Shut Up and Dance (Further Adventures in the Southern Single Scene)

Swinging Mondays; or Why I Avoid Conversation While Dancing

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                                                                           _______

"So what do you do, Emily?"

"I'm a language teacher."

"Cool. I'm really into languages too. I speak binary."

Yeah you do. And you also haven't been out of your basement in three years judging by the color of your skin and the subtle perfume of Cheetos hanging about you.

"That's...fascinating. So you can talk to robots, huh? Like R2D2? Haha. I'm hilarious.

"I guess I should explain. Binary isn't actually a spoken language. Although R2's beeps and whistles might be an attempt to put binary code into auditory form. Also, R2D2 is not a robot. He's am astromech droid."

I have made a terrible mistake...

                                                                       _________

"My name is E."

E...than? E...an? E...lijah? Did I hear him correctly?

"Oh...and what is that short for?"

"It isn't short for anything. That's my name."

Okay, buddy. You're not gonna put anything over on me. That's not a name. It's a letter.

He rocked back and forth, snapping his fingers. I matched myself to his rhythm and then waited for him to initiate the dance (don't lead, Emily, don't lead).

I waited. And waited. Snap, rock, snap, rock.

He flashed me a flirty smile and then lifted an eyebrow suggestively. "So, come here often? What brings you out here?" Snap, rock, snap, rock.

I looked around at the bare room - no bar, no food, someone with a laptop and an iTunes full of Benny Goodman in the corner. Also lots of people who seemed to think woolen tights were a good decision for a Georgia summer night in a crowded dance hall with no air conditioning (to be fair, they did look good with thick rimmed glasses and obscure band tee shirts).

"I like to dance."

"Yeah, me too. Love it." Snap, rock, snap, rock.

Do you, E? Do you really?

 Snap, rock, snap, rock. I couldn't handle it anymore. "How about a spin?" and I led myself into it.

"Oh, you're one of those Type A personalities, huh?"

"Well I am from the North. I guess we tend to be a little more forward."

"Yeah, I was in Chicago once."

?? 

I felt like we had just been having a conversation about the stormy weather and he dropped the information that he had taken a shower that morning.

                                                                       ________


My next partner was a very stocky guy, to put it charitably.

"My name is Drew. What's your name again?"

Again? Have we met before?

"Emily."

"Oh yeah, that's right."

It is? Are you sure? Who are you?

"So, are you a big dancer, Drew?"

"One of the biggest ones here, wouldn't you agree?"

Ehhhh, what? How am I supposed to respond to that? "Yeah, you are really fat!" or "I appreciate your sense of humor about your obesity"? How about, "I see what you did there...self-deprecating fat joke with witty play on words"? Or, if we're being frank, "Well that was funny for one of us, but now I'm horribly uncomfortable."

Actual response? "Oh, em...uh...no! What I mean is, you just seem like really know your way around the dance floor. Derp.

                                                                             _______


Scott was a very good dancer. Too bad we didn't focus on dancing.

"I'm a graphic designer for the Weather Channel."

"Well...that's really cool." Oh come on, Emily. Is that the best you can do? Don't be intimidated by the cardigan.

"So do you get to make those important decisions like whether a thundercloud is slate or cobalt?"

Silence. Polite half smile. Then,

"How often do people mistake you for one of your students?"

Okay, obviously not impressed by my humorous conversation skills. And I teach 12 year olds, you hippie, so thanks for that. I also own the shirt that you're wearing and it definitely came from the Women's section at JCrew so don't get smart with me.

                                                                             _______

Peter was a lawyer.

"You teach Latin? How fantastic. So you're brilliant as well as gorgeous."

And you are old enough to be my father. I really prefer to dance in silence. Also, you need to spend a little more time worrying about what your feet are doing, sir. That routine really only worked for Jimmy Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life. 

"My mother was a Latin teacher."

"Oh, no way."

"Ablative absolutely."

A little piece of me just died.

"So what does a Latin teacher do for fun on the weekends? Are you free on Friday night?"

Ablative absolutely not.

