being, we were talking about a long dead white European.
Of course, my class was made up of half-minority students. And to be fair, we do more than a fair-share of Jazz that I wouldn't usually do. But these old dead white guys cover my walls. Am I racist? God, I hope not. Do I stereotype? You can't be a teacher and NOT stereotype. And not along the racial lines you were all just thinking.
I usually assume that the Asian kids will be good at music. (I have yet to have that stereotype broken.) I usually assume that if their butt-crack is showing over their pants, they're going to be just a bit disrespectful. I assume that the brightest kids in the class are going to get on my nerves because they'll question everything. (but they mostly annoy me because I know it's just karma coming back to haunt me. I WAS that kid.)
I also assume that if I never see a kid smile, that they're not really a happy kid.
So it was disarming, but not surprising, when a eternally sullen 6th grade girl raised her hand. I was assuming she was going to make a snarky remark on the composer at hand. Instead, she asked. "Mr. Hart, Why are you so happy all the time?"
I played the Socratic approach and replied with, "Is it a bad thing to be happy all the time?"
"It's just weird. You're always smiling."
"I'm sorry you don't appreciate my happiness."
And while that's pretty much where it ended, I, like always, thought way too much into it.
I really DO smile all the time. Possibly because, well, let's see: I'm alive, healthy (aside from the athlete's foot), disease free, have a roof over my head, food on the table, money in the bank (however little there is, it's still there), a job I love and a family I love.
Seriously, why shouldn't I smile? Damn it.
But I realized that *I* notice when people smile, too. I notice when the conductor in the orchestra pit is grinning. Hopefully because the tenor finally hit the right notes. I notice when students in my class smile, and hopefully not because they just passed gas.
I also realized, that smiling a lot: not always a good thing.
Two cases: George Bush. Always has that smug grin on his face. I completely understand, though. He has every reason to smile. He's thinking, "Come on, Bitches. Just try to take me down. I'll fuck you up."
Alberto Gonzales. "I can't recall that, but I can recall why I'm smiling this whole time: because you bitches can't touch me. And even if I resign, Big Daddy Bush will make sure I'm taken care of."
So if I get to the point that I'm smiling too much, PLEASE let me know.
It will help prevent the dreaded smile lines in the long run, anyway.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
i bled for my sport
I've never considered myself an athlete. I've never competed in much of anything. Not even ping-pong. I played a few games of racquetball in college (after conquering my fear of balls) and learned how not to throw like a girl.
And though I ran a marathon, there was nothing competitive about it. I believe I was even passed by an 80 y/o close to mile 22.
However, I do have an obsessive and addictive personality. That's why I don't gamble. I KNOW I would get addicted. Anything I do for more than a few weeks, I get addicted to.
That's how I became, as friend Jacquelyn put it, a runaholic back in college. I was the fat-probably-going-to-turn-out-gay one in H.S. I hated P.E.
But there was some kind of epiphany in January of '98.
I was taking the required P.E. course in college. In one of our first classes, we had to "run" for 12 minutes. I was shocked. SHOCKED. First, that I could move my legs at a pace faster than tortoise for more than 30 seconds. Second, that in those 12 minutes I actually went a mile. I had NEVER done that. (well, if you count junior high P.E., I did a mile in 15 minutes, but that's really walking fast)
I kept going back to the track just to see how far I could go. And within a couple months, I was running 5 miles/day at 6 mph. And the next year I did the marathon.
Moving to Kansas changed all that. New surroundings. New habits. Running fell by the wayside.
Until my fat-pants got tight last December.
We had had a YMCA membership for several years. I would go every once in a while. For a few months a couple years ago, I took swimming lessons and was amazed to find I could swim. (never had done that, either.)
So I made a goal to do a triathlon by my 30th b-day. (next year)
No offense Addy, but I thought, if Addy could do it, so could I!
Which is interesting because she said it was because she saw me do the marathon (she made the 6 hour drive with me to Kansas. From L-R Addy, Me, Jill) that she started doing triathlons.
So here I am. Runaholic. Swimaholic. Bikeaholic.
Last Friday was my longest run in almost 7 years. Six miles.
It was hot. I had just done a lower body and sprint workout at 4:45 a.m. that morning.
Half-way in the run, someone supplied my water stop. It was after that, I noticed blood covering my left hand. My watch was digging in the back of my hand.
I kept running.
