On being born after 9/11

15 years. That's incredible. It represents time lost, and spent. Time building, and re-building. Some people tell their "Where I Was" narratives like war stories, almost with a rush to see whose is more banal and therefore more shocking. 9/11 certainly happened to everyone in some way.

It also happened to the unborn, those like my son who were born in the post-9/11 world. I measure the 15 years in terms of his life, as well, because I was 8 months pregnant with him when the towers fell. There is now the generation of K-12 students who weren't alive before the tragedy. They will not have their 9/11 stories. But how many are like my son, and were on the cusp of life themselves?

It was such an uncertain and unsettling time. As he moved and kicked, I watched the footage of my isolated American bubble on fire. And I wondered, what sort of world is my baby being born into? How do we do this, moving on with life when we are seeing some of the worst that humanity bears?

I tried to explain to him just this morning about how we used to walk with my father to his gate when he was traveling, saying goodbye and waving to him as he boarded his plane. My son appeared to be a bit dumbfounded by that, as his life in airports is all security guards and guns and full-body length scanners and the taking off of belts, bracelets, and shoes and the unloading of laptops and toiletries only to get through and put everything back together again, assuming that that is one more step we can try to take toward safety. Why hasn't it always been like that, is the question I can see him thinking.

He doesn't know the world without the possibility of planes flying into buildings.

He doesn't know the world without at least one threat per year in our school district from someone on social media promising to hurt teachers or students, using bombs or guns, openly displaying hatred for Jews and Muslims.

And he doesn't know the world with innocence. He is seeing politics for the first time as a young adult, hearing Trump's trumpisms, full of assumptions and slippery slopes and deliberate mischaracterization. He has learned about Islam under the veil of terrorism.

What I want him to know is that in times of national emergencies, people will pull together. We will put aside what seemed like important, divisive differences and offer a hand. Or, like on 9/11, a life.

I want him to know that evil has always existed and it will continue to exist. We aren't in the end of times, and there is no such thing as the good old days. Each generation will go through the same patterns and have to face their own children. What will be said to them?

Connor and I visited the 9/11 memorial and museum this past April. I watched him experience the emotion and conflict of seeing the destruction and what was lost, what cannot be regained. One person cannot be blamed, and justice is a fleeting, nebulous concept. What I want him to know is that carrying grace and gratitude in his heart is what will make him human, not revenge and hatred.

We have the chance with this generation of not passing on our hatred, but rather showing them humanity. We don't even have a shot at knowing how many people on the world have died as a result of the post-9/11 world. They matter, too. Seeing one's place in our global community is our best chance at the future.

I'm choosing to include this picture from the museum because it shows the effort made to save parts of what was lost. Saving for the future, because even then, people knew that would be necessary and important. As a global citizen, my son has a responsibility to know the context of his own life, to think deeply and to care deeply, not just about himself and his own family. His generation has the potential of being the ones far into the future who make decisions about issues that have surfaced because of 9/11, and he wasn't quite alive yet. That is the burden of those of us who were: making sure they are equipped fully and fairly for that charge.

Redemption

Lent is a loaded time for Christians. Our inherent sinfulness is thrust up and center, which would be depressing if it were not for Easter Sunday. Thanks to social media, I "see" people in sacrificial mode, trying to feel a closer connection to God by stripping themselves of something that normally keeps them more tied to this life. (I'm not good at rules, so we decided to make a donation to a cancer research organization each time we eat out. I figured that would help humanity more than giving up chocolate.)

This weekend marks the time last year when my earthly father entered the hospital for what would turn out to be one of two long stays. As an English major and teacher, the symbolism was not lost on me. In fact, that symbolism was a large reason why I believe I was able to stay strong through the most trying time of my life. I looked forward to my daily email from the Lutheran Hour Daily Devotion. I never felt that even though my father's health was deteriorating, God was abandoning us or him. I knew that God made it clear that we wouldn't live on this Earth forever, and my Dad entering the kingdom of heaven was not a broken promise. Still, there were things to be disappointed and heartbroken about, as you can imagine.

