Thaûma

Mary Beard felt her first sense of thaûma, the ancient Greek word for wonder, while staring at a piece of 4,000-year-old Egyptian cake. The now famous classicist, author, and Rick Steves of ancient civilizations, described this inception of intellectual curiosity occurring when she was about six years old. Because the exhibits at the British Museum in the early 60s weren’t child-friendly, her view of this ancient cake was strained and her mother had to lift her up. Then the guard did something unthinkable, something no museum guard would do today. He unlocked the case, picked up the 4,000 year-old-cake and held it out to Mary, just inches from her face.

I watched the online lecture live the other night from my bedroom, concluding that knitting in my pajamas was a better way to absorb Mary Beard’s delightful stories than actually sitting in her live audience in Chicago. Going to Chicago was my original plan, but the logistics weren’t in my favor. I had already met her in Philadelphia, when I attended a reading of Twelve Caesars: Images of Power from the Ancient World to the Modern. During the Q &A, I joked about people who give their children Roman names, telling her I’d met a clerk at Trader Joes, whose name tag read Nero. I struck up a conversation with him as he scanned my groceries, and yes, Nero was his actual name. I asked her what she thought of my niece and nephew’s names: Octavia and Quintus. She said she approved. At the book signing, she asked me what I do, and I told her I was a teacher. I thought of telling her I was a teacher at Girard College, but I thought that information might be inconsequential. Later, when reading her book and learning that Girard College was, for many years, the resting place of a famous ancient Roman sarcophagus in which our genocidal president, Andrew Jackson, refused to be buried, I regretted having been so reticent. Sure, I made her laugh with my Trader Joe’s story, but I adore Mary Beard so much, and I wished I could have kept talking to her.

I guess it’s probably for the best that I couldn’t make it to Chicago to meet Mary Beard a second time. I just would have fangirled all over her and embarrassed myself. I probably would have brought up the 100-year-old cookie, which is preserved in a glass case at the Girard College Museum. It’s called the Hum Mud, and one of my favorite assignments that I gave students when I was a teacher at Girard College was to personify and write from the perspective of one of the objects in the museum. Many students chose the Hum Mud, and the stories that came from their imaginations were just delightful.

I don’t know how much thaûma is being felt in my classroom, certainly not as much as I’d like. Today, I bribed one of my classes with candy so students would finish their research papers. I had followed orders about which candy to buy. Apparently, the time I bought Hi-Chews was seen as an abomination. “Fake Starburst” was the class verdict. I was also instructed to buy ring pops, but I could only find blow pops. Surprisingly, students were content with blow pops, even though they couldn’t put them on their fingers and fake propose to each other.

Mary Beard had some sharp criticism for conservators who want to blue surgical glove-ify everything and make history less accessible to young people. She remembered how that museum guard holding that 4,000-year-old piece of cake in front of her face ignited her with enough thaûma to last a lifetime.

According to Merriam-Webster, a thaumatourgós was a performer of wonders, or an acrobat. Although I can’t perform wonders, at least not in an acrobatic sense, I will pledge to experience more thaûma and to help bridge the accessibility to thaûma for others.

Basking in Discomfort

The kind people of Valparaiso waved and cheered from their garages as athletes sped past, my mom and I being two of those athletes . . . only we weren’t running. We weren’t even jogging. My mom conveniently “forgot” her running shoes, and since she was wearing her galoshes and wanted to stop frequently to photograph lawn decorations, we were at the end of the race. Yes, it was a little embarrassing. The van for shaming stragglers was right behind us. It was cold and windy and sporadically hailing, which was annoying, considering the title of the race was “Ringing in Spring.”

My mom waved back at the spectators, as if we were in a parade and the van lurching behind us was our parade float. She graciously accepted every compliment of “Great job!” or “You guys look great!” She even yelled back, “Thanks for noticing!”

Judging by the wide range of numbers on people’s race bibs and the relatively low turnout, a lot of people looked out their window that morning, observed the crummy weather, and decided to go back to sleep. I don’t blame them. The conditions were uncomfortable. My mom stopped at one point to shake a rock out of one of her galoshes, but it honestly could have been a hail stone.

The thought of pancakes kept me going. When we finally reached the end and received our lovely participation medals, we went out for our “breakfast of would-be champions (had my mom remembered her running shoes)”. For some primordial reason, I love restaurant booths. It just makes dining so much more enjoyable. It’s the modern equivalent of a cave, exuding a false sense of privacy and security. But I suppose the same way the first homo sapiens may have thought about their language echoing through the caves, I have to be more mindful of my voice carrying across a crowded restaurant. I have a TEACHER VOICE, and I’m used to projecting, so much so that even if I’m insulated in what I believe is some kind of soundproof restaurant booth, the other diners can still hear me.