I must have drank too much water, because I puked some of it back up on the way home.
I kept running.
My thighs were killing me. I was running into 15 mph wind.
I kept running.
THAT, people, is an addiction. I loved it.
I saw my trainer at the gym this morning and told her about the blood, puking and pain. She got a huge smile on her face and hugged me and said, "Oh, honey, you're a real triathlete now."
On top of that, I had to go perform in front of an audience at 9:00 that night.
I'm crazy and I know it. But the pants fit again.
And though I ran a marathon, there was nothing competitive about it. I believe I was even passed by an 80 y/o close to mile 22.
However, I do have an obsessive and addictive personality. That's why I don't gamble. I KNOW I would get addicted. Anything I do for more than a few weeks, I get addicted to.
That's how I became, as friend Jacquelyn put it, a runaholic back in college. I was the fat-probably-going-to-turn-out-gay one in H.S. I hated P.E.
But there was some kind of epiphany in January of '98.
I was taking the required P.E. course in college. In one of our first classes, we had to "run" for 12 minutes. I was shocked. SHOCKED. First, that I could move my legs at a pace faster than tortoise for more than 30 seconds. Second, that in those 12 minutes I actually went a mile. I had NEVER done that. (well, if you count junior high P.E., I did a mile in 15 minutes, but that's really walking fast)
I kept going back to the track just to see how far I could go. And within a couple months, I was running 5 miles/day at 6 mph. And the next year I did the marathon.
Moving to Kansas changed all that. New surroundings. New habits. Running fell by the wayside.
Until my fat-pants got tight last December.
We had had a YMCA membership for several years. I would go every once in a while. For a few months a couple years ago, I took swimming lessons and was amazed to find I could swim. (never had done that, either.)
So I made a goal to do a triathlon by my 30th b-day. (next year)
No offense Addy, but I thought, if Addy could do it, so could I!
Which is interesting because she said it was because she saw me do the marathon (she made the 6 hour drive with me to Kansas. From L-R Addy, Me, Jill) that she started doing triathlons.
So here I am. Runaholic. Swimaholic. Bikeaholic.
Last Friday was my longest run in almost 7 years. Six miles.
It was hot. I had just done a lower body and sprint workout at 4:45 a.m. that morning.
Half-way in the run, someone supplied my water stop. It was after that, I noticed blood covering my left hand. My watch was digging in the back of my hand.
I kept running.
I must have drank too much water, because I puked some of it back up on the way home.
I kept running.
My thighs were killing me. I was running into 15 mph wind.
I kept running.
THAT, people, is an addiction. I loved it.
I saw my trainer at the gym this morning and told her about the blood, puking and pain. She got a huge smile on her face and hugged me and said, "Oh, honey, you're a real triathlete now."
On top of that, I had to go perform in front of an audience at 9:00 that night.
I'm crazy and I know it. But the pants fit again.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
pain
There's no question about this. I've led a fairly charmed life. Even at this moment, as I finish my third cup of freshly ground coffee after having a breakfast of a fresh fruit salad I cut up this morning with some eggs and a biscuit, I know that my life is pretty darn close to idyllic.
That's why it's disturbing when events like last week's shooting enter my world. For a brief moment it brings me back to a place that isn't comfortable, that isn't idyllic.
If I start to think of all the things wrong in our world, (over-population, over-pollution, uneven wealth distribution, war-mongering) I tend to get depressed. On more than one occasion, I've talked with my friend Ted about this. What gets me most depressed about all that's wrong is the complete feeling of helplessness. It could literally all come crashing down around us tomorrow. And there's nothing me or you could do about it.
I can't remember what Ted's response was. I must not have found it brilliant since I don't remember it.
So most of the time, I do what I can. I drive a small car. I turn off the lights. I recycle when I can. I try to buy locally. But all that is just small drops of saline in a polluted ocean.
What scared me more than the shootings this week was a bomb threat that was called into our school district on Thursday. No, I didn't think there was a bomb. When was the last legitimate bomb threat called in? If someone's going to bomb something, they don't tell you about it. If someone's going to shoot up a school, they don't tell you about it.
The scariest thing was not the threat, but the reaction of the parents. More than 3500 kids were pulled from the schools by their parents. They were ranting and yelling at the administration as to why every parent of the 10,000+ students in our district had not been called. They wanted to know why schools hadn't been closed. They wanted to know why life didn't stop.
