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Fate

Wednesday 6 November 2013

And in a way, everything was destined. Every single moment, each decision she’d made in her life, led her to that moment in the middle of the street, her heels clicking softly on the old asphalt and a finite number of beads of sweat forming along her hairline. Perhaps even the number of beads of sweat was destined, predestined in the chemical soup that made up her brain, her body, her who sentient existence. Indeed, the same could be said not just of this moment crossing the street but of every single instant in her life. Every moment and act led to this particular act, this particular moment, which was leading to a yet-unseen but just as inevitable future, though only inevitable when the future became the present and one could look back and see the line of events leading, seemingly like fate, up to that moment. Ingrained rituals made it feel more inevitable and less like fate, but the difference between “ingrained rituals” and “fate” might be merely semantic.

But was it fate, real fate, that led Pani Basia to cross that street at that moment? Such a simple act, something Pani Basia did countless times in a given week, an automated function that had become almost ritualistic: left, right, left, first step. Could fate be little more than habit and ritual? The more often one repeats an act, the greater the chance that something that smacks of fate will happen.

As a Catholic, Pani Basia couldn’t really entertain seriously the thought of fate. Such a Protestant, such a Calvinistic idea, this fate. “Destined for God’s grace” and other such formulations. Though Pani Basia had only heard of Calvin in passing and would have been unable to provide even a general overview of his theology, she certainly would have found the proposal of predestination patently absurd. “A child’s religion,” she might suggest, preferring what she saw as the grown up acceptance of consequences inherent in Catholicism.

Furthermore, it couldn’t possible be fate. Pani Basia could change her mind at any moment, pivot on her toes, and head back across the street. That would prove that crossing the street wasn’t fate, unless she was fated to prove that crossing the street wasn’t fate, or to attempt it, or to create a child’s paradox to play with.

In the end, if anyone had suggested all these flights of philosophical fancy and theological fantasy, Pani Basia would have likely waved it all off. In and out of the classroom, Pani Basia was the mistress of her will and soul.

NaNoWriMo Cheating

Tuesday 5 November 2013

I needed a store description. I recalled a picture I took this summer in Lipnica. And off I went, leaving blanks where words failed.

The only thing about Pani Janowiak’s shop that ever changed was the produce in the bins just to the sides of the cash register. Winter months saw only potatoes, leeks, onions, the occasional beet or cabbage, perhaps an apple or two. Summer months the bins overflowed with cucumbers, plums, radishes, pears, tomatoes, grapes, zucchini, apricots, fresh dill, strawberries, lettuce, cherries, cabbage, raspberries, even the occasional bunches of bananas or small watermelons. Other than produce, though, nothing else changed. The jars of jams and preserves on the top shelf just behind the cash register were forever in the same order, new orders simply filling the empty slots when this or that jam sold out. Below the jams were all assortments of preserved meats and fish, the squat cans of tuna stacked between jars of pickled herring, and long tins of anchovies and ________. the The piquant Polish ketchup jars and ____ stood in attention just behind Pani Janowiak’s left shoulder, four brands in five columns, the most popular brand having two columns to keep up with demand, and by them, the mustard. Just above them were the pickled vegetables and mushrooms, jars of varying sizes and shapes glowing different colors as the ever changing light shifted through the day. Over Pani Janowiak’s right shoulder was one of the pillars of Polish hospitality: myriad teas–some herbal, others black, some medicinal, others merely recreational–and coffees, some in expensive vacuum-sealed packages imported from Germany, others in loose-filled bags. Below all these shelves, on the small counter that ran the length of all the wall-hung shelves, were spices and preparations, mixes to make soups and sauces, powders to add to gravies and the like. The shelves on the left of the store, the shelves through which Pani Basia glanced every day countless time as she looked through the small window the shelves framed to see how long the shadows and grown and judge how much longer she needed to stay open, whether she could close shop early, these shelves held the other pillar of Polish hospitality: cookies and chocolates. This was also where baking goods lived, the various flours, leavening agents, and sugars. Just to the left of these sweets stood a small refrigerator with milk and cream. The right side of the shop held a refrigerated display case with hams and sausages, various meats for sandwiches and snacking. Just behind it was a chest freezer with chicken quarters, ground beef, and a few other rotating frozen products. Beside the freezer was another tall shelf for drinks: juices and sodas (national and imported). Squeezed among the empty spaces on the counter were small displays for chewing gum and a small tree-like structure for suckers. Baked goods were tucked into a small space of empty shelving in a corner of the shop, or stacked wherever room could be found.

The shop was always faultlessly clean but still had a certain tired look to it. The linoleum was curling up where it met the counter, and the shelves were painted a dull brown color that made them look dirty even when they were clean. The scale was a tired gray, the vegetable bins, painted the same brown as the shelves behind Pani Janowiak, were more worn from the constant contact of customers whereas the shelves’ paint retained a relatively new appearance as Pani Janowiak was the only one to handle products on that side of the counter.

