Speaking of the Rose Bowl Aquatics Center, I've met some awfully nice ladies in the locker room. Yes, it's super strange to chat about jobs, kids, and hair care products stark naked, but maybe chlorine acts as a desensitizer.
(Male readers, before you get all excited, I will tell you that the early crew of female swimmers at RBAC sharply resemble bells, most of whom look far more like Liberty than Tinker.)
My favorite acquaintance is Rosemary. She lives on Oak Knoll in an assisted living facility. Rosemary has been swimming every day since she was about 15. She's pretty ticked off that she can only manage a third of a mile three days a week now and that her kids want her to stop driving. The change in the dinner hour from 4:45 to 5:00 p.m. also has her quite irritated, plus she hates that her agenda for the day is reduced to finishing a needlework pillow cover and taking a nap. (I nearly swooned with envy. About the nap.)
Rosemary isn't shy to tell me I'm not swimming long enough. Or that she's probably not going to remember my name tomorrow (she says if she can conjure up a thought by midnight, that counts as instant recall). She chats about the rash under her breasts as easily as her husband's death from Alzheimer's disease. I can picture her in the career she left over a quarter a century ago, teaching Lamaze classes to hundreds and hundreds of couples. I bet she told them she wasn't going to remember their names, either.
Matt is eager to meet Rosemary (but with both of them dressed). He wants to take her to tea. I think they'd fall in love.
And I'd have to start a whole new blog.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Creature from the black lagoon
No, not a Hollywood remake (although evidence that cinema rules this town ranges from entire editions of the L.A. Times called "The Envelope" to middle aged men with backpacks and fistfulls of flyers chasing us down to beg us to attend free premiers), but rather how I feel at 5:30 a.m. at the Rose Bowl Aquatics Center.
Maybe The Mists of Avalon? Or Cold River?
I digress. The issue is that, in Matt's words, "It's frickin' cold!" So much steam rises off the surface of the water, and my head, I might add, that I can't see the other end of the pool. Since I'm already pretty much terrified of swimming, all of this steam is in no way mysterious or sexy. It's just creepy.
My physical therapist banished me to the deep end. No more frog-walking in the shallow water with the old ladies from the retirement home. Instead, she directed me to wear a flotation belt (or, in my case, perform a death grip on a kickboard) and scissor kick, "ski," or "bike" while I keep my head, spine, butt, and feet in a straight line in ten feet or more of water.
I didn't bother arguing with her. My usual protests of "but pools are so wet" would not have impressed Raquel, who takes my serious desire to heal rather seriously. Damn her.
I miss the old ladies from the retirement home. The dive well is at the far end of the recreation pool. It's only me down there. With a kickboard. And teeth clacking so hard (whether from fear or cold, I'm not sure), I could be a sound effect in ... well, yes, a Hollywood film.
Maybe The Mists of Avalon? Or Cold River?
I digress. The issue is that, in Matt's words, "It's frickin' cold!" So much steam rises off the surface of the water, and my head, I might add, that I can't see the other end of the pool. Since I'm already pretty much terrified of swimming, all of this steam is in no way mysterious or sexy. It's just creepy.
My physical therapist banished me to the deep end. No more frog-walking in the shallow water with the old ladies from the retirement home. Instead, she directed me to wear a flotation belt (or, in my case, perform a death grip on a kickboard) and scissor kick, "ski," or "bike" while I keep my head, spine, butt, and feet in a straight line in ten feet or more of water.
I didn't bother arguing with her. My usual protests of "but pools are so wet" would not have impressed Raquel, who takes my serious desire to heal rather seriously. Damn her.
I miss the old ladies from the retirement home. The dive well is at the far end of the recreation pool. It's only me down there. With a kickboard. And teeth clacking so hard (whether from fear or cold, I'm not sure), I could be a sound effect in ... well, yes, a Hollywood film.
Monday, February 20, 2012
The Butt Patrol
When Matt asks how I'm feeling, he announces, "I'm checking in on the Butt Patrol!" (Well, sometimes he wrinkles his brow and asks, "Stingy? Sore? Throbbing?" Cute man. I never tire of his care -- or his playfulness.)
