Reflections During Advent

Coming in from the back porch after my run tonight, I picked up James Vance Marshall's 1959 novel Walkabout, which for some reason had fallen off the bookshelf into the stuffed animals. Just looking at the cover, the silhouette of an Aborigine boy standing on a rock at sunset, I was back in my classroom at Central High in Philadelphia, where I taught two sections of freshman English. Walkabout was a summer reading assignment. The theme of our year was "Search for Self." My classes were great at Central: inquisitive, creative, enthusiastic, and bright. When I left to come teach at Masterman (where my classes are also great), we all promised to keep in touch, but of course the rushing river that is life soon swept us along and far from each other (or at least me far from them). They graduated last year and are now off at colleges around the country. But I digress.

I opened to the first page of Walkabout out of curiosity, as I hadn't read it in five years. "It was silent and dark, and the children were afraid," the book begins, "...the little boy nestled more closely against his sister. He was trembling." The story, as many people know (the book was a bestseller, and there's a movie, too), is about a brother and sister whose parents die in a plane crash in the Australian Outback, hundreds of miles from civilization. They meet an Aborigine youth on his "walkabout," a test of manhood, and must undergo a walkabout of their own in order to survive. This is of course the 1950s and the brother and sister, from North Carolina, have all kind of ideas about the superiority of their own culture, ideas of superiority that begin to dissipate throughout the novel. What I had forgotten before I picked up the book again tonight was that the brother's and sister's names are Peter and Mary. Two more Christian names there could not be: Peter, of course, being the disciple who in his fear abandons Jesus (and then goes on to found the church), and Mary, Jesus' mother, who stays with him even at the foot of the cross.

As we enter this Advent season I have my own little Mary on the creche on my fireplace. She is surrounded by the sheep, the hay, the three wise men, and Joseph. They all, of course, are surrounding the baby, Jesus. The scene is quiet and humble. It is not self-aggrandizing or coercive or critical, as "Christianity" or "The Church" sometimes appears to be (and I say this as a  Christian and a member of the Catholic Church). It is not smug. Nor is it loud. No, it is humility and love that I see in my creche on the fireplace.  Humility and love, of course, being the path to God. A path we're trying to clear this Advent season (and again, and again, and again throughout life). I believe in this humility and love. I believe in Jesus. But I know that, like Mary and Peter in Walkabout, if I only wrap myself in comfortable ideas about  my culture and my religion, I am moving away from the place of beauty in my soul that the manger represents. I am moving away from God.

In Walkabout, Mary does this, and despite her good intentions, her ignorance brings about the death of the Aboriginal boy. His last action is to smile at her. For me, it is the most moving scene of the book: "It was the smile that broke Mary's heart: that last forgiving smile. Before, she had seen only as through a glass darkly, but now she saw face-to-face. And in that moment of truth all her fears and inhibitions were sponged away, and she saw that the world which she had thought was split in two was one." As Christmas approaches this year, may we all prepare to see God face-to-face.

Running Again

After a Run, Happy Again

So, I've gotten dangerously close over the last few weeks to just being "Teacher Mama" instead of "Running Teacher Mama." Work was busy, the kids were needy, the house was messy, the weather was bad, etc. etc. etc. etc. Ironically, last weekend I attended the Haddonfield Sports Banquet because a former tennis teammate, Kim Lamaina, was being inducted into the Hall of Fame. Kim was an amazing player in high school, one who was known for her aggressive strokes and net game (she was invited to train in Florida and try to go pro at one point), while I was a workhorse doubles player who was known not for her impressive ground strokes but for "always getting the ball back" (very boring), so it's not like I was reliving my glory days by being at the dinner. But still, being there was a poignant reminder that, at one point in my life, I had been an athlete.

