During freshman year in high school, while I could have spent time learning the fundamentals of astronomy and algebra, I instead passed my time shoplifting. I would sit cross-legged in the town commons with the alpha friend who taught me how to remove sensors, and we would sort our loot. Among the hot piles, make-up was always the mode. Blush, concealer, liquid eyeliner. I applied the stolen make-up, and kept my fingernails filed and painted just as 1990 dictated. But, perhaps out of guilt, I never really learned how to make the make-up look good.

In my twenties I had trouble with ambiguity. I was conflicted by my feminist belief that women should not have to paint their faces, and my desire to have even skin tones. So on top of the layers of identity confusion, I inexpertly painted layers of base. Often I retained a natural face, and was jealous of the smoky eyes and glossy lips of less conflicted and more integrated young women. I also admired the women who did not wear make-up, looked beautiful and confident, and didn’t appear to struggle with themselves at all. I still feel a mild sense of panic when I apply make-up. It’s in my muscle memory- the deceit, the confusion, the conflicted feelings about femininity. I swipe eye-shadow across my lids with my finger like I’m stealing frosting off of someone’s birthday cake. There’s no reason for this now. I’m comfortable with myself and with the concept of wearing make-up. I’m ready to learn how to apply it well.

In 1983, as I was watching my mother expertly apply Clinique, educators Pearson and Gallagher were busy developing an instructional model called “the gradual release of responsibility.” The model involves the teacher transitioning from assuming the responsibilities of a task to students assuming all of the responsibility. Also called “I do, We do, You do”, this process begins with the teacher modeling the activity while the student listens and observes (I do). Next, guided instruction occurs as the student begins the task and the teacher prompts, questions, facilitates (we do). Collaborative learning may occur, as students consolidate their understandings by working with peers. Finally, students transfer their learning, solidify their understandings, and complete the task independently (you do). Educators Fisher and Frey further developed this model, and it is widely used by teachers today. I decided to employ it in order to learn to do make-up.

My teacher was Reese, a talented make-up artist and aspiring English teacher.

“I love what I do, and I believe it can help people. Sometimes it can even be life changing. And it’s not as different from teaching as people think. But I hope that if I can get to people early [as a teacher], I can do some work on the inside, and prevent some of the need to repair the outside.”

Activating her teaching skills, Reese “gradually released” me to do my own make-up. She helped me stretch my budget to purchase versatile tools for reasonable cost, maximum impact, and ease of use. She made the art of make-up playful yet strategic, always assuring me that we could achieve any desired effect if we applied our tools correctly. She used the words “fun” and “work” interchangeably.  

TOOLS, TECHNIQUES & TIPS FOR THE OUTSIDE

Play with a Stick and a Sponge
Get a Play Stick and an antibacterial sponge. Use a cream to powder foundation. It’s versatile and easy. You simply put it where you want it, and smooth it out with the sponge. You can keep the sponge until it grosses you out, something I’ve strangely come to peace with since the failed sponge experiment. It’s called a “PLAY” stick, so have the fun with it you used to have with a magic marker. Draw until you like it, no fear.

Try the Snake-Oil
I never used to buy eye cream because it is extremely expensive and I was suspicious that it was snake-oil. What makes eye cream different from regular cream? Supposedly, eye creams address eye ailments without harming the eye. They are meant to sooth inflammation, restore the skin, and strengthen the eye area which has very thin skin and lacks support structure. I tried some, and I do think it has reduced the dark circles under my eyes. Snake-oil or not, I enjoy putting it around my eyes morning and night. Even more important than eye cream: sleep.

We Do Smoky Eyes
In this video, Reese teaches me (and you) to create a smoky eye.

TOOLS, TECHNIQUES & TIPS FOR THE INSIDE

You’re Life Size, Not Larger
I used to expect that make-up would morph me to the point of appearing like a totally different person. It’s not that I dislike my looks, but like many people I crave the experience of total transformation. On Halloween, I am often surprised that despite my efforts to be a robot bunny, murderous tooth fairy, or Santa Claus, I’m still recognizably me. I look at myself in the mirror from across the room and am confounded that I’m the same old size. Shouldn’t my inflated character make me larger than life? It doesn’t- never to the degree that I expect. So part of feeling efficacious at make-up application is accepting that I can’t completely transform myself, nor do I truly want to. I’m not lacking that one dramatic tool or technique that will shape shift me. I’m lacking a reasonable expectation of what make-up can do.

Live in Shades of Gray
Do you ever ask yourself these questions: Why am I covering my face? Why am I trying to hide my flaws? Why am I succumbing to marketing ploys? Why am I doing something men don’t (generally) do?

Many of us could grapple with these questions, yet still enjoy wearing make-up. Let’s call this living in the shades of gray. A ten year old recently taught me how to live in the gray by drawing a line. Her bedroom door has a list of criteria for those are are “Allowed” and “Not Allowed”. Those who are not allowed include “People who care more about what they wear than other more important things in life.” Above that declaration is a drawing of a girl in a super cute outfit and a smaller sign that says “The Designer Is In”. She knows how to love fashion and design, but how to draw a line. There are more important things.

Part of living maturely in the gray is saying “This is as far as I’ll go.” It’s also about determining purpose. The art of make-up involves self-expression and exploration; it need not be used as a self-edit or to delete flaws. There are some rare individuals who live outside the gray, choosing consciously each day.  What they eat/don’t eat, buy/don’t buy, do/don’t do is carefully aligned with their views. While I really admire these people, I notice that in order for them to maintain fidelity, their lives have to be subtractive. My desire to taste, try, add on, and say yes, trumps my desire to walk all of my talk. For me, living in the gray involves setting parameters and purpose, and making pledges like the one Mariela posted on her bedroom door.

Parameters= wear make-up that enhances not masks.
Purpose = self-expression, not concealment.
Pledge = to be creative and have fun.

A homophone is a word that sounds the same as another word but differs in meaning. Homophones may or may not differ in spelling (right/write, tire/tire). The above photograph is of a letter, sent to me by the Chicago Board of Education, confirming my resignation, and misspelling a homophone.

It’s hard for me to write these words: I am not a teacher anymore. I resigned from the Board and am now a coach of new teachers at turnaround schools. A turnaround is defined by Mass Insight as “a dramatic and comprehensive intervention in a low-performing school that: a) produces significant gains in achievement within two years; and b) readies the school for the longer process of transformation into a high-performance organization.” The stakes are high, and the teachers I coach are under a lot of scrutiny and pressure.

Transitioning from teacher to coach is like going from being a superhero to being the person who massages the superhero before she changes into her world-saving cape and leaps into the air. My bosses don’t see me as a masseuse; they believe that coaching is the lever to raise teacher and student performance. A lever amplifies an input force to provide a greater output force. So yes a lever can uplift you, but there’s force involved.

In 2010, results from a Tennessee experiment “Project Star,” showed that teachers are the largest determining factor of student achievement. This conclusion has become a panacea in the current national debate on school reform. Much like a homophone, this statement can crown or crucify a teacher depending on its context and how it is spelled out. The belief that teachers are highly influential could serve to improve the regard and increase the support of teachers. However, in today’s climate of accountability and measurement, it seems to be used more often as an weapon for teacher bashing. Teachers are blamed for the failing of our schools, and current school reform policy purports that the way to fix our schools is by fixing our inadequate teachers.