I'm headed back to the pool this morning. My physical therapist said I could start paddling around in March. Close enough. So I've got my tote bag all packed up with towels, shampoo, a change of clothes, and 10 bucks.
It's 42 degrees this morning. I think I'm going to freeze my butt patrol right off.
I'm headed back to the pool this morning. My physical therapist said I could start paddling around in March. Close enough. So I've got my tote bag all packed up with towels, shampoo, a change of clothes, and 10 bucks.
It's 42 degrees this morning. I think I'm going to freeze my butt patrol right off.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Firsts in K-Town
I have a cute student named Cheri. She has doe eyes and gorgeous handwriting. She's from the Philippines. A few months ago, she and her boyfriend Eric realized they are expecting a baby.
Cheri is not the first of my students to become a young mom, but she is the first to invite me to her baby shower. The invitation was addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Forbes" and printed on lovely blue cardstock with a tiny brown bear at the top. Because Matt is Matt, he said he would be delighted to accompany me.
In my 44 years on the planet, I think I've been to 30 or more baby showers, so it was with some confidence that I told Matt what to expect: a few trays of finger foods, mountains of gifts wrapped in pastel patterns, and a couple of silly games involving bows and the crossing of one's legs. "We'll bug out as early as we can," I promised, figuring he'd be bored out of his mind watching women ooh and aah over Winnie-the-Pooh booties, even with the promise of a slice of cake.
Everything, and I mean everything, about Cheri's shower was a first for both of us. After we got off the metro, we walked about a mile through Koreatown, trying to orient ourselves by where downtown and my school might be in relation. The writing on all of the buildings and billboards was in Korean, of course, so that wasn't much help. Thankfully, I married a man with an affinity for maps and a nose for good food, so he expertly navigated us right to the door of O Dae San, the restaurant where the party was located.
I completely forgot that we westerners are conspicuously punctual, whereas island and Latino cultures are not. We lolled around the patio for close to an hour before the party got into full swing -- and what a party it was. Nearly 100 of Cheri's and Eric's family, friends, and classmates crowded into the dining area, everyone arriving with huge boxes of diapers and enormous appetites. We sat across from Robert and Gloria, a couple who were -- thank goodness -- experts at what to do at a Korean bar-b-que. Their English was good (whereas we speak almost no Spanish and zero Tagalog), and they patiently guided us through the meal.
At a Korean bar-b-que, meat is, well, rather central to the meal. Platter after platter of raw meat from pretty much every mammal I can think of kept showing up at our elbows. One used the tongs to spread it across hot, conical griddles shared by every four diners, and scissors to slice up pieces too large to manage eating with chopsticks. Robert and Gloria hit the protein jackpot when they decided to sit across from a couple of middle-aged vegetarians. Not to be deterred, Matt and I set in on all of the little bowls of side dishes the wait staff were quick to refill for us: sauteed tofu, Kimchee, pickled sprouts, marinated broccoli, and chopped Romaine salad. The best were the hot plates of thin vegetable pancakes and the steamed eggs served in little black kettles. I have no idea why they were green, but they were so delicious, I put Dr. Seuss out of my mind and dug right in. I got frustrated with the sticky rice not sticking to my chopsticks, but Matt managed to sail right through two or three dishes of it. My favorite sauce was a concoction of some kind of white oil, salt, and pepper. As Naomi Shahib Nye writes, "My mouth was a carwash for the spoon."
Even though only women were invited to play the baby games, Matt tried desperately to join in and win. He shook every young man's hand, and kept everyone within earshot smiling with his warmth and kindness. He found a manager who spoke English and figured out a way to pay for our meal without alerting Cheri's mom that he had done so. His obvious concern for Eric's youth moved me. More than once, a shadow crossed his face, and he whispered, "Melissa, he's freaking out. He's so young." Yes, my love, I know. They all are.