My Dad was one of my few "safe" people. I knew I could always call him, tell him something that hurt me or was bothering me, and he would proceed to reassure me and "keep that beautiful smile on your face!" He knew my worth and created a space for me to refocus when the world got me down. He also taught me about the futility of revenge and stewing in one's own negativity. We all need at least one of those people in our lives, and he was already becoming that person for my own sons. Dang, it's a hard, hard blow when that person leaves you. (I am thankful that my husband is one of those people for me.)

Much the same, I imagine, as when Jesus' time on Earth was getting close to ending. I am no theologian, but I believe it's clear that Jesus didn't necessarily want to leave. God knew we could never be reconciled to him by our own doing, and Jesus knew what his mission was, but he also knew there were some sweet things on earth. His family, his friends. Certainly there were things he learned from them, as well. Our reading today from Hebrews confirms that "although [Jesus] was a Son, he learned obedience through what he suffered" (Hebrews 5:8).

One of my cousins visit my Dad from Maryland when he first went into the hospital, and when he asked my Dad what he should pray for, my Dad said God's will. How powerful that was for all of us. Not for the miracle of complete healing, which would be a normal and understandable desire. God's will. I believe that shows the learned obedience that Hebrews speaks of.

Even Jesus suffered. But as Hebrews says, because of Jesus' reverent submission, his cries and tears were heard. That was in the days of his flesh. Of his flesh. Which means there is much more.

While it's difficult to forget someone's suffering, obviously I have more to remember by my Dad's reverent submission. His example embodies the spirit of Lent for me, now. It's not just about humanity being broken and undependable. When we show that learned obedience, reverent submission, we are the closest to our Savior.

One-click learning

Faster Internet speed. Download instantly. One-click shopping. Overnight shipping.

None of those things is bad. There is no good reason for slower Internet, difficult downloading, hours of shopping in stores, and waiting weeks for a delivery.

But if this is the mentality of our society today, how do we see that trickle into education? Maybe that question could be phrased better: how have we seen this trickle into education?

We have all of the knowledge in the world at our fingertips, as long as we have functioning technology. We need the fast Internet speed and instant downloads. One-stop shopping means shared lesson plans and materials. No shipping needed with an instant download of a unit plan, including the test (with answers).

Does this make room for more time? Or less? Certainly math hasn't changed over the course of time, but all we hear is, "I don't have time to do that." "That", in this context, could mean any number of things: reading, research, writing, thinking, stretching.

We want everything fast. And that includes learning.

However, this has not been the human strategy until the last 5-10 years or so. I'm no brain expert, but it seems like we weren't built to learn everything possible in the 10 minutes we give it. How many times have teachers presented new concepts to students only to complain in the teachers' lounge during lunch that they'll never get it? The kid in the 3rd row still doesn't understand last week's lesson. Jimmy always asks 40 questions. Sally is absent twice a week. And Joe just takes his time, learning when he feels like it.

It took me years to learn how to write. YEARS. Not a block period of 90 minutes with a smartphone, interactive handout, and an exit slip. And I had to be allowed to mess up. Make mistakes. Completely do the wrong thing. And then I had to get yelled at so I knew I did something wrong. And by "yelled at," I mean lots and lots of pen marks (I never had a teacher use a red pen. That's a myth.).

I feel like we have lost this in my little world of experience in education during the past 10 years. Room to breathe. Think. Stretch minds. Make mistakes. All of that should be okay.

That's where real learning lies. But it takes courage. And we don't live in a world in which it's acceptable to make mistakes. There are too many standardized tests at stake.

In my classroom, I tried to cultivate an atmosphere of happy mistakes. You congratulate a student and say, "Hey, at least you tried! Now try again." My goal was not for them to be experts by the time they left my classroom; on the contrary, I usually told them on the last day of school that they had only just begun, that my classroom was one stepping stone.

You can't one-click download long-term, authentic learning, enthusiasm, and intelligence. No, there is no app for that.

