Mrs. Cheney's students write

From a persuasive essay on why Sweeney Todd should be rated PG-13.

"Sweeney Todd doesn't even have nudity, drugs or comments pertaining to sex or other absurdities."

It's all about perspective, my friends.

Another chapter in the 9th grade mythology unit debacle:

Students are to write significant details about each god or goddess on a chart to turn in at the end of the unit. The chart has headings such as "Major Accomplishments", "Physical Description", "Hardships", etc.

At the end of a group presentation about Hestia, a student raised her hand and asked, "What was her major accomplishment?"

The presenters answered, "She was an eternal virgin."

To which a boy replied, "Oh, I put that under 'hardships'."

Did I ever mention?

In my 3rd period class I have a boy with the last name of Shakespeare, a boy named Tennyson and a boy named Dante. When I looked over my list for the trimester I was thinking, "Hey, that's kind of cool to have such literary names together in an English class." And I said as much to my class on the first day before I took attendance (to their blank stares, of course).

The first time taking roll in a Utah school can sometimes be rather awkward. Utah people come up with the stupidest names sometimes, or they come up with regular names with outrageous spellings. I always mispronounce at least one name in every class on the first day. However, this particular class was filled with Katelyns and Collins and Cheyannes--the only unusual names were Tennyson and Dante. So on the first day when I was taking roll, I was feeling pretty confident. I called out every name without a hitch until I got to the last name on roster.

"Dante."

No answer.

"Dante?"

Silence. And then somebody says, "Ummm, we've never heard of a Daaahntay."

And then this squirrelly little redneck kids says, "It's Dant." You know, like it rhymes with ant. Dant. Except it's spelled Dante. Oh dear.

So I said what any self-respecting English teacher would say. "Well in this class you're DAAAAHNTAY!" Then I closed my attendance book and started teaching.

If I quit posting it's because I got fired . . .

Why-oh-why did I agree to teach Greek Mythology to 9th graders???? And what was I thinking when I decided it would be a good idea for them to give group presentations on the Olympian gods? And where was my brain when I suggested they might look on the internet for pictures for visual aids?

Highlights from today:

• during a presentation about Athena, two girls giggled as they told a myth about Hephaestus spilling his seed on Athena's thigh
• during a presentation about Hades, the boy who put together a PowerPoint presentation complained loudly because the only pictures of Hades he could find online had visible twigs and berries
• during a discussion about The Odyssey, in response to my wondering whether Odysseus might have been a willing prisoner of Calypso, a male students says, "Heck yeah he was willing--he was gettin' lucky in Kentucky!"
• which of course directly relates to the two girls who could not stop giggling after telling the class that Athena's gift of olive trees was appreciated by the Greeks because olive oil makes a great lubricant
• and to top it all off, at the end of our discussion of The Odyssey, a student said, "Man, this sounds just like The Bible." I said, "Good connection--The Bible is the Christian version of a book of myths." Immediately I had a dozen angry and offended students shouting at me, just as the bell rang. So I yelled after them, "Oh don't be so thin-skinned. All religions have a set of myths they hold to be true." I'm pretty sure that didn't help anything. It could have been an excellent discussion, really, if we had some time to really talk about what it all means. I will try to have that discussion tomorrow, of course, but my take on the comparison of The Odyssey and The Bible is from a Bible-as-literature sort of a view. There is a difference between looking at The Bible as literature and looking at it as scripture. As an English teacher, I'm making literary connections, not religious ones. Oh well, I'm sure they will all go home tonight and cry to their parents about how Mrs. Cheney said The Bible isn't true. I think I feel my first phone call from an angry parent coming on.

Toddy Tavern?

Last night we were discussing the idea of naming our house. Kate has been reading Anne of Green Gables, so this idea has been on her mind lately. Every time I read an English novel, I think it would be fun to name our "estate". I love the names you find in those books--Thornfield, Pemberley, Netherfield, Howard's End, Wuthering Heights, Windy Corner, and the list goes on and on and on.

So last night we came up with a very short list of possible names for our home:

Toddy Tavern (Kate)
Lilly Lane (Emma)
Hollyhock Haven (Shannon)
Rocky Road (Brock)

Apparently we're under the collective impression that we require alliteration.

Oh, and lest you think Kate is a regular imbiber, I must explain. We have a hot buttered rum mix we make in the winter. It is made of a mixture of ice cream, butter, rum extract, cinnamon, cloves, ginger and nutmeg. You just add a huge spoonful of the mix to a cup of boiling water and it makes a nice hot bedtime drink. In the cold winter months, the kids like to drink one before going to bed. Brock told them that hot drinks before bed are called toddies, so the kids have been calling them toddies ever since. It's a tradition. And the tavern must be dictionary definition #2 rather than definition #1. You know, the one that says "A place for weary travelers to rest." It's really rather clever, I think. I'm almost prone to say, "From where the sun now stands, this home shall be known as 'Toddy Tavern' forever." But what would the neighbors say?