On our walk back to the metro station, we passed a crowd of Hispanic women in a small parking lot selling champurado, horchata, and fruit juices from enormous orange coolers, a site we often see in various parts of downtown L.A. and one that never fails to make us smile. We haven't been brave enough to take out our money and buy these lovely drinks, but we will. Across the street from the parking lot, an aroma of pastries was so intoxicating, we ducked into the bakery they were spilling from and filled up a platter. Matt worried that his $10 of remaining cash wouldn't be enough to cover the tab, but I said I doubted the bill would top three bucks. I was almost right -- $3.05. The woman working the cash register wore a flour-covered apron and frowned at us a bit suspiciously. She need not have. We only wanted conchas and cheese cake.
I fell sound asleep on Matt's shoulder on the train ride home. As we walked the last couple of blocks to our apartment, Matt said, "What a perfect night," and then he looked at me in all seriousness and asked, "Melissa, have we spent the majority of our lives under a rock?"
Yes, my love, I think we have. And if L.A. has taught us anything, it is this: no more.
Cheri is not the first of my students to become a young mom, but she is the first to invite me to her baby shower. The invitation was addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Forbes" and printed on lovely blue cardstock with a tiny brown bear at the top. Because Matt is Matt, he said he would be delighted to accompany me.
In my 44 years on the planet, I think I've been to 30 or more baby showers, so it was with some confidence that I told Matt what to expect: a few trays of finger foods, mountains of gifts wrapped in pastel patterns, and a couple of silly games involving bows and the crossing of one's legs. "We'll bug out as early as we can," I promised, figuring he'd be bored out of his mind watching women ooh and aah over Winnie-the-Pooh booties, even with the promise of a slice of cake.
Everything, and I mean everything, about Cheri's shower was a first for both of us. After we got off the metro, we walked about a mile through Koreatown, trying to orient ourselves by where downtown and my school might be in relation. The writing on all of the buildings and billboards was in Korean, of course, so that wasn't much help. Thankfully, I married a man with an affinity for maps and a nose for good food, so he expertly navigated us right to the door of O Dae San, the restaurant where the party was located.
I completely forgot that we westerners are conspicuously punctual, whereas island and Latino cultures are not. We lolled around the patio for close to an hour before the party got into full swing -- and what a party it was. Nearly 100 of Cheri's and Eric's family, friends, and classmates crowded into the dining area, everyone arriving with huge boxes of diapers and enormous appetites. We sat across from Robert and Gloria, a couple who were -- thank goodness -- experts at what to do at a Korean bar-b-que. Their English was good (whereas we speak almost no Spanish and zero Tagalog), and they patiently guided us through the meal.
At a Korean bar-b-que, meat is, well, rather central to the meal. Platter after platter of raw meat from pretty much every mammal I can think of kept showing up at our elbows. One used the tongs to spread it across hot, conical griddles shared by every four diners, and scissors to slice up pieces too large to manage eating with chopsticks. Robert and Gloria hit the protein jackpot when they decided to sit across from a couple of middle-aged vegetarians. Not to be deterred, Matt and I set in on all of the little bowls of side dishes the wait staff were quick to refill for us: sauteed tofu, Kimchee, pickled sprouts, marinated broccoli, and chopped Romaine salad. The best were the hot plates of thin vegetable pancakes and the steamed eggs served in little black kettles. I have no idea why they were green, but they were so delicious, I put Dr. Seuss out of my mind and dug right in. I got frustrated with the sticky rice not sticking to my chopsticks, but Matt managed to sail right through two or three dishes of it. My favorite sauce was a concoction of some kind of white oil, salt, and pepper. As Naomi Shahib Nye writes, "My mouth was a carwash for the spoon."
Even though only women were invited to play the baby games, Matt tried desperately to join in and win. He shook every young man's hand, and kept everyone within earshot smiling with his warmth and kindness. He found a manager who spoke English and figured out a way to pay for our meal without alerting Cheri's mom that he had done so. His obvious concern for Eric's youth moved me. More than once, a shadow crossed his face, and he whispered, "Melissa, he's freaking out. He's so young." Yes, my love, I know. They all are.