Drive South

I was driving down the interstate, brainstorming my next blog post, when suddenly inspiration hit my windshield like...well, a beer can.

In a few minutes, my leisurely drive had turned into a game of dodge the Budweiser, as aluminum projectiles came flying at my windshield from the bed of the pickup in front of me. Road tripping, southern style.

Pickups can tell you a lot about what part of the south you're in...the color of the dirt on the tires, the number of NRA friendly bumper stickers, the species of dead animal in the bed...Mostly though, they are a very expensive advertising platform for the favorite SEC team. If a truck isn't proclaiming the college loyalties of the driver in foot long letters, you're definitely not in Alabama (if it's not American made, you might not even be in the South).

Somewhere around the intersection of Hank Williams Parkway and Alan Jackson Boulevard (and no, not everything is named after country music stars...only the things that haven't been named for Bobby Jones already), the billboards start.

A popular formula is mixing guns and religion, like "God Created Man. Sam Colt Made Him Equal." or "Cain Killed Abel With A Rock. It's a Heart Problem, Not A Gun Problem." (follow the scripture verse for biblical confirmation)

Or guns and politics: "Vote. Win A Rifle." (Somehow I think that did more to draw in voters than the "I am a Georgia Voter" sticker that attempted to look like a peach, but really just came off looking like a baby's buttocks).

Heck, even guns and romance. What man won't buy his honey a diamond at D. Geller and Son when he can get a free hunting rifle out of it?

http://www.fieldandstream.com/files/photo/62609/riflesign.jpg

Some, of course don't have anything to do with guns:  

"See Bud and Jean to Get your Bee Traps So They Don't Eat Up Your Rockin' Chairs." (Bud and Jean sound pretty vicious. Better buy their bee traps if you don't want them eating your porch furniture).

From the side of the road in letters 5 feet high comes the question, "Heaven or Hell: Where Are You Going?" At this point, my GPS has usually deserted me for greener pastures with cell phone reception, and I'm asking the same question, except hoping the answer is Birmingham.

Not to take it lightly, because as another sign reminds me, "Hell is Real." After driving through the panhandle in the middle of August, I don't see how anybody could doubt it.

"Got Salvation?" If you don't, there's a toll free number you can call to get it. Or just stop at any local gas station and pick up the bestseller of your favorite televangelist.

You can get salvation, fried chicken, tobacco, and a bottle opener that plays Dixie all in this one convenient place. One station somewhere in Alabama even has a complimentary washer and dryer for its customers...Southern hospitality at its finest.

Of course, it isn't always guaranteed that you'll get gas at one of these stations.

On a recent trip, I put 4 gallons into my tank when the pump stopped.

The cashier sighed when I walked up to the register. "I expect it's done run out again. Third time this week."

With the exception of a rusty pickup by the pumps (which, judging from the weeds growing through the floorboards, was not responsible for the run on the gas supply) there was no car in sight. Either I had just missed an exodus of vehicles, or they only kept enough fuel to fill up their clientele of two cars and a John Deere per week and I was pushing the quota.

Still, what's gas? You can spare the time to stop every 20 miles to pump yourself another gallon or so (especially if the boiled peanut supply holds out). In the words of a highway patrolman, whom I happened to have a ...ahem... casual conversation with, "This here ain't Pennsylvania, ma'am. Down South, we take things a little slower."

Feeling the Brotherly Love

Below the Mason Dixon line is weighing a little heavy on me these days...particularly yesterday. What Philly girl could be happy in the ATL while the Fightin' Phils were tramping the turf at Citizens Bank?

So in the spirit of nostalgia, I'm going toss back a Yuengling (pronounced Yuengling) - actually, let's be real: it's a tall glass of water (pronounced water), because it's a school night - and recall a few stories from my inner city Philly teaching days.




*Spontaneous photos published with permission, and sarcastic commentary, of the photographer.

_____________

As we walked to lunch I tried to hustle along the laggards.

"Come on, Julian. All the ice cream will be gone," I threatened.

