Leila

My life lately has been...well, difficult to say the least...If Leila could talk to me would she say I am lucky to be alive?

I wanted to write about Leila this week, because it is exactly two years since she died.

I met Leila during the last purposelessly difficult period of my life--1997-1999. I was living in New York City, doing financial editing and freelancing on the side. I met her on what was probably the funniest freelance job of my life. The tourist publishing company I had worked for in Budapest also published a music magazine (now defunct) and they sent me on a press junket to interview Jon Bon Jovi. The singer was breaking into acting at the time and a group of European journalists (for that assignment I guess I counted as one) were sent by van to Far Rockaway where he was doing a film. We sat for about five hours waiting for them to wrap up filmmaking for the day--first waiting along the boardwalk, then in a bar. At the end of the day Bon Jovi's handlers said, so sorry, ran out of time today, and drove us back to the city in the van. A few days later we went through the same thing, but at the end Bon Jovi himself felt badly enough about it that he invited us back to his penthouse near Lincoln Center for the evening, where we took turns interviewing him.

Leila, who was a radio host in her native Zurich, was one of the group of journalists. Over the two-day wait, we became fast friends. She came to NY several times a year. She was at my first wedding. I never did visit her in Zurich--when I first contemplated leaving my first husband she suggested I come there but I went back to the U.S. instead. She first saw my daughter at age three weeks, and was fortunately here when my child's father was visiting. He walked all around town with the baby carriage; I didn't want to walk with him and so Leila accompanied me and we trailed behind, laughing and talking, and walking with her lessened my fear for the moment. The last visit with her I remember well was the week of September 11th--THE September 11th. She was in New York at the time, couldn't fly back to Switzerland. Her twin sister's ex-boyfriend, if I remember, was killed in the attack along with several other Swiss nationals they knew.

Then for about two years I lost touch with her--I was so consumed with graduate school and my first library job I was pretty out of touch with anyone who didn't live locally. I moved, changed emails, numbers. At one point we tracked each other down--her radio station had laid her off, she was now working in print. Interviews with Timothy Dalton, Harrison Ford, two more with Jon Bon Jovi--the third time around, she laughed, he made a pass at her. I didn't hear from her for about another year, then one day last March I Googled her full name--Leila Bonomo, and several articles came up. Not written by her. About her. In German. This one:

http://www.presseverein.ch/news/branchen-klatsch/single/article/18/trauer-um-le.html




My German at this point is fairly rudimentary, but the word "tot" jumped out at me. Dead. I read the article, translating carefully, hoping I was wrong. I did not misunderstand the German. She had been hit by a tram in Zurich while waiting with friends late one night. And dragged, and dragged. I thought of her lanky blonde hair, caught. I thought of her, not someone one could think of as dead. She had a home she shared with her twin, she worked her way straight out of high school up to being a radio personality, she was kind, calm, unpretentious, could laugh irreverently at what she observed yet was respectful enough to always want to learn more; she knew how to balance fun and hard work, she had a life, a life I was lucky enough to be part of, I had a life she thought worth visiting across the ocean, along the train line when so many of my resident New York friends couldn't even board the train to New Jersey. She was my friend, and she was dead, horribly. I still did not want to believe it. Another article mentioned a church service for her. I emailed the church. They confirmed it, and when I asked, gave me the address of her parents. I still cannot write to them. I ought to.

So tonight, two years after this, I still cannot accept it. I can still hear her voice, her pale accent, her low radio tones. She does not tell me that I am lucky to be alive when she is dead, because Leila does not speak in such a self-pitying way. But I know it. Leila Adriana Bonomo, 36.

All Harry, All the Time

It's terribly quiet around here, just the sound of six-bean soup bubbling on the stove. Why is it so quiet? My daughter is out shopping with the grandparents, which means that the Harry Potter audiotapes are not blaring in the background.

D has to have background noise going--whether it's the sound of her voice or someone else's, or music. But it's a recent discovery that she likes audiobooks. Right now it's Harry Potter, all the time. Hey, it beats watching videos.

When I brought the first HP book home about six weeks ago, I planned to read it to her, figuring she was not ready to read it herself. That was accurate. She enjoyed it, but needed a lot of explanation. Apparently it was to her satisfaction because she's now reading books two and three on her own--while listening to the tapes. Over and over and over and over. The repetition is helping her understand a bit more each time, I guess. She asks me questions, too, especially about vocabulary. I'm pleased that she's gotten this far.

There are a lot of concepts in books like HP that third graders simply wouldn't know. I do a unit on mythological creatures with my fourth graders, to give them some of that background, and so they see how modern writers are inspired by ancient storytellers. It's not a knowledge I had as a child--other than reading Greek mythology--but then again there wasn't much fantasy literature then and I was not particularly into what was there. The Hobbit was sixth grade required reading, but I struggled with and never really got into the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I found Alice in Wonderland disturbing (also required sixth grade reading). I never read the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I did not know about the work of Lloyd Alexander. I did enjoy a couple of the E. Nesbit books--Five Children and It and the Phoenix and the Carpet--I remember having these worn, out of print library copies in my hands. I did spend a lot of time on the classic fairy tales--I particularly liked the Russian and Nordic ones. I don't remember if I was exposed to any other children's fantasy lit.

Even as an adult I took no interest in it until I was in "library school" and had to read the contemporary canon. And then I got hooked. Not in the hardcore sense--I am told that REAL fantasy fans delve much deeper into the realm--my exposure is strictly children's or young adult. But what I've read, I loved. I cried when I finished the His Dark Materials Trilogy...I couldn't bear the thought of it ending. I love the Bartimaeus Trilogy.

But this is where I turn from reader response to teacher response--how could anyone even begin to understand the former without a basic knowledge of Catholic theology (the first book) or midrash (the third)? Or understand the Bartimaeus Trilogy without a background in Middle Eastern history and mythology, or in the story of the Golem?

The simple answer is, typically: "People read things at different levels," in other words, a child might read something they don't understand much of, but enough to get enjoyment out of it. I guess I am not satisfied with that answer: hence my fourth grade unit. We do all sorts of fun activities learning about mythical creatures and the cultures from which they came.