On our walk back to the metro station, we passed a crowd of Hispanic women in a small parking lot selling champurado, horchata, and fruit juices from enormous orange coolers, a site we often see in various parts of downtown L.A. and one that never fails to make us smile. We haven't been brave enough to take out our money and buy these lovely drinks, but we will. Across the street from the parking lot, an aroma of pastries was so intoxicating, we ducked into the bakery they were spilling from and filled up a platter. Matt worried that his $10 of remaining cash wouldn't be enough to cover the tab, but I said I doubted the bill would top three bucks. I was almost right -- $3.05. The woman working the cash register wore a flour-covered apron and frowned at us a bit suspiciously. She need not have. We only wanted conchas and cheese cake.
I fell sound asleep on Matt's shoulder on the train ride home. As we walked the last couple of blocks to our apartment, Matt said, "What a perfect night," and then he looked at me in all seriousness and asked, "Melissa, have we spent the majority of our lives under a rock?"
Yes, my love, I think we have. And if L.A. has taught us anything, it is this: no more.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Dragon Part II
It's raining. And a short day (only 30 minutes for each class). So I thought, "Hey, brilliant teacher, why not have a game day with Character Development?"
I brought in Apples to Apples, Pairs of Pears, and Scattergories, all excellent language-building games. And to keep my 14-year old boys busy, I wrote additional ideas on the board like thumb wrestling and rock-paper-scissors.
Five minutes into class, I realized that the kids with the letter tiles were playing ... you guessed it ... R-rated Scrabble. When I blurted out, "Wha? Wha? What?", one young scholar replied, "But look, miss! All the parts of speeach!"
I brought in Apples to Apples, Pairs of Pears, and Scattergories, all excellent language-building games. And to keep my 14-year old boys busy, I wrote additional ideas on the board like thumb wrestling and rock-paper-scissors.
Five minutes into class, I realized that the kids with the letter tiles were playing ... you guessed it ... R-rated Scrabble. When I blurted out, "Wha? Wha? What?", one young scholar replied, "But look, miss! All the parts of speeach!"
Sunday, February 12, 2012
What's your dragon?
I'm teaching a class this semester called Character Development. Funny story ... about a month ago, as semester one wound down, my boss said, "Would you like to teach PE?" I cheerfully replied, "Nope!" He said, "Debate?" A firm shake of my head.
I spent the following weekend wracking my brain for ideas, mostly gravitating towards something interdisciplinary that would allow me to bring more art and film into the classroom. When I was an undergraduate at Rollins, one of my favorite courses was called Anger. A handful of faculty rotated lectures about anger based on their interest and speciality (philosophy, art, religion, literature) -- and it was way cool. I remember looking at the angry brush strokes in Van Gogh's Wheat Fields and examing the angry motivation of those creepy boys in Lord of the Flies and considering the anger of the Old Testament Hebrew God. Loved it. So, I coupled fond memories with a dire need among Camino students ... and out popped a course called Character Development.
This past week, my students and I watched How to Train Your Dragon. Okay, not exactly high art, but judge me not. The film is actually quite sweet, plus it interested me because it examines ideas I thought might resonate with teenagers, among them forbidden friendship, as well as fear. Since, I reasoned, fear is a basic human emotion, surely the kids would connect.
We talked at length about things we are afraid of, the usual suspects such as spiders and heights making top appearances. (Christian, whose sole aim is to shock me said he's afraid of being gang-raped in a prison. I countered, "Guess you'd better stay out of trouble.") I try to sneak in every bit of reading I possibly can, so I had the kids match character descriptions to photographs of artists' renderings. I showed them TED videos of folks conquering their fears and in so doing, realizing gains they never imagined. And we chatted at length about Hiccup's various fears and his rather unconventional solutions to them. In a nod to the skills-based education freaks, we even made cause-effect charts and converted them to sentence frames. Ah, I thought, all is humming along nicely in room 212.
Finally came my grand finale: a paragraph. Yes, the dreaded paragraph.
Two minutes before the end of class on Friday afternoon, I said, "This weekend, my friends, I want you to write a paragraph describing your dragon -- and how training it could lead to a better world for yourselves."
When the shouts of, "We never have homework" died down, Ivan, the biggest kid in the freshman class, with a look of utter confusion said, "But Miss, we don't have dragons." I took a deep breath and said with all the patience I could muster, "Yes, true, but I was speaking symbolically." Ivan's confused look persisted.