"Shhh...," he was bent down over a big fat bee on the sidewalk, "I'm doing science, Miss Em."

Smash! A wail rose from Julian as LaTasha wiped her shoe on the curb. "And now science is dead, foo'. I killed it."

Can't blame a girl for loving her some ice cream.

______________

One day, they had to come up with a skit to highlight the effects of poor life decisions. The subject was up to them. Considering the spectrum of evil and immorality that they had been exposed to in their short lives, I was prepared for anything.

The scene is a street corner. A gang of toughs approach a boy reading on the ground.

Tyriq: "Hey bro, if you want to be cool you should smoke." Offers cigarette.

Deondre: "Okay." Deondre takes a drag off the cigarette and starts coughing and shaking violently. His steps falter and he collapses on the ground.

Narrator: "Deondre was rushed to the hospital where he was nursed back to life by his gramma. He promised never to smoke again and got healthy."

...I didn't think it was necessary to explain to them that smoking didn't have quite such serious effects. The important thing was that they recognized there were bad consequences for poor decisions, and that it was possible to turn things around even after you had made a poor decision. But then came the epilogue.

Narrator: "A few days later, Deondre broke his promise and started smoking again. In a week, he was dead."

Okay. Maybe it should be addressed.

_____________

On the way to the Dean's office with Trey for the fourth time that week, I had a talk with him about his life decisions.

"If you don't do well in school, how are you going to go to college?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that, Miss Em. I only gotta make it to Junior year of high school."

"Why Junior year?"

"NBA draft."

"So what if that doesn't work out for you?"

He explained patiently, "I'll just wait for the NFL."

Oh. Natch.

_______________

The kids had moved on from life decisions to teamwork. They played a game where they had to link their arms and their legs, and walk about 30 feet together without breaking their chain. Tyrell had the idea to have every other person stand on the feet of their neighbors. Robert was sulking because his idea to have everyone simply jump the distance had been laughed down.

"Take off them shoes, Robert."

A storm of wrath erupted from Robert. "Why would I do that, you biscuit? I got on brand new socks, yo! You think these things grow on trees?!"

"Robert, is that the way you talk to Tyrell?"

He turned to me and a grin lit up his face. "Oh don't you worry about ole Ty, Miss Em. Ty is my biscuit. I'm just messin' wit 'em."

"So is a biscuit a good thing or a bad thing?"

The last of the sulk was wiped away as Robert burst into laughter. "Lady don't know what a biscuit is!? You eat it for breakfast."

Was I missing something? Somebody needed to teach this kid how to form a definition.

"All right, so calling somebody a biscuit means...I'm still confused."

He laughed again. "Paris, get yo'self over here and tell the lady what a biscuit is."

"Don't know about biscuits?"

Great. Now D'Azia was in on the action.

"Hush up, girl. I'm gonna lay some knowledge on Miss Em. A biscuit...laughter...well you eat it for breakfast."

Yes. That fact was fully established.

"And it's big and flaky. So when some boo acts real dumb, you call 'em a biscuit. Cuz they head is like a biscuit.

Now, Robert here, he's my biscuit. But like my home slice. My hot sizzle biscuit. See how they different?

Oh, yeah. That definitely cleared it up for me.

______________

Teamwork was the theme that week. To demonstrate, Darcy showed off her juggling skills, explaining how each ball had to be in the right place at the right time to accomplish the goal.

A bit of a stretch if you asked me. But hey, the girl could juggle. Not gonna hate.

She put the balls on the table behind her and began to talk. Luigi reached for them and she gently scolded him. "We're all finished with those, Luigi. It's time to listen now."

She began a long talk about teamwork. What had they learned about accomplishing goals when everyone worked together?

"Can I hold them things, Miss Darcy?"

"Those things, Alexis. And no. It's time to listen." Still gentle, but with a slight edge.

How did working as a team make them feel?

"Miss D. maybe we could just take turns touching 'em."

"We are done with them, Alicia. Please listen." No gentleness now.

Were they closer as individuals because they had to work as a team?

"I still hate Jamal."