The thing is I want to explore my options a little more before the decision is made. I don't want to name my home just to change her name in a few months when we find something better. Just think how confused our house would be. I still feel guilty for doing that to our cat.

So this is where y'all come in. What are your ideas? What would make a great name for a home. Our house is a nice-sized 90 year-old red brick bungalow with a decent front porch with a swing. Our lot is nearly an acre with a long and narrow back yard. We have some huge trees, some of them dead. Our lawn is a work in progress (hence Brock's name idea), as is the back yard garden, and we are hoping to plant a small orchard over the next few years. So picture it in your mind, or remember it if you've been to visit us, and tell me what you think. What do you think makes a good name for a home?

Shall I call this post "A lesson in irony?" or "Google Claims Another Victim"

I just finished up a poetry unit with my 9th graders. For the unit assessment, each student was to create a poetry portfolio consisting of a collection of original poems as well as a collection of poems gathered from a list of approved poets I provided. For each poem, the student was to write the poetic device the poet used next to the example. One student included this poem, by the great Billy Collins.


Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
who wrote "Don't be a ninny"
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony"
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."


And here is where I'd like to stun you all with my great teaching skills by saying the student wrote, in thick-lined red sharpie, scrawled down the entire length of the margin, the glorious word --
"IRONY!!!!!"
Sadly, this student wrote "metaphor" next the to paragraph that contained the word "metaphor". Because, I'm sure, this is the poem Google gave her when she keyed "Billy Collins metaphor" into its search bar. *sigh*

Mrs. Cheney's students write

On The Diary of Anne Frank -- "Anne's nickname for her father was Pimp."

In case 8th grade was too long ago for you to remember, it was really "Pim."

I'm sure I'll have more fun stuff to add after I crawl out from under this pile of poems and quizzes.

Oh ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a COMING

Emma was in her school production of Music Man. It was cute. She was one of 120 kids on stage. Apparently the musical thing is pretty popular at her school . . .

Overheard at the movies

When: yesterday afternoon
Where: at a very old-school movie theatre during the previews before Alvin and the Chipmunks
Who: A mom with her two young sons

cute little tow-headed 5 (or so) year-old boy: I'm Alvin, Cameron is Simon, and Mom is Theodore

mom: Theodore?

cute little tow-headed 5 (or so) year-old boy: Well Theodore is the fat one.

mom: I know Theodore's the fat one.

Jane says

"Mom, can we read 'The Tale of Vagina Puddle-Duck'?"

"I think it's called 'The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck,' honey."

"Oh. Yeah, I thought Vagina was a kinda funny name for a duck."

Epiphany

I saw a bird flying in place,
madly winging,
but held captive by a strong-willed wind.

Flap a little harder, little bird.
You’ll make it through.
Just try a little harder.

But she didn’t flap harder.
She stilled herself instead.
With wide wings she embraced the wind,
and the current carried her far, far away.

The Great Interview Experiment

Neil, at Citizen of the Month, has this little experiment going on. His idea is that all people are worthy of an interview. We don't have to be somebody to be somebody. So he has invited bloggers around the world to participate in "The Great Interview Experiment." After reading several fellow bloggers' interviews, I decided to jump on board.

I interviewed Marge, of Marge in Real Life. Her blog is all about self-expression, self-discovery, and self-disclosure. I enjoyed getting to know her through her blog. Here is the interview:

The Great Interview Experiment
Getting To Know Marge of Marge in Real Life
- by Shannon of Letters Falling

I love The Simpsons, both for its entertainment value and as a social critique. Are you a fan? Do you consider yourself a Marge in real life? Is Homer really Homeresque? Or are the pseudonyms just a fun approach to an anonymous blog?

Sometimes the satire of the Simpsons hits entirely too close to our home. I don’t have blue hair and Homer doesn’t spend all his free time in the local bar, Bart’s not nearly so mischievous but we all say “d’oh!” a lot and fight over who has to take out the trash (remember the sanitation commissioner episode?). As the woman of the house, I feel Marge’s pain in being the mostly-ignored voice of reason, constantly picking up after everyone, and trying desperately to project a “normal” family in the face of absurd abnormality. Homer’s ADD and absentmindedness is as close as he comes to being Homeresque although like Marge, I wish sometimes he would be a little more refined in social settings. Every day in our life feels like an episode of satirical proportions.

You mentioned that Homer has read a few posts on your blog. You are very frank about Homer’s weaknesses in many of your posts. Has he seen those posts? If so, how did he react? If not, are you worried he might see them at some point, and how do you think he would react?