This is not to say that there aren’t incompetent, clock-punching teachers in our system. There certainly are. In fact, one of the reasons turnaround schools exist is because it is close to impossible to fire tenured teachers. The union supports its constituents regardless of the quality of their instruction.

My colleagues and I share a sense of urgency to close the achievement gap by training, coaching, and supporting teachers who work in schools that have been failing for decades. We don’t point to challenging factors as excuses. As a lever, I amplify a force that my teachers and their administrators already exert. But I’d like to pause from pushing for a moment, and point out five things that teacher-haters and policy makers sometimes overlook or forget:

Teachers have to do everything.
In most fields, there are separate positions for employees involved in design, implementation, and evaluation. Teachers have to do all three of these. When people unfamiliar with the work of a teacher express envy over a 3:00 dismissal, they are overlooking that the 8-3 portion of the day is only one-third of the teacher’s work. Most teachers I know come to school very early to prepare their materials and classrooms, and leave very late after assessing student work and restructuring lessons based on the assessment data. Most teachers I know spend at least half of their weekends planning lessons and doing paperwork, and a good deal of their evenings communicating with families. Most teachers I know spend a significant portion of their winter, spring, and summer “vacations” engaging in professional development or working on curriculum.

Teachers are working within a system that is outdated.
This RSA animate of Sir Ken Robinson’s TED talk makes a compelling case for a complete paradigm shift in education. Robinson explains how compulsory public education was established during the industrial revolution and based on a factory model. This model no longer serves today’s students, but rather causes their capacity for divergent thinking to deteriorate. He states:  “This isn’t because teachers want it this way… it’s just because it happens that way… because it’s in the gene pool of education.”

The people who are telling us that students are failing are the same people who are getting paid to test our students.
Gene Lyons recently noted in his column that public schools are doing better than Michelle Rhee and other “reformers” want us to think. Just a few weeks ago, Kevin Drum interpreted the results of the NAEP’s Trial Urban District Assessment, a measure of academic progress in big-city school districts. He notes: “These urban kids have improved their math and reading performance by anywhere from half a grade level to a full grade level in just eight years. There are plenty of nits to pick with data like this, and I’ve picked some of them in the past. Still, why is it that progress like this so rarely gets reported? It’s fairly impressive, no?” This is not to say that the achievement gap has been closed or that our scores aren’t lagging behind those of other countries, but doesn’t it seem strange that all we hear about is the dismal state of American education? And doesn’t it seem strange that it’s all based on standardized tests scores, and that these tests are manufactured by the same companies that manufacture the test preparation materials and programs?

Teaching to the test is obligatory and not fun.
Most teachers I know want their students to be critical thinkers, productive members of society, and creative and happy individuals. Most teachers I know would like to teach holistically, to tap into their students’ passions, and inspire them to better our world. However, teachers are under such incredible pressure from their administrators (who are under pressure from district level administrators) to raise test scores, that their curriculum, management, and instruction begins to reflect those of standardized tests. When I first entered the field in 2000, project-based, experiential learning was in vogue. Now it is the norm for schools to hold mock tests, test-prep rallies, and completely restructure their curricula in service of the test. The myriad of tools to collect and analyze data can be helpful to target students’ individual needs and differentiate instruction, but it also begets more testing. We test to prepare for tests which are meant to be indicators of performance on other tests. And we teach our students that they come to school to learn how to take tests, and then to take them, and take them some more.

Teachers can not single-handedly combat all social ills.
They should try, and they do try. And many of them hold themselves so accountable that they are consumed by guilt. They can’t fall asleep at night, worrying about the children they can’t reach. One teacher thinks about the child whose father suckerpunched him in front of school security cameras, on whom she had to call DCFS. She thinks about her students with early onset diabetes, who can’t exercise outside because it’s not safe, and can’t exercise inside because it’s too small. She thinks about the parents who couldn’t come to the conference because they work three jobs. The parents who avoid school functions because they are illegal immigrants. She thinks about how she has thirty-two students reading at a range of of eight grade levels, about the mom who asks her child to read to her while she cooks versus the child who’s mom is functionally illiterate. She doesn’t blame her students or their parents. She puts the onus back on herself. She asks herself, “What more can I do?”

***

As a coach, how can I make my teachers feel supported, not blamed? Wikipedia tells me: “The ideal lever does not dissipate or store energy, which means there is no friction in the hinge or bending in the beam. In this case, the power into the lever equals the power out, and the ratio of output to input force is given by the ratio of the distances from the fulcrum to the points of application of these forces. This is known as the law of the lever.”

Jim Knight‘s article What Good Coaches Do, published this October in Educational Leadership, makes the case for coaches and teachers interacting equally as partners. He describes seven partnership principles: equality, choice, voice, reflection, praxis, and reciprocity. He stresses the importance of coaches enrolling teachers authentically in the coaching process, identifying goals, listening, asking questions. Coaches also explain practices and provide feedback; but in a partnership model, this involves a collaborative exploration of data.

I am particularly influenced by Knight’s explanation of dialogue in the coaching process. Based on Paolo Friere‘s description of dialogue as a “mutually humanizing” form of communication, Knight suggests entering into coaching dialogue with humility, temporarily withholding our opinion to hear others, and engaging in a radical honesty. “That is, rather than covering up the flaws in our argument or hiding our ignorance, in dialogue we display the gaps in our thinking for everyone to see. If we want to learn, we can’t hide behind a dishonest veneer of expertise”. The loud voices in the political debate on school reform should consider that advice. Sadly absent from the dialogue is the voice of our teachers.

The charge of my new experience is to listen to the voices of the teachers.

***

For those of you who are disappointed that this post was not a rant on the misuse of homophones, below are some favorite homophones from A-Y:

awful/offal, bald/balled/bawled, chic/sheik, discussed/disgust, eight/ate, fairy/ferry (not a problem in the northeast where we can actually pronounce the short e sound), guise/guys, heroin/heroine (feel free to debate this on the basis of its etymology), I’d/eyed, jinks/jinx, kernel/colonel, liable/libel, morning/mourning, not/knot, overseas/oversees, principle/principal, queue/cue, roomer/rumor, sects/sex (feel free to debate on this on the basis of pronunciation), taught/taut, use/ewes, vain/vane/vein, whacks/wax, you’re/your. There are no homophones that start with Z.

It’s been a little gloomy here, what with blood diamonds fueling civil wars, Chicago youth murdered by the hundreds, and bacteria holding my counter tops hostage. How about a few cookies to cheer us up?

Of course, these can’t be conflict-free cookies. Their very batter stirs up psychological disturbances from my past. Behavior was modified and inner children were hugged in the baking of these cookies. Thankfully my friend Tim of Lottie + Doof was there to help me through it.

It all started in 1979 on the first day I met my stepmother. I was three, but just as neurotic as I am at thirty-five. I don’t remember this day at all, but I am told that on the first day we met, we baked cookies. What a classic lure! Just as Hansel and Gretel were lured into the witch’s oven by a gingerbread house, I was lured by chocolate chips. And just as the cannibalistic witch of the fairy tale fattens up children in an iron cage, I was fattened up with cookies!