Measuring a life in CDs

I experienced a lovely bout of synesthesia the other day when Alanis Morisette's "Ironic" began playing on the "easy listening" radio station, being instantly transported to Monroeville, PA, in 1996. I was at a neighborhood pool with my best friend, on what I thought then was a hot day (I hadn't yet moved to SC). That song appealed to my teenage, existential crisis-side in just the right amount to make me wistful and thoughtful and, well, teenager-y even though I had absolutely nothing to be in an existential crisis about, or wistful (but thank goodness I was at least thoughtful). I can remember the wind blowing on my face as I stood in the pool, not wanting to move until the song was over. (If that made you barf, I understand and apologize.) I suppose that to the 1996 me, I felt the song beckoned me to consider my life beyond superficiality, as you must do in order to recognize irony. I don't know Alanis Morisette; perhaps she was just trying to write a hit that would open her career, but the me in 1996 cared about it. I also enjoyed "Mary Jane:" "Well it's full speed baby / In the wrong direction / There's a few more bruises / if that's the way / you insist on heading." I love that because she's implying your choice is what's wrong, not the universe.

We can remember and giggle and enjoy our little selves that existed before we encountered what would shape us as adults. Here's the measurements of parts of me according to CDs. Yes, CDs. Back when you could buy albums at the music store in the mall. I'm not going back to my cassettes of Paula Abdul and NKOTB and my mixed tapes for my Walkman. Those are too sacred for words.

My biology textbook was open on the left side of my bed (which was fully made), and my binder of notes sat dutifully on the right. The sun was shining through my two windows (I had a corner bedroom). I had made up my mind to make an A on my Honors Biology mid-term exam, and my method was simple: read through every chapter we had studied so far with my accompanying notes. And the Counting Crows took that journey with me in 1996. (And to lessen the suspense, I did make an A on that exam. I vividly remember my teacher smiling at me and giving me a thumbs up because, let's be real, everyone knows science isn't my intellectual forte.)

Even when you're untrained as a teenager, you know that music lyrics invite you in like a charming hostess, make a mess of your mind, and then abandon you to figure them out. These lyrics in "Rain King" always lifted a finger to me, grazing my mind: "I belong in the service of the queen / I belong anywhere but in between." From "Omaha": "Omaha somewhere in middle America / Get right to the heart of the matters / It's the heart that matters more / I think you better turn your ticket in / And get your money back at the door." From "Anna Begins": "but we're always changing / It does not bother me to say this isn't love / Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love / and I'm guessing I'm going to have to live with that / but I'm sure there's something in a shade of gray / or something in between." And I really loved this from "Raining in Baltimore:" This circus is falling down on its knees / The big top is crumbling." For those of us who are thinkers, who note complexity and only see gray, who complicate and are complicated.

R.E.M.'s album "Automatic for the People", again memories around 1996. I can't recall very specific moments when listening to these songs, they just evoke a general sense of what I felt like during my freshman year in high school. From "Try Not To Breathe:" "I will try not to breathe. / This decision is mine. I have lived a full life / And these are the eyes that I want you to remember." From "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite:" "The cat in the hat came back, wreaked a lot of havoc on the way / Always had a smile and a reason to pretend / But their world has flat backgrounds and little need to sleep but to dream." From "Nightswimming:" "Nightswimming, / Remembering that night / September's coming too soon / I'm pining for the moon / And what if there were two / Side by side in orbit around the fairest sun? / The bright tide forever drawn / Could not describe nightswimming / You, I thought I knew you / You, I cannot judge / You, I thought you knew me." And everyone knows "Everybody Hurts," which I think sings in its simplicity: "Sometimes everything is wrong / Now it's time to sing along / When your day is night alone." You're a jerk if you find yourself haughtily rejecting this song.

Again, 1995-1996 for me, a freshman in high school. I don't keep up much (not at all) with Jewel these days, but I vividly remember going to Monroeville Mall with my best friend and deciding to buy this new album. Everyone (well, people I knew) sang along to "You Were Meant For Me." The song "Pieces of You" is very powerful, particularly for 1995 in my opinion. Brief, vague descriptions (She's a pretty girl, she's an ugly girl, you say he's a faggot, you say he's a Jew) elicit the same direct question: "Do you hate him / 'Cause he's pieces of you?" I still love this. You can't hate others without hating yourself. Her rawness is moving. And "Foolish Games:" "I watched from my window / Always felt I was outside looking in on you. / [...] You were fashionably sensitive / But too cool to care. / [...] Well in case you failed to notice / In case you failed to see / This is my heart bleeding before you / This is me down on my knees and / These foolish games are tearing me apart / And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart." How much of what we do to others is putting on airs? Acting a part we've seen? When we might do well to remember that we're dealing with each other, alive, warm, breathing. And there are consequences.