One of the wisdoms I’ve come to understand well is that any healthy and worthwhile relationship is based on trust, the basis of which is honesty. He has seen my posts and I have no fear of his reading my blog. At first I was nervous when he showed interest and I warned that if he chose to read my blog, he should do so with a thick skin and a large grain of salt because I hadn’t written about him in a spirit of sparing his feelings. I’ve always said that I don’t read minds, if you have a problem, say so. And to be fair, I’ve encouraged Homer to express (in a blog even) his own experiences in our relationship. Even though he hasn’t chosen to do that, we do talk through all our squabbles eventually. What we have together is a treasure to us both and the growing pains along the way make us stronger.

I love your hamster-in-the-wheel/song-stuck-in-your-head metaphor. If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be? Why?

Just one?! For the rest of my life?! That would be the early death of me. My worst pet peeve (a very furry green one with googly eyes) is redundantly repetitive repetition – especially in music (ex: Eric Clapton’s Laila – pardon me a moment while I go change the station). A catchy chorus is one thing, singing it over and over is enough to send one to the nuthouse. Um, how about this happy little playlist on random mode?

• I Am The One And Only, Chesney Hawks (incidentally the theme song from the movie Doc Hollywood with Michael J Fox)
• You’re An Ocean – Old 97’s – I just really like the piano arpeggios
• Losing My Religion – REM
• Don’t Stop – Fleetwood Mac
• Only Happy When It Rains - Garbage
• Closer To Free – Bodeans
• Closer To Fine – Indigo Girls
• Angels Of The Silences – Counting Crows
• Crazy – Seal

When you take the messages of these songs together they sum up my personality and outlook quite well.

I also share custody of my children with my ex. It sounds like you have a pretty good working relationship with Bart’s dad. How do you do that? I’ve been trying to find peace, but haven’t had much luck. You must have some sort of secret to your success.

Oof, we’ve come a very long way. We’ve always known that no matter how we feel about each other, no pain or unhappiness in our past is more important than our son and like it or not, the natural consequence of having a child together is parenting him, together or not. After we split but before our divorce, we found an amazing counselor. She gave us a funny look when we told her we weren’t there to mend our marriage. We already knew that was over. We were there to mend our relationship so that we could raise an emotionally healthy child together. The real therapy took place in long healing discussions in the therapist’s parking lot after our sessions. I think the biggest key to our success has been to put our romantic past and pain completely and totally behind us. Both of us have taken sincere steps to move on in our lives and truly forgive.

I agree that God and religion are two different things. I also believe that religion can be helpful for some, but damaging for others. It sounds like you had a real awakening about your beliefs in your 20’s. Do you resent being brought up in a religious home? How do you reconcile your religious upbringing with your adult beliefs? Are they connected at all?

Resent is a strong word because I feel no bitterness about my upbringing. My parents truly believed in what they were doing. They sheltered us kids out of love, not because of their religious beliefs. They raised us to fear God and I know that much of my true understanding of the spiritual realm I learned from their actions and personal faith, not from church or Biblical teachings. I do however recognize that my parent’s heavy control had some very undesirable impacts on my ability to develop a sensible world-view. Now when establishing and questioning my beliefs I have learned to take guilt out of the process and add common sense in. Breaking free was a rebellion at its height but became a necessary freedom that I hope to one day see my siblings understand as well.

You really picked up the blogging in January (from 3 posts in December to 59 in January). What was it that caused such an increase in your posting?

My introduction to blogging was on MySpace and I made my first post in August of 2007. It was mainly a way of keeping my friends and family up on the happenings in my life. My posts were usually cheery or funny and pretty much the kind of thing I might put in a newsletter about me. In October the stress in my life reached a peak; I was working very long hours doing my job and a coworkers too, I was trying to cope with my depression since going off meds the previous May, and Homer was sinking deeper and deeper into a depression I couldn’t understand. As my emotional world caved in, the holidays came on and then I was called on to go help my ailing grandmother in Florida. I stopped posting on MySpace mostly because I didn’t have time but also because it wasn’t the kind of thing I knew how to share. I knew that any kind of patronizing advice or sympathy from my friends would make me angry. At the very end of 2007 I had an emotional meltdown that prompted me to step back and assess my forms of release and ask what exactly was I doing to help myself out of my troubles.

Marge In Real Life was sort of my gift to me. It started as a totally anonymous place to vent. Quickly I saw the benefits of uncensored writing and began to post multiple times a day. Soon I realized that I wanted to share my feelings with some that knew me. When I read back through my posts I was startled to realize that I was leading a dual life in some ways and I didn’t like that the honest, open me was the online me. I resolved to bring the two together by opening my private blog to those in my MS friend list. If they were true friends, they would accept me with my shortcomings, frustrations, and depression.

Is your blog cathartic (the emotionally purging definition, not the bowel-purging one) for you? You’ve said writing is like free therapy. In what ways?