Actually, knowing three year old me, I probably licked the spoon briefly with a paranoid tongue and ate a single cookie with hesitant bird bites. Life is pretty Disney for my stepmother and me today, but many of our years together were quite Grimm. And so the cookie-lure of my primary years lurks in my psyche.

Flash forward six years to the fourth grade. I was drafted into the Brownies. Yesssss. Finally, I had an in to that exclusive group, that secret society, no doubt shrouded in secret handshakes and hard to crack codes. We would surely meet in a cave somewhere, don our brown sashes, and ceremoniously pin our sisters as we chant in strange tongues.

Really we met in the Kindergarten classroom at my school, and glued a Polaroid photo of ourselves onto a construction paper flower. How lame. There was no secret handshake, nothing secret at all. The overhead fluorescent classroom lights gave off their ordinary glare. Ah but…. on the calendar… a meeting at Lisa Bard’s house! It must be off school grounds where the secret society flourishes. And what happened there? Kids yawned, and moms delivered instructions on how to sell Girl Scout cookies. I dropped out of Brownies immediately.

So here is where I started to associate cookies with The Other. At this time I lived in two different towns, and went to school in a third. It’s a long story that involves divorce, joint custody, and now cookies. Cookies were for the Lisa Bards of the world, the people who host Brownie meetings. Cookies were for suburban bake sales, for sports teams I don’t play on. That doesn’t mean I won’t eat cookies, but I don’t bake them, and I certainly do not sell them.

When we become adolescents, we do a Spice Girls thing in which we have to look like everyone else while simultaneously looking only like ourselves. We’re all scantily clad, but only I am posh and only you are sporty. This extended into my twenties and thirties when it came to domestic tasks. I found that I often lived with a person to whom I assigned: Only you are the baker. Why did I remain so adolescent about this? My sense of efficacy as a domestic person was stymied as the people I lived with became talented cooks and bakers and homemakers. I became skilled at certain domestic tasks- arranging books beautifully on a shelf- but didn’t bother with others. One thing I still have not done, to this day, is baked cookies. My friend Tim, who I have known for eighteen years and at one point lived with for seven, is an incredible baker and blogger of cookies and more. His baking became increasingly enjoyable and intimidating as he racked up recipes and stacked up cookies throughout the years.

If you’re a teenager, you may assign discreet roles to yourself and  your peers- you’re the jock, you’re emo, you’re the baker. But if you’re an adult, you may capitalize on your friends’ talents without being concerned with identify formation.  You get over your stepmother’s lure and your Brownie disillusionment, and you get in the kitchen and roll up your sleeves. Today I’d like to be an adult, and bake some cookies with my friend.

It turns out that making cookies is both simpler and more complex than I thought. What’s complex is that it is chemistry and requires precision. For example, Tim taught me that when you measure the flour it’s important not to pack it in the measuring cup. You should spoon it in gently, spoonful by spoonful, then use the edge of the spoon to level off the top (just like in chemistry class). It’s also important that each raw cookie is the same size, so that they bake evenly. Unlike with cooking, you can’t get away with being experimental or crude. The simplicity lies in how wonderful it feels to share the cookies once they are done. It’s a pure act. You made this thing out of flour, sugar, butter, butter, butter, and a few more ingredients, you baked it, you handed it to someone, and they became happy. They ate it and smiled and felt better than they felt before you gave the cookie. I find that in my daily life I am constantly trying to make people happy, but it usually requires more layers or more time. Cookie happiness is immediate and pure.

And now, the recipe:

PISTACHIO-CHERRY OATMEAL COOKIES
(Recipe by Daniel Humm of Eleven Madison Park via One Sweet Cookie by Tracey Zabar)

13  1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 cup granulated sugar
1  1/4 cups packed light brown sugar
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/3 cup honey
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
3 large eggs
2  2/3 cups bread flour
1  1/2 cups old fashioned rolled oats (not instant)
1  1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3 cups pistachios, shelled
3 cups dried sour cherries
fleur de sel, for sprinkling

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and salt. Mix in the honey, vanilla, and olive oil, and cream until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, then add the flour, oats, and baking soda, and mix just until combined. With a silicone spatula, fold in the pistachios and dried cherries. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and refrigerate overnight.
(Or a for a while!)
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line two half-sheet pans with parchment paper.
Using a small scoop, drop the dough onto the prepared pans, and lightly press down each cookie. Sprinkle with the fleur de sel. Bake for about 10 minutes or until golden brown. Cool completely on wire racks.
This recipe makes about 70 small cookies.

Photograph by Tim Mazurek

BAKE SALE REDEUX

Remember the yawning kids at Lisa Bard’s house? The Girl Scout cookies I never sold? The suburban bake sales for sports teams I never played on? This time, I got my chance to sell cookies, my chance to belong. I helped Tim sell cookies along with his friend Sandra of Chicago’s best bakery, Floriole. They had a booth at Dose Market, a year-round market selling local fashion and food. Discriminating foodies chose between eggnog meringues, whole wheat shortbread, earl grey chocolate, and more. Some just bought them all to avoid having to choose. I ate them all, for the purpose of being able to describe them to customers.

Photograph by Tim Mazurek

Cookies, in their simplicity and complexity, mean something new to me now. They mean friendship, generosity, and happiness. They are something I can bake, and so I’ll bake on.
Coming soon: cookies for the neighbors.

One reason that I avoid cleaning, besides being lazy and having better things to do, is that deep down I feel that I am perpetuating filth, not annihilating it. Sometimes the act of cleaning feels so dirty. One reason for this is the sponge. I do not understand the sponge at all. It is counter-intuitive to me. You have this object that absorbs, which makes me feel that germs (and everything bad you’ve wiped the sponge over) are festering inside of the sponge. Keep it a month or more, they say? That’s a month or more of festering! Heat it in the microwave, a trick they prescribe? It smells like sautéed microbes. And now that it’s absorbed a month’s worth of everything you wanted to get rid of, then sweated half of that out into your cooking apparatus, spread it around on other things you want to clean, and make them dirtier.

I have an innate sense of mistrust. I remember being a young child as my mother ran a hot bath for me. I thought about how she could, if she wanted to, drown me in the scalding water. I had no reason to think this; my mother is very nice. Trust nobody, not your mother, not a sponge. Because of this, I can’t seek help in conducting this research on the sponge. I’ll have to do it myself. And then with some curmudgeonly scientist’s method, I’ll have to test it, and prove the good or evil of the sponge once and for all.

***

After some preliminary research, I am ready to conduct an experiment using the scientific method. I read online that there are three methods for cleaning a sponge:

THE SOAK METHOD
Soaking with bleach supposedly kills 37%-87% of bacteria.

THE MICROWAVE METHOD
Microwaving for a minute will allegedly murder 99% of bacteria.

THE DISHWASHER METHOD
Washing your sponge in the dishwasher is thought to obliterate 99.9998% of bacteria.