At home of course, I am trying to pass on what I know to D. It does matter; I hear it in the questions she asks. A few years ago we were having dinner at a friend's house, and their daughter, who was then nine, spent the meal peppering me with questions about HP. As advanced a reader as she was--more so than D--there was just too much in the book she did not understand. One of her friends is reading the entire series, and I have to wonder how much she gets since conceptually the last three books are much higher (although more power to her if she's doing it) And people are always surprised to hear that a child D's age is reading HP. For two reasons: a) the comprehension level and b) the length of the book. For question a, my answer is, if you give kids a little background knowledge, it will go a long way. For b, well, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was THE book that proved all the publishers, teachers and parents wrong: It proved that reading is NOT dead among kids, that they WILL read something lengthy if it really hooks them. Harry Potter, already published over a decade ago, produced a collective sigh of relief among as many adults as it did a mass reading revival among children. It's old news at this point. But new for my delighted D, who now integrates HP into her playing with dolls and dollhouse. It has really, truly fired up her imagination, and curiousity about other forms of literature.



She has had a rough two days of it. She had recently come back from a deservedly self-congratulatory dental checkup--still no cavities--when bam, Wednesday she tripped and fell in gym and chipped one of her front teeth. All the dentists office were closed yesterday and today, but I finally got her to one here that was open, and they examined and bonded the tooth. The dentist said it was a good thing we had it taken care of immediately. I'm convinced that people are not evolved to keep their front teeth--how many kids do you know who've had theirs chipped or knocked out? (me twice).

But, the happy ending to the miserable day Wednesday was her Chanukah present at the end--she got a build-it-yourself model of Hogwarts.

And yes, I know that not everybody loves the series. We adults can forget that while its construction can seem overly simple at times, it IS a series for children. They start there and hopefully move on to His Dark Materials in their teen years...and so much more...And at the very least, some of us are enjoying Alan Rickman as Professor Snape...

Just when you think you've got it tough...

...you find out about your third-graders' wish lists. One of the teachers asked her students to write down something they wanted more than anything else in the world. Four of them said: A bed.

I think those beanbag chairs are going to come in very handy around here in the library. I wish they'd arrive already. Last Friday one of my second graders wasn't feeling well, and he looked it, his face was entirely red and expression of utter misery--he said it was his asthma--and the best I could do was offer him a corner on the rug in the teacher's section.

Philosophy of a Home, Part 2

Read Part 1 first!

The good news is: I am going to live this time in a home I love. It does not belong to me, of course: We are going to rent, in a house similar in style to one pictured above there are many such buildings in my town). And funnily enough, back on the block we lived on from 2000 to 2006. When my daughter was an infant, I rented a one-bedroom garden apartment on M. St. When she was three, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment in a two-family house right across the street; at the same time, a young couple bought the two-family next door, living in one of the apartments and renting the other. We became good friends. We will be renting their upstairs apartment. It has the charm that my own house never had. All the houses on that block were originally built the same around 100 years ago, but there's was the only one that kept the original detail in the kitchen, so it has arched doors and gingerbread-trimmed cabinets. The attic was renovated into one large and two small rooms, with the front one overlooking the street through a huge window. With the attic renovated, it is two floors--a small living room, dining room, two medium-sized and one tiny bedroom, the kitchen and kitchen nook on one floor; the attic floor has the big room and two tiny ones. So there is a room that will be a study, a room that will be a playroom, a room for me to write or bead in, plenty of room for guests. There was extensive renovation on the apartment--they had a fire there last year and had to--but it's very well done and still has an old-fashioned feel, and the cozy corners I like. It's back on a street I loved for its neighbors--there are a dozen kids around Yvette's age within a two-block radius. My daughter is thrilled to be back there.

No, I will not miss our current house. There are occasions I feel pain, though. I feel it when I look at my grandfather's desk, so perfectly situated among the oak trimmed corner as you walk in the door. I feel it on the rare occasion I am home when real estate agents bring buyers to see the house: I am thinking: How is it that these 25 year olds who look like grad students can buy a house, and I cannot, even though I probably earn as much as they do? I feel it when I go into a shop in Boro Park and see hats for $200 apiece--how is it that people can be so extravagant? I feel it when I see McMansions replacing decrepit mini-capes and wonder: Where do people get so much money? I felt it in my gut while picking up empty boxes from another family who had just moved to town. I came in to their house-- to a family with four children, living on one income, in a beautiful antique home on one of the most expensive streets in town. There I was pathetically picking up their empty boxes so my tiny two-person family can leave our modest home for a rental. All the next day at work my face hurt.

I try to accept that I am an unwilling member of the economic club of current American and Orthodox life. No longer can one assume that homeownership is the ideal, or, since about the year 2000, worth the cost. No longer can one assume that one will be financially better off than one's parents. I know so many families who grew up in comfortable upper middle class homes, which their parents bought for under $80,000, who can barely afford their own, often smaller, homes. Even people I know who are relatively well off are struggling under the cost of yeshiva tuition. In my community, or every family like one I got the boxes from, there are probably at least two who live paycheck to paycheck.

I have friends who are far, far less materialistic than I am, who don't seem to need their "things" like I do, who live with several kids two bedroom apartments and seem to be able to live with that. I cannot; or, let me rephrase that; I can live like that but refuse to. And I'll save that word--entitlement--for my next post, Part 3.

Philosophy of a home, Part I

I try not to be an all-or-nothing person, which is why I chose our house despite it not being even close to my dreams. I was practical. I was not in love with the house. A house I love would have had the charm of built-in antique cabinets and shelving in the dining room and living room, a fireplace, large bedrooms; a finished attic playroom, nooks and crannies, arched doorways and French doors. Or if I’d lived in a city: My dream was the decrepit but rambling turn-of-the-century apartments of Budapest before they were subdivided during Communism. My friend Emma had rented one of those; my ancestors had had one near Keleti station that boasted art nouveau details inside and out from the closets and balconies (alas they didn’t have the money to last there long, either). Or in New York, something like my former Washington Heights apartment, with its art deco shelving and trim and its huge sunken-floor living room. Or the [rent controlled] “Woody Allen” Central Park West duplex with servants quarters my friend Ariel grew up in. Even my first husband’s 5-story Amsterdam house was not charming enough for me; at one time it probably had 19th century details, but at one point it had been gutted and soullessly rebuilt into a Ronald McDonald House; the only antique beauty remaining in the marble steps and stained glass of the entryway.