In desperation, I looked at the girl corner of the room, where a gaggle of overly-made-up lasses, although typically disengaged from my lesson, usually grasped my general aim. Allie, with her head lolling in her hand, said, "Miss?" And I hopefully replied, "Yes, Allie? You have a question about the homework assignment?"
"Nah," she said. "I just wanted to ask ... Why are you so pretty?"
Dragons, indeed.
I spent the following weekend wracking my brain for ideas, mostly gravitating towards something interdisciplinary that would allow me to bring more art and film into the classroom. When I was an undergraduate at Rollins, one of my favorite courses was called Anger. A handful of faculty rotated lectures about anger based on their interest and speciality (philosophy, art, religion, literature) -- and it was way cool. I remember looking at the angry brush strokes in Van Gogh's Wheat Fields and examing the angry motivation of those creepy boys in Lord of the Flies and considering the anger of the Old Testament Hebrew God. Loved it. So, I coupled fond memories with a dire need among Camino students ... and out popped a course called Character Development.
This past week, my students and I watched How to Train Your Dragon. Okay, not exactly high art, but judge me not. The film is actually quite sweet, plus it interested me because it examines ideas I thought might resonate with teenagers, among them forbidden friendship, as well as fear. Since, I reasoned, fear is a basic human emotion, surely the kids would connect.
We talked at length about things we are afraid of, the usual suspects such as spiders and heights making top appearances. (Christian, whose sole aim is to shock me said he's afraid of being gang-raped in a prison. I countered, "Guess you'd better stay out of trouble.") I try to sneak in every bit of reading I possibly can, so I had the kids match character descriptions to photographs of artists' renderings. I showed them TED videos of folks conquering their fears and in so doing, realizing gains they never imagined. And we chatted at length about Hiccup's various fears and his rather unconventional solutions to them. In a nod to the skills-based education freaks, we even made cause-effect charts and converted them to sentence frames. Ah, I thought, all is humming along nicely in room 212.
Finally came my grand finale: a paragraph. Yes, the dreaded paragraph.
Two minutes before the end of class on Friday afternoon, I said, "This weekend, my friends, I want you to write a paragraph describing your dragon -- and how training it could lead to a better world for yourselves."
When the shouts of, "We never have homework" died down, Ivan, the biggest kid in the freshman class, with a look of utter confusion said, "But Miss, we don't have dragons." I took a deep breath and said with all the patience I could muster, "Yes, true, but I was speaking symbolically." Ivan's confused look persisted.
In desperation, I looked at the girl corner of the room, where a gaggle of overly-made-up lasses, although typically disengaged from my lesson, usually grasped my general aim. Allie, with her head lolling in her hand, said, "Miss?" And I hopefully replied, "Yes, Allie? You have a question about the homework assignment?"
"Nah," she said. "I just wanted to ask ... Why are you so pretty?"
Dragons, indeed.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
The body
Matt declared Sunday a day of rest and advocated staying home from church. I was all for skipping the walking and metro-ing, but I still wanted some pew time. So Matt strolled from the north wing to the south wing of our apartment (aka, took two steps) and googled Pasadena churches. Heck, we live in the city that's home to one of the largest seminaries in the world. Seemed like there could be a little sweet worship closer to home.
We ended up at Lake Avenue Church -- which is almost as close to our bedroom as is the bathroom. Seriously, we can see the church from our balcony. Of course, as soon as we stepped onto the campus, we turned around to face our apartment building and said, "Hey, look, there's our balcony!" (Coupla dorks sometimes, but we keep each other amused.)
Much about the church was nice. It's been YEARS since we sang a hymn. There were kneelers in the pews, and when it came time for corporate prayers, folks of all ages weren't shy to plop those babies down and warm them up. And the offering plates were offering plates! We've been at casual churches for so long, plastic paint buckets and baskets had become the standard. When Matt felt the plate's heft, he nodded appreciatively and whispered, "Wow ... metal."
