Girl with dog and torch

Last Sunday, when I was teaching Sunday school, the discussion was about Zacchaeus–the disliked, short, tax collector who climbed up in the tree to see Jesus as he passed by.  One of the points of the story is that Zacchaeus was a cheater, and a liar, but had a complete change of heart after dining with Christ.  He was totally different, can gave his money away afterwards.

To begin the discussion with the kids (ages five to eight or nine), I asked about examples of cheating.  I was thinking of cheating in games, or maybe in school.  But these kids are pretty young to really be as concerned about cheating on tests or homeworks–that’s what I was thinking.

One of the boys, who is eight, began to talk about how he cheats in school.  He was gloating about it, proud, and enjoying the fact that I and a few other of the students were shocked.  He talked about how easy it is, and how his teacher doesn’t know.

I have to admit–I didn’t know what to do.  I was surprised, first of all.  And I tried to brush away the implication of what he was saying, “Oh, you don’t really cheat.  Your teacher probably knows what you’re doing.” 

To make it worse, another little girl (who is perceived as less popular) chimed in that she would _never_ cheat.  This sentiment egged the boy on to smirk and say that he did it every day.

I know that I didn’t handle the situation well.  I indicated that it was wrong, but I didn’t have just the right thing to say about it.  I’ve been thinking about it all week, wondering what I might have said.  The boy’s mother is, in fact, a schoolteacher.  But I get the feeling that she would be angry at him for _saying in Sunday school_ that he cheats, more than angry that he cheats.  And that would make it worse, I think.  That would just tell him that he has to be craftier.  I still haven’t figured out what the best thing would have been to do.

I gave blood today.  It was M’s idea; he’s been doing it pretty regularly for long before I knew him.  The past few times I’ve had the opportunity, I wasn’t able because I’d been to Haiti too recently.  And once, they couldn’t find a vein.  (They dug around for a while, digging, digging, and finally apologized and thanked me for trying.)

The blood drive was combined with a health fair in the school where M. teaches.  Student volunteers ushered us around, most officiously and full of importance.  They were great, insisting that we drink juice and carrying our bags.  I was looking around, and I thought, “I want to give blood, too.” 

So I filled out the paperwork–that series of questions, “Have you ever…?” is such an encapsulation of the fears and knowns of our society today–and waited my turn.  I chatted with the nurses, asked some questions (I’m always curious about medical technology, and equipment), and waited my turn.

Finally, I laid on the beach chair and let the nurse look at my arms.  As expected, she couldn’t really find any veins, on her first look.  She called a male RN over for advice, and he showed her how to find her best chance.  I was a little nervous.  When I’ve needed an IV, I’ve had to take it in the hand, such are the shy and hiding ways of the veins of my arms.

But the nurse did a fine job, and only dug a bit–this digging, or rooting, for the vein is the weirdest part, especially when I consider that this is part of my body, connected to all the other parts of my body, and something from _outside_ is touching it.  Incising it. 

Soon I was all hooked up and taped down, and I obediently pumped the little hand-thing, while the blood came out of me.  It’s so, so strange, that with all of the technology we have, we still need the blood of another person.  The literature we had available said that a car accident victim can use up to 50 units of blood–that’s fifty volunteers like me.  A cancer patient can need 6 units of platelets a day.  A day!

After it was over, and my blood was neatly packaged in a little rubber bag, I asked the nurse if it was warm, and could I feel for myself.  She said it was, and of course.  I put my hand on the bag, and yes, my blood was very warm.  So strange, again, that this was inside me only moments ago, but will still _work_ and do everything blood is supposed to do, not too long from now, when someone else needs it. 

What a crazy undertaking.  It’s a good thing to do, and interesting.  I learned that I have excellent iron counts, and remembered that our bodies are strange and weirdly known and mysterious.

Okay, an admission: My hair is naturally curly to wavy.  Curly on the ends, wavy in the middle.  Every other day, I wash and blow-dry it straight, and then put it briefly in hot-rollers, to both smooth out any excessive curl, and coax what’s left into tamer waves.  On the off days, it gets a rest from the heat of the blow-dryer, and it’s much faster to get ready.