But I can’t trust the word of wikihow. I must employ the scientific method, and control all of my variables. For the past ten years, I have worked with students in Chicago Public Schools to conduct science experiments and science fair projects. Resisting the lure of the fancy three-fold display board, I wanted my students to develop true inquiry-based projects and to CONTROL THEIR VARIABLES! I wanted my students to observe, question, research, hypothesize, test according to a controlled procedure, collect data, analyze data, and draw conclusions.

One time a fourth grade team of scientists was testing the affect of gender on the ability to throw a ball. Several boys threw balls and several girls threw balls, and the distance the ball traveled was measured and compared. A usually quiet student, Enrique, noticed that the data seemed skewed. Indeed, Ashya (whose super far distances were outliers) was using a different ball! The scientists decided to retest that set of data, because they determined that the ball was a variable and had thrown off the results. Ah, a method to the madness!

After ten years of forcing students to engage in the scientific method, it is time for me to do the same, to test the affect of these three cleaning methods on the bacteria in a sponge. I will follow the method as I have prescribed it.

***

SCIENCE FAIR = SPONGES

PURPOSE
Which cleaning method is most effective at removing bacteria from a sponge: the soak method, the microwave method, or the dishwasher method?

HYPOTHESIS
I think the dishwasher method will remove the most bacteria from a sponge. I think this because the dishwasher cycle is longer than the soak method or the one minute microwave method. Also, I observe that dishes that come out of the dishwasher are clean, and I usually don’t get sick when I eat off of them, so they probably don’t contain too much bacteria. I observe that items I microwave get heated, but they don’t get clean.

MATERIALS
Four new sponges, the exact same brand.
Four petri dishes.
Agar.
A stove.
A pot.
Scissors.
A microwave.
A dishwasher with cleaning tablets.
Bleach.
Water.
A tub for soaking.
A camera.
Regular kitchen surfaces, dishware, and utensils.

PROCEDURE
1. Open all four new sponges. These sponges will be used for:
a) soak method, b) microwave method, c) dishwasher method c) control (do not clean this sponge before sampling)

2. For three months, wipe surfaces and dishware with all four sponges. Take care to use each sponge as equally as possible by cleaning surfaces and items in quadrants, with attention to area and volume of food. Also control the washing and squeezing of the sponges. Observe and note any noticeable differences in the appearance or smell of the sponges.

3. Create four agar plates. Boil one teaspoon of agar flakes in one cup of water. Reduce to a simmer, and allow agar to dissolve (about five minutes). Put dissolved agar in a jar and swish it around so it’s evenly distributed. Allow it to decrease in temperature. Once warm but not hot, pour a small amount of agar into each petri dish. Be careful to only open a small part of the top of the dish so as not to allow too much air inside. Quickly close the top of the dish. Briefly tip the dish upside down to avoid condensation on the lid. Allow the petri dishes to sit at room temperature. The agar plates will be ready when the agar has solidified into a gelatinous substance.

4. Conduct all three cleaning methods:

4a. The Soak Method (Soak in 10% bleach, 10% water for 3 minutes)

4b. The Microwave Method (Wet the sponge and microwave for 2 minutes)
Warning: Allow to cool before squeezing!

4c. The Dishwasher Method (Place sponge in dishwasher for one complete cycle)

Note: Sponge 4 is a control sponge. Do not clean this sponge.

5. After three months, cut the sponge down the middle and about a half an inch from the end. Wipe each inner part of the sponge over the surface of the agar in the petri dish.

6. Wrap the petri dishes in a dishcloth, and store them in a warm, dark place, such as a cabinet. After three days, observe.

RESULTS

These results are very shocking and confusing. They do not match my hypothesis at all! The petri dish with the most bacteria is the dishwasher method dish, which is the method I thought would be most effective at killing bacteria. The second most bacteria-ridden dish belongs to the microwave, which I hypothesized would be the second most effective. Soak and control methods had almost no bacteria in the dishes, making my results the reverse of what I hypothesized.

CONCLUSION OF A CLEANER

If I were to trust this data, I would never clean my sponge. I would become paranoid about something new- that perhaps microwaves and dishwashers grow bacteria on sponges (and… what else…?!).  I’m more apt to mistrust my results, because I know that my implementation of the scientific method may have been flawed.

CONCLUSION OF A SCIENTIST

How was it flawed? What variables was I not able to control or what additional variables may have come into play? First of all, my method of using the sponges evenly for three months was inherently flawed. I tried to divide objects into quadrants when cleaning them, but because we don’t eat evenly in quadrants, and because sometimes guests and other impostors used the sponges during those months, measured cleaning was impossible to achieve. Also, this was my first time making agar plates, and though I tried to wash my hands well when making them and open and close the lid quickly when pouring in the agar, it’s possible that some wayward bacteria got into the petri dishes in the process. Another mistake I made was that I microwaved the sponge for a minute dry, wet the sponge, then microwaved for two more minutes. Maybe the dry microwaving increased the bacteria in the sponge (and by the way, it’s also a fire hazard- oops). Finally, my method for wiping the sponge on the agar is questionable. I cut the sponges and wiped the inside area on the agar’s surface. Perhaps it would have been more accurate to wipe the original surface of the sponge instead. So what will I do? Go on feeling paranoid as I sponge surfaces? Become obsessive compulsive about appliances? Try it all over again? Inconclusive!

CONCLUSION OF A TEACHER

While holding high expectations of our students, it’s easy to become disgruntled about the work they produce. For many years I have felt that students could do better science fair projects. I should have conducted my own experiment long ago in order to understand- it’s hard! Many times we ask our students to do things that we haven’t done ourselves, or haven’t done since we were in school. Though this experiment was time consuming (and may not even be over yet), it helped me understand the nuances and challenges of the scientific method. The So Crazy It Just Might Work episode of This American Life explores the passion and diligence required to pursue experimentation for the long haul.

Will I keep pursuing this? Should I start over with four fresh sponges? Or should I learn to live with uncertainty (and bacteria)? What do you think?

I have been teaching on the South Side of Chicago for ten years, and yet I have not been an authentic part of the communities in which I work. I have lamented low attendance at family nights, and yet aside from a first communion, a basketball playoff game, and a few home visits, I have not reached out to spend time with families outside of a school setting.

It’s not because I don’t want to, or don’t find it important. I read about Paolo Friere‘s work in Brazil, and about Paul Farmer‘s work in Haiti, and I recognize the importance of working in partnership with communities. I know that for true change to take place, initiatives must be grown organically in collaboration with community members, not generated by academics and imposed upon them. But I never found the right entry point.

One night a few years ago I left school late, probably grading fraction quizzes or setting up microscopes for a lab, when I saw a procession of adults and children, carrying points of candle light, singing. They were turning the corner of 71st and Christiana, a spot usually devoid of magic for me, the site of my daily grind. The procession was mysterious, haunting, and humbling. For what was this vigil? Remembrance of loved ones lost? A protest of urban ills? An appreciation of saints? Why didn’t I have a candle and a place in this line? Would I scold a student for not having homework the next morning, not knowing he had been processing the streets all night? Had I done that many a time? Would my time that evening have been better spent at this vigil, rather than inside the building inserting common denominators? I didn’t see an entry point. I drove away.