On the day that Pani Basia died, as she was waiting in line for her Danish and juice, she glanced around Pani Janowiak’s shop and noticed all these details for the millionth time it seemed. She looked at the ketchup bottles and thought what a nice touch it would be for Pani Janowiak to arrange them in some way that made sense, either according to the size of their containers or perhaps, more subtly, in alphabetical order according to their brands. She looked at the drinks, always a little dismayed that they were arranged so hodge-podge, with little regard to type of juice or origin of soda. Shouldn’t all the Polish brands be together, with Coke and Pepsi, the newly introduced interlopers, segregated? She wondered about the wisdom of having the flour so close to the floor, for it seemed possibly–likely even–to have unsanitary consequences. After all, how easily would it be for a splash of muddy water from the daily mopping to land on the paper packing, blanch through, and contaminate the contents? She wished the cabbages had been better stacked, with all the smaller ones to one side of the bin to make it easier for customers to find precisely what they were looking for. One doesn’t always need the biggest head after all, right?

Beginnings

Sunday 3 November 2013

Truth be told, an annulment would be easier to arrange — more clear lines of power, more obvious whose hands itch. It’s easier to prove that something never was than to transfer rights. Marriage is such an obvious, simple, provable notion; ownership isn’t.

“You’d best give up that little dream,” Jozek’s neighbor told him, his breath hot with vodka. “It’s as likely as moving to America.” Which really wasn’t all that unlikely, with the wall down and Walesa’s ridiculously huge pen. Maybe that’s why Mirek chose that comparison. For a grave digger, Mirek was certainly more clever, more insightful–more ironic he’d prefer–than one might expect.

30 Days of Insanity

Friday 1 November 2013

NaNoWriMo 2013 is underway, which means I’ll be neglecting this site to some degree. To a great degree. My first attempt at writing a novel in thirty days. That’s 1,667 words per day. I’m over 2,000 for day one. Not a bad start.

Treading Water

Friday 26 July 2013

I’m attempting to go a full year with daily updates on this little endeavor. Sometimes, I cheat: I might have nothing really I feel like writing about, so I just post some nonsense — a quote, a short, meaningless observation. Occasionally I’m not in the mood, but I do something silly — maybe a picture from the past. Every now and then, I just don’t have the time/energy/ability, so I do some silliness — a picture from the past, a quote, some nonsense. Rarely it’s a combination of one or more — mood, ability, not having anything to write about. Even more rarely, I have something to write about but not the ability or willingness to write about it. Today, for example, we have hundreds of pictures on the camera and lots of wonderful experiences here in Charleston, but I just don’t have it in me tonight to do anything about it: mood and ability conspire. And so I cheat, and go to bed.

Sonnets, Again

Friday 14 December 2012

We’re writing sonnets again in English I. “The hardest thing I’ve ever written” is the common consensus. So much to worry about: meter, rhyme, thematic development.

Notes from the board

The kids wonder why we’re doing it. “It’s not like we’ll ever write one of these again,” some protest, and it’s true. At the same time, they’ve never struggled over a piece of writing word by word; they’ve never searched for the right word only to find it’s actually not quite right; they’ve never planned a piece of writing simultaneously word by word, line by line, quatrain by quatrain. In short, they’ve never written like a poet.

What’s the value in this? In a society where most of these kids are fluent with text shortcuts and seem never to slow down, the question almost answers itself.

Errors and Mistakes

Thursday 6 September 2012

In the midst of the process, it becomes obvious to me that the road these students are on will not lead to the results they want. They’re working hard learning a new framework for planning and writing formal essays, but there are so many larger and smaller steps — I couldn’t have covered them all the first time through. Yet I sit and wonder whether or not I’ve made a mistake. Instead of essays, many of them are going to wind up with three body paragraphs that seem to have nothing to do with each other.

I’m left wondering what to do. Do I stop everyone and make a group course correction? That’s likely only to confuse some. And besides, it’s the process I’m teaching. I’m not worried as much about the finished product at this point as I am the steps the kids are taking to create that final product.

Then it occurs to me: sometimes the teachable moment is not in the moment. Sometimes it’s best to let them stumble — knowingly, even anticipating it — so that their misstep will show them rather than tell them where they were on the wrong track.

“Mr. Scott,” I envision one young lady beginning quizzically, “This essay we wrote — it don’t make sense.”

“How so? What doesn’t make sense?” I will reply, hoping that she will see then what I already clearly see  now.

“I don’t know. It’s just,” she might continue, pausing to look for the right way to express herself. “These paragraphs. They just don’t go together somehow.”