Yesterday, I wanted to sleep in an extra thirty minutes.  It occurred to me, that if I let my hair go, I could shave at least forty minutes off of my getting ready time.  I could at least tie it back in a bun, and it wouldn’t be too out of control.  So that’s what I did, pretty happily.  I bundled most of it back into a loose bun, and put on a skinny headband to keep the short curls out of my face.

It looked pretty good.  Throughout the day, I wondered why I do that, why I go through this routine every day of coaxing my hair into something it is not.  I guess I like to predict, or control, and know what my hair will look like, on any given day.  If I let it dry naturally, it will be curly-wavy, and it might look okay, or it might look kind of out-of-control and crazy.  And once it dries like that, I can’t exactly get it back.  If I blow it dry and hot roll it, I can predict and know exactly what it will look like, all day long.

I guess I’m riffing off of the whole Lenten bare-faced experiment, but I’m thinking of letting my hair go, once in a while.  We shall see.

I was a little hesitant to schedule engagement photos–I’d never done it before, and it seemed like it might be a little cheesy.  How could we spend two hours…doing what?…posing?  Kissing?  Showing off my ring?

As it turned out, it went wonderfully.  We had to do it at eight o’clock in the morning, because I have a big conference this week at work, at four museums, for which I’ve been planning for months.  Had to get right to work Monday morning.

So M. and I met our photographer and rode the bus up to a park near the GW Bridge; the park has a miniature version of the bridge in it.  It was pretty cold, and not exactly sunny, but it was great fun running around the park.  And yes, we kissed a lot.  After a while there, we rode up to the Cloisters.  The whole area was almost empty, but the flowers and flowering trees were in full bloom, so we got lots of great photos around them.  For one, we laid on our bellies in front of a yellow flowering bush, and the photographer took a picture through the branches at us. 

She asked us to talk about our wedding plans, and how we met.  It was so much fun to just focus on _us_, on our love for each other and how much joy we feel when we’re together.  And the photographer took 700 photos!  Which is exciting, because I’m sure that means there will be a few good ones.

Last weekend, with spring in full, full bloom, M. and I trained down to NoHo to walk around the neighborhood.  One of his teaching colleagues is an artist who works with printmaking and mixed media; two of her pieces were being displayed in the Art Walk.

It was so great to be out in the city.  The HealthcareNOW offices are down there, so I was familiar with the neighborhood, but had only been down there in the heat of summer.  With the trees in bloom, even the brick buildings looked more beautiful.  This city has so totally grown on me.

I’m recovering from it.  I’ve had the longest, strangest dreams.  I dreamt an entire college class, with syllabus, and short fiction reading, and everything.

First I was late for it.  Then I arrived, in pajamas, but syllabus and handout in hand.  Wooden desks, the kind without a full desktop, just the side.  Schools that use these have one “lefty” version per room, where the desk curves around from the left-hand side instead.  I had a standard version in my dream; the desks were in a circle, the professor–Rob Cobb–was already seated.  The class was on Southern [American] fiction (exactly the kind of class I would like to take.)

I tried to apologize to the professor for missing so many classes, I opened my colorful folder (contrasting colors inside from outside) and pulled out my reading.  I began to read–I was reading part of the short story and it was good.  My lucid mind said, “Remember this story, this sentence; you can write it when you wake up, and it will be like discovering a new story.”

Then, as dreams will, a flood began to happen, and I wasn’t in the classroom, I was in an old rickety house, on an old bed, holding my story but in a brand new location.  And I can’t remember anything after that.

I don’t remember any of the story I was reading.  How fantastical was it that my mind would create a piece of fiction for me to read from, in my mind?  How sad is it that I can’t remember it at all?

Once, coming back from Haiti, my dear friend K. got really, gravely ill, and we thought she had malaria.  Her fevers and fever-dreams were incredible.  We were worried, but she said, “At least I can do good writing when the malaria comes.”  As if she was Hemingway, or some writer stricken with the kinds of fevers that bring genius.

Apples.  I know that it’s spring, and berry time.  I’m ready to make berry tarts, folds, crumbles, and buckles.  But my love of loves isn’t sure he likes berry desserts, so I’m hanging onto apples–the fruit of fall–for long enough to make an apple pie this weekend.