I still experience a twinge of a love affair with Dave Matthews. This album makes me feel engulfed in 1997-1999 after I moved to South Carolina. The dance team I was on, the Dazzlers, performed to "Two Step": "Celebrate we will / Because life is short but sweet for / certain / We're climbing two by two / To be sure these days continue / These things we cannot change." I still remember many of the dance steps in our routine. "So Much To Say:" "I find sometimes it's easy to be myself / sometimes I find it's better to be somebody else." Perfect for a teenager, but it's also so true for those of us who continue to be multi-faceted. And "Crash Into Me:" "Lost for you I'm so lost for you." That song is still endearing to me despite it being a bit explicit because I think it rather beautifully captures the spirit and angst and fast pace of adolescence trying in vain to figure out adulthood but falling miserably short.

And at 32, the following is what I think when I hear all of the music listed above:

• "Ironic": wow, how did she pick some of the worst examples of irony ever? "It's like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife?" Who cares about that?
• I remember Jewel saying in an interview that she listened to her own "Pieces of Me" album and thought she sounded like Kermit the Frog. I sort of agreed.
• I still enjoy hearing "Crash Into Me" and laughing about boys I had crushes on compared to the much more mature, deep love that comes with 13 years of marriage. Clearly the boy in the song lacks that perspective, but that's why it's so endearing to me and I smile when I hear this song.
• I still don't know what in the world some of these songs are about, but that's the point.
• I can be 15 forever as long as I have these albums (and I do still have them). I think one result of 90's music pointed out the veil that my blog is named after, not necessarily suggesting there is anything underneath it, but perhaps so, if you can at least recognize that there is a veil. The rest is up to you. Don't drown in it.
• I'm clearly no music expert.
• I may have just really embarrassed myself by revealing these music choices.

Embarrass yourself by joining in the fun! Share how you would measure your own life in CDs.

A Living Sacrifice

I am a middle-class, white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes living in America in the 21st century. I know nothing of any type of adversity. Lots of you reading this are exactly the same.

We live in terms of "in here" and "out there," where real worldly struggles never knock on our doors, and so many people never develop the empathy to understand, to care, or to act. I suppose my life of leisure is why wars were fought in the last century,  but that can never excuse apathy.

We certainly can't imagine a society in the first world in which girls are refused an education. And so many people living in first-world countries take education forgranted. When my students were being especially bratty and whiny, I would ask them, "Did you get shot by the government on the bus coming to school today? Do you come to a school with heating and food?" Yeah, I'm that girl. And I think people who become annoyed by those comments know deep down that I'm right.

Because they could never imagine how other people struggle in this world. As my husband says, we see in Pakistan and Afghanistan what our world would look like if we literally were still trying to live by the Bible.

As I read an excerpt from Malala Yousafzai's memoir, I realized that her father was a political activist. As in, not just talking or writing or blogging or Facebooking or Twittering or even Tweeting, but in acting. As Dr. King often taught, Malala's father was directly involved in provoking creative tension. Society will not change without tension, the kind of tension that creates a new possibility. Forcing people to take notice, to empathize, and the hardest of all requests, to change. In this case, that meant sending his daughter to school in spite of what that might incite.

And it suddenly crystallized in my brain: he knew that she could be murdered. Her father. Knew that. And she went to school anyway. He let her. He told her to. She wanted to.

It literally took my breath away. Is that insanity? Is that cruelty? Or is that faith?

Who of us would put our children's lives on the line for the sake of right? Which of our children would volunteer to go? (The bigger picture here is that we are directed to do this according to our Christian faith, not suggested to as my questions might imply, but I can't even come close to discussing that right now.)

Malala stated in a recent NPR interview that she is no longer scared of death because she has already faced it. However, her father asserted that, "I believe that one should live for a cause which is greater than him. Even if I die, I will continue my campaign, but I will not put her life at stake. That's clear."

He states that he wants to go back to their home in Pakistan because he is needed there and because of the work left to be accomplished, but it seems clear that he's also unwilling to agree to put his own daughter at risk. Which is tricky when you're campaigning for equality. At what point does the personal replace the ideal?

