Dec 10

At school we've resumed singing practice for the winter performance. Our nativity play, which I had thought would be the least of our troubles, is currently the biggest thorn on my side. I had left the rehearsals until the first week of December because I had assumed that most of the students, who belong to various church choirs would be more than familiar with the hymns. It turns out that some of the local churches in a bid to popularize their services and increase the size of their congregations have started organizing rock or pop versions of the hymns. I suspect they were inspired by Sister Act and then were deeply disappointed when their numbers dwindled even further. However, this brings me to my problem - several students who volunteered for our choir are quite unable to sing the original scores of the hymns. I had to eventually decide whether to go with the pop versions of the hymns or not - and I finally decided to organize the music that speaks to the students. And now, suddenly, it does look like a high school version of the choir in Sister Act! Some of the students are getting quite into it. A couple of students were clapping their hands, beat boxing (which involves tapping one's chest to create a type of percussion), and hopping on their feet or perhaps they were dancing - I am not quite sure yet. Initially, I was very hesitant about it because it all seemed so unfamiliar to me, but if this version of music speaks to them and renews their commitment to the season of giving and love then I think I would rather have that.



Oh, and Jenny had volunteered to play the part of Mary. This afternoon, she arrived in a flowing pink robe because she insisted that pink is a color more becoming of young women than Mary's traditional blue robe. I must add that her pink gown also has a feather boa around the collar. And her parents have written a letter in support of their daughter wearing this gown. I was a little unsettled by the whole affair but not half as much as when Mary responded to the third Inn Keeper turning her away by detaching the boa from the robe and brandishing it angrily at the inn keeper. I must say that for a moment it gave the character of Mary an interestingly modern interpretation, and I was about to be convinced that it may not be the worst idea when she launched into an improvised speech that lasted for nearly 5 minutes and it featured every conceivable swear, and some slangs that I hadn't even heard before. After the performance, I approached her quietly:

"Would it be possible for me to have a look at your speech that was not in the script, in writing, so that we can talk about it's possible inclusion or editing before the night of the performance."

"Actually, Sir," She replied very quickly, "I haven't yet decided what I will do on the night of our school performance. If the spirit catches me that night, then I will might do the speech. Or perhaps I might even a different speech."

Honestly, does she really think a high school nativity play is a skit by Second City? Finally, I protested - there are some places where I feel I have to put my foot down. 

Tim

Nov 30

We just got back from the Thanksgiving dinner with Martha’s folks. And what an event it was this year. Her parents, I should mention, live in North Shore, one of the most affluent suburbs of Chicago. Martin (Martha’s father) is a stockbroker and her mother, Linda, defines her occupation as a stay-at-home mother and wife, though in reality she spends most of her time out-of-the-home; at the gym, shopping, developing her “cottage industry” (which is more like an empire) of aromatherapy products, planning the most lavish and talked about social gatherings in town, and now most recently she has decided to start taking French lessons.

Since 2008 fall, when the stock market began showing early signs of cracks right down the middle, the mood of the house, which could have once been described as energetic and quite saturated with witty banter between Martin and Linda has gradually turned quite sour. Apparently, last year, Martin and Linda began quipping at each other so frequently and often with such acerbity, that Martha insisted they both join “PiYo” classes, and when Martha sets her mind on a project there is no refusing her. PiYo is short for Pilates and Yoga, and while Martha sincere in her good intentions, I cannot but laugh when I imagine Martin in leotards, with a matt and ball under his armpit, quietly queuing up for their evening class. They tell Martha that they are both going to the classes regularly but I find it hard to believe to be true. Martin is terribly impatient; he is happiest when he is engaged with two tasks at once, and he is efficient but I do not see any meditative possibilities in him or in Linda as Martha does.  