The house we ended up buying had none of those; although it did have wood floors and trim, and a rare laundry chute, a deck and front porch, and a two-room addition that transformed it from too small to good enough. For an old house (about 1920) it was in pristine condition. There were houses with better size, charm and more antique detail in my town, but they were beyond our price range and often needed renovation.

What the house we bought had was enough space for a family of three, which we had hoped to expand to four.

That did not happen. The price range my husband said we could afford turned out to be a mirage on his part. The adjustable rate, high interest mortgage my husband insisted we take out because of his poor credit (“Don’t worry, we can refinance in six months” also a mirage) made our mortgage barely affordable on two incomes. Then after we split up it became only my income supporting that mortgage and property taxes; my husband refused to pay his half. Still lulled by the not-so-long-ago days when there were bidding wars over homes in our town, and one could easily “sell by owner,” my husband and I put the house on the market ourselves; over the summer we had half a dozen viewers but no bites.

By August my husband revealed to me that not only had his business fallen apart (as if it were ever viable); he had been diagnosed with diabetes in June. He could not work, he said; yet he was paying another accountant to hold the business up rather than pay his half of the mortgage. He would not, he said, go on disability until he got better; he would not give up running his own biz and work for someone else. Horrified not only by the news but the fact that he had withheld that information for at least two months, I made a final decision to divorce him, went to my realtor and put the house on the market.

At the same time, the international mortgage crisis/housing crash was hitting: Our house was significantly devalued; our mortgage lender and others were playing hardball with defaulting homeowners like us and potential buyers. My once high credit rating began to sink; after one missed mortgage payment my credit card company chopped my credit limit in half.

By the time I officially put the house on the market in late August, my realtor and the lender, HomeEq, said I would have to attempt what is called a “short sale.” The appraised value of the house was now well below what we owed HomeEq, and we would have broker and legal fees to pay as well upon the sale. A short sale agreement, from what I was told, would mean that if a buyer made an offer, the bank might agree to take the offer minus the fees, and let us go without us owing the balance of the mortgage.

In real numbers, we had bought the house in two years previously at $393,000 and put down a down payment of $40,000. Its market value was now $360,000. We still owed the bank over $350,000 because the loan was young and the interest high. Because we had to sell fast, we had to put it on the market for even lower than its appraised value, which had dropped to $360,000 from $440,000 two years ago. By October it was listed at $339,000. This time we had a offer: $305,000. Minus the fees, all the bank would get was about $285,000. We would be short the mortgage about 75,000, but the point of a short sale, I was told, was that the bank would forgive it and take what they could get rather than risk losing all through foreclosure.

My realtor began the paperwork process. I was hopeful. Then my father passed on New York Times article describing how even with short sales, banks were forcing sellers to pay off the balances. I nearly freaked out. It was bad enough I was losing my down payment and being forced to sell my home; I also did not want to be in debt the rest of my life.

By October I had stopped paying the mortgage, knowing that ultimately I could not keep the house and sink my entire paycheck into it.

But after half a lifetime on relying on the man to examine and handle the finances, I was finally doing the research. I found out that the “bank” which held our mortgage, HomeEq, was not actually a bank—it was a “loan servicing company.” I sourly nicknamed it “the shyster bank” although frankly the real banks like Citi weren’t behaving in any less a predatory manner. HomeEq was based where the mortgage crisis was at its worst: California. Getting anyone on the phone was hard; and there was no “one” person handling our mortgage. I also did the research that I should have done before marrying again. It was a hard lesson to learn. I know what I earn; I spend within my means. The irony is is that I could have afforded a small but adequately charming house on my own, even at the height of the market. But it was what it was. It was time to cut my losses and move on.

Despite my newfound knowledge of how real estate worked, I had no idea what would happen next. People would throw all sorts of absurd advice at me: “declare bankruptcy” (which does not forgive mortgage payments); “take in a boarder” (rent would not even begin to cover the mortgage at the rate it was by then); “rent the house” (and then where do we live?). I had more important things than living in thrall to the mortgage lender; my daughter, my job, my health, the ups, downs and in betweens of daily life.


Finally, however, the economic crash which exacerbated the problem began to actually solve it.

In August when I put the house officially on the market, the banks were still playing hardball. By the weeks leading up the Presidential election, Obama and McCain were debating over what to do to help homeowners and the government was beginning its corporate bailouts. I was hopeful; if the government hadn’t shot the predatory lenders yet; it was at least aiming its guns. I no longer felt fearful about not paying my mortgage; it was now a cat-and-mouse game with the lender. It was my turn to play hardball. I waited. HomEq kept sitting on the paperwork, needing a signature here, and signature there.

Finally, a few days ago, they acquiesced. They would take the short sale AND WE WOULD NOT OWE THEM THE BALANCE OF THE MORTGAGE. I would be free.

At the moment, my realtor and I are still performing bureaucratic somersaults with HomeEq, which insists that we close in 3 weeks. Theoretically, I can move out in three weeks; I have a place to rent already. The buyers, understandably, would like another six weeks. So while I am starting a Herculean packing job, I don’t have a moving date yet or the papers signed.

Books and kids on the economy

Last year I created a section in the library on money and the economy. I was hunting down freebies and came across a cartoon series the Federal Reserve publishes on the banking system, and took full advantage of it--ordered the maximum (150 copies of each of the five booklets). Then I bought 2 of each of an excellent set of books on the economy, called In the Money--simply explained, large, simple format and illustrations. And, of course, DK Eyewitness (Doris Kindersley) publishes "Money" as well, so I bought a few of those, too, and for kids who are more self-directed, The Kids' Money Book, by Neal Godfrey. They are flying off the shelves, of course, from teachers too, who have economy on the curriculum.

Back in the teachers lounge, the talk often turns to the economy, too--that of student families. With the economic downturn, the construction jobs so many of the fathers were doing are going, going, gone. Just based on my experience, far fewer kids are showing up during the year, but people aren't necessarily going back to Oaxaca, where, I would imagine, things are far worse. What I'm hearing is that people are staying if they are already here, but moving in with each other--instead of four families in a two family house, you now have six or eight. We have kids whose entire families live in one room. Makes me grateful for what I've got. Yesterday afternoon after I finished with a kindergarten class, one of the little girls lay down on the carpet and was falling asleep. This isn't necessarily odd for a 5-year-old--they are tired by the end of the day, but the other kids were really struggling to get her up. The para told me that this child is woken up at 4 am every day and has to leave the house by 5, because that is when her mother goes to work. I went over to the girl, gently woke her up like I would my own daughter, and half-carried her to the door. I wished she could just stay in the library and get some more sleep. I just ordered some beanbag chairs. I know they will lull some kids to sleep, but they need it.