Funny story: it was Communion Sunday (yay! I got so excited -- Mosaic does not practice communion, and I'd been missing it dearly). I happily plucked my bit of cracker off the tray and balanced it on my knee while I waited for my tiny juice cup. When it was time to take the body of Christ, I popped it in my mouth and realized the cracker had probably been queued up on the tray since the early 1970s. I liked that I could hear several hundred people crunching their communion ... but I thought, "Huh. The body of Christ is stuck in my teeth."
And then I got very still and thought, "Yes."
We ended up at Lake Avenue Church -- which is almost as close to our bedroom as is the bathroom. Seriously, we can see the church from our balcony. Of course, as soon as we stepped onto the campus, we turned around to face our apartment building and said, "Hey, look, there's our balcony!" (Coupla dorks sometimes, but we keep each other amused.)
Much about the church was nice. It's been YEARS since we sang a hymn. There were kneelers in the pews, and when it came time for corporate prayers, folks of all ages weren't shy to plop those babies down and warm them up. And the offering plates were offering plates! We've been at casual churches for so long, plastic paint buckets and baskets had become the standard. When Matt felt the plate's heft, he nodded appreciatively and whispered, "Wow ... metal."
Funny story: it was Communion Sunday (yay! I got so excited -- Mosaic does not practice communion, and I'd been missing it dearly). I happily plucked my bit of cracker off the tray and balanced it on my knee while I waited for my tiny juice cup. When it was time to take the body of Christ, I popped it in my mouth and realized the cracker had probably been queued up on the tray since the early 1970s. I liked that I could hear several hundred people crunching their communion ... but I thought, "Huh. The body of Christ is stuck in my teeth."
And then I got very still and thought, "Yes."
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Down off the high horse
My students and I are embarking on a poetry exploration. I'm not going to teach them technical terminology, nor will we spend hours trying to unpack authorial intent. Instead, we're going to simply appreciate the beauty of words. For kids without anywhere near enough beauty in their lives, I think this is a fine idea.
Our reading will be much like meandering through a garden without a field or plant guide. Although I love horticulture terminology and landscape architecture, it is equally nice to sit on a bench and take long draughts of fresh air and watch bees fight over the sexiest flowers.
Here are two phrases I ran across this week that gave me pause.
Pull hard, row slow,
a white boat to your destiny.
(Cervantes)
I will curl up by her side
and listen to her breathing,
easing into her dreams.
(Delgado)
Watch out ... more meandering to come.
Our reading will be much like meandering through a garden without a field or plant guide. Although I love horticulture terminology and landscape architecture, it is equally nice to sit on a bench and take long draughts of fresh air and watch bees fight over the sexiest flowers.
Here are two phrases I ran across this week that gave me pause.
Pull hard, row slow,
a white boat to your destiny.
(Cervantes)
I will curl up by her side
and listen to her breathing,
easing into her dreams.
(Delgado)
Watch out ... more meandering to come.
Back on my high horse
I'll be taking my soapbox up to the saddle now.
I know it's annoying when people start a conversation by saying, "I hate it when ..." or "It's so irritating when ...," but in the spirit of L.A., the city of "me first," I offer up the other phrases I love to hate. My reasons aren't great, but they make Matt laugh.
I know it's annoying when people start a conversation by saying, "I hate it when ..." or "It's so irritating when ...," but in the spirit of L.A., the city of "me first," I offer up the other phrases I love to hate. My reasons aren't great, but they make Matt laugh.
- Take it to the next level. So exactly what's wrong with this level? What level are we on, anyway? How do we know what the next level is or we've arrived on it? This phrase should be banned for extreme vagueness.
- Step it up! (This one is often used interchangeably with "Bring your A-game," which is only slightly less annoying.) Only military COs should get to use this phrase. Otherwise I think of Jane Fonda in a shiny leotard. Shudder.
- As a human being, I ... Unless the speaker is channeling a turtle or a pickle, I think we can safely assume they are a human being.
- Irregardless. Not a word. End of story.
- Moving forward ... This phrase has become popular in corporate and education meeting rooms. It negates all that has happened until now, or suggests that the only course of action lies in change. I advocate for staying put in the present. I don't think movement is synonymous with growth.
Friday, February 3, 2012
No lie ...