Martin from an early age learnt to play golf and squash, which are common games for those in his line of work, for instance he’d often say that while he was talking to X at the club, they decided to go ahead with such and such venture, or how he and Y after a squash game decided to double their investments in some stock. The interesting thing is that while most of his business decisions, deals and opportunities are made, brokered and offered within the exclusive confines of specific urban sites, such as "the club" (which hosts a heady mixture of high society sports, charity performances and parties), he remains one of the most vocal supporters of the idea of individual Americans bearing the power to determine their wealth and losses by pulling themselves up by their bootstraps. He often cites his own humble origins by way of evidence, which confused me the first time because his father was the president of a very successful bank in the city, however his great-grandfather had emigrated from Ireland, at the age of fourteen, with nothing to his own name. He joined a theatre company which he eventually took over.

Martha is Martin’s and Linda’s only child and they dote on her endlessly. After all, she always did everything they had asked her to; she studied for 3 hours every day between the hours of 4.00 pm and 7.00 pm, played the violin, learnt ballet, performed in the school plays, went to an Ivy League College and graduated at the top of her class in criminal law. I have reason to believe that the first time she openly defied her parents was when it came to marrying me. Though she has never confirmed my suspicions, every time I meet her parents I become even more convinced that they believe she ought to have married someone in the corporate sector, more financially successful and with influential social connections. They are often shocked that that I feel neither guilt nor shame being married to a woman who earns more and who is far more socially recognized than I am. Martin, I think, has always imagined himself as the just inheritor of a long legacy of traditional gender roles. He often begins his sentences with “Well, you know, we men can never do without..." or "we men are just wired to act in such and such manner...”. Though, the first time we met, every time he said “men like us” or “we men” he’d slyly glance at me sideways and then correct himself slowly, with as much deliberative intonation that he could muster, “well, perhaps not all men, but most men at any rate..." or "I'm sure a real man would....”.  I knew these barbs were aimed at me but those days I walked around on a cloud, so intoxicated with the thought marrying Martha that Martin’s words simply rolled off my back. I think he would be horrified if he ever learnt that it was Martha who eventually asked me to marry her.  I always wanted to ask her for months, but I never dared.

Anyhow, this year’s dinner was quite a tense affair. Thomas decided to share with his grandfather something that he overhead me tell Martha about a news story which published the approximate number of people living without health insurance in the city of Minneapolis – which is a lot higher than I would have guessed. Much of dinner time was spent trying to distract Martin from his tirade against the government interference in private business contracts - in connection with the recent passage of the healthcare bill.  Jared meanwhile insisted on eating by himself. He spilt cranberry sauce all over the damask tablecloth.

It was all quite eventful. Well we left soon after. We did promise to visit during Easter – which thankfully is another six months away.

Tim

Nov 24

So, it's 5.00 am, I'm drinking my first cup of coffee, and at my blog already. I can't seem to imagine what possible incentive ever got me out of bed before I became a coffee drinker. In about five hours, we plan to leave for Chicago, where Martha's parents live. Before that I still have the business, which just recently became the unfinished business, of Mrs D's 60 birthday cupcakes. Last evening, at 7.00 pm, just as the Mall was closing I received a call from Ball Bakers. The store is run by a cheerful, aging couple who emigrated from East Germany during the 1960's. They began by renting a closed down tailor shop to open a bakery. The establishment took nearly 10 years to start thriving, and just when it did several corporate clothing manufactures bought the land and opened a mall. They have since allowed the couple to run their shop in the mall for a modest fee of nearly two-thirds their annual earnings. Also, the Balls hadn't anticipated that some teenagers would spray paint the letters "re" in-between the "B" and "a"of the second word on their sign. Now it reads "Ball Breakers." The shop owners stopped repainting it some years ago and now most people call it "Ball Breakers" - which is unfortunate for many reasons, the first being that the term has some very misogynistic origins. In class once, I mentioned the incident of the graffiti on the shop sign, to begin a discussion on how working women have been talked about in the mainstream culture, in U.S. history. My students were too distracted admiring the teenage pranksters, who had not only seen the possibility of the pun on the shop sign, but who had also repeatedly gotten away without ever leaving a clue - except the letters "re" which now brazenly face the a security camera everyday. 