Usually, running is enough to remind me, in a good way, of that past, and to bring enough of it into my present life to keep me happy and sane. After a few days without running, the happy me starts to sink bit by bit into the quicksand of modern, frenetic life. Before yesterday, I hadn't run for 3 weeks, at least. Finally, yesterday, Anthony was home for Thanksgiving so I was able to get out for a jog around the river in the morning while he stayed with the kids. My body creaked and protested, but the light was beautiful on the river, the warm sun felt good on my back, and the cool air felt delicious. It brought me back to solid ground again. 

Tonight, I was determined to make it two days in a row, so after putting the girls to bed I came downstairs and headed out to the treadmill on the back porch. I allowed myself to go slow and ran three miles listening to Bruce Springsteen. I ran the last mile to "Something in the Night" and "Candy's Room," and then walked a bit to the sweet, sad "Promised Land." I felt good.

The unmatched sock table. Another night ...

It's nearly 10:30 now and not much else will get done tonight, but that's ok. I'm running again, and that's enough for me right now.

Perfection

I arrived in Philadelphia this morning from Charleston, South Carolina, where I had been for a writing workshop with Guideposts magazine (wonderful experience--always is). I thought I would just meet Anthony curbside, but he surprised me and came inside with the kids. Grace and Genevieve ran and gave me huge hugs, then the books they had made (Genevieve's, titled "The Adventures of Genevieve and Mommy," was short and simple: "Once upon a time, Mommy and Genevieve were walking a dog. Then, they heard a loud crash!" The End). Joseph kicked wildly and reached for me, smiling that huge baby grin. It was lovely! After our mini-reunion I did notice that Grace and Genevieve clearly had not bathed or brushed their hair all weekend, and that Joseph was not wearing socks on a chilly November day, but I chose not to say anything. The kids were safe and sound, they had had a great time with their dad, and, after all, who really cared what they looked like? That was all superficial stuff, I reminded myself (though I did find a pair of socks for Joseph in the car). And I am trying hard in my life to not let the things that I want (a clean house, well-dressed and freshly bathed children... ) interfere with what I really, really want (a happy marriage, joyful children). You'd think this would be easy, but it's not.

At the workshop this weekend, Guideposts editor Edward Grinnan signed his book The Promise of Hope for me, and I started reading it on the plane. It's a great story. He talks about workaholic overachievers at one point, saying, "There is no greater toxin to the soul than the self-expectation of perfection." The expectation of perfection is a toxin to others as well, of course. So as I settle back into my "real life" after this weekend of refreshment, I'm going to try very hard to remember that imperfections are a part of life to be overlooked, and at times embraced, but certainly not polished over.

Princess Pirates and Other Dreams

Swimming and kayaking on October!

We spent last night and this morning at the beach, as the girls and I had off today for Columbus Day. Anthony wasn't scheduled for the store, so it was one of those rare family days. Rare, too, because it is October and we were able to kayak and swim in the ocean. Anthony, Grace, and I all went under waves. Genevieve stayed knee-deep on the shore. The water was clear, crisp, and invigorating. Later, as the girls played on the beach, a few monarch butterflies hovered, lingering before that long trip south to Mexico.

Jorgito and Malú in dance class at school

My parents were there, too. I ran with my Dad this morning, as we like to do when at the beach together. Down Long Beach Boulevard to Neptune Market we went, where we took a left and wound through the streets lining the bay before heading home. It's a brief three mile run but enough to get in some talking and some thinking. This morning, with Barnegat Lighthouse only a few miles to the north,  I started thinking about the movie Viva Cuba. It's a lovely little film about two best friends, Malú and Jorgito, who live in Cuba. Their families--one socialist and the other wealthy (or previously wealthy)--hate each other. When Malú's grandmother dies and her mother announces that they are leaving the island to move north, Malú and Jorgito run away together to try to prevent being separated. They think if they can only make it to Malú's father, who lives in the lighthouse at the southernmost tip of Cuba, and convince him to not sign the papers, that they can stay together. Their friendship is beautiful. Their imaginations--which allow them to dream that they might, against all rational thought, be able to stay together--are unbridled and limitless as only children's imaginations can be.  In the end, though, this is not enough. They arrive at the lighthouse and for a brief moment think they have been saved. Then the adults arrive. Malú and Jorgito run to the edge of the sea, where they embrace, knowing that it (their friendship, their childhood, their pure and wild dreams) cannot last.

