Toot, Toot...

I'll do it here because I think my mom is the only one left to read and it's become more of an update system for me.
Not counting the first 5 classes I had at Evangel...since 2008 I've finished 25 courses. During 2010 I didn't take a single course. So...2008, 2009, 2011...25 classes. 3.40 GPA. I'm satisfied with that considering everything else those years have entailed.
I pray I can be as content next year at this time when I'm finished.

Critique

I despise turning in schoolwork, it's like being naked and having my body critiqued.

"Girl" by Jamaica Kincaid

The following was read allowed this evening in class...I read Jamaica Kincaid last semester and have a deep appreciation of her work.

Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap;wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry;
don't walk barehead in the hot sun;
cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil;
soak your little cloths right after you take them off;
when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn't have gum on it, because that way it won't hold up well after a wash;
soak salt fish overnight before you cook it;
is it true that you sing benna in Sunday school ?;
always eat your food in such a way that it won't turn someone else's stomach;
on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming;
don't sing benna in Sunday school;
you mustn't speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions;
don't eat fruits on the street - flies will follow you;
"but I don't sing benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday school;"
this is how to sew on a button;
this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just sewed on;
this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down and to prevent yourself from looking like the slut you are so bent on becoming;
this is how you iron your father's khaki shirt so that it doesn't have a crease;
this is how you iron your father's khaki pants so that they don't have a crease;
this is how you grow okra - far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants;
when you are growing dasheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it;
this is how you sweep a corner;
this is how you sweep a whole house;
this is how you sweep a yard;
this is how you smile to someone you don't like too much;
this is how you smile at someone you don't like at all;
this is how you smile to someone you like completely; 
this is how you set a table for tea;
this is how you set a table for dinner;
this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest;
this is how you set a table for lunch;
this is how you set a table for breakfast;
this is how to behave in the presence of men who don't know you very well, and this way they won't recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming;
be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit;
don't swat down to play marbles-you are not a boy, you know;
don't pick people's flowers - you might catch something;
don't throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all;
this is how to make a bread pudding;
this is how to make doukona;
this is how to make pepper pot;
this is how to make a good medicine for a cold; 
this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child; 
this is how to catch a fish;
this is how to throw back a fish you don't like and that way something bad won't fall on you; 
this is how to bully a man; 
this is how a man bullies you;
this is how to love a man, and if this doesn't work there are other ways, and if they don't work don't feel too bad about giving up;
this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it, and this is how to move quick so that it doesn't fall on you;
this is how to make ends meet;
always squeeze bread to make sure it's fresh;
"but what if the baker won't let me feel the bread?;"
you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind of woman who the baker won't let near the bread?

Pizza Party

Who knew that a pizza party would be the inspiration that caused my eight year old to read 215 minutes over the span of 48 hours? The boy hasn’t picked up a book willingly since he slid out of the womb, but you dangle the thought of enjoying an extra slice of cheesy Dominoes on Friday afternoon and a few games of Dodge Ball in the new school gymnasium and he’s amped up, inspired to read. 

I had a car accident three months ago because the siblings were arguing on our way to school and work. I was sitting at a red light, lifted my foot off the break and bumped into the car ahead of me. No damage to her vehicle, but mine spent a week at the body shop. She’s spent three months getting massages and claiming insurance garbage…at any rate. This morning. We experienced peace. Absolute silence as we traveled through Mount Dora, Tangerine, Zellwood, Plymouth, Apopka and Ocoee. It was divine. The boy was reading. A full thirty minutes was added to his reading log and graciously signed by myself.  I arrived to work early and needed in a classroom before the siblings were to report to school. The boy sat in the church foyer and read. Silently. Without torment to his sister and brother. I did not experience siblings chasing one another into a classroom, gasping for breath as they each detailed their stories of despair. I only experienced motherhood peace and for a moment I may have forgotten they were still at the church.

This afternoon, same story. I worked, he read. Wonderful peace.

This evening, I came home to a little boy who should’ve had his bedroom light turned off at 9:45 but it was shining bright. His room was my first stop. “Jonnie, tell me about all the stories you read today.”

“Mom, I read the whole Magic Treehouse book!”…and he detailed the entire story…I hid my astonishment. I didn’t just have a phone conversation with his dad and ask if he wondered if the boy was just staring at pages all day?

I listened to him tell me the other two chapter books he had read pages from…and then I asked if I could read to him for a few minutes. He reluctantly agreed…worried about breaking the rules. I told him I thought his eyes needed the rest and the rules would be okay to break this time. I read and he laughed…he chose a funny book. I laughed…grateful for the laughter and for the engagement with my boy.

The sheer joy in all of this is the boy eats pizza everyday for lunch…sandwiches aren’t his thing.