Anyhow, Mrs Ball called to inquire, at what time on Friday would I be picking up the "60 rainbow colored cupcakes"? Either she had genuinely misheard the original order as she claims the case to be, or what I think is more likely is that she's mixed up my order with another - say, perhaps, one by the Queer Students Organization, which is also due to celebrate its birthday (its 3rd year anniversary) on Friday? So before we depart for Chicago, I have to go to the Mall again to get to the bottom of this. If I ignore the problem before I leave town today I fear two calamities on Friday; Principal D baying for my blood, and a box of 60 red velvet cupcakes arriving at the QSO birthday party. I care more for the latter than the former, so I now feel duty bound to settle any possible mix-up with the cupcakes - even though I am beginning to loathe the sight of cup cakes. If I had more courage, I would present Principal D with a couple of Duncan Hines cake mix boxes on his next birthday.


Okay, I had better run and start fixing breakfast for the family. I think I hear Martha rising. Lately, I haven't haven't been able to surprise her with the lemon-ricotta cheese pancakes for breakfast that she loves so much. I used to make it for her nearly every weekend after we had got married. The idea suddenly seized a hold of me last night and I can't wait to see the look of surprise on her face when she heads downstairs.
Tim

Nov 23

There was an interesting and strange development at school today. Principal D asked me to assist Mrs Bell's singing classes. Not only do I now have to put away my recently beloved ear plugs, but I am also required to play muse and director to a project almost certainly doomed. Don't get me wrong, I dote on my students, and I wouldn't trade my position as an English teacher at this school for the world, but the annual Christmas concert is an altogether different kettle of fish. For one, we have three sets of musicals planned. The first is a secular celebration of the Christmas break - a sort of ode to winter. Which feels odd because for the last month we've been reading the Romantic poets in class and discussing how representations of winter are infused with a sense of loss and death. I return from these classes feeling introspective and reflective. My students seem to have a similar reaction. But now, I have to rush to the Music hall right after that and sing of a "jolly winter" and "season of giving and gain." Today I felt more of like an actor than a teacher. And a bad actor as well, because I was unable to disguise my surprise at the selection of songs. One of the students had suggested to Mrs Bell that they sing Sarah Mclachlan's "winter song." Mrs B never checked the lyrics and now we have a choir of fourteen to seventeen-year-olds singing lines such as:
I lie awake and try to recall
How your body felt beside me
Oh, I can just see the letters pouring in. Angry parents at the school gates. And Principal D putting me in charge of the Titanic, for the entire winter break, while he sails away to his holiday in Hawaii. I waited for the choir to finish singing and then struggled to articulate my problem with the song. 
"Perhaps it's a little racy. And, have you thought of how the school board and your parents might feel about the lyrics? I'll be surprised if your parents don't rush home after the concert to check if the windows of your rooms aren't barred altogether!"
The boys and girls broke out into giggles. I think they thought I was trying to be funny. And then Jenny, a disconcertingly precocious fifteen-year-old raised her hand, 
"Sir, which part of the song do you mean?"
"Well, for one, the stuff about trying to 'recall how your body felt beside me'." I clarified, quite confident that I had heard the lyrics right. I didn't realize that I had forgotten to air quote around the lyrics until Jenny raised her hand and asked, 
"Sir, I think this is a case of incorrect usage of the word 'recall', because you haven't felt my body beside yours - not yet, at any rate". 
 I along with some students were quite stunned by her unabashed cheekiness, while most of the students broke out into open laughter. My face flushed, which certainly did not help restore any authority to my voice at that point. 
Oh well, from now on, I will have to think more carefully before I make any suggestions to the singing group. Once we return from break, we will practice the second musical, which is a more conventional nativity play with hymns such as "O, Holy Night," "Silent Night" and "Hark the Herald." The third musical is supposed to be in the in spirit of ringing out the old year and ringing in the new. I really hope it goes well. 