I love working in a small school, where I know, really know, more than a quarter of the kids. Heck, in my last school, I barely knew a quarter of the faculty. What a huge blessing it is to be fully a part of this community.
When it's not so nice is when everybody knows your business.
No lie ... a kid came up to me today, a handsome lad I'm sure I've never met, and said, "Miss, I'm selling Capri Suns for basketball. They're 50 cents. You should buy one. It will make your bottom feel better."
When it's not so nice is when everybody knows your business.
No lie ... a kid came up to me today, a handsome lad I'm sure I've never met, and said, "Miss, I'm selling Capri Suns for basketball. They're 50 cents. You should buy one. It will make your bottom feel better."
Thursday, February 2, 2012
SCARFing
I was at a meeting a few days ago in which the presenter asserted that Maslow's hierarchy of needs has pretty much been abandoned in terms of figuring out human motivation. While, yes, we need food and safety, she said there are other factors that drive our urges and behaviors.
Enter SCARF, not a descriptor of the Thanksgiving melee at our house, but rather an acronym for Status, Certainty, Autonomy, Relatedness, and Fairness. We took a cute picture quiz, answered a couple of questions, and voila -- out came our primary human motivation.
Me? Fairness, which surprised me (I think I'm more of a certainty and autonomy kind of girl, but okay). Because I was only one of two people in the room with that result, my boss, in trying to make me feel less like a freak, said, "Then you must love To Kill a Mockingbird."
Before I continue my story, it must be said that To Kill a Mockingbird is standard fare for teachers of English in pretty much all western civilizations, not to mention that Oprah says it's a must-read for every U.S. citizen.
So it was in anticipation of much ridicule that I hung my head and said, as quietly as I could, "Never read it."
Only because my butt is broken did my colleagues not run me out of the room.
Fast forward two days. I was in another meeting when my boss busted in and said, "Quick! Oscar Wilde fans! What's the name of that play of his that's used to teach satire?" Ah, a chance to redeem myself. "Well, sir," I smugly replied, "The Importance of Being Ernest?" He smiled appreciatively. So I asked if I'd been forgiven for my Mockingbird blunder. He crossed his arms, leaned back, and said, "Well, it's just that, in my personal opinion, Mockingbird is ..."
"Wait," I interrupted. "I don't let my students use that phrase." His eyebrows shot up. "'In my personal opinion'? I don't let my students write or say that." His eyebrows remained up. I lamely finished, "Because it's ... redundant."
As I stood in the breeze of Scott's departure, I pondered ... What is the primary human motivation for jackass-edness?
Enter SCARF, not a descriptor of the Thanksgiving melee at our house, but rather an acronym for Status, Certainty, Autonomy, Relatedness, and Fairness. We took a cute picture quiz, answered a couple of questions, and voila -- out came our primary human motivation.
Me? Fairness, which surprised me (I think I'm more of a certainty and autonomy kind of girl, but okay). Because I was only one of two people in the room with that result, my boss, in trying to make me feel less like a freak, said, "Then you must love To Kill a Mockingbird."
Before I continue my story, it must be said that To Kill a Mockingbird is standard fare for teachers of English in pretty much all western civilizations, not to mention that Oprah says it's a must-read for every U.S. citizen.
So it was in anticipation of much ridicule that I hung my head and said, as quietly as I could, "Never read it."
Only because my butt is broken did my colleagues not run me out of the room.
Fast forward two days. I was in another meeting when my boss busted in and said, "Quick! Oscar Wilde fans! What's the name of that play of his that's used to teach satire?" Ah, a chance to redeem myself. "Well, sir," I smugly replied, "The Importance of Being Ernest?" He smiled appreciatively. So I asked if I'd been forgiven for my Mockingbird blunder. He crossed his arms, leaned back, and said, "Well, it's just that, in my personal opinion, Mockingbird is ..."
"Wait," I interrupted. "I don't let my students use that phrase." His eyebrows shot up. "'In my personal opinion'? I don't let my students write or say that." His eyebrows remained up. I lamely finished, "Because it's ... redundant."
As I stood in the breeze of Scott's departure, I pondered ... What is the primary human motivation for jackass-edness?
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