Dreamwork

I'm not one to leave questions unanswered, though sometimes it takes awhile. Here, Theo, are my Dreamwork answers (see post I Quit My Job...).

Theo wrote: Ah! Dreams! Now you have stumbled into one of my life-long pursuits. As a practitioner and advocate of dreamwork, I would recommend "working" this dream a bit and not being content with the rather simple conclusion that your subconscious is telling you to be happy with the job you have. (Though that is not a bad conclusion, mind you.)

Answer some questions:

Q: Who is this math teacher to you? What qualities do you identify her with? What virtues or weaknesses?
A: She isn't even a teacher. She's another Orthodox single mom in town. Actually she isn't someone I know well; I would like to get to know her, which is not automatically true of OSMs--people think, somehow, that all OSMs think alike and must all band together but that's not so. She is back to living in a small garden apartment, which is something I'm determined not to do...I'm going back to renting but something bigger. She posts a lot about getting out of the house and having fun, which is something I ought to be doing more of. I see her as having a lot of strength to have to live in the same small town as her ex.

T: Other than being where your sister lives, what are your associations with Las Vegas (Sin City!)? Why is this the background against which this inner drama takes place? How do you FEEL about Las Vegas?
H: Actually, I don't have a Sin City association with LV. I love my sister but we have little in common. I've only been there once, in 2003, and it was with parents, sister, child. My life is mind-numbingly clean (remember, I am Orthodox and have a young child) and if that changed it would not be in LV. I have postponed visits there the past few years since my sis moved there, though, because of post-graduate work and airfare shooting up.

T: What other interactions have you ever had with this assistant super? Other than scary, what qualities do you associate with her?
H: I don't think she likes me, probably because I'm not a shrinking violet. But I've become one around her. Two years ago, after I was forced to stand for three hours straight to proctor a test and sat down for one minute because my back hurt, still keeping an eye on the students, she walked in and tried to get me reported. Luckily someone intervened and it didn't happen.

T: Did the building with the long hall this took place in remind you of another building, or a combination of other buildings in your waking life? What are your associations with those buildings? What happened there?

H: The only building I can think of is one at MIT, that has one of the longest corridors in the world. The other long one is Ceaucescu's Palace in Bucharest, and while I have seen it I've never been inside. I was in the MIT one in the 80s with a boyfriend who went there (the one over which you had to hold my head as I was throwing up from drinking too much over...was that 1994? and then you and Szilvi dragged me to the Ipoly cafe across the street. What a memory to dredge up).

So, assuming the endless corridor has to do with the ex-boyfriend...well, I don't see a connection. I did use to have an annoying variety of dreams on the same theme--his rejecting me again. But those mostly stopped when I got married, and stopped altogether when I found out that in real life he was the one being rejected--that after all his fancy degrees he couldn't even make it in academia and is teaching middle school in a state with a lousy ed system. But again, the corridor/building I was in looked neither like MIT nor Ceaucescu's Palace.

T:What was the overall emotional tone of the dream or the parts of the dream? How do you feel to remember it?
H: Mostly I felt confused...like why is it taking us so long to reach someone in this corridor? Anxiety--I need to get settled already! When the supe told me that there were no jobs there, I struggled and struggled to wake myself up, was really trying to pull myself out.


So there you go, Theo. Have fun with this one.

Good reasons to return to blogging, part 1

I spend way too much time on Facebook. Partly because I can't get out of the house at night; partly because it's a great way to easily, at least virtually, connect with one's faraway friends and local community (mere acquaintances don't do it for me). But lately I'm starting to get "friended" on Facebook by people I don't want to have anything to do with. It's not that they're evil people, they are perfectly nice; it's just that in some cases they are pests by nature and I know if I "friended" them I'd never stop being pestered by them and their pet obsessions. Or when it comes to others, well, I post a lot of stuff up there in general and I don't feel everyone and anyone, just because I see them around or knew them in a past life, has the right to see it all. At the same time, I feel...uh oh...what if I see these people in town and their feelings are hurt because I didn't "friend" them? Or those that are far away and from past lives, will they keep pestering me through mutual friends on FB. I think this whole thing is getting out of control. So I pose this question: what do you do when someone tries to "friend" you and you don't want to?

Isolation

One of my colleagues said to me the other day that it must be hard for me not having my lunch period or meetings with other teachers. Just the fact that she acknowledged that was important. I mean, I am not so into the faculty lounge thing which can really turn into gossip central, but her acknowledgment that I am isolated meant a lot to me.

And there are many I do like, wish I could call friends. Possibly because I work in an urban school, the teaching staff is much more cosmopolitan and diverse in background that most suburban schools. In the U.S., American teacher culture in my generation is one of utter mediocrity...mostly nice dull girls and bratty former cheerleaders. Not a big surprise we're behind the rest of the developed world. To me, suburban public elementary school teacher culture is halfway between satire and hell. Suburban American culture is much more foreign to me than going to a foreign country every was. I just can't swing it. It's not that I don't have friends in suburbia. Heck, I live in suburbia. On an individual level I'm okay. But in large numbers it melds into something else I can't relate to.

When I landed in an urban school I found it preferable; yes, the cliquiness was still there, the "average minds" I don't relate to, yes, unavoidable. But it is somewhat better than in a suburban school. People there come from many more cultures and backgrounds, and many of them share a dedication to working with urban kids that I admire. There are also more teachers who emigrated from other countries and believe me they are not the intellectual dregs. There are more African-American and Hispanic teachers who don't take their education for granted--even came later to the profession--because Mommy and Daddy didn't pay for college. Ah, give me my urban school over a suburban one any day.


That being said......