With my mom sitting across from me, I launched into a critique of people who don’t seem to understand the difference between “controversial” and “uncomfortable,” about how Americans are too concerned with their own peace of mind. The best writing is achieved when the writer is uncomfortable, accessing unique and authentic material and deeply rooted emotions from some dark recess of the mind. The best learning is achieved when the learner is challenged and pushed out of their comfort zone. And the best art should challenge our perceptions, force us to think and view the world differently, even make us squirm a little.

I was trying to make sense of something that happened in class recently. Students expressed discomfort at a comparison I drew. My objective was to have students reflect on the power of imagery. I said that Marc Antony unveiling Caesar’s butchered body and pointing to all the stab wounds in order to rile up the crowd reminded me of Emmet Till’s open casket funeral and how it sparked the Civil Rights Movement. I wasn’t comparing the life of Caesar to the life of Emmet Till, nor was I comparing Marc Antony’s civil war to the Civil Rights Movement or minimizing black pain. I was simply saying that images are powerful and can spur us into action, whether that action be positive or negative. I showed students a brief PBS video to familiarize them with Emmet Till, careful to choose one that did not contain the horrific photo. I try to be mindful of the sensitivity levels in America, even if I think those sensitivity levels are over-the-top.

A couple students said they were afraid that these kinds of topics would embolden students with racist ideas to voice them, and therefore we should not discuss these dangerous topics in school. My response was that school is a place for learning and making mistakes and shaping the way we think. Just because we’re afraid someone will say something we don’t like doesn’t mean we should shut down uncomfortable topics all together. One student said certain topics did not belong in the classroom, topics such as Hitler and Tom Metzger. Maybe that student is right. Rather than talking about Hitler or Tom Metzger, the real focus should be on why these topics produce such an uncomfortable reaction in the first place.

I was told by one student that a previous teacher had them read “Night,” by Elie Wiesel, “a very controversial book.” That's when I realized students were conflating discomfort with controversy. I know I read “Night” when I was in high school. What year I can’t remember. I do know that I wasn't too concerned with my own discomfort.

Looking up from my pancakes, I noticed an older woman, exuding positive energy, standing at our booth. “I just want to say I agree with you whole-heartedly and to keep up the good work. I know it’s a hard time to be a teacher.”

I thanked her, and I was happy she stopped by our booth, even though I felt terribly self-conscious about the volume of my voice. After all, restaurant booths are supposed to be safe havens. If the waitress came by and gave everyone a side order of disturbing American history with every entrée, I’m pretty sure that restaurant would get bad reviews. I, however, am not a waitress. I don’t serve information. I don't walk around, asking students if they’d like a free refill of knowledge. Books, if they’re properly analyzed, should be grappled with, reckoned with, poked and prodded. Good writing is uncomfortable because good writing tells the truth.

If we can’t face our discomfort and analyze our reactions, how can we hope to get along with people who hold different views? How can we ever solve any problems? Right now the country is so segregated; we can live our whole lives in a bubble and never receive any pushback. Districts are so gerrymandered; politicians can do as they please and only answer to their own supporters. If we shut down conversations because they’re uncomfortable, are we on a dangerous trajectory of being no better than the Tennessee House GOP who expelled two black lawmakers for exercising their First Amendment Rights? And is it any coincidence that the expulsion came as a result of hard truths spoken about America’s myriad of mass shootings?

Discomfort should NOT be avoided, although I think if I sign up for another run and there happens to be a hailstorm on race day, I will go back to bed.

Conversations should also be age-appropriate. Recently, while having breakfast in a booth with my friend and her two children, her little boy showed skepticism for Pixar’s “Up.” He said it would be scientifically impossible for balloons to lift up a house and carry it to South America. I suggested that maybe if the house were light enough, balloons could lift it. Then I launched into a history lesson about Charles Lindbergh and how he made the Spirit of St. Louis as light as possible so he could complete the first transatlantic flight without crashing. He even cut the edges off his maps. So maybe Mr. Fredrickson was a bit like Charles Lindbergh.

Pretty soon, a nice Hoosier lady appeared at our booth. “Thank you for the history lesson. I didn’t know all that stuff about Charles Lindbergh!”