So much of the self-torture that takes place in my head is a result of not giving myself permission to do what I need to do. I’ve now given myself permission to release my emotions in my blog – good bad and ugly. I authorized myself to take full creative license without the least concern for what others might think. Don’t ask me why I’d never been able to do that before – fear of self-invented retribution or scorn maybe? Thankfully, it’s been a very cathartic experience for me and as you’ve read, it’s more positive and cheerful than not.

You made a quick reference to being a former runner. What do you miss about running? Is there any chance that you might take it up again?

Many nights I have running dreams. Sometimes when no one is looking I watch Parkour videos on YouTube and fantasize about being so light and free. I’m a very long way from being in good enough shape to run again. Last time I tried it, I had shooting pains through my ankles. I know though that losing weight and embracing athletic endeavors again is a matter of strengthening my resolve and rearranging my priorities. I will run again.

You and Homer love jeeps. The only thing I know about jeeps is that I got stuck behind a highway full of them in Moab one April. I realized then that there are plenty of fanatical jeepers (?) out there. Do you consider yourself a fanatic? What is your favorite jeeping activity? Have you ever turned over one of your jeeps?

One would probably categorize me as a fanatic, though I like to think it’s mostly by reason of association to Homer who is unquestionably a fanatic! My motivation in buying a jeep was to have a vehicle capable of taking me to remote places for unique photographic opportunities. My jeeps have certainly served that purpose and then some. I have many breath-taking photos from the tops of mountains and ancient mining camps.

A little part of me is a tough little tomboy and I like to take on a rough trail with the guys and see their surprise. Yes, I’ve turned jeeps over several times, mostly in my Betty P while tackling stubborn obstacles in Moab, UT. In the most recent incident my cat was sitting in the seat next to me and I thought she’d bolt but she just hooked her claws in and looked at me as if to say, “now what.” Not all of my rollovers have been so fun. A year ago last September I accidentally rolled my Grand Cherokee several times on a dirt road near my home and I feel very grateful to be alive.

I love your taste in Pyrex. I can tell you love color (I recall an orange or red wall behind a fish tank in one of your photos). Describe the most colorful area in your house.

Bright colors have tantalized me since I childhood. In high school I started the Colorful Liberation Front (CLF), a cult group of kids that made colorful little stickers and posted them clandestinely in the blandest places. I really have to write the post about that already.

Visitors to my home are sometimes taken aback by the décor of my living room. Two of the walls are “Moab” orange, the furniture is modern puzzle-style birch with black upholstery, the curtains (partially finished I’m sad to say) are a matching orange, a wood-burning stove with a vintage Wagoneer grill hanging over it dominates one wall, and antique camera paraphernalia adorn the walls. My home is an eternal work in progress. Soon I also hope to complete a very bright yellow utility room, a blue accent wall behind our big commercial stove in the kitchen, red walls in my son’s room, and retro green curtains to compliment the green and black motif in the master bedroom.

The Flame

By the time anyone noticed it,
the fire was too large to contain.
Ashes pulled free from the flames
like so many bats,
black and beastly,
their angled, tangled wings
dipping, ducking, diving
in a swirling spire.
The last remnants of a life which
so recently was.

You looked at me
through squinted eyes,
“Do you remember . . . ?”
“Yes.” I nodded
and took your hand.
And because it wasn’t us,
we went home to make love,
all the while wondering what
marks the difference
between ecstasy and agony,
hoping for a difference,
but knowing they both start with a spark.

Silent Night

Snow settles slowly
as the streetlight-orange glow
finds a space
between the conventional curtains --
to edge through
and share its dim tinted light
with me
and my new love --
whom I have loved for months
without seeing.

I see her now,
her perfect profile at my breast
for the first time.
And in spite of my
exhaustion,
or perhaps because of it,
I am more awake than ever --
keenly cognizant
of my enhanced heart.

Some things in life
are beyond description.
Even the best of poets
are unqualified
to humanize some feelings
by naming them with words.

These are my kept
deep-down emotions --
cherished for a few mid-night hours
after the agony,
the ecstasy
of the emerging,
when our once cord-connected bodies
divided.

She is
no longer me,
but forever mine.

The Cutest Shakespeare Ever!

My 9th graders have to complete one Shakespeare learning activity every week for the duration of our study of Romeo and Juliet. I've given them a list of possible activities (delivering a soliloquy, making a model of a Shakespearean theatre, writing a character analysis of one of the main characters, etc.), but I also gave them the option of coming up with their own ideas (which I must pre-approve). Today I got this lovely bust, sculpted from clay. So fun!

I LOVE the hair!

It may be a decent likeness, but I must confess, I would prefer a Shakespeare who looks like this:

*swooooon*

Sometimes I'm just like the rest of them

My youngsters needed Valentine boxes for school. It used to be that a couple of pieces of pink and white construction paper stapled around three sides did the trick. But these days we're not talking about 24 paper-thin cards and one box of conversation hearts from the rich kid. These days kids expect (and get) the mother load. So we needed something a little more substantial.