It's one thing to decide that for your own life. The examples throughout history are powerful and still timely. Read "The Letter." King seems to somehow have known he would not live long, and certainly his choices affected his family. But his own children's lives were not the ones on the line. His baby did not sit in jail with him or in his stead. Of course his home was bombed so they were certainly in danger, but he did not carry them to his protests.

As strange as this might sound, I want to read a memoir from Malala's father. How does a person come to decide that in his own struggle between accepting the limits of his world and confronting them, he will potentially ask his children to pay the price?

And of course the broader, more difficult question remains: was it worth it? If Malala were dead right now, have any changes advanced enough to make the sacrifice worthwhile? Or are we called simply to try? One could argue that Dr. King's work still is not complete. We witnessed the Supreme Court striking down part of the Voting Rights Act. States with a history of voting discrimination are no longer required to obtain approval prior to enacting changes in voting procedures (such as redistricting or voter identification laws) because, as Chief Justice John Roberts asserted, "Our country has changed."

Is it that simple? The issue isn't black or white, male or female. As has been stated over and over throughout history, we should all be concerned when we witness any sort of discrimination because at some point in the future, it could be your own rights on the line.

Some people walk this Earth who develop a sense of all-or-nothing, such as King, Mandela, Jesus, Socrates, Bonhoeffer: they come to the realization that they either fight for the truth or accept death because there is no room for them for a halfway life. Ziauddin Yousafzai includes his daughter in this fight, and she agrees. Could he educate her in private while pushing for freedom and equal rights? Do you say to the people you're fighting for, "This issue is important, but is only worth so much?" For we all know that our children are the greatest sacrifice. But our children are also worth everything good that we fight for.

There's nothing to do...

How do I deal with having nothing to do?

Now, that's not entirely true. I still have a house, two children, a husband, and a career. And believe me, that's enough.

But for the past three years, I was also working on a second Master's degree. And for the most part, that mostly just meant that for a few months each semester I had extra work to do, reading, papers, to write, etc. Then last semester happened.

I was taking my last class in my program, which no one felt the need to tell me that it would be the most demanding one to date, as well as completing my internship. And holding down my job, children, house, and husband.

From late August until the first week of December, I had to discipline myself each and every day. Always planning ahead in order to complete my own work, keep up with my AP classes, and maintain the house and my children. October is busy for us anyway because three of us in the house have October birthdays. The past four years I have hosted Thanksgiving at my house, so Thanksgiving break is traditionally devoted to major cleaning and cooking.

Generally, Friday nights were free. But then starting Saturday mornings, the marathon continued. I would either spend Saturday mornings cleaning or starting to work on my class, or work for the internship, or grading for my classes. Saturday evenings may or may not have been free. If a holiday were approaching, Saturday evening was devoted to decorating and/or shopping. Sunday was spent either at the public library or at Barnes and Noble (hint: I prefer the library because it is always quiet and there are PLENTY of electric outlets. And at the main Spartanburg branch, you can bring food and drinks if you stay in the front area!). Doing research, listening to lectures, posting to online threads, writing papers, completing internship work, planning for my classes and grading.

I experienced two major breakdowns (that I can remember). One occurred on a Wednesday evening. I had just turned in a paper that Monday, but one was due again in 1.5 weeks, so I was trying to get a bit of a head start on it. I was so tired that I was seriously having trouble seeing the words in my textbook. I was trying to make sense of the labyrinth of the directions my professor gave for the paper. Then I always had to interpret these directions in my head: okay, what does she actually want to see in order to make an A? It was all bullshit anyway, these paper assignments, and when I know that, it's doubly hard to concentrate sometimes. I honestly can't remember why, but me and Brian were also arguing (probably because I wasn't a very fun person to be around during this time period) and I slammed my textbook on the kitchen floor and left the house. I could barely see because I was crying so hard, but I just felt like I might explode if I didn't leave the house. I drove up 290 before coming back with a coffee from McDonald's. Then I went to bed.

It's just a feeling of absolutely no control over anything because you are literally always doing something for someone else, and it continues for four months straight. And of course the entire time I felt like an awful mother because I was constantly having to take time away from them to do all of this work. I knew the entire time that it would be over early in December, but still. You never get this time back, even if it's only a few months.