Jorgito and Malú embrace at the edge of the sea.

I started thinking about how I want to show this movie to my 9th graders this year because they also read Romeo and Juliet, that other story that so well captures the completely irrational yet pure and beautiful dreams of youth. These dreams are fantastic. They shine. And they cannot last. (It is because they cannot last, of course, that they are so achingly beautiful. When I used to teach Romeo and Juliet, we always had a good time imagining what would have happened had Romeo and Juliet actually lived to get married.)

My Dad and I, along with Joseph in the jog stroller, ended our run at the walkway on the end of our street, with a view of the Atlantic Ocean, far from where Jorgito and Malú, desperately trying to hold onto something, embraced in Viva Cuba, but it was an ocean nonetheless. I took Joseph out of the stroller and carried him back to the house, where the girls were playing Crazy 8s with my mom. Later, on the beach, they pretended they were princesses and made castles for themselves. They followed this with a game of pirates. When I asked them which one they were, a princess or a pirate, they stated matter of fact: "We're princess pirates." Then, the October light shining, they ran to the water laughing and chasing each other, their arms raised, unaware of me standing behind them with an ache in my heart.

The Princess Pirates

Don't Drown In a Glass of Water!

No te ahogues en un vaso de agua. Don't drown in a glass of water. I start every class I teach with a discussion in Spanish of anything important that might be occurring that day (birthdays, anniversaries, exams in other classes, historic events, athletic competitions), and a saying. No te ahogues en un vaso de agua was Thursday's saying. I've been thinking of it ever since. In class, we talked about how the glass of water is really a stand-in for our problems, and how, like the glass, many of these problems are small. We just can't see that because we are so frantically trying to get out of them. How wonderful (and desperately needed) perspective is, and how hard to gain! The students decided that there are, of course, some truly huge problems that aren't just a glass of water: no tener comida (not having food), no tener una casa (not having a house), no tener ropa (not having clothing), y no tener el amor de familia y amigos (and not having the love of family and friends). Other than that, most things (though not all things, I know) are small potatoes. So when I had to take care of and clean up after a sick child Thursday night and couldn't mark the papers I needed to, I took a deep breath and told myself: No te ahogues en un vaso de agua. When Joseph needed a diaper change and Genevieve refused to put her sneakers on this morning at the exact moment we needed to leave for her soccer game, I felt myself getting a bit frantic. We are always late. Can we ever not be late for something? Why did you just take your ponytail out? Just put on the shoes! But no, I took a deep breath, I listened to Genevieve explain why the shoe needed to be taken off and put on again to fix a little uncomfortable spot by her toes (and then, again, a second time), and I stepped out of the little glass of water. And you know what? It felt good. (For the record, we were truly late --15 minutes. Genevieve's coach gave her a high five when she arrived. It was a lovely game).

My little late soccer player. 

Brothels, Birthday Club, and Cookies

"Spent the day at Daulatdia brothel, population 5000, where Save the Children Australia is providing education and protection services for the children of sex workers." So reads the latest Facebook update from one of the first friends I made my freshman year at Princeton, Liz Pearce. She's now the Education Director in Bangladesh for Save the Children. She's amazing--Nicholas Kristof-esque--and I am so proud to know her. We met in Spanish class (Friday mornings, 9 am!) during fall semester and both lived in ridiculously small doubles that were actually converted singles in Walker Hall. We often went running together late at night, and Liz leant me an outfit to wear to my first job interview, at Bloomberg in New York, when I had nothing professional to wear. She was kind and good back then, too, and always had her act together. You knew she was going to do great things. And she is!