Plus, other kids' moms spend all their stay-at-home daytime hours for the three weeks preceding Valentine's Day constructing papier mache frogs whose mouths open and tongues stick out with a ribbet or two for every candy-laden card deposited into their bellies. Or toilet bowls where children put their candy gifts into the bowl, press the lever, and their bounty "flushes" to a compartment below. And I'm not kidding.

So this year, I decided to join the frazzled-mom trend. We made papier mache igloos. I wanted to put "ice to see you" on the side, but then I remembered that I would likely post pictures of our creations, and I didn't want Tiffany to think I was stupid. So we just put their names on the sides instead.


Don't you just love the gaping hole ready to receive mounds and mounds of candy? Just think of all the snow that would fall through that hole! I'm certain it is not even close to being up to igloo code. I pity the Eskimo who calls this igloo home. The tiny papier mache eskimo. Who left his tiny fishing pole next to his ice hole. Yep, I truly pity the fool.

I think I might need some sleep . . .

My Valentine's sonnet for Brock

I was looking in my sock drawer and found this rolled up in a corner.

Two years ago in budding spring we hiked
the mountains, as sun-softened snow dashed o’er
a tow’ring cliff o’erhead. The mist, like ice,
sprayed faces red. I’d never loved you more.
High ridges bid us come as summer rolled.
We, happy guests, accepted the allure.
Our highest, hardest trek--the summit cold
and beautiful. I’d never loved you more.
One early morn, in autumn, in the rain
a muddy mound we climbed, our vows to store
from that day on in memory unstained.
You kissed your bride. I’d never loved you more.
We’ve ranges yet to tramp, heights to explore,
And with each peak, I’ll ever love you more.

A Valentine for Ernest Mann

by Naomi Shihab Nye

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.

Getting back to what I came here for . . .

My original intent with this blog was to post an original poem once or twice a week. The idea was that I would be motivated to write poetry more often because I'd have a place to share what I've written. I'd like to try it out for a couple of weeks and see how it goes.

I'll start with a poem I wrote three (or so) years ago. It's based on a very vivid dream I had. (I sometimes dream in allegory). It's probably a bit of a diversion from my usual approach to poetry, but I kind of like it. Hope it doesn't make you sick. Hope you still think I'm sane. Hope you thought I was sane to begin with. Here is goes:

The Offering

The kitchen drawer paring knife
with the bent tip
pierces the skin between
the long thin foot bones above the
second and third toes.
not a clean, smooth scalpel drawn line of blood
but a jagged, meat-torn window
to where the bones are.

That’s what I’m after:
The bones.

I remove them, one by one,
from the right foot
and pile them,
clean and white,
like kindling
on a clean white plate
with a chipped rim
carefully placed on a clean white cloth
with one frayed edge
at the head of the dining room table.

Thin, delicate, unbroken.

I harvest the bones to the ankle.
I pause.
Why am I doing this? I ask myself.
And I can’t recall.
I just know it must be done.

The newly emptied fleshy flap of skin
sags at an awkward angle
from my right ankle
as it rests on my left knee.

Enough, I say.
And it is enough.

Kate played in her piano recital on Saturday. She did a great job. Afterwards I asked her what she thought was the best part of her performance. "My look," she said. She's such a funny little stink. Brock and I were really proud of her very poised performance. I accidentally pushed the off button on my camera instead of the the start button at the beginning of her performance, so I missed her introduction of her pieces. She was very articulate.

Hear Me Roar

I became a feminist at BYU.

I know "BYU feminist" sounds like an oxymoron, but at that time there was quite a group in the English department. I attended BYU during a short-lived golden age for feminism. Many of my professors openly proclaimed themselves feminists, and those who didn't accepted feminism as a viable world view rather than a silly notion embraced only by lesbians and women too ugly to ever hope to find a man. I had never considered which side of the feminist fence I embraced--in truth, I had never really known what a feminist was before my BYU education. Many of my respectable and admirable professors helped awaken my world views on status and value of women in a still-very-patriarchal Utah society. Feminism wasn't just some quirky idea of a woman who no longer wished to wear a bra. Throughout history, mysogynist* attitudes in our society had created gender inequality. I wanted to help bridge the gender gap. I wanted to help make a change.

When I was approaching graduation, six well-known scholars were excommunicated from the church for publicly pronouncing their secular views on Mormonism. In addition to the six, several professors at BYU were disciplined for spouting their feminist rhetoric to the young and impressionable in their classes. At least three English professors were asked to leave BYU. After the massive house-cleaning, the atmosphere of the English department changed. Professors were extremely careful with their words. The passion, the excitement, the fire had dimmed.