I sing in the Chicago Community Chorus. We are directed by a gospel composer, and much of what we sing is religious. I am not religious, but I sing the spirituals and masses and cantatas with my own brand of conviction. The music is my entry point.

Our chorus participated in Urban Dolorosa, a multimedia vigil in response to the 263 young people who have been killed by violence in Chicago over the last three years. The five night “pilgrimage” included vigils at five churches in five different neighborhoods, and I participated in each one. The O Madonnas movement we sang contains these lyrics:

Permit me then to grieve with you
To learn from you
To love your children as my own.

Here was my long awaited entry point.

NIGHT ONE: SAINT SABINA

Saint Sabina is an African-American Catholic church in the Auburn Gresham neighborhood of Chicago’s South Side. Their pastor, Michael Phleger, is a controversial social activist. This German American Southsider adopted children in defiance of a cardinal, guided parishioners to provide outreach to prostitutes by buying their time, and erected billboards protesting “disrespectful” rappers such as 50 Cent and Lil Wayne. Father Phleger was not there this night, but Mayor Rahm Emanuel was.

Emanuel stood before the parishioners and other guests, including those in rows reserved for Parents of Murdered Children, and told us of a difficult call he made a few hours before. He had called the mother of a child who had been shot in the leg by a Latin King while trick-or-treating. He lectured to us that “We will be a strong city if we’re one city”, but it sounded like empty rhetoric as I sat in a racially segregated church within a racially segregated neighborhood. We were told that our program, with the names of the murdered youth, had to be updated to include the brother of one of our young performers. I shook my head along with some of my fellow chorus members, and our conversations were just as vague and unsatisfying as the Mayor’s statement. “It’s terrible,” we said. “It’s complicated”, we said. “What can we do?” we asked.

The performance was a bit more specific in its language and imagery. Spoken word artist Mama Brenda Matthews howled at us: “Can you help us catch our falling stars, so they can be bright lights?” Baritone singer Khary Laurent’s voice boomed down the aisles as he picked up shoes of deceased children and placed them on an altar. The photography of Carlos Javier Ortiz’s Too Young to Die project was displayed on a screen, corresponding with the libretto of Susan Johnson and music of Fr. Vaughn Fayle. The text includes liturgy as well as excerpts from Chicago writers such as Carl Sandburg and Alex Kotlowitz:

Beside the Lake, the native grasses bow their heads in hushed remembrance of summers past.
Her children are no longer free; there are no children here.
Yet the city, unmoved, big shouldered- carries on-
is there no balm, no remedy, no physician anymore?

Of course the most powerful performers were the young people who dressed in everyday clothes, chatted in the aisles before the performance, added photos and memorabilia to the altar, and clinked marimbas that manage to sound both woeful and hopeful. After lighting our candles, they they led us out of the church in procession around the block. We sang:

Pour out your heart like water
for the lives of your children-
let justice roll down like waters
righteousness like an everflowering stream.

The mayor and a few citizens made the evening news.

NIGHT TWO: CHICAGO TEMPLE

More dignitaries this night. Jean-Claude Brizard, CEO of Chicago Public Schools. As well as many white people, at the lovely First United Methodist Church at Chicago Temple in downtown Chicago. My best friends were in attendance, and from many pews away I saw them wiping their eyes as the names of children were called out. The saddest part of all was when it was said: “If there are any names of young people who have not been mentioned, please say them now,” and names were spontaneously spoken from the pews. This night only two names were called, but that was enough to make my friends cry. Our “vigil” was not a procession this night, as we were in the heart of crowded downtown at rush hour and could have easily disbanded, but a gathering across the street at the Picasso statue. The minister rang a bell for the number of youth who have been killed in this school year (16), and my friends and I later laughed over dinner about how quiet, how weak, the ring of the bell was. An ineffective ding in a noisy city that’s hardly listening. Even the people gathered there, trying to listen, could barely hear it.

Though many in attendance this night seemed less affected by urban ills like gang warfare, drug abuse, and youth violence, they were an important audience. People should be exposed to the issues of marginalized communities, and not just by the evening news. Perhaps someone there has the resources or influence to do something about the problem. And though the ding of the bell sounded weak in the roar of the crowd, people came to listen, and they heard something this night.

NIGHT THREE: NEW MOUNT PILGRIM MISSIONARY BAPTIST CHURCH

No dignitaries this night. And hardly any white people. And many, many, many names of unlisted victims spontaneously spoken from the pews. Tonight’s procession felt different. I felt in it. Trash swam around our ankles as we walked around the block. Pit bulls behind fences sang along to our song, truly in tune. A processing woman fell into a hole. A hole, yes a hole in the sidewalk, the diameter of a leg, as if the street was swallowing her up. But she was quickly pulled out. No complaints were issued about the hole; folks just laughed at the absurdity and processed onward. The singing stopped momentarily, and a teenager lamented, “Dang, I was really feeling that,” and so the singing started up again. We were all feeling it. There was no mayor, no CEO, no media–  just grieving, resilient people affected by a violence regarded as a common cold.

The amazing new documentary The Interrupters tells the story of three “violence interrupters” who protect Chicago citizens from crimes they themselves used to commit. They work for the highly effective Cease Fire organization, which operates on a public health model. Cease Fire classifies violence as a learned behavior that can be prevented using disease control methods. The film explains that people in communities historically plagued by violence are “infected”, and from a young age imagine themselves dying from the “disease”.

With it’s garbage streams and leg-sized holes and singing pit bulls, the Garfield Park neighborhood felt infected. But it also felt charged with strong people ready to sing new words, laugh at absurdity, and pull people out of holes, while barely missing a note. At one point a woman from my chorus and I became separated from the procession. We were about thirty paces behind, delayed as we tried to relight our candles that were burned out by the wind. We kept singing, but our voices sounded so solitary. This gave me just the tiniest taste of the isolation people in marginalized and neglected neighborhoods must feel. Where singing about pouring out your heart for the lives of children feels farcical, ridiculous. Eventually we rejoined the line, and thanked one another for the support during that brief time of isolation. Why wouldn’t a young person in a fractured neighborhood cling to a group, a family, a gang for protection and support? Who else is going to pull you out of the hole?

Photograph by Carlos Javier Ortiz

NIGHT FOUR: HOLY CROSS – IMMACULATE HEART OF MARY

This night was throat-choking sad. It’s not that crushed crying of recent immigrants is actually sadder than the resilient laughter of generational poverty-stricken folk, it’s just that it SOUNDS sadder.  When you hear crying, you tend to cry yourself, like a contagious yawn. You can fill in the blank of the narrative: We escaped the drug cartels of Durango and arrived here for a better life, and it was a little bit better, until Juan was shot.

Holy Cross is in the Back of the Yards neighborhood, a now predominantly Mexican-American community that was named for the former union stock yards depicted in Upton Sinclar’s 1906 novel The Jungle. Four years ago, former mayor Daley yelled at residents after the shooting of a pregnant woman. “You know who did it. Don’t be blaming the police. Look in the mirror and say, ‘I can do better.’ …If you don’t turn these individuals in, you’ll be marching [against violence] for the rest of your life.” I haven’t read The Jungle yet, but I will. Wikipedia says it “depicts in harsh tones poverty, absence of social programs, unpleasant living and working conditions, and hopelessness prevalent among the working class, which is contrasted with the deeply-rooted corruption on the part of those in power.” No dignitaries attended this night’s event.

