Opposites Attract?

So, my dad is exhibiting the character traits that are completely opposite of my mother. He is complaining about the number of guests who will come over for New
Year's. He's complaining about the TV they bought six months ago which went kaput and had to be replaced. He's complaining about my mother saying that everything is "easy". Finally I asked him,"What attracted you to ma?" He stopped for a minute, then grinned.

"If I tell you, you won't believe me." Then he laughed.

"Tell me."

"Las pantorillas." (Her ankles.)

Yes everyone, my father has a thing for thick-ankled women. Apparently, my mother's ankles are perfect.

This is supposed to be a secret.

Anyway, I tried to press him further. I mean, why would he even think to get involved with a 21 year old (as she was when they met...while he would have been 38). Las pantorillas, wasn't a good enough reason in my book. He eventually said that everything about her attracted him.

My mother says the thing that attracted her to my dad was the fact that he was serious. Aha, the very thing that is annoying now!

Anyway, as my vacation continues and my dad continues to complain about various things: my mother does not know how to say no. She makes too many plans. She makes too many commitments. She is too involved with the church. She invites people over to the house too much. She talks on the phone too much. She leaves him alone to do all her church work. She's made too many bourgeois friends through the church. She doesn't read the paper, and thus makes uninformed statements about the political situation in the country...etc...etc...etc... I ask him, "Todavia te gusta las pantorillas?" Do you still like her ankles.

He says, yes.

Mr. Indestructo

So I've decided that my dad is just plain clumsy. This is true. It's been proven over time, it's just something that I forget. So far this trip he has...1. fallen onto sharp volcanic rocks and cut up his forearms. 2. jammed his hand with a dirty metal lock, cutting himself near a vien. 3. fallen backwards off a little rolling bench.

The miracle is that all his wounds are surface scratches only and that he doesn't break any bones.

He's scaring the shit out of me.

At this point, we're just laughing about it.

I'm trying to remind myself that he's always been clumsy. Yes he's 80. But really, that's not what this is, I tell myself. This is just him.

Meanwhile...as we go out...to Mass or to a restaurant, we encounter big shot politicians. (It's a small country.) So, after my dad recieves communion, he points out a man shaking the priest's hand. "Ese que va alla es el mas ladronazo de este pais!" (That guy over there is the biggest crook in this country!) Then in a restaurant he comments on someone named Teler, who apparently was the biggest opposition of Aleman, but is now Aleman's press person. This dude was apparently attacked by a diputado. They got into fisticuffs and he got a black eye and it was all over the news. "Que tal si me levanto y le doy en el ojo?" (What if I got up and hit him in the eye?)

Ahhhh, yes, my father amuses me.

Bye for now.

Volcanic rocks are sharp

Ok,
I think my Nicaragua news will probably be strickly family stuff, but we'll see.

So we went to Montelimar (beach resort, all you can eat buffet, private beach). We were walking up the stairs to go to the casino when my dad, somehow tripped and fell. He said he tried to grab onto the plants that line the stairway, but that they weren't helpful. He wound up landing on his forearms on the low stone wall flanking the steps. Low sharp volcanic stone wall. He cut up his forearms. For a moment, I ran to him and all I could keep saying was, "Como te caistes?" How did you fall? Over and over again. He scared me because he wasn't moving. He was semi-upright. Feet on the floor, but twisted up. Finally we got him moving and he was bleeding down the arms.

My mom ran up to the Casino and brought back papertowels drenched in Flor de Cana (rum) and wiped down his arms. We both were trying to clean him up and stop the bleeding. Finally I ran up to the casino, with a little plastic cup full of bloody paper towels. "Listen,"I said, "My dad just fell down and he's 80 years old and he's bleeding, can you send el trensito to pick him up." The bartender looked at the bloody papertowels in the cup and got on the phone right away. The trensito isn't really a train, but an improvised transport system involving a tractor that pulls a large cart with seats on it for lazy or incapacitated guests. They sent the trensito and we went right to the hotel pharmacy where a very nice woman donned gloves and cleaned dad up with iodine, applied antibiotic ointment and then wrapped him up in gauze.

After that, I could tell that he felt bad. And nervous. And probably wondering himself how he fell. So we went to dinner, where my ma and I waited on him hand and foot. He sat at a table and we served him. Putting his plate in front of him I said, "Ya se que paso, te tirastes al suelo por que te querias que te tendamos." I know what happened, you threw yourself on the rocks because you wanted us to tend to you.

After dinner, we wound up going back to the casino, this time, on the trensito.
Dad gave my ma and me 100 cordobas each. I told him to blow on the coins they gave us at the cashier for luck. He blew on them and we won 682 cordobas. We tripled his investment. That perked him up. He never plays, says he doesn't have good luck like my mother. But he watched us rack in the dough. We left before we could lose any of it. Then we went to watch the hotel entertainment which involved a goofy Ms. Barcelo contest. He seemed happy enough to then get grumpy and complain about us fawning over him. That means he was back to his old curmudgeonly self. All is well.