And I will smile and say, “I know, and I’m so very glad you’ve noticed that.”

Tops

Thursday 25 August 2011

Few things are as beautiful to me as an English teacher as the tops of my students’ heads. Like thirty suns rising over the horizon of their desks, the sight of students’ crowns is a sure promise, an hint that today might be better than yesterday.

With pencils skating and tapping across their page, my students reveal the treasure in their heads through flawed but ever-charming drafts. They create maps of ideas that are perfect in their heads but somehow get a little muddled as they travel down their arms to their fingertips. But oh, the treasure they often share. What a strange and electrifying privilege to learn things about people that seem to be revealed only to the most trusted. What an honor to be the confidant of so many bright minds.

Yet it’s not just the content that brings joy. The process itself is almost sacramental. Some write with furrowed brow; others look like they’re smiling; still others seem both amused and confused; a few even seem ambivalent. There are exasperated sighs and frustrated moans, and the crisp echo of someone wading paper occasionally punctuates the grey-black scratching of graphite.

I’m always torn during such in-class writing engagements. I try to set the example and write alongside my students, sharing my own drafts and troubles so they can see that all writers have problems with writing. Still, part of me wants to sit and just watch as they wrestle with themselves. “I have trouble writing when I don’t like the topic,” they almost universally write in their first assigned topic, “I, the Writer,” an exploration of writing in their lives. To remedy this, I try to allow as much freedom as I can, and the fact that I can get thirty-plus thirteen-year-olds to sit quietly and write is a testament to the effectiveness of freedom. And so I work toward a successful medium: write a little, glance up and feel proud for them, then write a little more. My writing during these sessions often turns to the joy of watching students work.

It is most clearly in these moments that I see my vocation: I am a teacher. I will always be a teacher. I cannot imagine doing anything else, for I am addicted to the warmth and trust of my students.

Motion

Friday 29 July 2011

Those things which we take most for granted are usually the same things that we could not do without. It’s the paradox of familiarity: we sometimes say nastiness to those we love the most because familiarity breeds, if not contempt, at least laziness: we assume there will always be time for amends. We go from day to day assuming that the last words we say to our wife, daughter, parents that day won’t be the last words. We take for granted that we’ll wake up in the morning and be able to start, if not afresh, certainly again.

The alarm clock chirps and without thinking of the miracle unfolding in front of us, we casually slide our arm from under the sheet and smack another seven minutes of silence out of the clock. When we finally pull ourselves out of bed, an entire ballet of muscular motion has made it possible to sit up on the edge of the bed and rub our eyes in an attempt to smear the last bits of drowsiness away. A yawn is an engineering marvel that goes unappreciated, and lacing our shoes is as complicated as any dance.

Certainly that which we waste the most of is that which we can never replenish: time. We waste it as if our present moment were eternity, as if we were some kind of god, able to alter time and space and make an endless loop of tomorrows. Of all the meaningful things I could do with my time on a Friday night, for example, why do I sit and troll YouTube videos or play chess? “One day I will take all the photos and memories I have of Poland and write a book,” I promise myself continually, yet there’s always a caveat: “But not tonight. Tonight, I just want to relax,” and I load chess.com and drive myself to frustration over a silly game.

These three are related: the ability to move freely and the time to do so allows us to place our bodies in nearest proximity to those who mean the most to us. With few exceptions, these freedoms are universal, even in the most repressive regimes. It’s rare that something takes them away, at once, in a flash. It is necessarily an act of aggression, an imprisonment, a forcible, irresistible subjection of one’s will to the will of another.

Sometimes we imprison ourselves through misplaced priorities. We watch YouTube videos when there are more productive goals; we go to a class instead of attending our daughter’s performance; we rush conversations with our parents because some trifle is more important at the moment.

Occasionally, though, we’re blessed: something shakes us out of our assumption that that which we have now will never change and is therefore not worth cherishing fully at this moment. It might be something we experience that shakes us, that turns our head around, that lifts us for a moment to see where we stand and forces us to appreciate the view, regardless of what it might be.

Usually, though, it’s a vicarious glimpse of someone else’s experience, and often it’s an experience that we find ourselves wondering whether we could endure it, much less profit from it in any way. Watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (or reading it, I would assume–something that’s now a high priority) is just such an experience. French journalist Jean-Dominique Bauby, almost completely paralyzed by a massive stroke, wrote the entire book by blinking his left eye, the only part of his body that he could move. Claude Mendibil recited the letters of the French alphabet in order of their frequency, and Bauby blinked his left eye when he heard the next letter of the word he wanted to dictate. “E S A I T N R U L O” began Mendibil again and again until Bauby dictated, letter by letter, the entire text of the memoir he composed and edited in his head. That alone says more than most could in a lifetime of babbling.

It is, in short, a film all should see.