Photograph by Carlos Javier Ortiz

NIGHT FIVE: HYDE PARK UNION CHURCH

This was the final night of the pilgrimage. We were conscious of being recorded, wanting to do justice to the victims and their families with each note we sang.

We processed down manicured streets past stately homes, as this is what is called the “nice” part of Hyde Park. Unlike in Garfield Park where curious residents peeked out of windows yet stayed inside, Hyde Parkers casually exited their brownstones and tudors to inquire about the vigil. I spoke to some people my friend knew, a kind family whose parents are deeply involved in improving urban education. The two children in the family were concerned that our candles had burned out. They asked us if they could run inside and fetch the propane lighter for us. Protected by a pleasant neighborhood and nurturing parents, they felt safe enough to perform an act of kindness to strangers. They returned from the house to light our candles, and when the flame first flickered the girl exalted “Yay!”. We thanked them and continued on. “Have a nice walk!” they called.

Photograph by Carlos Javier Ortiz

That’s not a diamond ring!
No, it’s not. It’s an aquamarine. It’s my aquamarine engagement ring.
It reminds me of searching for seaglass by the Atlantic ocean, of my Italian grandmother’s blue crystal candy dish, of the coast of soon to be visited Santorini.

A week before Justin presented me with this beauty, he solicited some guidance on ring selection.
Simple, I said, but with something strange or different about it. Not a diamond.

Why did I ask for not a diamond?
For one thing, everyone else has them. And a lot of people have a lot of them. By that I mean that I see women of all economic stratas barely able to lift their hands to steer their cars or swipe their credit cards as rocks and rocks and dripping rocks anchor them down.And sometimes I don’t like to have the thing that everyone else has. Growing up within a half-time custody arrangement made me belong everywhere and nowhere, and vacillate between wanting to fit in and wanting to stick out. There are certain things that everyone has that I want too: an iPhone, a golden retriever, a honeycrisp apple. But there are certain trends I don’t want to perpetuate, like Uggs in the summer. And diamond engagement rings!

I call diamond engagement rings a trend, because they are not really FOREVER. They have not been worn as engagement rings for very long, and they do not always outlive other stones. I say that, but I can’t elaborate yet. Justin was grumbling about the crooked De Beers long before we were thinking about getting married, and I overheard but I didn’t delve.

Diamonds are expensive, and I’ve never felt right owning expensive items that nobody else benefits from but me. It feels selfish. And there are some other problems with diamonds. It has to do with AFRICA. There’s a movie depicting this called Blood Diamond that I still have not seen. My mom gave a copy of the DVD to Justin a few Christmases ago. Had she known that it portrayed the diamond as an evil character, I am not sure she would have given the gift. My mom wears many large diamonds upon her wedding finger, and she is polite about my aquamarine. We sat together at lunch once, our hands resting side by side, the contrast clear. I don’t criticize her sparkling loot, but I want to know more about why the alternative I’ve chosen is a fair one.

The person who knows is Justin, and not only is he knowledgeable, he is a great teacher. We have set a date to eat at Ethiopian Diamond, to dine by candlelight and discuss the dark side of this bright stone.

DIAMOND DATE

Justin waxes heretic on diamonds as we sip honey wine and rip injera apart. He provides many compelling reasons not to fuel the diamond trade. I test his convictions and his love for me when I ask him if he would have bought me a diamond had I wanted one. Does he hate diamonds more than he loves me? Will this date end with me hating diamonds too? Listen to find out.

After the date I was intellectually opposed to diamonds, and satisfied to marry a man with strong convictions. But the facts– though well researched, synthesized, and presented– didn’t move me. If you want to persuade me, you need to kick me where it counts. You need to get Leonardo DiCaprio to portray a diamond smuggler in Sierra Leone, and litter the landscape with some murdered children. Luckily, the producers of Blood Diamond made that happen for me, and it was after watching this cinematic depiction of human suffering that I really felt disgusted by the diamond trade.

The movie takes us to Sierre Leone in the late 1990s, where government soldiers fight rebels in a bloody civil war. A loving family is ripped apart when the father, Solomon, is captured from this village and enslaved in the diamond fields.  Solomon finds an unusually large pink diamond and attempts to stow it away, but his captain witnesses this just as government troops invade and imprison them both. Meanwhile, Solomon’s young son, once a gentle mannered student, is stolen and brainwashed by rebel forces. We see how the Revolutionary United Front rebels are using diamonds to fund their war, trading them for arms. How within one family a son can become a cold killer while his father’s forced labor pays for the weapon.

The diamond trade becomes even seedier as we watch Danny (DiCaprio) smuggle diamonds to a South African mercenary who is employed by a diamond company executive. Landing himself in the same prison as Solomon and the captain, Danny overhears about the hidden pink diamond. He arranges for Solomon to be released from prison, and strikes a deal- he’ll help Solomon find his family if Solomon leads him to the valuable diamond’s burial spot. And why can Danny arrange a family reunion? What gives him the power? He is a white man in Africa.

The movie shows us the human cost of conflict or “blood” diamonds, and the interconnected corruption of the government, rebel forces, smugglers, mercenaries, and diamond companies. It closes with a reference to the Kimberly Process Certification Scheme, designed to certify the origin of rough diamonds from sources which are free of conflict and human rights abuses. Organizations such as Amnesty International question the impact of KPCS. Amnesty stated: “Until the diamond trade is subject to mandatory, impartial monitoring, there is still no effective guarantee that all conflict diamonds will be identified and removed from the market.”

Some “conflict free” diamond companies assure consumers that their diamonds originate from Canadian mines partnered with local indigenous people who benefit from the trade. The company Brilliant Earth advertises “ethical origin” diamonds from Namibia and Botswana, promising that in these countries “diamonds are helping to foster broadly-shared economic development “. Even if this is true, wearing a diamond perpetuates the consumption of diamonds overall, hence indirectly supporting traders of conflict diamonds. And don’t you know that there are other rocks that are beautiful and sparkly? Like this fool’s gold heart I gave to Justin.

I feel defensive. Putting g-spot on my list of things I don’t know about makes it look like I have sex problems. If I did, that would be normal. I could write about g-spot from that stance. That might help people, or help me work through the problems.

Is it okay if I am defensive? Can I just tell you that I don’t have sex problems? I don’t. No, seriously, I really don’t. But somehow, I just didn’t really understand g-spot. I didn’t know what it was, where it was, or why it was called a g-spot. When you reach a certain age, you think you should know your body pretty well, so you stop asking questions. You think: I graduated sex ed in more ways than one, I should know this. When I teach sex ed to my fifth graders, I encourage the girls to use a mirror to check out their equipment. I don’t want them graduating not knowing how many holes they have down there. They get embarrassed. I get embarrassed. Americans, descendants of puritans, get easily embarrassed about sex and the human body. But this blog is about confronting shame and getting the facts… of life!