Later that night, while running alone on the treadmill on my back porch after putting the kids to bed (ah, how life changes--no more cool evening runs around Princeton's beautiful campus for me), I was thinking about Liz and her work, and then about my own work, teaching. I have some great students this year: full of enthusiasm, funny, compassionate ... But of course each year there is also the loss of the whole graduating class and all that they brought to the school. Last year we had a senior who, on a whim, created "Birthday Club," the whole point of which was to recognize every single student in the school on his or her birthday. Birthday Club would enter the student's advisory (like a homeroom), sing a song, and give the celebrating student candy. I like to think of all the students whose day was made because of this start to it. Birthdays can be great, but also lonely. Such a simple, sweet idea. Organized kindness.

Finally, this got me thinking about all the lovely acts of unorganized kindness I have been on the receiving end of. One of the kindest things someone ever did for me was bring me cookies and hot chocolate. I had just gone back to work full time, and I had a six-month old and two year old at home. I also had three preparations, including a 9th grade English class I had never taught before. I was hardly sleeping or eating. I honestly prayed for snow every day, even in September, and didn't know how I was ever going to make it through the year. This was where I was one October morning, after a long night, a long commute, and no breakfast (no lunch packed, either), when Sheila Gerson, an aide who had sometimes, in the past, sat in on my Spanish class during her break, showed up at my room with the warm hot chocolate and cookies. "Thought you might like these," she said with a smile. I could have cried. Even now, five years later, I can recall the desperation I was feeling before she showed up, and the gratitude I felt when she did.

So, here's to all those who are bringing much needed love and light to this world. From the truly incredible work of Liz in Bangladesh to the simple kindnesses of my students and colleagues, there are so many good people doing good things. Thank you to you all!

What Motivates

What bestselling author Daniel Pink says in his book Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us makes a lot of sense to me. True motivation, he contends, comes not from rewards or punishment, but from our "deeply human need to direct our own lives, to learn and create new things, and to better  ourselves and our world" (straight from the book jacket! I read more of the book, but this summed it up nicely, as book jackets tend to do). The introduction describes a 1949 experiment by a psychology professor studying primate behavior in which monkeys were given puzzles to solve. Without any prompting, the monkeys began to focus on solving the puzzles almost immediately, and they were successful. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, too. In other words, the simple gratification of completing a task, or attempting to complete a task, was reward enough. Even more surprisingly, when the monkeys were given rewards for solving the puzzle, their success rate actually decreased. The offering of a reward (food, in the case) served to distract and disrupt them! Interesting ...

And I agree, because I know it to be true for myself. I like being rewarded (and hate being punished) as much as the next girl, but I know that what really motivates me is something deeper, something truer.

Genevieve, exploring the floodwaters after Hurricane Irene. She didn't want to come but we promised her a bowl of Pirate's Booty and a movie when she got back. She came. 

So, where did I go wrong with my own kids? How do I know I've gone wrong, you say? Perhaps it was the fact that I "motivated" the girls to walk to the library with me to get this book with a lollipop, or that I overheard Grace saying to 8-month-old Joseph the other day: "Say mama or I won't give you this Cheerio!" (he didn't say Mama). I routinely threaten the girls that if they do not get in their pajamas and brush their teeth with a little more urgency that I will not stay in their room a moment after lights out, and maybe,  on a really bad day, I once hinted that if they didn't start helping around the house more I would have to leave and go live with Nana and Poppa Ty. Movies, shows,  computer time, and sweets are rewards. Praise, too. Lack of the above, and timeouts, are the punishments. And I'm not about to get rid of all of this. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to survive. But ... but .... I want to keep Daniel Pink's ideas about intrinsic motivation close as I try my best to shepherd Grace, Genevieve, and Joseph into lives that are ultimately rich and satisfying, and as I begin the new school year with high school students who are conditioned to work for the A but who may or may not enjoy coming to school and learning. Because doing something for the sheer joy of doing it--as baby Joseph still does--is ultimately the best way to go.