After I graduated, my fire began to dim as well. I was no longer associating with fellow students who had similar opinions, hopes, dreams, desires. I was married to a man who scoffed at the thought that there could be such a thing as a feminist. I always felt like he considered my feminism a silly phase. Instead of fighting to keep my feminist views, I found it easier to comply with the role my society expected of me. And while I would never consider my decision to become a stay-at-home mom a mistake, I do consider my willingness to let go of my feminist views a weak reaction to a difficult situation.

For a long time I felt like I had been silenced. Like I didn't have a voice. I knew had a voice once--back in my BYU days. I longed to find that voice again.

After my marriage failed, I decided I should find out who I really was--deep down in the core of Shannon. I wanted to be true to myself. I knew the failure of my marriage had hinged on my failure to understand myself properly and my subsequent inability to go on living as someone I wasn't. I'm not going to delve into my road of self-discovery here, but I will say that little by little I have regained some of that spark I had back in the college days. And these days I can embrace that side of myself because I chose a husband who embraces it in me.

Which brings us to yesterday.

Yesterday I voted for Hillary Clinton. Most Utahns would consider my vote wasted (Clinton didn't have even a tiny sliver of hope to get Utah's democrat delegates). I endured jokes in the faculty room--"You're going to vote for Monica Lewinsky's ex-boyfriend's wife????" I overheard my daughter's friend tell her, "I heard that someone asked Hillary what one plus one is and she said, 'Ummmmmm'." I have felt the need to explain why I'm voting for Clinton, as if it is a huge mystery just begging to be solved. (Why is it that everyone calls her "Hillary" anyway? You never hear anyone calling Obama "Barack" or McCain "John". It irks me.)

And then today, I read this article by Robin Morgan. It really struck a chord with me. Why should I feel apologetic for supporting a highly qualified candidate? Why should others feel the need to casually dismiss Clinton because she's a woman? Worse, why do people make condescending remarks about her gender--our society would never stand for condescending remarks about Obama's skin color.

I have been reminded there is no shame in being a feminist. There is no shame in supporting the best candidate. There is no shame in standing up for the dignity of my gender. In fact, the opposite is true. It is shameful to use Clinton's gender as a reason to either reject or support her. I am proud to support Hillary Clinton in her quest to become a candidate for president based on her experience, her intelligence, and her stance on the issues. And I refuse to apologize for my support.


*A funny aside--I used the word "misogyny" in my 9th grade language arts class yesterday during our discussion of Romeo and Juliet, and there was a collective gasp. They thought I had said a bad word, apparently. Ha!

My Mr. Darcy

Ever since Brock got his hair cut, I keep seeing glimpses of Colin Firth in him. Which makes me think of the A & E Pride and Prejudice. Which makes me swoon at the romance of it all. *swoooooning as I type* So I thought I'd share. If I thought I could get him to do it, I'd have Brock dress in his period clothing, I'd get into my wedding dress, and I'd post a picture. Since that's not likely to happen, you should look at the pictures below instead, then check Brock out here and here to see him in the (sorta) right clothes. Merge the two together and . . . voila!

Here we have Brock and Shannon

And here are Mr. Darcy and Ms. Bennett

(in case you got confused)

Well, actually Norm, it's a little-known fact . . .

I am bored. I'm at school for parent/teacher conferences, but I'm not getting any visitors. Nobody loves me. Nobody hates me. They're all indifferent. *sigh* So I'm bored. I don't really have anything to do except hang out on the internet. Well, the sites that aren't blocked by the school district's filter, that is.

In an attempt to be part of the "in" crowd I'm stealing a blogging idea from Tiffany, one of the coolest gals I know. I used to go to a writing group at Tiffany's house. I keep meaning to steal her writing group ideas and start one here. Check back with me in a couple of years on that one. Anyhow, the idea is to share one hundred tidbits of information about myself. Here is goes.