Now it's Christmas eve. The water keeps going out. I've bathed and brushed my teeth knowing that by 5 who knows if there'll be water. We should probably fill some more jugs as people are coming over later, for dinner.

What I learned from a cup of Nicaraguan coffee.

I think it is fitting that a few days before I leave for Nicaragua, I am at the Common Cup, meeting with Polly, getting into some heavy philosophical discussions about ejamakation in this country and what do they have here? Nicaraguan coffee. Of course I partook.

And this makes me think about my weak-ass, non-existent role in the Nicaraguan revolution. I am speaking of the ideals of the revolution, not what it has become. I'm taking about agrarian reform and education and opportunities. Here I am, a teacher of writing, but when I go to Nicaragua, I am forever a child. I am daughter of Herman and Sylvia, completely at their mercy. Have I ever thought to rent a car in Nicaragua and go about on my own? Or simply hop on a bus? I've done the bus thing before. I survived. Now I hear all kinds of horror stories. Maybe I should not listen to them. On the other hand, leaving my familia for a moment of my short (or long visit, depending on your interpretation) visit would be considered an insult. A great wounding insult.

So, there are two things I'd like to check out while I'm there. A cafe in Granada that serves as a job training program for street kids. And something Amanda Lichtenstein sent me about theater ed. But who knows. I'll be there during the Christmas season. We'll see who's available to talk and what not.

And anyway, I often wonder at my own level of dedication to this work. Am I dedicated? And to what? Do I believe in the power of education? Yes. Am I willing to put my heart and soul into it? I'm not sure.

I participated in Sensei David Rose's aikido class last night at Clemente H. S. He had a 7th kyu test set up for the kids. Sensei Garza showed up to administer the test. The kids were scared witless. They were funny. They were stiff and awkward. As I watched them, I found myself talking under my breath at them. "Don't stop. Don't stop. You can do this." I remembered how scared I was for my first test, though I don't remember the test itself. Later, David Rose talked to the boys, telling them that they exhibited a new level of dedication to the art, and that because they've shown this new level of dedication, that he would put more of an investment in them. And I thought about that and about teaching in general. It is an investment. It has been good for me to be in David's classes, because he's not just a good sensei, he's a good Social Studies teacher. I've sat in on his classes and I'm continually aware of his passion and dedication. I lack that kind of gusto. I wonder if it has something to do with belief, or what?

Anyway, he said that it matters...that even if you touch a few people it matters. I guess I needed to hear that.

So, when class was over and we bowed to each other I thanked each of the boys and said, "Congratulations." And I felt it. I felt that I was truly congratulating them and I felt that they'd been initiated into something. It's kind of like when you go through the Fiction Writing program, and after you've been through Fiction I and you turned in your 60+ pages, you've done something. And you know the semi-circle and the sense of it. And when you run into people that you sat in a semi-circle with before, you feel like you've run into long lost family; a tribesman.

And David Rose, for those of you who do not know him, is a scary looking man. I mean, he is someone I have feared on the mat for a long time. I never took an aikido class with him, because of my schedule and because I was afraid of him. He looks like a football player and when he attacks he comes at you all hardcore. He was one of my ukes for my last test and as soon as I saw that he was going to be my uke, I felt my stomach sink. I thought, "Oh shit." But, he looked like he was going to cry after the kids' test. I called him a sweetheart. It was a revelation to me. He took it well.

Anyway, he's one of those people who I can say has a calling to teach. I still doubt whether teaching is my calling. I can do it well, but I don't think I make the emotional connection to my students that I see in really really dedicated teachers. Whatever.

I think I'm more dedicated to story. And sometimes I teach story. Is that the same as being dedicated to the art and not the student? Can you do that and get away with it? For how long?

Maybe aikido is the best example of dedicated teaching. You've got people who do all this teaching, that they do not get paid for, and they do it for the love of the art and what the art gives people. So, people like Sensei Garza who works for the phone company, then goes to the dojo, and makes friends with everyone, and calls people when they stop coming to see what's up, and tries to make everyone welcome...this is dedication.

But I want to do what I want to do. And my wants are very simple and petty...I want to write. I want to read something other than student work. I want to be able to read something, just because it takes my attention (like Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks--I recommend it). I want to crochet and I want to sew clothes and I want to go out and go to concerts. Basically, I want to be on vacation. Really, this is my GLAMOROUS idea of a vacation...reading what I want when I want, crocheting, sewing, writing, aikido, yoga and sleeping until noon. Did I mention sleeping until noon? SLEEPING UNTIL NOON, without the least hint of shame. I'll make up for it by reading until 3 am, believe me, that's my internal clock. It's so hard to make my body function on normal people time.

Ok, as I write this I can see where I am at. I am ready for the semester to be over. That's what this is. I taught two classes at Columbia and I'm exhausted. I still have student work to read and grades to enter, but then I'm done for several weeks and I think I will need those weeks to recoup for the next round.

Yes it's a battle. Round 2!

New to this

I am finally breaking down. I am ready to join all the willing participants of this century. I bought a cell phone. I am on Facebook. Now, I will begin a blog.

Suddenly, I have absolutely nothing to say.

Hmmmm.