Pizza in this house, is like peanut butter and jelly was in my childhood home. It’s just here. It’s readily available. Pizza Hut, Papa Johns, Dominoes. He gets them all. We’re an on the go family. It’s no surprise. 

Are You A Fan?

This evening Grey's Anatomy is airing it's very own version of High School Musical. Have their ratings dropped so low that they're forced to go to this absurd extreme? Are the actors and screenwriters so bored with the plot that the personal life drama is not enough...now they have to throw in melodramatic tunes?

I watch 2-3 hours of weekly television...it's time to find a new hour.

Shelter

The first 3 decades of my life have been reality safe in a surreal world. If trauma has occurred, it's because of natural acts, generally not because of the intentions of people. My parents protected me from harm and I've protected myself. I try to make smart decisions and live my life in a way that keeps me from harm.

I enrolled in a liberal college with a broad worldview and was miraculously accepted. I did this because I thought it was safe not because I was up for the challenge. It's the #1 private university in the South, how could it be anything but excellent?
I have never felt more scrutinized. The perception in every class I've sat in this semester is that Christians are the lazy, ignorant scum of the earth.  As a Christian, I am at fault for mutilating Aztecs and Spaniards and for taking Africans from their homeland and selling them into slavery.

Sadly, throughout history evil men hid behind the name of Christianity and now the true Christians are left to defend themselves against intellectuals who have questions and want answers. It's daunting.

Words.

Choices. The phrases we use. The style we communicate to others with. The way we address the world.

My mom used to writes letters to her loved ones. At times, the letters would be 7-8 pages front and back detailing her thoughts and journaling our life. She'd put them in an envelope and off to Edmonton or Elkins they'd go finding there way to one grandmother or another. Now, its daily morning emails. Known as my anonymous commenter, she is far from anon.  She just hasn't figured out to name herself on the comment box. I haven't kept up with this blog in ages yet she checks here everyday and asks me every few weeks why I'm not writing anymore. Here you go, Mom.

Friday and Saturday Chris and I trekked down to Tarpon Springs to spend the weekend with my parents in their new little rented condo that's half the size of what their basement used to be...talk about a downsize. While we were there Mom handed me a Bible that I had given to Grammie from the Christmas of 1992. Today, it all seems so presumptuous. Grammie had tried to give that Bible back to me a dozen times before we moved to Florida but I wouldn't take it. She still kept it in the box. The last few times I came to visit before her SJS in 2007 she had it out of the box on the dining room table. I was convinced that it was only because she knew I was coming and she wanted it to seem like the Bible was being used. Obviously, Grammie was reading the Word. She was reading her Word. Her treasured, red Bible that sat on her living room coffee table that was full of papers and notes with the binding bursting. She was in the Word, alright. The school year of 1992-1993 I was sheltered in my little bubble. My parents put all three of us kids back into our little church school and I was the class president of 12 whole students, 9th-12th grades. My husband was in that class. He graduated #1 that year. He was the only senior. Don't dismiss the fact that I have placed his #1 status on resumes. It's helped. It's true. He's a smart guy and can back it up.
My bubble helped in the belief that all Bibles were alike. I held onto a thought that if Grammie had a new Bible, she could put that old one away someplace so it wouldn't be worn out any worse then it already was. I didn't realize that she had a relationship with those pages. Her fingers were imprinted with each line that she scrolled down and every bookmark was placed specifically for a reason valuable to her. I was ignorant.

If the red Bible was stolen, lost, or damaged Grammie would grieve. Definitely. But she would quickly realize the value in creating a new love affair with new Words. She knows what's replaceable and what isn't. Thankfully, in America, a Bible is.

On Saturday I opened the Bible and I found only two notes. One simple birthday card from Great Grandma Addie to Grammie telling her that she'll continue to pray that God will give her compassion, faith, and love....probably one of the last ones she received from her mother. And, another note, from my maternal grandma asking Grammie to pray for her nephew. I know my mom and I know my aunt. They could have very well planted the birthday card and the note from my grandma in Grammie's Bible. But, if they didn't...I've had at least a few days of wondering what if she did it. What if it was her legacy to me. She knew that Bible would be mine. She knew my name was in it and that my parents and aunts would ensure that I'd get it back. She left me words to be encouraged in faith, compassion, and love. She told me to pray by leaving the little hastily scribbled note from my Grandma Sue that was probably written during the middle of church while they were sitting next to each other. And, she put the two legacies together and made them equal because that's what Grammie does.  I've scoured the Bible for underlined passages and highlighted texts. There aren't any. There's only those two notes and the more I dwell on it, the more I realize that's the way it's supposed to be. Faith, Compassion, Love, Prayer, and the Word of God.