I made bread last night, braided loaves with asiago, salt, butter, rosemary, and thyme kneaded in.  They turned out beautifully, rose full and fat, and kept their curvy plaits.  I would have taken photos, but they were all eaten up, used in Chapel for communion and then shared immediately.  But I’m making them again, maybe next weekend.  For now, though, it’s all about the apples.

A little after eight o’clock this evening, my floormate D. came into the Common Room to tell us all that there had been (another) car accident down in the intersection below our floor.  It’s apparently a tricky intersection; there have been many car accidents there over the two years I’ve been here.  I sleep on the Quad side, so I have a very quiet room, but people on the Broadway side speak often of accidents.

We could hear the sirens then, and hear them pull up below us.  We kept on with conversation, and dinner, and watching basketball.

About a half hour ago, two police officers (but in regular clothes, just with big badges clipped to their coats) came to the floor.  I was in the kitchen washing dishes, and heard the female officer ask the three who were back in the living room their names and personal information, and tell them what had happened.  I couldn’t hear over the water, and didn’t want to stop and go in, for fear of being nosy, or of being disrespectful (me wanting to know the details versus what might be a tragedy).

After the officer moved along the hall, I came back in and sat down.  She saw me out of the corner of her eye: “Where’d she come from?”  Pleasantly, warmly she said it.  I said that I had been washing dishes, and didn’t want to be nosy.  She said (again, warmly, kindly to me), “This is a time when we need people to be nosy.”  She said that there had been (another) robbery attempt outside, and the robbery victim, frightened and trying to escape, ran into traffic and was hit by a car.  She said he was in bad shape, and might not make it.  Had I heard yelling?  Arguing?  Seen anything?  She took my name, school, room number, age, and phone number.

She left again.  We sat in silence, thinking about the robbery victim, the robber running away, the poor person driving downtown on a normal Friday night.  K. came in and took my hand; she looked sick.  She walked me silently down to the far kitchen, at the end of the hall, and made me look out the window, down into the street.  We could see the blood: a lot of it.  It was more red, and brighter than I would have expected to be able to see, from this (seven floor) height.  I also saw a shoe, and a bag of groceries.

I feel guilty for looking.  I feel bad that what I saw is so indelible.  It’s linked to the badge on the officer’s coat, which I couldn’t stop looking at, except that I was trying to be serious and respectful, and look at her while I spoke to her.  I kept thinking of all of the episodes of Law & Order I watch, and how many pretend interviews I’ve seen, just like this one, and pretend accidents, even filmed here at Union.

We’re afraid it will turn out to be a student here.  Everyone who voices this sentiment says, in one breath: “Not that it’s not bad enough, being someone we don’t know…but,” they hope it’s not someone we know.

I don’t know what else to say.  Probably tomorrow they’ll e-mail around a police report, with bare details.  Probably not the name of the victim, though, although I guess if it’s a classmate I might already know.

I surf handbags on Etsy while watching Law&Order in my pajamas.

(From top to bottom: Paco Lupe, Daphnenen, TheLeatherStore, Daphnenen.  All on Etsy.com)

It rained all morning.  All I wanted to do was burrow in and watch movies on Bravo! and TNT.  But alas, my thesis is due tomorrow.  So I had to buckle in and work.  I went out once, to see what time the stationer’s opens in the morning–what time will I bind the copies of my thesis for my readers.  By that time in afternoon, it was no longer rainy

I don’t know where the last six hours have gone; all I’ve done is footnotes.  I still don’t have a title, either.  I want it to be two words, something short, like a good novel title. I’m worn out by typical thesis titles, all anchored by the ubiquitous colon.  The Power of Now: Immediacy and Hope in New Testament Healings. Finding Their Voices: Call and Response in Israelite Travel.  Neither Saint nor Angel: the Defiance of Holymaking in Postmodern Relgious Narrative.

(I made those all up just now.  Blah, blah, blah, I think: but they resemble what everyone will be turning in tomorrow.  I want POW! on my title page.)

In sum, it was a day full of typing, a brief shot of sunshine, and one trip across the street.