My cousin Liz is an amazing filmmaker. In her investigative documentary, Orgasm Inc: The Strange Science of Female Pleasure, Liz confronts the medical industry and marketing campaigns that take advantage of women and endanger their health. Liz was initially creating a documentary about female pleasure, and has conducted research on this topic for years. I was visiting her in Vermont and after peeking through her bookshelf, I decided it was time for me to do a little confronting of my own.

I have admired Liz for so long, since birth! Wouldn’t it be easier to look through her books? To Liz I have to admit that I don’t know about the g-spot? On Liz I have to turn the camera, even though she is the supreme filmmaker?

Luckily, with her usual enthusiasm, she agreed to be interviewed. She even recommended this aerial shot which I got by making her lay down on a bed and standing with her in between my legs.

VIDEO INTERVIEWS WITH LIZ CANNER

Part I- Fundamentals of the G-spot

Part II- Liz on Sex Ed

QUICK AND DIRTY FACTS:
It’s in the vagina, but in no specific place.
It can become hardened when engorged, and cause intense pleasure.
It was named after Ernst Gräfenberg, a German gynecologist who wrote about it in 1950.
There’s controversy over its existence.
Scientific tests have shown no evidence.

Like many people, I am more likely to assimilate information if it is in narrative form. For example, Dave Eggers’ creative biography Zietoun taught me more about Hurricane Katrina than news coverage did. I am also more likely to learn something if I can experience it. That’s certainly not unique. There’s a slew of educational research backing the merits of experiential, hands-on learning. What helps me remember things most is a combination of these three: I have an experience in which someone I have a relationship with tells me a story. It is at the intersection of these three things that I learn something new and remember it.

To learn about Madeleine Albright, I employed the three factors. Why did I want to learn about Madeleine Albright? Because I didn’t know about her and I thought I should. When I was a teenager, I played Trivial Pursuit with my family. I drew a card about Margaret Thatcher and fumbled with the answer. My Dad (a Harvard graduate with a daughter ignorant about the stats of a prime minister!?) wore a look of shame. I felt shame for letting him down and for not knowing about Margaret Thatcher. Over fifteen years later I felt a brief burst of the same kind of shame about Madeleine Albright when her book Read My Pins was released. But in my thirties I refuse to feel shame, to fear asking. This project is in part about confronting fear and shame, about bravely asking others to teach me what I do not know.

My method worked. I remember each fact I learned about M.A. precisely because of the person who contributed that fact and my relationship to that person. The “experience” of getting the information involved asking people to share anything they knew about her, or what they thought was most important about her. The experience continued as I followed up on that research using a variety of sources, but the origin of the person’s contribution framed that research. The final component of the experience was applying new knowledge by creating something.

For each person and her contribution I have designed a t-shirt with a slogan. Beneath each t-shirt design I will tell you about the person, my relationship to him or her, and how that intersects with Madeleine Albright. Madeleine will be modeling the t-shirts, in various incarnations.

THE MADELEINE ALBRIGHT T-SHIRTS

KISS ME- I’M JEWISH?!
Susanna Lang

Susanna Lang is a poet and an educator. I taught with Susanna for several years, and worked with her on our school’s literary magazine. Susanna shared this with me:

I’ve never paid much attention to Madeleine Albright, despite her role in so many high-profile issues–I’m not sure why.  I did do some research, and I find what interests me most is that this person who has studied and affected the political history of Europe so intensely would be ignorant of her own family’s history as a piece of the larger puzzle.  That she didn’t know her family was Jewish, forced to convert before they were forced into exile.

I remember Susanna’s Madeleine contribution because as teaching colleagues we considered issues of culture and identity within our students’ writing. Our students confronted serious issues such as immigration, domestic abuse, and gang violence. Several times we had to decide whether it was safe or appropriate to publish a piece. It is safe to read Susanna’s new chapbook, Two by Two, which you can find at www.finishinglinepress.com.

I GET BY… WITH A LIL HELP FROM HILLARY
Rima Rantisi

Rima Rantisi is a close friend of mine, a writer, blogger, and English instructor in Beirut. She shared this fact with me:

appointed by bill clinton, with a lil help from hillary

I remember Rima’s fact because Rima and I often discuss issues of gender, particularly women’s roles in the Middle East. Her blog, Crosseyed Revolutions, often broaches this subject. Rima’s contribution is short, almost fragmented, because we often communicate this way. Since we live halfway around the world, we sustain ongoing conversations through phone, email, chat, and skype. Sometimes our conversations are long and detailed. Sometimes we exchange snippets that later build to something more. Madeleine and Hillary’s relationship continued to build when Madeleine endorsed Hillary in her 2008 campaign for U.S. President. She advises her on foreign policy, just like Rima keeps me abreast of Lebanon. Am I having delusions of grandeur, or are we just like world leaders?

PURPOSE and HUMOR
John Bridges

John Bridges is the Assistant Dean of The Theatre School at DePaul University, where I studied playwriting as an undergraduate. John’s distinctive sense of humor forces overly dramatic students and faculty to maintain a healthy perspective. If you’re having trouble imagining theatre students bringing drama off the stage, consider that more than once “miscast” students punched and shattered the glass door on which the casting lists were posted. John shared this reflection on Madeleine:

Madeleine Albright always impressed me during her time as the U.S. Secretary of State as an exceptionally skilled politician who had a near perfect balance of commitment to purpose and a wonderful sense of humor.

I remember this reflection because John maintains that balance within a community bred to overreact. When I listened to interviews with M.A., I did enjoy her sense of humor. Read My Pins is a good example of how she likes to bring levity to politics.

YES, THEY ARE WORTH IT
David Meyers

The Chicago Reader credits David Meyers with starting a “DIY roasting revolution”. David runs an independent coffee roasting business in Chicago and a small organic farm in Michigan. I met David at a party where we had a serious conversation while doing ridiculous dance moves. I now buy coffee from David, and admire his work with the Latino Union, where he involves day laborers in micro-roasting. I knew he would provide some gut-wrenching information about Albright, and he did:

Her quote on 60 Minutes comes to mind first, when asked whether the sanctions on Iraq, which had caused the death of 500,000 children at that point, were worth it. She paused ever so briefly, then said, “yes, they are worth it.”

Since David told the Reader, “Pretty much everything I do comes out of anarchist activism,” I expected he might view Albright with a critical eye. His unique lens and my experience buying his radical coffee help me to remember the anecdote he shared. You too can get your Resistance Coffee; he’ll deliver it to your door.

UNCLEAR ABOUT RWANDA
Marcus Hammonds

Marcus is a polymath. If we lose touch for a few months, I can be sure that when we reconnect he will have a new project in the works. Marcus is or has been an engineer, real estate agent, Chicago House DJ, brewer, and probably more. Marcus and I worked together in the late nineties at an online community for kids called FreeZone. We were in charge of monitoring conversations between children around the world who had very real interactions with one another yet existed for us as text on a computer. It was our job to set parameters in order to provide a safe community. Marcus would always challenge our notions of what was or wasn’t appropriate discourse or content. He engaged us in critical conversations about race, gender, age, and economics. From Marcus I expected a dagger, and I got it:

For someone who’s family was a victim of the Holocaust, it seems odd that she was “unclear” about what was happening in Rwanda.