Now imagine a rumor of bird flu has gotten out. What kind of panic would THAT induce? It's the panic of the masses that scares me. The ill-conceived, fallacy-ridden logic that accompanies group-think. More than one parent told me that they only got their kids because their neighbors were getting their kids and they didn't want to look like the bad parent.
Sheep, people. Do not be sheep.
I felt like I was surrounded by Chicken Littles all day.
What touched me most about Monday's shootings was the thought of the families who lost students. THAT is a feeling of helplessness I can't come close to understanding.
I began to think about the siblings of those who were injured or killed. And it made me grateful for my own brother and sister.
My family is not typical. We're not completely dysfunctional, but we're not the Cleavers. We're all adults, but don't expect to come to dinner and hear and hour of high-minded discussion.
And even though we're not close to being perfect, we care deeply about each other. (But there's an unspoken rule, we don't talk about feelings... especially in regard to each other.)
When I was 7 or 8 and getting blood transfusions for my Leukemia, my older brother held me on his lap the entire time.
When I was in college, I couldn't afford to go to Europe, so my older sister gave me the rest of the money I needed to go, even though she probably needed the money for more practical things.
And I can't even begin to tell you how much my mom has done for me. Even when she really shouldn't or really can't, she still helps.
Monday made me realize how much I really love my family, even if I'm not allowed to talk about it.
That's why it's disturbing when events like last week's shooting enter my world. For a brief moment it brings me back to a place that isn't comfortable, that isn't idyllic.
If I start to think of all the things wrong in our world, (over-population, over-pollution, uneven wealth distribution, war-mongering) I tend to get depressed. On more than one occasion, I've talked with my friend Ted about this. What gets me most depressed about all that's wrong is the complete feeling of helplessness. It could literally all come crashing down around us tomorrow. And there's nothing me or you could do about it.
I can't remember what Ted's response was. I must not have found it brilliant since I don't remember it.
So most of the time, I do what I can. I drive a small car. I turn off the lights. I recycle when I can. I try to buy locally. But all that is just small drops of saline in a polluted ocean.
What scared me more than the shootings this week was a bomb threat that was called into our school district on Thursday. No, I didn't think there was a bomb. When was the last legitimate bomb threat called in? If someone's going to bomb something, they don't tell you about it. If someone's going to shoot up a school, they don't tell you about it.
The scariest thing was not the threat, but the reaction of the parents. More than 3500 kids were pulled from the schools by their parents. They were ranting and yelling at the administration as to why every parent of the 10,000+ students in our district had not been called. They wanted to know why schools hadn't been closed. They wanted to know why life didn't stop.
Now imagine a rumor of bird flu has gotten out. What kind of panic would THAT induce? It's the panic of the masses that scares me. The ill-conceived, fallacy-ridden logic that accompanies group-think. More than one parent told me that they only got their kids because their neighbors were getting their kids and they didn't want to look like the bad parent.
Sheep, people. Do not be sheep.
I felt like I was surrounded by Chicken Littles all day.
What touched me most about Monday's shootings was the thought of the families who lost students. THAT is a feeling of helplessness I can't come close to understanding.
I began to think about the siblings of those who were injured or killed. And it made me grateful for my own brother and sister.
My family is not typical. We're not completely dysfunctional, but we're not the Cleavers. We're all adults, but don't expect to come to dinner and hear and hour of high-minded discussion.
And even though we're not close to being perfect, we care deeply about each other. (But there's an unspoken rule, we don't talk about feelings... especially in regard to each other.)
When I was 7 or 8 and getting blood transfusions for my Leukemia, my older brother held me on his lap the entire time.
When I was in college, I couldn't afford to go to Europe, so my older sister gave me the rest of the money I needed to go, even though she probably needed the money for more practical things.
And I can't even begin to tell you how much my mom has done for me. Even when she really shouldn't or really can't, she still helps.
Monday made me realize how much I really love my family, even if I'm not allowed to talk about it.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
imbibment
Let me get something off my chest first.
A note to women: Anytime a man looses weight, please do no assume it's easy. We have to work our bottoms off to loose weight just like you. And if you were working out twice a day and eating well, you'd probably loose just as fast and just as much.
How I wish I had a dollar for every time one of the ladies I've worked with has asked how much I've lost (30 lbs, for the record) and then followed it up with "yeah, but it's so easy for men to loose weight."