"Reisha! That's not a nice thing to say about your teammate. Can you think of something positive to say about Jamal?"

"I liked that he stuffed hisself like a pig yesterday and couldn't come to class cuz he was so sick."

Darcy was reaching the snapping point. At that moment, there was a soft plop! and thirty eyes turned to Brandon, sitting across from Darcy, one of the juggling ball at his feet.

"How did you get that?" Darcy's voice was steely.

"Well, I guess we just passed 'em right on down." Brandon smiled winningly. "Teamwork!"

About Friendship (Is the Question the Answer?)

This morning in Christian Ed we discussed healthy relationships. We talked about the importance of setting boundaries, choosing wisely the people one lets into one's confidence, and protecting oneself from the people who have only their own interests at heart.

I was on a roll. My students were riveted. I thought about all of the toxic "friendships" I was steering them away from, all the meaningful relationships they were going to immediately develop in the next break between classes, and I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back (Okay, so maybe I gave myself an actual pat on the back. But very subtly and not so you'd notice).

"So what does it mean to guard your heart?" I asked.

There was a long silence. Then finally,

"My dad says you should exercise and drink a glass of red wine everyday," responded Landon.

So much for that pat on the back. Every time I get a little too satisfied with myself something steps in to keep me humble (like the time I woke up early for work, showered and quite possibly even brushed my hair, thought about posting a status update about how awesome I was, and then realized it was 6 pm, and not 6 am.)*

*If you have ever accused me of being a poser for keeping my phone on military time, I hope this story justifies it.

I tried again to explain, in simpler terms, what I meant by protecting one's self. But I felt that instead of leaving them with an idea of how to build a meaningful relationship, I was just giving them the impression that no one could be trusted and every person will eventually disappoint you. I wanted to convey somehow that the idea of guarding one's heart didn't mean to build boundaries so tight that no one could get in...

I decided to let the master take over, and gave them a favorite quote from CS Lewis:

He says it much better than I could, and if there weren't any meaningful friendships formed or toxic relationships broken in the 5 minutes before the next class, I was fairly confident there would be at least 4 before lunch.

***

The morning's class left me with a lot to consider about relationships, particularly in regard to maintaining them. Recently, I read an article that I found really helpful on this subject.  It speaks about the importance of asking meaningful questions when in conversation. How many times a day do we hear this:

"How are you?"

Do you really want to know how I am? Should I tell you about how my car was broken into and now I am poorer by 67 pennies and a Canadian nickel? Should I tell you that the pep in my step is because I just started using a new shampoo and my hair is doing that awesome thing it does when you've just started using a new shampoo? Should I explain that I am having anxiety because my dentist told me to start flossing 6 years ago and I still haven't done it? Or are you hoping I will let you off with a simple, "I'm well. How are you?"

"I'm good. How are you?" Dangit. Well. You are well, Ms. English teacher. 

They respond in kind, and neither of you leaves the conversation knowing anything more about the person.

So I set myself a challenge. Ask specific questions (shout out to my fab roommate, A, for being my guinea pig). "Did you get any compliments today?" "Hear a good song on the radio?" "What is one word that defines your day?" "Would you like to go directly to bed without speaking to me because you left the house before I even woke up this morning? (that's the one I'm saving for tonight).

And, what do you know, other people are doing it too. Meaningful conversations are sprouting like the sweet potatoes I bought 3 months ago and forgot in the cabinet.

My favorite question to date comes from E., "What was your sound bite from today?"

Mine would have to be, "People stopped saying that in 2011." Who knew the expression "like a boss" was so dated? And very specifically dated, apparently. That one quote summed up very accurately a day of feeling terribly old and irrelevant. It didn't help that one of my students asked me what it was like living in the 80s.

E's response to her own question?

"Sometimes in life, you have to use your hand as a plunger."

Consider the conversation started.

Sláinte, y'all!

How does the South celebrate St. Patrick's Day? By wearing green, of course, like the rest of America.

This is a facsimile of a shirt that a 7th grader wore to school on March 17. Any resemblance to his actual shirt is definitely intended. Because seriously, this was the shirt he wore.