I can still count on Marcus to knock off my rose glasses. Sometimes that punch in the gut is what makes learning most meaningful and memorable.

OLD WORLD/NEW WORLD
Raul Niño

Raul is a poet, librarian, and bike enthusiast. He was born in Mexico and grew up in the North Shore of Chicago where his mother was a domestic worker. Much of his poetry tells this story. I love Raul’s poetry, and I love hearing him read it aloud. When I first asked him to share about M.A., he sent me an email with links to NPR programming about her. Raul loves radio, and loves learning by listening to radio. I pushed him to synthesize what he had heard and share one fact, and this is what he provided:

Madeleine Albright: That she was born Jewish in the “old” Europe, and raised as a Catholic into the “new” world. That conversion on the part of her parents was of course political, economic and social, and very much played a part in saving their lives at that time.

I mentioned Raul’s experience immigrating and living with his mother’s employers because I think it fits with his Albright contribution. I’m not sure if he thinks it does, but the connection I formed helps me to remember what he taught me. I will also share Raul’s radio recommendations for all of you auditory learners:

Jewelry Box Diplomacy
Madam Secretary
Advice for Obama

READ MY PINS
Molly Zolnay

Molly is the Library Assistant at Northwestern library’s multimedia center. Media passes through her hands all day. I met Molly when she was studying scenic design, and we continue to see plays together. Molly and I both have some Jewish ancestry, and it turns out part of her family history resembles Madeleine’s:

A couple of things I think are interesting about her … She didn’t learn her family was Jewish until much later in her life (her family had converted to Catholicism when she was young) – much like a part of my family.  Also, the whole brooch wearing thing as indicator of her mindset/intent – I enjoyed hearing her interviewed about Read My Pins on NPR a few months ago.

The two items that Molly highlighted are the two that ended up interesting me the most as well. And it’s funny to consider them in juxtaposition. A powerful world leader is ignorant of her own ethnic background until later in life. This same world leader makes bold, intentional, and personal statements by wearing pins. After being called a serpent by Saddam Hussein, she wore a snake pin while discussing Iraq. During dragged out diplomatic discussions, she wore crabs and turtles to symbolize her frustration. Putin noticed Albright’s three monkeys pin (hear, see, speak no evil) during a discussion on Chechnya.

GOOD WILL WOMEN
Marty Goldenblatt

Marty is my new stepdad. He and my mom got married three years ago. Marty has many of the qualities a person looks for in a stepdad: He makes me pancakes, he tries to curb his road rage when I’m in the car, and he adores my mom. I was elated by his feminist M.A. contribution:

Just off the top of my head: Madeleine Albright was a brilliant Secretary of State that successfully advanced the interests of the U.S. throughout the world by treating other countries as partners in advancing peace and prosperity to all people. She continues to be a shining example of the role women can play in fostering good will between nations and in advancing the rights of women everywhere.

Isn’t that exactly what you would want your new stepdad to teach you?

I DON’T KNOW, BUT I THINK IT’S IMPORTANT
Tim Mazurek

When I asked my best friend Tim to share about Madeleine, he sent me this image. After recovering from viewing it, I asked him why? “I don’t know, but I think it’s important.” It turns out this image is from a blog devoted to rebuilding the Lebanese political system. The post accuses Albright of “exacerbating genocide”.

On his blog, Lottie + Doof, Tim writes about food in an important way. His confidence in sharing this ludicrous photo without knowing why it was important, and his dedication to empowering people in their kitchens, reminds me of Madeleine’s irreverent and intentional wearing of symbolic pins in the political arena.

Reading the Lebanese blog that Tim led me to reminds me that a person’s political agenda and personal background influences her view of Madeleine. We all wear a different t-shirt, so to speak.  I intentionally selected a diverse group of people (although they lack diversity in that they are all my friends and are politically liberal), with a range of age, race, ethnicity, nationality, and gender. It was interesting to consider how these markers influenced the contributions. The process of considering this made for a memorable learning experience. Finally, politics I can retain.

When someone feels passionately about something, so much so that she changes her everyday actions as a result, we often fail to ask her why. Perhaps we don’t want to seem like we are challenging her convictions. Perhaps its because we don’t wish to reveal our own ignorance about topics common in public discourse.

But we should ask why, especially when we care about the person, and especially when her everyday actions impact ours.

My meat-loving brother’s fiancé has been a vegetarian during the ten years that they’ve been together. Last year she decided to become a vegan. I’ve had vegan friends before, and never asked them about their motivations. I’d heard the land use reasoning, but didn’t fully understand it. I’d heard the health reasoning, but wanted to know more.

I interviewed Pete and Louisa about the choices they make when they consume, and asked them to explain why they make those choices. You might say I pitted my carnivorous brother against his vegan fiancé. To give him an edge, since blood is thicker than water, I let him use a keyboard during the interview. Louisa had no props, but she is very articulate, and held her own in the debate.

VEGAN SYNTHESIS:
An interview about consumer choices with Pete Schneider and Louisa Trackman

When my fiancé was a young man, he found this book in a Salvation Army for $0.75. It had been recommended to him five years prior by his beloved high school English teacher. A Catholic school teacher recommends a book with sex, murder, and frequent, creative usage of the word fuck? Yes. Why? He didn’t think any of his kids would get their hands on it. Why not? It was hard to find. And in those days you could not order a book on the internet. But Justin found it and it eventually found its way to me.

Was this book critically acclaimed? A cult classic? A sleeper? I have no idea. I’ve resisted, day after day, the reflexive google twitch that accompanies curiosity these days. I want to look at MAGIC’s dusty, black, jacketless cover with its silver beveled title and wonder about it. That is what magic was back then; wondering about a book. I want to experience it for myself without being informed of its reception or background. That is what magic is to me.

The book is so, so good. I can’t get the mood of it out of my system, days after closing its crusty back cover. It’s about a man who wants to be loved, who wants public approval. As a child he seeks “everlasting health and strength” but fails at the football his father grooms him to play after his strong brother dies. Merlin the magician grooms him next, but his act bombs at an open mic magic show. He attempts suicide, but resurrects himself (or is resurrected, we wonder?) as a magician/ventriloquist, delivering a humorous routine with a dummy named Fats. The self-deprecating banter with Fats wins over audiences, yet Corky refuses to take the required health test to make it big with the help of an agent, The Postman. Is he hiding the fact that he’s insane, with Fats as his alter-ego? Or is Fats really alive?

I’ve created a triphopera of MAGIC in order to explore its characters and themes. Corky teaches me that it is impossible to win public love if that is our motivation for performance. Personal fulfillment, genuine self-confidence, and connection with those close to us give us a shot at happiness. Applause and accolades are elusive. The phrase within Merlin the magician’s advisory intro repeats throughout this piece: “If you do it right, they can’t love you enough.” This is a cautionary tale. “Love” of the faceless public is not fulfilling. That is helpful advice to me on the heels of being rejected from several jobs and a coveted teaching award.

Thanks to Justin Gumiran for bringing this book to my mind, and to Bob Leone for bringing this magical keyboard to my fingertips.

MAGIC: The Triphopera

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