1. I'm breaking my zero-calorie soda rule today by drinking a Mountain Dew.
2. I usually drink Diet Coke.
3. I should drink water.
4. I have a small bladder.
5. I like to read books intended for adolescents. Especially Newbery Award winners.
6. Writing poetry is my greatest talent.
7. My hair is my best physical feature.
8. Or maybe my smile.
9. Or perhaps my eyes.
10. Definitely not my butt or breasts.
11. I love my second-hand store clothes. They help make my style unique.
12. I wonder if I'll ever grow up.
13. I worry that I'll never find complete peace.
14. I'm smarter than I give myself credit for being.
15. I'm not as smart as my students think I am.
16. I'm afraid of sleeping in my house all alone.
17. I hope my children will make it through their adolescence unscathed.
18. I'm sure they won't.
19. I'm worried that part of their scathing will come from me doing and saying the wrong things.
20. My marriage is really important to me.
21. I love my job.
22. I love my house.
23. I don't want to live there forever.
24. Unless we get a second bathroom.
25. And a better heating system.
26. I really like to eat.
27. I want to be a real runner again.
28. I miss having a best girlfriend living in the same town.
29. I have an incredible family (Mom, Dad and sibs).
30. I couldn't have hoped for better in-laws.
31. I think my piano is ruined, and it makes me sick to my stomach to think about it.
32. I don't mind driving if I have mood-appropriate cds to listen to.
33. My cd player in my car is broken.
34. I love to be in the mountains.
35. The mountains across the street from my house are just as beautiful as any I saw in Switzerland.
36. I hitch-hiked on the autobahn through East Germany (in December, 1989) because I wanted to go to Berlin and hack out a graffiti-covered piece of the Berlin Wall.
37. It was a lot harder to break than I thought it would be.
38. I got pretty fat during the three months I spent in London.
39. I love all the snow we're getting this winter.
40. One time I said a swear word in the temple. I didn't mean to. I felt really bad about it.
41. One time I said a swear word in class. I said it very quietly. I didn't feel bad about it at all.
42. My husband's looks make me swoon.
43. He might even be better looking with short hair than he was with long.
44. I still want him to grow his hair out again.
45. I liked riding on the coattails of his long-haired non-conformity.
46. I think the little girl who gets a wig made from his hair is very lucky.
47. I hope it sparks her spunk when she wears it.
48. This is kind of hard.
49. I adore my children.
50. I want to help them to become strong women.
51. I am saddened by the lack of positive strong female role models in our Utah society.
52. I'm a little intimidated by the English department chair in my school.
53. I don't read every word of every paper my students turn in.
54. I have occasionally thrown out entire assignments because I just don't have time to grade them.
55. Still, I am still a pretty darn good teacher.
56. One of my favorite students was in a lock-down school before he was enrolled here.
57. I was a little scared of him when I first heard about him.
58. I feel silly about it all now.
59. I get chapped lips in the winter.
60. My face turns red easily.
61. I am the third of four kids in my family.
62. I met my husband on the internet.
63. I dated far more as an adult than I dated as a teenager.
64. I was an awkward teenager.
65. I still feel awkward at times.
66. I'm a democrat.
67. I love the color red.
68. My mom is a very classy lady.
69. I have been a homebody since I married my husband.
70. I used to hate to be home.
71. I wish I had more friends.
72. I wish I had fewer enemies.
73. I rarely watch TV. I'm really proud of that.
74. I am transitioning from silly morning radio shows to NPR morning news.
75. It's about time!
76. I also like Prairie Home Companion, Wait, Wait . . . Don't Tell Me, and Cartalk. That NPR is good stuff.
77. I dream of publishing my poetry one day.
78. I'm not doing much to make that happen.
79. I love Billy Collins.
80. I love Crest White Strips.
81. I really need to get some . . .
82. I love dark chocolate.
83. I waste too much time on the internet.
84. But not as much as I used to.
85. I need more closet space.
86. I hope that some day I will be satisfied with my body the way it is.
87. I admire my husband's unique way of thinking.
88. I would like to express my gratitude to those I love more frequently.
89. I would like to compliment others more freely.
90. I would like to be less critical.
91. The New Era paid me $10 for one of my poems when I was 16.
92. I don't think they ever published it.
93. It was pretty stupid.
94. Sometimes I can act like a real know-it-all.
95. As a rule, know-it-all people really bug me.
96. I really like buttered movie popcorn.
97. I rarely shave my legs in the winter.
98. I wax my sideburns.
99. Once I plucked my sideburns to see if it hurt less than waxing.
100. It hurt more.

So there you have it. I don't think many of you, my meager following, are bloggers, so how about if you just leave me a comment with your top ten or twenty tidbits of information. Come on, crawl out of your shells. I know you want to. I might even have a little cookie for y'all once you come out. What do ya say?

Awwwww!

I used to keep a little notebook handy so I could write down cute things my kids said or did when they were small. A couple of weeks ago I found said notebook, and the girls and I had a chuckle. Of course I had tons of entries for Em, a few for Kate, and a "When Jane was 9 months " followed by sharpie marker scribbles for Jane. Apparently I got interrupted mid-sentence and never got around to finishing. Which is, of course, the story of the youngest child's life.

Here are a few of the cuter pronouncements from my kids:

• Emma (2 years old) was leaning on my back, so I asked her to quit. She came around to my front, took my face in her little pudgy hands and said, "Mommy, sometimes little children don't know how to quit."
• Emma loved to play games when she was 2 years old. She made up a game she called "Doe-di-doe-di-doe". The idea is that the adult would give Emma the clues, and she guessed the answer. Once when we were in the car, Emma asked if we could play "Doe-di-doe-di-doe." At the same moment, Emma's dad let out a huge belch. Emma immediately guessed "Pepsi!"
• Another 2-year-old Emma moment--One day after I straightened my dark, shoulder-length hair, Emma said, "Mommy, you look beautiful! Just like Rosie O'Donnell."
• When Kate was about 2 years old, she fell down the stairs--from the top all the way down. She hit the cement floor at the bottom of the stairs. Immediately, she jumped up, shook her head and said, "I'm okay!" and off she went. It was a Looney Toon moment.
• When Kate was about 4 years old, we went to her best friend's house to pick her up for a play date. When her friend, Claire, got into the van, she said, "Guess who came over to our house yesterday?" Kate responded, "Was it a midget?" Claire said, "No, it was a real person."