Camouflage and Piggly Wiggly really scream "Céad Míle Fáilte."

As a former resident of the great commonwealth of Massachusetts, I did take some delight in hearing that St. Patrick apparently came from Boston.

I was less amused, when asking what the symbol of Ireland was, to hear "cabbage" posited as a legitimate answer, but I suppose we've brought it on ourselves.

Really though, what person, when planning a feast, hits on corned beef and cabbage and decides to run with that idea? There is a reason why Irish immigrants ate it. Because they were starving and poor. And putting a lot of stuff in a pot and letting it boil was easier than learning how to cook.*

Furthermore, the inferior cut of meat they were forced to buy in their poverty didn't come from the motherland: more like Mama Goldstein's Corner Deli. So really, you might just as well eat bagels and lox for all the Irish history that surrounds corned beef and cabbage. And they would taste a lot better.

*Disclaimer: S. made the best CB&C I have ever eaten. But she uses witchcraft, I think. Just take a look at the cake she created out of crumbs and the love child of cream cheese icing and Irish potatoes.

My opinion is that we ditch the corned beef and cabbage. If you're going to celebrate, eat some fine Irish cuisine, like...

Or maybe sushi.

In my family, we always celebrated the feast with Irish potatoes. This is a foolproof (read, Irish cook-proof) candy recipe that looks remotely like a potato and is therefore in keeping with the holiday. Simply mix cream cheese, butter, powdered sugar and vanilla, roll in some cinnamon and chill for an hour. Make sure you have lots of people to share these with if you don't want to also look like a potato.

Unfortunately, my Irish blood runs so deep that apparently no recipe is proof against it. I could literally mess up a peanut butter sandwich. (I mean, literally. The last time I made one for my niece she made a brave show but failed to finish. Probably because she couldn't open her jaw after the first few bites due to my overly-liberal spreading. Apparently you can have too much of a good thing).

I put too much butter in the first time, so my potatoes were of an icing consistency. Granted, that is pretty much exactly what they are, but somehow it's easier to justify eating straight up frosting when it's rolled in cinnamon and has a clever name. Only I, in the secrecy of the kitchen, feel comfortable sailing in with a spoon.

With my candy looking more like Irish Mashed Potatoes, I decided to add coconut flakes, hoping for some volume. I said a prayer to St. Patrick and stuck them in the freezer ("them" is a very generous pronoun. This would imply that they were actually distinct balls, instead of the gooey amorphous mass spouting coconut flakes that they more closely resembled).

Two hours later, they were no closer to looking like potatoes. Spend four dollars on more cream cheese? Or sacrifice the potatoes? (hold off on the Guinness so that I could drive to the grocery store? That, of course, was the real question).

I decided in favor of salvaging, but after adding the cream cheese was still stuck with frosting that absolutely refused to be "gently rolled into balls about a quarter inch long and dusted liberally with cinnamon."

And this time, the Guinness won. Also the Bailey's and Jameson (incidentally, the man who can invent an Irish car bomb that doesn't curdle deserves a medal. And my hand in marriage). These Irish potatoes were determined to be icing and I was not going to fight it any longer.

Fortunately, S. came to the rescue with a carrot cake box mix.

Unfortunately, she entrusted it to me.

Seriously, how hard is it to mix a powder with half a cup of oil and an egg, cook it for a half hour, and take it from the pan when it's cool? Is it too much to ask that such a simple task be within my limited domestic scope?

Yes.

I'm through fighting my genes. Dinner, March 17th - pre-packaged cole slaw. Happy St. Patrick's Day.

My mother makes a mean carrot cake. It is seriously the bomb. Excuse me, the bomb.com (I need to move into the 21st century, according to my students). Once in a while I have even accidentally baked it successfully myself. Here is the recipe.

Notes from the District

"Latino brothers unite!"