We break from school tomorrow for the entire week for Thanksgiving. Martha's parents are hosting this year and I am already a little tense in anticipation of prepping for the journey, and with the children strapped in the back seat. Apparently it's going to snow all day tomorrow. Anyhow, I don't think I should worry about this until tomorrow morning, so that I can fall off to sleep tonight and be actually awake for the drive tomorrow.
Tim

Nov 21

Feel like its going to be a good day. Ordered 60 red velvet cup cakes for Mrs D's birthday party next Friday evening. Got myself some handy earplugs. I was honestly not joking about them yesterday. I also decided to get a new tracksuit, while I passed the sporting goods store. Got myself a bright yellow one - thought it would inspire energy in the morning, but I got some odd looks while I ran past the neighbors' houses. I wanted to get back to running as I haven't managed to do it in two years, ever since Jared was born. Went for a nice long run- for an hour!! This old dog still has some life left! Well, lately I've been feeling a lot older than my years. At my thirty second birthday party last year I found my imagination frequently visiting to what life will like after retirement, and how I will get to do all the things I have always wanted to, such as writing fiction, learning how to rock climb, going for a swim in the sea after a morning run, only to return and to a long amorous afternoon with Martha, and in the evening having the grown up children over to dinner. Ah.... these fantasies always make me long.
Tim

Nov 20

This evening as I entered my front door, my eldest son, seven-year-old Thomas, shared his customary greeting "mumble mumble dad mumble," which while added to my mounting doubts about my loss of hearing, did not in any way lessen my surprise in seeing him sitting on his haunches, balanced precariously over several  strewn open volumes of the Oxford dictionary, that I had bought when I landed my first job as the local high school English teacher. 
"Why are there so many dictionaries on the floor? And is that a dictionary you are sitting on?" I tried to ask encouraging, even though my heart sank seeing a sneaker footprint on vol 8. After all, this was the first time he had shown any interest in a dictionary.  
"Have to write a blog report for our media class. My teacher said we have to write a paragraph about our summer holidays."
Now, I had heard of "blogs" but was never really sure what it was, and when the new media teacher was hired and I heard it in nearly every conversation for the first month, in the teachers' lounge. By that point, I thought it was too late to ask any of my colleagues. But Tom showed me how to open an account, how to write an entry. Blog - short for web-log and what a wonderful piece of technology really. I encountered blogs on food, knitting, books, sex (must show it to Martha) and I can't seem to stop reading them.
I've decided to return to an old, favorite habit of mine, from when I was about Tom's age; keeping a diary. Nothing much happened today, except that Principal - let's call him - Principal Mr. Always-Poking-His-Head-Into-the-Teachers' Lounge-To-Get-The-Faculty-To-Run-His-Personal-Errands, found me reading by the sunny window, and pounced on the opportunity. I was delaying going home because it a deliciously quiet, sunny Friday afternoon and I had just fixed myself a cup of coffee. He told me to rush to the Mall before it closed to place an order for 60 cup cakes for his wife's birthday next week. Apparently, she loves cup cakes because it is easier for her to count calories than when she has to cut slices out of a cake. The Mall closed by the time I got there. Now I have to go tomorrow morning and do it. I wish I could say something like "No, Principal D, I would really rather continue reading than listen to your nasal voice" but these are bad times, Principal D is looking for reasons to fire his members of the faculty. Just last month he fired the music teacher then showed off  to the school board how he is able to make financial cuts more than the other schools in the district! Now, Mrs Bell, the arts teacher and our oldest faculty member, bless her heart, is teaching music. There is a cruel irony here, because Mrs. Bell seems to be quite tone deaf. I should pick up some ear plugs at the mall tomorrow. Yesterday I couldn't focus on my lesson plans because of discordant "Ave Maria" on every conceivable scale and off-scale bellowing out of the Music Hall. Right across the teachers' lounge, that too.
Off to bed now, gotta ride to the Mall tomorrow morn,
Tim