Awww, my kids make me laugh. I'm sure Jane made me laugh too, but I don't remember why anymore. Poor Jane. Oh well, at least she's cute.

spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!

Warning! If you do not want to know how The Sixth Sense ends, DO NOT READ THIS POST!!!

I'm currently teaching Romeo and Juliet to my 9th grade language arts class. It's lots of fun. Some of my students are even smart enough to catch the innuendo smattered throughout the play. (What?? SHAKESPEARE wrote about SEX???) The others are thrilled that the smart ones are asking questions that cause me to choose my words very carefully to make sure I don't cross the line that triggers angry phone calls from parents. Shakespeare was kinda dirty. It's true. And while it was okay, even encouraged, to talk about all the horny little details in my college courses (at BYU, no less), I'm afraid that teenagers in Box Elder County, Utah are not ready for that kind of education.

But I digress.

The real reason for this post is the discovery I made yesterday when I was looking on the internet for good sites to recommend to my students. I was checking out the IMDb to read reviews of the R & J movies. I've never seen the Zeffirelli film, but I know a lot of teachers like to show it to their students. (I'm inclined to show the Luhrman version). So I was looking at the parental guide to the Zeffirelli film, and there was one of those sections that says spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers! If you've never seen this, the idea is that someone has given away something important in the film. If you read it before you see the film, it may ruin your experience. If you want to read the bean-spilling text, you just direct your cursor to the line and the text will appear. This is what it said: "Romeo poisons himself to death and Juliet stabs herself, but no blood is seen."

Seriously? Is there honestly a person over 10 years old who doesn't know that "surprise" ending? In fact, Shakespeare reveals the ending in line 6 of the prologue ("A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life"). And even then, Shakespeare based his play on an already familiar story, so even the most common of theatre goers already knew what was coming before they even squirmed their way in between their muck-covered fellows on the floor of The Globe.

So that got me thinking about the time we went to see Titanic with my brother. We overheard a girl and her boyfriend(?) talking behind us before the movie started. She was obviously apprehensive about seeing the movie. The conversation went something like this:

• Girl: I hope this movie doesn't have a lot of dying in it.
• Boy: *snort* Um, I think it might.
• Girl: Well, I heard that one person dies, but then I told my friend not to tell me who because I didn't want the movie to be ruined.
• Boy: *sarcastic laugh* Ummmm, I think that maybe more than one person is going to die.
• Girl: Oh, well don't tell me the ending. I want to be surprised.
• Boy: *not laughing anymore* You already know the ending, right?
• Girl: What are you talking about? I've never seen this movie!
• Boy: *eyes squinted, eyebrows scrunched, head tilted* Yeah, but in real life. You know what happened to the Titanic. Right?
• Girl: In real life? I don't get it.
• Boy: *pause* *pause some more* *shaking head*
• Girl: What?!?

Oh dear, we've laughed about that for years!

Then there was the time that I inadvertently did the spoiling. Everyone in the world had seen The Sixth Sense except my husband (at the time), his sister and me. Amazingly, we had heard that there was a shocking twist near the end, but none of us knew what the twist was going to be. So we rented the video. The movie was moving along (as movies tend to do), and we got to the first scene after the Bruce Willis character got shot. He was walking around and I guess we were supposed to believe he has miraculously recovered. But I saw tons of foreshadowing, and, combined with the hyped-up surprise ending, I knew that he was really dead. And I said so. Out loud. Without a spoilers!spoilers!spoilers! to cover my words. My then-husband and his sister said, "Nuh-uh" and "that's stupid" and "shut-up". They really didn't believe me. But there continued to be clues to support my assertion throughout the movie (which I pointed out with all sorts of "Ha!"s and "I told you so!"s). When the thrilling twist finally arrived, they both glared at me, and my satisfaction deflated like Pamela Anderson's breasts might after being poked with a tack. (I can just picture her flipping through the air around the room with the scratchy squeak of escaping air coming from her bosoms. Ha!)

I think I might have ruined the movie for them.

Speaking of movies, Brock and I saw a great one on Monday afternoon. If you haven't seen Atonement, you simply must! I couldn't believe Cecilia, the Kiera Knightley character, spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers! And then, when Robbie typed spoilers!spoilers! and Briony said that spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers! I thought for sure that spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers! but the real shocker was when spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!spoilers!

See it!