Socializing with my present colleagues is odd and difficult for me. Analysis:
--my social life is centered around my town's Jewish community
--I have only so much room in my heart and mind for more friends after all these years
--I have so many issues going on in my life I am mentally exhausted by anything there other than just doing my job.
--I am shy by nature and feel uncomfortable in groups of people. Even going to synagogue means surviving the first 15 minutes or so of social anxiety; I usually get over it but it's not easy. Same with parties. I love a good party but it takes me a bit to get into the swing of things. The last staff holiday party my husband immediately got drunk and I had to spend the whole time pretending everything was okay. So I'm not keen on this year's.
--And let us not forget my own childhood/school experience--it was not a good one.

Then there are the circumstances and nature of my job:
--The majority of the staff are classroom teachers and have duties and schedules which enable them to bond over what they do in common.
--What I do is very different, although some irrelevant stuff does get dumped on me, such as acrobatic lesson planning requirements (as if one can actually carry out a full lesson AND circulate books at the same time--silliness).
--Many of the classroom teachers, because they are so under the gun from the district and the state, tend to assume I do little in comparison all day. Not so, but they are so under pressure they don't see it.
--Scheduling--My lunch period is after all the others' are over. I'm not included in common planning and grade level meetings because I'm needed to teach classes so their teachers can attend them.

There's something about getting older that makes one sift through the many people who have passed through and consider Who Really Counts. Who One Relates To Best. And by the time I arrived on the scene of my new career five years ago, I had found the people in my life who fulfill those roles. My local community. My New York community. My friends from my Hungary years. Some from college and graduate school. It's enough. I may not see some of the most important ones often...some I have not seen in years, but they matter a great deal to me. Some, not many, know me because I've allowed them to. And everyone else becomes mere substitute.

So, now that I recognize the barriers, I am thinking where do I want to go with this? Am I okay with being sort of isolated at work? Does it matter? I mean, for all my griping I like my job and the kids and the books and the library keep me busy enough. Sometimes it matters and other times not. I remember another work situation where initially I felt very "out of it" and saw that change so much for the better that I can barely remember how I first felt. When I started working at Budapest Magazines Kiado in the mid-90s, I was one of three editorial staff, and the other three were all British and had known each other years, and were very tight. I remember thinking at the time I'd never be part of them. But a couple months later, without even thinking about it, I was, and two have been dear friends ever since. Last time I saw them I was pregnant; one at a New Year's party in Budapest; the other came to my wedding here. Anyway, the point is is that after a certain period of time I did become part of them.

The circumstances, too, were very different. I don't have the same freedom or desire to feel so bonded at my current job. Back then I was single and without parental responsibilities; work and social life entirely intermixed. I'm just not at that stage of life anymore. At one point a couple Facebooked me and I Facebooked a few; ultimately, however, I took them off my Friends list. Why? With some, I felt uncomfortable with the lack of privacy; with others, I didn't like having to constantly view their clique activities if I was not part of it.

And school teacher culture is cliquey and gossipy, even among the best--and good lord they ALL think they know how to be librarians....!!!!! Maybe that's why most of the staff I feel comfortable with are men; then don't tend to fall into those behaviors. With the exception of our tech man, who at best is indifferent and at worst condescending to us librarians, the men I work with don't act like they know how to be a librarian better than I do. If a teacher really, REALLY wants to get on my bad side, all they need to do is tell me what they think my job is. If I like the person, I smile and nod dumbly and tolerate it; if I don't, they get a fixed stare while I internally recite the Librarians Wield Incredible Power mantra until they shut up and go away. I don't expect to be worshipped, although my knowledge of literature and research methods is impressive, just respected.

The Demoralization Dinosaur

It's been one of those days at work. It's not that it was horrible...horrible would constitute one of my ancient bookcases coming crashing down on a child's head, or A. and J. punching each other out first period, my electronic catalogue being wiped out, or the University Chemistry Club spilling acid all over the print collection (as may happen when the visit our school and set up shop in the library for the day...not my choice).

No, this was just a day where I exhaust myself trying to squeeze the elephant in the room out the door, except for the sake of alliteration let's call it the Demoralization Dinosaur. Unlike the light, laminated paper Genre Giraffe and Reference Rhinocerous posted in front of the library, the Demoralization Dinosaur is invisible but very, very heavy. The DD means looking at one's schedule without library management periods. The DD is sticking a couple of classes in front of the video for two periods so one can get two months worth of basic accounting done, and getting almost nothing done despite this because the kids can't even sit still for a freaking video. The DD smothers your brain while you're trying to find the right words in a memo to explain to one's administrator--and mind you I really like the one I directly report to--why it is important that I get the accounting done instead of writing and carrying out intricate lesson plans. The DD nods its head smugly after your student "helpers" seem to be unable to follow the simplest of directions. The DD makes you feel guilty because in the middle of trying to do your accounting, you snapped at a student who needed your help. The DD takes over when you can't remember the names of the students you care about so much. The DD whacks you over the head when your direct supervisor send back my lesson plan book with the complaint there is "too much repetition;" in other words, it's not good enough to repeat and reinforce skills in the very short time I have to teach anyway in between checking out books. I don't take it personally; like I said I like my admin and he likes me; But the admins are doing this to all of the teaching staff to "prove" to the state that they are making us lazy teachers do our jobs. The latest directive was at the end of the day staff meeting; all staff now have to sign out at the end of the day in addition to signing in, like we are in a bloody factory. Comes from the Voldemorts at the top; no one is happy about it. It also may follow me home, when I see my child's report card. It has already followed her best friend home; the child is crying over it.

Every once in a while in a chat with my VP, we agree that we like our jobs despite all of the disrespect from central office, the state and the ordinary citizen; we also like our well-deserved benefits. We like the fact that our jobs are recession-proof; kids still need to be educated. Sometimes I feel I have no right to feel demoralized when I am seeing the effects of the recession around me in friends and aquaintances--the layoffs, the inability to find enough work, being in the wrong political party to find work, the after-hours hourly jobs, the loss of retirement funds--as I wrote earlier, there is terrible and there is demoralizing and there is a difference. I'll try to keep my chin up. It is odd; this feeling that I like my job and feel grateful every day that I chose my career; and yet I feel demoralized. How can that be?