NO! It isn't!
It just so happens that most of the women I work with are also on weight watchers. Which is great. I applaud them for putting forth an effort.
I'm not doing weight watchers. I'm on a four word weight loss plan: EAT LESS. EXERCISE MORE.
So I'm eating a lot less. And when I do eat, it's the good stuff. And I'm training for a triathlon. I swim. I bike. I run. I lift weights.
You do all that, and you'll loose weight too.
Stop telling me it's easy.
OK. Thanks.
Onto more interesting subjects.
Last fall I got a call from Gallup. Yeah, you know, the folks that NPR and NBC are always quoting, "The latest Gallup poll shows that 89% of Americans believe Dick Cheney appeared fully formed from under a moist rock."
So I got excited believing that my opinions would finally be heard on the political situation in America.
Oh, the disappointment to find out they wanted to know about my drinking habits. The alcoholic sort of drinking habits.
It became pretty clear that I wasn't going to be quoted on NPR, so I decided to have fun.
According to Gallup: I drink several times a week. I only drink Budweiser. I think anything besides beer is a girly drink. I most often drink in the company of friends. I have at least 5 drinks per sitting.
I was almost sure that my answers would put me on the "do not call" list because I'm not sure I was consistent with all my answers.
Apparently I was.
Since that first call, I've been called 3 more times by Gallup. Always asking me about my drinking problem.
Each time, I've been increasing my drinking load. (stress at work)
And while the first three pollsters used a nice monotone, non-judgemental voice when asking me questions, the last girl must have been new.
As the questioning continued, she started to get this worried tone in her voice. I was almost positive she was going to give me the number for a 12-step program, AA or at least recommend I talk to the Bush twins about my problems.
She ended the conversation with "Thank you and have a good day."
I replied, "Yup, I'm off to to finish that case of Bud in the garage."
She timidly, with great concern, replied, "Well, please be safe and responsible, sir."
I said "Will do." but wanted to say, "I'm an excellent driver."
A note to women: Anytime a man looses weight, please do no assume it's easy. We have to work our bottoms off to loose weight just like you. And if you were working out twice a day and eating well, you'd probably loose just as fast and just as much.
How I wish I had a dollar for every time one of the ladies I've worked with has asked how much I've lost (30 lbs, for the record) and then followed it up with "yeah, but it's so easy for men to loose weight."
NO! It isn't!
It just so happens that most of the women I work with are also on weight watchers. Which is great. I applaud them for putting forth an effort.
I'm not doing weight watchers. I'm on a four word weight loss plan: EAT LESS. EXERCISE MORE.
So I'm eating a lot less. And when I do eat, it's the good stuff. And I'm training for a triathlon. I swim. I bike. I run. I lift weights.
You do all that, and you'll loose weight too.
Stop telling me it's easy.
OK. Thanks.
Onto more interesting subjects.
Last fall I got a call from Gallup. Yeah, you know, the folks that NPR and NBC are always quoting, "The latest Gallup poll shows that 89% of Americans believe Dick Cheney appeared fully formed from under a moist rock."
So I got excited believing that my opinions would finally be heard on the political situation in America.
Oh, the disappointment to find out they wanted to know about my drinking habits. The alcoholic sort of drinking habits.
It became pretty clear that I wasn't going to be quoted on NPR, so I decided to have fun.
According to Gallup: I drink several times a week. I only drink Budweiser. I think anything besides beer is a girly drink. I most often drink in the company of friends. I have at least 5 drinks per sitting.
I was almost sure that my answers would put me on the "do not call" list because I'm not sure I was consistent with all my answers.
Apparently I was.
Since that first call, I've been called 3 more times by Gallup. Always asking me about my drinking problem.
Each time, I've been increasing my drinking load. (stress at work)
And while the first three pollsters used a nice monotone, non-judgemental voice when asking me questions, the last girl must have been new.
As the questioning continued, she started to get this worried tone in her voice. I was almost positive she was going to give me the number for a 12-step program, AA or at least recommend I talk to the Bush twins about my problems.
She ended the conversation with "Thank you and have a good day."
I replied, "Yup, I'm off to to finish that case of Bud in the garage."
She timidly, with great concern, replied, "Well, please be safe and responsible, sir."
I said "Will do." but wanted to say, "I'm an excellent driver."
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