This was the rallying cry of my chaperone group on our recent field trip to DC. I attempted to explain that while I appreciated the shout out to my linguistic subject matter, I didn't think it was a wise decision for a group of very white Georgia private schoolers to be shouting this out in the middle of the District. Especially as their parents were expecting a 100% retention rate.

Of course, some of my students weren't aware of where we were exactly.

"Miss McBryan, are we going to see Seattle Grace?"

I decided to overlook the fact that Grey's Anatomy was not about real people (let's face it, some of us are a little delusional when it comes to Dr. McDreamy), and focused on the more glaring geographical issues in this statement. If nothing else came out of that trip, at least two of my students are now aware that Washington State and Washington DC are distinct places.

Also that North and South Korea are distinct places (though I was surprised to hear that they are apparently divided by the Great Wall of China. Since I was under the impression that the Great Wall was in...well, China).

One evening we stopped by to see Mr. Lincoln.

"Who can tell me what the Gettysburg Address is?" I asked. Blank stares. I prompted them, "Four score and seven years ago...?" 

Recognition lit up a face. "Oh sure, I know what that is. I saw the movie."

I could only hope that the student was referring to the Daniel Day Lewis version, and not the one about the vampire hunter (surprisingly enough, there could be worse things than believing Steven Spielberg was responsible for the Gettysburg Address).

To be fair, Lincoln isn't exactly celebrated in the South (although another student mistaking the statue of Ghandi on Embassy Row for Honest Abe was hard to excuse). I looked forward to our trip to Arlington and a visit to a true Southern gentleman.

"Can you imagine? You are Robert E. Lee - you come home from 5 years of war and the Union Army has turned your lawn into a graveyard. And not just the fields, Charlie...they started by digging up Mrs. Lee's rose garden!"

He seemed interested so I waxed eloquent. I talked about the relationship of the Lees to George Washington, the ethics of Robert's decision to fight for the Confederacy. I talked to him about the shifting views of academics concerning General Lee -  one minute the Homeric tragic hero, the next a villain responsible for the blackest iniquities. He listened and I lectured, totally fired up by his attention. All was not lost! I was going to save America one 8th grade citizen at a time.

I paused for breath.

"So..." Charlie started contemplatively. I waited for the question, "Was secession constitutional? Should loyalty rest with the state or the country? Did Lee deserve to be punished?"

"So...what happened to the roses, then?"

Being about the minds of 12 year olds

I would like to lodge a formal complaint against the editor of Vocabulary Workshop, Level C. Is the word "abut" really necessary to the vocabulary of a 7th grader? And do you realize how much valuable instruction time you will take from teachers when 12 year olds are required to read this word aloud?

Now, I am not a sexist, but I'm going to go ahead and say that a man was responsible for this.

Thank you, Sadlier-Oxford, but composition class provides enough entertainment without your help.

Recently I challenged my students to come up with the longest word they could think of, and Carly produced this gem:

"Bastardization!"

Radio was onto a good thing when it came up with the 7 second delay.

Into my short, violent fit of coughing, a student asked, "What does that mean?"

"I don't know, but my mom uses it all the time."

All the time? I was too busy being impressed to be shocked. Off of the top of my head I couldn't think of any occasion where I could use the word, let alone with frequency.

Lesson learned. I provide the words from now on.

"Can anyone give me a sentence using the word 'bludgeon'?"

"Tiger Woods bludgeoned the golf ball."

I tried to explain to Jackson that "to hit with a club" did not mean what he thought it meant, and further prompted him, "Tiger Woods hits a golf ball with finesse. Bludgeon means the opposite. So you might say..."

"My dad bludgeoned the golf ball."

...Or maybe we could just move on from vocabulary.

But branching into research on the origins of American food didn't provide the intended focus.

"Did you know that someone once bought a Twinkie for $5000?"

"I wish I was that person!"

"I wish I was the person that sold it."

"I ate a Twinkie once."

"Should've saved it. Then you'd have $5000."

"Could a Twinkie really survive the nuclear apocalypse? If I covered myself in Twinkies, could I survive the nuclear apocalypse?"

Good thing these 12 year olds have an adult like me to keep them focused on the task at hand.