Add in, as anyone who's read this blog already knows, that the other class I was teaching, my senior English class, was seriously the worst class I've ever taught, and the fact that I asked for help in getting resources to help teach them in order to save me time and my requests were rejected, and I just felt incredibly lonely. I felt like no one cared at all that I was going through one of the hardest times of my life. There are some exceptions to that statement, and those people already know who they are. If I were not a religious person, and did not pray regularly for perseverance, I do not know how I would have made it through.

And now, this weekend, all I have to do is clean up the house a bit and grade some papers. That's all. I have to re-develop a life again. I can think about my children first and everything else next. I was in such a good mood yesterday while I was teaching because, this semester, my senior English class is very nice, and some of my AP students even asked me, "Are you having a good day?" I was certainly able to prove to myself, through this program, that I can do anything I set my mind to, but it kinda did come with a price.

Now I feel like I've been repaid.

The Way We Weren't

Today was my last first day of school as a classroom teacher, and it's bittersweet.

I'm very excited to be doing something new next year, but then I know there will be many aspects of being a classroom teacher that I will miss. No matter how bad of a semester I may have had, I still managed to get sort of excited for the first day of the next semester, thinking about new things I could try, etc. I really love some of the units I teach because I have learned a lot about myself as a person through teaching high school for 8 years. I have really helped a lot of AP Language students grow as mature thinkers and writers.

I think that teaching others is perhaps one of the hardest things we try to do as humans because ultimately we cannot control other people. We can study all of the psychology we want; most people are aberrations anyway, so we just stick with what seems to work. We have to be able to transfer knowledge to each other, though; otherwise, how else would mankind have survived for this long? Nowadays we seem to think that we can only learn from each other using technology, which I think is seriously flawed logic.

It is highly possible that I have learned more from my students over the past 8 years than they learned from me. I am still a highly introverted person, introspective, and quiet. Unless you really know me. Some people who read this blog might know my other side that is loud, sarcastic, and perhaps slightly annoying. :) It's been sort of tough meshing these different sides of myself as a teacher because, frankly, I sometimes have a hard time taking myself so seriously that I think a classroom full of 18 year-olds should. I more or less have just tried to develop units and lessons over the years that were more interesting and thought-provoking for the students rather than sticking with stuff that promoted the image of me pontificating from my podium.

Overall, this method has worked very well for me. My students often tell me they learned a lot in my class, and about topics that they didn't really know much about before. My seniors research ethical issues in science when we read Frankenstein and they pick a banned or challenged book to read, research, and write an argument about in terms of the usefulness of book censorship and intellectual freedom. My AP students...they do too much for me to want to write here. :)

But I have to once again come back to last semester's English 4 class. The one I still can't believe happened. Driving home today, I was trying to think of a way to describe them. And I can't. It wasn't a class only of bad kids who always hated me and each other. It wasn't a class of students who just wanted to get it over with already in order to graduate. And it wasn't a class of students who were studious and interested in learning (hah!). They were all of those things combined. Every single day. I can't even decide if we ended on a positive or a negative note, which is very fitting (although the fact that one girl gave the class the finger as she walked to the door to go to the restroom leads me to believe that's ending on a negative note). Nothing was steady or predictable. Very hard to try to characterize.

And I have no idea if I learned anything from that experience except to just get through each day and try to help someone learn something (well, actually my goal was not to completely lose my cool every day). One student thanked me for having them use LiveBinders.com to complete an online writing portfolio. But before that she smarted off to me after I dressed her down for attempting to copy someone else's work. I don't know about anyone else, but I don't do well with ambiguity in dealing with people. I like to know definitively where I stand. Do you like me, or not? Now, the students liking me is not something I care about as a teacher. This is what I want to be clear, as a teacher: are you going to come into class with war paint on, or are you going to try to work with me? If that's not clear to me, I have a hard time.

So this is The Way We Weren't: we weren't clearly in love or in hate. We weren't in love with learning or with failing. We weren't anything that can be clearly communicated because their identity as a class shifted every week to something else that I had to adapt to.

I guess you had to be there.