“You’re welcome, “ I said, even though I was once again self-conscious about my booming voice. I could have continued the history lesson to include bits about Lindbergh being a Nazi sympathizer or his many extramarital affairs, but that would have made our morning uncomfortable. And restaurant booths, unlike challenging learning environments, should always be comfortable.

Glory to Ukraine

 Sifting through college-ruled sheets of topsy-turvy Arabic notes, I wonder if perhaps I overextended myself in signing up for such an ambitious extracurricular activity, especially when the whole world is so topsy-turvy. During my last class I managed to squeak out a sentence in Arabic. I tried to say, “I dance from the river to the road,” and accidentally said, “I dance from the fire to the road.” Honestly, it doesn’t matter. Both are absurd statements. I wonder if I should declutter my house by tossing these nonsensical Arabic scribbles, or if I should hang on to them, maybe use them to practice for the next class. To discard or to keep? That is the question. And while I’m contemplating that, here’s another question: Are human beings capable of not collectively committing mass suicide in a nuclear war? Should we have faith in humanity or should we declutter the Earth and just throw in the towel?

Of course we need to keep faith alive for humanity’s sake. At times my mind turns morbid because my friend Tania lives in Kiev. She sent her mother and her little boy to Poland, and she, like a badass, is staying to fight. I’m so worried for her. Apparently, while I was fretting about my friend, I was neglecting another friend. I just received a text message while studying Arabic in the bathtub, because why not? The text read, “I feel you’re not respecting me.” Well, sheesh. My apologies for being so distant. It’s just that I’m worried my other friend will be martyred along with thousands of her brave countrymen and women because of the cruel actions of a deranged dictator. The strength and resilience of Ukrainian people is truly inspiring. I felt their spirit when I visited my friend in 2018 and wrote the blog entry, “Ukraine’s Fight is Our Fight.” 

I wonder why I turn to foreign languages during times of distress. I meet with French tutors twice a week, and then there’s Arabic. Before that, there was a deluded Russian conversation partner who bragged about being told he spoke like Putin. (It’s funny the things men think will impress women.) Perhaps learning languages reminds me how badly I want to travel the world again. The tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body, and yet there are lunatics like Putin who prefer shows of military strength over verbal communication. Talking any sense into him is an exercise in futility. Now that my friend is caught in the crosshairs of this mess, I am unreservedly invested. Everyone who believes in democracy and freedom from demagoguery has skin in this game. 

Scenes from Dune and Julius Caesar have been playing in my head.  I’m hoping this year’s Ides of March do not disappoint. Putin turning his back on a supposed comrade is a fine way for him to go, but I feel poison might be a more befitting exit ticket for him. Let him suffer in the same brutal fashion as the people whose executions he’s ordered. Let him go out like Muammer Gaddaffi. There’s no drainage pipe in this world rotten enough to hide the likes of Putin. The scene from Dune in which the Duke of the House of Atreides bites down on a poisoned false tooth and emits poisonous gas replays in my head multiple times a day. That exhale has become a symbol of hope. If only someone could take this bastard out with a single breath.

I’m currently drinking a glass of bourbon barrel-aged cabernet sauvignon, listening to old-school Madonna. I’m grateful for my level of security and also ashamed of my comfort. My friend, Tania, who is serving her country, is similar to me in many ways. She is bookish and she loves languages too. In fact, she is a translator. Earlier today, I was reading poems from a press I remember she likes: Button Poetry. I’m hoping the flames of this invasion die down soon and that I can visit my friend again. I will bring her the entire collection of Button Poetry books, and we’ll drink cabernet sauvignon together, although as I recall, she is more of a beer drinker. I’m going to keep this image in mind, as well as that inspiring scene from Dune. 

Slava Ukrayini! Glory to Ukraine!

The Pied Piper of Cats

Stray cats I never knew existed come darting out of nowhere whenever my neighbor walks by. His roommate does not approve of his cat entourage. Their house is pet-free, but that doesn’t stop a band of vagabond felines from showing up on their front porch, begging for food and affection. Apparently, the roommate became so fed up with these flea-ridden solicitors, she insisted he had broken the no-pet rule and therefore, she felt justified in breaking the no-smoking rule. The Pied Piper of cats occupies a small windowless room in their house and says the closeted nature of his living quarters make the fumes unbearable. Naturally, when I asked if he would stay at my house for a week and watch my cats while I visited family in Indiana, he came right over to meet his two furry, much more considerate roommates, Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher.

