Mr. Brown was a clown

I never know what to expect when my Grandmother pulls out her scrapbook. It is stuffed with news clippings of family members and friends and spans decades. On a recent visit, she reminded me that I became a published news correspondent at the ripe old age of nine. With no further ado, I present, for the first time since it's original publish date, an article I wrote as part of a trio of articles about my school Callaway Elementary. Entitled "Circus," it was published in the Franklin News-Post on October 18, 1985.

Mr. Derek Brown is the third and fourth grade art teacher at Callaway Elementary School. On Friday, September 27, Mr. Brown acted like he was a mime. This means there was no conversation while he acted out situations. He pretended he was stuck behind a wall and then he pretended he rode a horse. This was done with no conversation or props.

Then Mr. Brown gave us paper and he called on students in the class to come and stand a certain way. They were representing animals we might see in a circus. We had to draw them using gesture drawings. Then when he snapped his fingers we added something to our drawings. Some added the three rings you would find in a circus; some added more elephants; or maybe more trapeze acrobats doing stunts on the trapeze. The pictures turned out great.

Our favorite part was when Mr. Brown played a mime. He had music that you might hear at a circus. He was even dressed like a clown. We were kind of sad when this art class was over and Mr. Brown left.

Riveting. Watch out Katie Couric.

Treks In The City

I love the city...any city. Everything about a city makes me feel alive. My senses are assaulted. Even thick fog, which would depress me at home, is beautiful in the city as it rolls down the streets and alleys, enveloping buildings, covering them in moving gray and white clouds.

Part of really seeing and experiencing a city is exploring on foot. There's always a new smell, color or unique "situation" hanging out on a street corner that you'd miss if you were moving quickly. I walk everywhere I can, opting for subways, buses and trains only when I cannot arrive at my destination within a reasonable amount of time(an hour or so isn't unusual for me) and taking cabs only when the other transportation offerings are not an option. This is the case this evening when I hail a cab to drive me from the IO Theater near Wrigley Field, where I witnessed some of the funniest stand up comedy of my life, to my hotel near O'Hare.

The cabbie was black. African. He spoke English with a limited vocabulary and a thick accent that made it difficult for me to understand him unless I paid very close attention. He is working to improve his English skills and practiced by asking me my name, birthday, etc. Kenny - this is his American name - tells me he is 37 years old and has been in America for a year. Like so many others, he came here at the promise of great opportunity and now is working every waking moment. I tell him I'm returning to school to study communications and film. He wants to go to school next year "after my birthday on November 24," he tells me. Kenny says he was a broadcast journalist in Nigeria. I find this oddly coincidental but fitting and I choose to believe him.

He asks me why I'm not married. Not knowing how to explain my newly single status to him, I simply answer that I do not want to be. He is taken aback. In his culture, he explains, marriage is highly regarded and sought after. It is insulting to your family to not marry at your earliest opportunity. He explains to me that marriage is about showing respect to your family, your community and yourself. I ask Kenny why he is not married yet at 37.

He tells me stories of his future wife who is still in Nigeria. He spins tales of life in Africa and war and poverty and beauty. He talks about being an African man in America and not feeling like he is a part of any culture here, white or black. He makes phone calls to his kinfolk and I listen to the beauty of his native tongue. Time passes.

The cab ride should have taken 25 minutes. It is dark and Kenny is lost. I gave him very careful directions in the beginning, but he did not understand me and now I do not know where we are either. He pleads with me to help. I ask for directions several times and then navigate from the backseat. Kenny disregards me and we tunnel deeper into the city and further away from my destination. We drive for more than an hour and finally find a Marriott who will take me via shuttle to my hotel. Kenny does not sense, or maybe just doesn't acknowledge, my frustration. I try to keep it at bay as this ride was slightly amusing and maybe just what I needed on this mild night in Chicago. As I depart the taxi, he hands me a note that reads:
Kenny
773-555-5555
a cab man (Nigerian)

He asks me to call him the next day so he can drive me around. I think I'll pass...my feet are more reliable, thank you very much.

You put your left foot in...

I'm positive that I do not possess words to adequately describe this image. Normally, I would change the names of the innocent, but since there were no innocents involved, I won't. Holly and Walt - my crazy friends who are so ridiculously happy together that it's impossible not to get caught up and surrender yourself to their infectious joy - let me accompany them to the VT v. Florida State game. 50,000 fun stories that could make this blog drag on for days. Crazy tailgating before game. Cherry Coke. Bubble-like apparel to battle the brutal Blacksburg cold. Marching Penguins (slow moving geriatrics). 65,000 person mosh pit. 65,000 person hokie pokie mass. Marching Virginians. Highty Tighties, oh my. Dragging drink boys (not drunk boys!) against traffic during halftime. Abundant touchdowns. Ultimate win. Rushing field. Crazy tailgating after game. Skippage. Official launch of the "Crystalline" years. Old friendships renewed. New friendships begun.

Thanks you guys! I love ya!

No hablo espanol

40 days. Only 40 days until I fly off into the sunset, headed for parts unknown. Well, that's not entirely true, but it sounds good if not more than a little cliche. I actually have a morning flight, so technically I'll be flying into the sunrise...a much more optimistic direction, I think. And, since my ticket says Guatemala City, "parts unknown" becomes 20 days in Central America.

In anticipation of my trip, I have spent every waking moment of late trying to learn Spanish. Before I go any further, let me officially declare that I am not naive. I completely understand that many folks I encounter will speak English. More realistically, many won't speak English or Spanish as there are 40 different Mayan languages whose usage prevails in the small, rural towns where I will spend most of my time. Even so, I'm using this trip as an opportunity to learn another language and I'll do it if it kills me!

I have used dictionaries and CDs and DVDs and online learning tools...none of which have taught me anything. I failed terribly at making a hotel reservation for my first night in the country, even after employing my Spanish-English dictionary. The simplest of phrases eluded me until I discovered a wonderful podcast called Coffee Break Spanish. It declares to "bring language learning with your latte." Perfect! Kara and Mark are wonderful hosts with thick Scottish accents who patiently teach me and hundreds of other listeners Spanish in 15 minute increments. All is going very well.
Mark asks me how to say "I have two sisters." I can squawk: "Tengo dos hermanas."
Where are you from: De donde eres?
I am hungry: Tengo hambre
Where is the cathedral: Donde esta la catedral?
Is there a bar nearby: Hay un barre cerca de aqui?
I need another beer please: Quisiera una cerveza por favor.
Uno, dos, tres, hola, como estas, hasta luego...and on and on. All useful phrases, which I confidently speak (though I realize my spelling has a long way to go).

I am certain that I have begun the process of mastery...that is until tonight when I visit my favorite sushi restaurant. The chef - who, ironically, is not from Japan but Honduras - puts my knowledge to the test by speaking to me only in Spanish. I fail miserably. While I can generally understand him, answering his questions proves impossible. I totally freeze. I even forget the phrases I've practiced the most: "I'm sorry, I don't understand" and "Please speak more slowly." When the conversation deviates from my comfortable and structured digital lessons my mind goes blank. While I feel very confident belting out Spanish phrases within the safety of my car with Mark and Kara, everything sounds strange when verbalized in a public setting.

I'm making my peace with the fact that the most I'm learning from Coffee Break Spanish is how to speak English with a Scottish accent! While this will be very useful in hiding my status as an American, it's not going to get me very far when asking for a table at a restaurant, trying to find a bank, or bartering in the centro commercial.

40 days. 40 days! Perhaps I need a new plan...at least I'll play a mean game of charades when I return.