Explaining the municipal pool

About a week after Obama was elected...much to my relief...I was cheerfully checking out books to one of my favorite classes, the bilingual 4th grade. It's a small class of about 14 right now, most of the kids are in their third year in the school, and five or six of them started in our "Newcomer program." The "Newcomers" are new immigrant kids who had very, very little schooling in their country of origin...in this case usually the Dominican Republic although overall most of our kids are Mexican. Because they are so way behind in all subjects and don't really know school routines, they spend a few months and up to a year in a sort of absorption class learning only in Spanish before being promoted to a regular Spanish-English bilingual class.

I don't know why so many of the Newcomers are Dominican--maybe because public education is required in Mexico but not in the D.R.? I'm not sure. Also, a disproportionate number of Dominican newcomer kids are black, not brown, and I don't know if that is a reflection of racial/economic conditions in their own country. All I know is that the D.R. shares the island with Haiti, where the power elites are white or near white. Anyway, one of my favorite ex-newcomers, who is now in the regular 4th grade bilingual, is R. He's sweet-natured, exceedingly bright, picked up English much faster than I've seen most of our kids do, helpful, funny, takes interest in the world around him...everything you'd want a student to be. He's a kid who has the right mix of smarts, sociability, compassion and attitude to succeed, and that's always particularly gratifying to see in a child who missed out on formal education until he was eight.

Anyway, he was chatting with me while I was checking in some books the other day, and said, smiling, that he was happy about Obama getting elected. As a public school teacher I wasn't allowed to say, of course, but I smiled back. "Maybe now they will let me into the pool in [the town next to his]. I gave him a baffled look.

"Do you know T---" (He named the town). I nodded. "Me and my uncle went to the pool there and they didn't let us in and my uncle say it because we are black. Maybe since Obama is President they don't do that more."

"R-- , does your uncle live in T----?" I asked. "No, he live here," he replied.

Okay. So let me get this straight. His uncle tries to get in to a municipal pool in a town he does not live in, and he assumes he couldn't get in because he is black. And he passes this information on to his nine- or ten-year-old nephew. Sigh. It's not that these things DON'T ever happen, but racism is not usually that blatant around here. It takes more subtle forms, like the fact that my urban school district is entirely racially, ethnically and economically segregated.

So I explained the concept of a municipal pool to R. "Listen," I suggested. "Next summer, you find a friend or relative who actually LIVES in T---." Then you pay a little money and they can take you as a guest. Look, I don't have a municipal pool in my town. If I went to the one in T on my own I wouldn't get in either--and do I look black?" He laughed and shook his head. "So I go to my friend's town and she takes me to her pool as her guest. That's what you have to do."

So I quit my job...

...in a dream. My sister, who in real life DOES live in Las Vegas, had convinced me and another single mom in town to move to LV and get jobs there. No problem, everyone needs librarians, right? So, there we am walking down this big hall in LV to, presumably, the board of education. The other woman is a math teacher. Anyway, after walking and walking we reach the end of this hall, where at a long table is sitting....aaargh....the deputy superintendent of schools in my REAL district. I am dismayed to see her (as I am in real life--she is really frightening) and wondering what she is doing in Las Vegas. "So," she says to me, smirking, "How do you expect to make a living in Las Vegas?"

"Well, um," I said. "I am applying for a librarian job in the school district here." She continues smirking, then informs me that Las Vegas has just eliminated all of their school libraries due to lack of funding.

Twice, I am thinking in a panic, this has GOT to be a bad dream. Wake up, wake up. It is not a dream---I don't wake up. I know that she is dying for me to beg for my old job back so she can refuse me.

Finally, I wake up. It is a bad dream. Clearly, I am telling myself that I should appreciate the job I have.

30 percent

My district has a 30 percent mobility rate. What this means is that at any given time during the school year, 30 percent of the district's students are moving to a new home which means they either have to go to a different school within the district, or they are moving out of the district. Either way, studies show that this is toxic to student achievement. It's also hard for teachers, who have to constantly catch new kids up or lose kids just as they reach them. Some kids' parents just take them away to Mexico for months at a time, then show up a few months later and reenroll them, which of course causes havoc in terms of the kids' education gaps and the classroom community.

Three cases at my school. I'll start with the one that made me very happy yesterday. The first week of school when I saw my bilingual 4th grade, I asked: "Where's A?" A. had enrolled in the school two years ago fresh from the Dominican Republic and apparently very little education there. The Newcomer program is for new immigrants who had so little schooling in their homelands that even in Spanish they are way, way below grade level. They are taught strictly in Spanish for a while to help them catch up and acclimate to American institutions and customs. Anyway, A. started out in a regular bilingual 3rd grade, then was placed in the Newcomer class, I guess, when they figured out how behind she was. Then last year she repeated bilingual 3rd grade, along with a two other kids who had also been in Newcomer. The three of them are a bright, hardworking bunch. Anyway, last year she told me she wants to be a librarian when she grows up. You can imagine how happy I was. She's one of my student helpers, of course.

Anyway, this year she's in the fourth grade--luckily she's short and cute so she looks more like a nine-year-old than an eleven-year-old. So when I saw her class for the first time a couple of weeks ago and she wasn't there, I said, "Where's A?" She was still in the D.R., the other students said, and wasn't coming back till November. Their school year is different and one of the mobility problems we have is that a lot of kids go back to Mexico or the DR over the summer, or back and forth, and the school calendars there are different from here. I was so annoyed. I mean, here you have parents who didn't educate her much when she was living there, and now that she's getting a decent education they can't get her back here in time.

Well, it's only the end of September, but yesterday she showed up. I was thrilled to see her. So was her classroom teacher, who was talking to me yesterday about Case #2:

Case#2. His smartest student last year was S., who was from Mexico. Although still in a bilingual class, his English was getting quite good and he was excelling in his other subjects as well. Then, halfway through the year, his mom took him back to Mexico. He didn't want to go. He had to, and he was gone. His teacher told me though, yesterday, that at least he has the option to come back someday--apparently he has his citizenship papers. You have to realize that most of our kids HAVE BEEN BORN in the U.S. But as kids, if the parents go back to their home countries, they have to go with them, education interrupted.

Case #3. On the way to the car, I ran into M., a 5th grader. As I saw her, I realized I hadn't seen her this year. She had moved a few blocks away over the summer, but now was in the neighborhood of another school. She misses ours, and her friends. She's only going to be in this new school one year before moving up to the middle school. She was just on the cusp of transitioning between bilingual class and English-speaking class, and I hope this doesn't hold her up.

I'm a grandma?

It has happened, although sooner than I thought it would being that I have only taught for five years. I have encountered my first "grandchild." One of my former students has a child already. She is fifteen.

I had R as a student a little over two years ago, when we still had 6th through 8th graders in our school. That May and June she was assigned to the library to do a project and help me, as condition for graduation. Causing too much trouble in class. She wasn't a huge help in the library, but I liked having her there. I liked her. She was smart, and that goes a long way with me. She also couldn't control her urge to disrupt her classmates (attention getting?) but since they weren't there in the library it wasn't an issue. She loved to read, so that's what she spend a lot of time doing, and that was fine with me. She graduated, but the following October I passed by her in the street and she said she'd been kicked out of the high school, and was at the alternate school, which is basically the route to dropping out of high school. I felt badly. There are some kids who, whatever the issue is at home, have teachers and counselors at school who are willing to help them and work with them, but sometimes that is not enough.

R. was smart, but for whatever reason she decided that she did not want to control her urge to disrupt and stay in school. She's not like other kids you see whose IQs are barely enough to get them through elementary education, and she's not some sort of unpopular geek--she had friends. She didn't go around school like a you-know-what in training...there were some girls who'd go around school with puffed out their lips and boobs even in sixth grade, priming themselves for teen pregnancy, as if the only thing they felt they could offer (a boy) was their bodies. R didn't have the looks--acne-ridden, sallow skin, a lazy eye, straggly reddish hair--but she had the brains.

Today I was walking to my car across the street from school, slightly zoned out after a long day at work. My brain didn't even register the three teenage girls walking past me--then I heard, "Hey, hello Ms.---"

"R----" I called out. "What are you up to these days?" She pointed. "That's mine." Then I saw the baby carriage, being pushed by one of the other girls, who looked vaguely familiar. Then I looked at R and smiled, although wincing inwardly at the multiple piercings she had added to herself--on her lip, her chin, her temples. It was conceptually hard to link this pink-wrapped and unblemished infant, sleeping in the carriage protected by the visor, with her mother, pierced, squinting slightly cross-eyed in the late summer sun, her slightly chubby body squeezed into faded jeans. R, for all her physical ugliness, could smile and laugh unself-consciously among the two carefully lipsticked, doe-eyed and dark-haired girls beside her. When R talks to you she looks right at you, even though her lazy eye doesn't. So many of the teenage girls cannot, because they are too busy worrying about their self-image. It is something I admire about R. But there was nothing admirable about the scene, anyway. "Where are you living?" She replied--a wealthier town about half an hour away, but she was here because the baby's doctor was here. I asked her if she was with the father. Yeah, she smiled. "I sure know how to pick them!" she said, pride in her voice. That told me she had likely gotten pregnant on purpose--not surprisingly, since R. is too smart to get pregnant by accident. I didn't pry. It's likely I will run into her again.

Explaining bilingual education in the context of a dream

The setting of the dream
I was at some sort of social convention in Vienna (probably because of my friend's reference to Egon Schiele on his Facebook) but not feeling very sociable. I slept my way through the first day and ate my way through the second (yes, lots of Viennese tables, but no sex--it was not that kind of dream). The new teacher's union executive from my school was in charge of activities and I was not in a participatory mood.

Although various people were encouraging me to take a second chance with a guy I knew from sleepaway camp when we were 12, by the time I was feeling friendly enough to enter the dining room, he had left. (By the way, in real life, this guy, who did not seem strike anyone as all that promising at age 12, is now chief of staff to a state governor. When I knew him at camp, he supposedly was considering asking me to the banquet, but I was too shy to acknowledge him so he asked someone else).

Anyway, not wanting to participate in a getting-to-know-you scavenger hunt, I wandered into the hotel office. There, a white woman was working at the fax machine and a Mexican immigrant woman was cleaning. The woman at the fax machine asked me, on behalf of her Mexican colleage, if I could recommend how her children could learn English, since she herself only spoke Spanish. So I launched into a whole explanation of bilingual education--why her kids were studying in Spanish at school. So, for those of you who don't know about the highly politicized issue of bilingual education and Latino immigration in this country, here is a simplified explanation below.

(to be continued later--must get ready for school)

Continued: My take on bilingual education (as explained to a Mexican hotel housekeeper in a dream):

The reason why so many Latino kids in the United States are being taught in Spanish at least half the day is, according to supporters of bilingual education, to help them catch up with conceptual vocabulary. For instance, the 5-year-old child of an Argentinian doctor and accountant enters kindergarten in the U.S. with the same level of vocabulary, albeit in Spanish, as an Anglo child, because his or her parents' education is reflected in conversation/literacy at home with the child.

However, many of the Mexican- and Dominican-American children in the U.S. suppposedly have families with low levels of education and literacy, and therefore, even their Spanish conceptual vocabulary is low when they enter school--the children know "house Spanish." They enter school with far fewer vocabulary words in any language, and if intervention doesn't take place, they never catch up.

The research says that children learn concepts--such as what is hurricane, or why do people need shelter, or why does the sky look blue, or how can one take care of oneself--best in their native language. Then, with a strong foundation in their native language, they "transfer" the concept easily into a second language. So, this is the justification for having bilingual classes in early childhood and lower elementary education.

All of the above is the reason why so many states and districts support bilingual education. Most research make this claim.

Although the research appears sound, and makes a lot of sense, there is a problem. A big problem. And the schools tend to ignore it.

The same research that supports bilingual education also notes, often, that for it to be successful it must take place under very specific conditions. And 99 percent of the time, these conditions don't exist in our schools.

So what are the conditions, and which ones are missing most of the time? (to be continued)

I didn't take children's oral fixations into account.

There are some thing entirely predictable at my school. For instance, I am not the least bit surprised that, as the school year begins, the circulation system is down, my desk phone is not working, my email is not working, and that those in charge of fixing these things are unresponsive.

However, my new attempt at behavioral management using Beanie Babies (yes, those annoying dust-collectors finally have a use) has run into a glitch: Several of my students seem to like to chew on them during class. Yech. I've told my daughter that when she comes to work with me on occasion, she's not to touch them. I love my students, but, as I pointed out to several of them today, not their germs. "Andi, get that unicorn horn out of your mouth!"

Am I an instruction design whiz yet?

I certainly hope so. I've been spending the past week banging out lesson and unit plans like a reporter bangs out the daily news. In all seriousness, those 15 credits I took this summer did me a lot of good. Anyway, I don't write lesson plans well at school--too many distractions, and our required lesson plan template is full of absurd educational lingo (such as "anticipatory set" and leaves out some crucial elements (such as differentiated instruction). In any case, solid instructional design means, initially, a lot of elaborate planning and setup, and that will take up my prep periods. Once you have the materials, you're set for life, but putting them together initially is a lot of work.

Mommy, I need help!

Seriously, I actually asked my mom to come help me set up at the library on Friday. Well, why not--she's retired, has been curious to see my school, and if my 77-year-old former landlady, Ruth, can volunteer on a daily basis for a school in my district, I see nothing wrong with mom lending a few hours of her time. So there she was, easily bypassing the throngs of frustrated Spanish-speaking mothers at the security desk, patting children on the head and cooing over their new uniforms, finally making her way upstairs to the library. I got her busy right away putting protective covers on books. If you think covering books is a misplaced priority when I have so much else to do, think again. Without those covers, that tens of thousands of dollars of worth of donated books, carefully selected by the Expert One (me), will be destroyed by childish hands within three years, guaranteed. I want our students to have these great books, and that means making them last for many years. Plus, I don't have the time to repair or chase after fine money for damaged books. So I leave book covering to the volunteers. The principal did send down a couple of paraprofessionals to help. I doubt that will last long, though. Frankly, I am quite furious with him. For now I'm simply letting it ride..what choice do I have??? Our elder stateswoman librarian in the district is raising our schedule issues with the union.

Anyway, the one bone the principal threw me is that he allowed me to wait an additional week before seeing my classes that are not teacher preps. This was not an unreasonable request on my part; even teachers with decent schedules often don't have to start seeing classes for the first two weeks of school. This meant I'd only have to see half my classes this coming week.

Anyway, so there we are--Mom and one of the paras covering books, me running around colorcoding my teaching materials by level and organizing my personal storage area, when Principal comes in...Still smarting over his indifference to my schedule, I instinctively CROSSED MY ARMS in front of my chest; then, aware of this, uncrossed them. But I couldn't smile. "Is the library going to be ready for Monday?" he asked, looking at the standing files spread around the table." "Yes," I lied, thinking, what an ASININE question...no school library, even in the best of schools, is READY the second day of school. He should know better. "Remember, I'm not seeing my non-prep classes next week," I reminded him. "No, we're going to start full throttle on Monday, you are going to be seeing all of your classes," he replied. I looked at him in shock and disbelief. "But you said..." My voice dropped. No use arguing with one's principal. He left. I fumed to mom and the para.

I feel like I'm being set up for failure, and I resent it even though I'm not going to fail. But Principal, I'm a professional, and expert, and have put my heart and soul into this job, and I love the kids and I love the school. You may not think you need my respect and my expertise, but you do. Once I had a lot of respect for you, but now I have lost it. You did not HAVE to pull that last-minute switch.

I don't know if this counts as psychic messaging (yes, Theo?) but it sure beats standing with my arms folded...one can't write with one's arms folded.

For all you teachers out there...

Several of us librarians developed a lesson plan today on Presidential Elections and detecting bias in text and images. It is geared toward grade 5 but could certainly be used for higher grades.

American Association of School Libraries: Standard 1: Inquire

1.1 Skills
1.1.1 Follow an inquiry-based process in seeking knowledge in curricular subjects,and make the real-world connection for using this process in own life.

1.1.6 Read, view, and listen for information presented in any format (e.g., textual,visual, media, digital) in order to make inferences and gather meaning.

1.1.7 Make sense of information gathered from diverse sources by identifying misconceptions,main and supporting ideas, conflicting information, and point of view or bias.

1.1.9 Collaborate with others to broaden and deepen understanding.



Objective: Students will be able to recognize bias in print and electronic sources.


Essential Questions: How do you evaluate a source of information for bias?


Materials: Magazines, abc-clio.com/ElectionReference printouts, campaign literature and websites, editorial pages and news articles from newspaper. Each type of resource is placed at a different table.


Anticipatory Set: Show ads for each presidential candidate on United Streaming, elicit from students signs of bias in language, image, and sound. (i.e., words, lighting, background music, etc)


Activities: Break students into groups of three to five. Each group is assigned a table with a particular resource (choose which and how many from how large and your class's level). Each group must come up with three to five examples of language of bias from their source.


Differentiated instruction: For visual learners and non-readers, provide picture prompts (for example, a frowning, grainy picture of a candidate from opponent's literature compared with smiling, clear picture from candidate's own campaign); Spanish language materials where available, and material with a variety of reading levels.


Closure: Each group presents one or two examples from their findings.

Photo source: http://politicalhumor.about.com/od/johnmccain/ig/John-McCain-Pictures/Palin-Boosts-McCain.htm


Ha, and you readers were expecting an anti-Palin diatribe about her attempts at book censorship. Stay tuned for that one.

Theo, psychic messaging, and Desiderata

1992-1996: Budapest, Hungary. My dear friend Theo and I were writing partners in the old days in Budapest at the Astoria hotel coffeehouse, take out notebooks and a copy of Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones, and write and critique together. When I started blogging last year, coincidentally, he started blogging at the same time. He recently wrote this post about using mysticism to cope with one's job, just what I needed to read. So even though I don't really believe in psychic dialogue, well...at least with Theo and I it might be true.



1986-1987: Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel. I was a college student spending my junior year abroad, and also much more left-wing on Israeli politics than I am now, partly because the two intifadas had not yet occurred, partly because of a boyfriend even farther to the left. Politics notwithstanding, I loved to listen to Kol Hashalom, the Voice of Peace, a pirate (unlicensed) radio station that was broadcast, as they always stated, on a boat off Haifa "from somewhere out in the Mediterranean." The boat is pictured above. The station was run by a left-wing peace activist, Abbie Nathan. Every evening he would broadcast a recording of the prose poem "Desiderata." It was the first time I had ever heard it and it immediately wrapped itself in a comforting blanket around my heart. I have loved it ever since. And it is going to be my morning recitation (and maybe lunchtime too) at work.

Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann


Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.