In my bathroom hang two large magnetic boards covered with souvenir magnets. “You’ve visited ALL those countries?!” he exclaimed as he exited the bathroom. “Yeah,” I said, happy that my bathroom decor had its desired effect. Visitors to my bathroom should be comforted by the aroma of my reed diffuser, delighted by my bidet, but more importantly, they should be impressed by my worldly magnet collection. The magnet that impressed and amazed him most was one I never would have guessed. “You’ve been to Ashland, Oregon?!” he asked, sounding stupefied.

“I’m from Oregon,” I reminded him. “Ashland isn’t too far away from where I grew up.” We got to chatting and it soon became clear that he did not want to return to the cannabis den, where his roommate was currently having a party and filling the house with more pot smoke than usual. We ended up ordering a pizza and watching Macbeth (the Roman Polanski version). He wanted to watch a zombie movie, but I vetoed it. As an English teacher, but also someone who hates talking during movies, I gave brief explanations about what was happening. He made an astute observation during the scene in which the inept assassins succeed in killing Banquo but let Banquo’s son Fleance get away, saying in between bites of pizza, “It’s like Macbeth hired the two robbers from Home Alone.”

When telling him about my cats, I informed him that they were both rescues from Kuwait. “Is that in Oregon?” he asked. “No, it’s a country in the Middle East,” I laughed. Since coming to Philadelphia, I’ve noticed it’s rare to meet people who’ve traveled outside of the country, let alone Pennsylvania. I’ve learned to accept this, as there are so many other attributes people can acquire apart from being well-traveled.

On my way home, my courteous catsitter warned me about Lyft and Uber drivers and told me to stay safe. Some women have unwittingly entered the wrong car and have been assaulted and murdered. I thanked him for his concern and told him I’d be careful.

When my Lyft dropped me off in front of my house, my delightful, neighborly cat sitter was just leaving. Apparently, he wanted to stay as long as possible before returning to his inhospitable roommate. We hung out some more. He showed me his sketchbook and the various things around my house that inspired him to draw. He drew the view from outside my bedroom window, saying all the lines and angles were especially satisfying for him to render. He showed me a drawing of the fold-out couch. He only unfolded it halfway and put down some decorative cushions. Apparently, that’s the more comfortable way to sleep than unfolding it all the way. I told him he could hang out and draw or come sleep on my couch again if his roommate’s smoking became bothersome. I may insist on watching movies like The Seventh Seal, Macbeth, and Bicycle Thieves, but at least I don’t smoke.

I’ve noticed since he left, a couple stray cats have shown up on my porch, looking for their friend. “Sorry, guys. The Pied Piper left,” I told them. But I’m sure he’ll be back later for more pizza and highbrow movies.

Jingle Bell Fun Run

Jogging along at my my glacial pace, I watched festive athletes in pink bunny costumes pass me, their long floppy ears and fluffy tails incentivizing me to pick up the pace. No matter how out-of-shape you are, there’s something demoralizing about being upended by characters from a Beatrix Potter book. Actually, the Brits may have their own Peter Rabbit fun run over in jolly old England (if such tomfoolery isn’t beneath their dignity), but this is Chesterton, Indiana, a hop and a skip away from Hammond, Indiana, where the acclaimed film, “A Christmas Story,” is set. Paying homage to the film by wearing adult bunny onesies and displaying leg lamps in living room windows is part of the culture here.

My mom and I participated in the fun run and were gratified to see such community spirit and glee. The run was about as competitive as a napping contest. There were no race bibs, no one kept track of the time, and the pink bunnies standing around drinking mimosas when my mom and I crossed the finish line didn’t even acknowledge our achievement. I mean, I didn’t expect the good people of Chesterton to lift me up on their shoulders and parade me triumphantly through the town, but I kind of expected a “Good job” or a golf clap or something. That’s okay. The jingle bell fun run was anti-climactic, but it lived up to its name. Plenty of runners wore jingle bell necklaces. One lady even dressed up as the Grinch and pushed her friend, dressed as Max the little dog, around in a sleigh. The running itself was not fun, but the costumes and the lack of competitiveness made it a jolly experience.

I’m returning to blogging after a year-long hiatus. I don’t know how active I will be on here, but I want to make more of an effort to have adventures and to document them. The pandemic has made this blog seem totally insignificant and inconsequential, but it’s something I enjoy. It’s the written equivalent to a fun run. Just like the pink rabbits drinking mimosas, no one seems to notice when I post something new. But that’s okay. I’m an inconspicuous person wearing normal running clothes, blogging about my adventures. 

Adventures such as eating deep dish Chicago-style pizza for the first time and holding my new nephew, Quintus Lorenzo, for the first time. I’m feeling tremendously lucky. Mele Kalikimaka! Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas!