08 April 2017

Dream of a Thousand Students

I am wide awake at 5:15 a.m. on a Saturday, exhausted, panting a little.  My heart is racing.  I am up because I must capture this dream.  I am still laughing.  "It was just a dream," I assured myself once I was sure that was, after I shouted "Is anybody here?" into the empty house and there was no reply.

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The Dream

I am sleeping on the living room floor because my bed has not yet been assembled.  It is my first night in a new living space.  It is very early, not yet light outside.  I get up and walk around to take a look at my new home. I thought I rented an apartment but the place feels like a house. The floor plan resembles the house I grew up in but it's larger and falling apart. I see for the first time that none of the doors close properly and the floors are splintering.

The rooms are sparsely littered with my possessions.  Nothing is in order yet.  There are large unopened boxes with BOOKS written in large letters on the sides and open boxes with odds and ends pulled out:  lamps and towels and dishes parked on chairs and the floor.

Returning to the double windows of the living room, I see a few adolescent girls, each walking to school alone, down the middle of the semi-dark street to avoid male predators.

I feel but do not yet see or hear activity on the south side of the house.  Through the window of the south door I discover children and teachers in the yard.  Hundreds of school age kids milling and calling out and chasing each other and .... doing kid stuff while scores of teachers run around trying to get them to line up and stay lined up.  I think they're preparing for a field trip.  There are also puppies and older dogs.  Slightly familiar breeds but not quite:  pumpkin-colored dachshunds and teeny-tiny labs and some breed that walks mostly upright.

A little boy trips over an exposed tree root and falls.  I run out into the yard to find the person in charge.  They can't line up here.  If something happens I might be sued.

I can't find the lead teacher.  While I search, teachers are morphing from the staid, tidy instructors I knew as a kid into interesting people with dreadlocks and nose rings and bare feet.  They speak English in accents from all over the world.  Some of them speak languages I can't identify.  They are an exuberant and good-humored group of adults and children.  Lots of smiles.  Lots of cheerful "I'm not sure who you should talk to" and ... turning their attention back to herding the kids.

I finally get a business card from a tall, male teacher with a Midwestern accent and return to the house to telephone the school.  Back inside, I discover the kids and puppies have wandered in.  For the rest of the dream I am trying to get the kids and the teachers to leave my house.  They are everywhere:  in closets, under and behind furniture, popping out of boxes and spilling my stuff all over.  I hear footsteps and realize they are even upstairs and  I didn't know there was a second floor.

Teachers are pursuing  the kids, who also have accents and are every skin color I have ever seen. Kids and teachers alike are well-dressed and ragged, skinny and plump, talkative and shy, on crutches and wearing braces, with sticky hands and dirty knees and giggles and "reasoning" in that voice that teachers use and my house is starting to smell like a school.

I attempt to explain to a trio of teachers that I can't practice piano with all these kids in the house and it's important that I practice every day. And also I just got up; I haven't had any coffee yet.  And....  A male teacher with an Eastern European accent, as a kind of thanks-for-letting-us-use-your-space and sorry-about-the-chaos gift hands me a cloth bag containing four obviously-recycled bottles, corked and filled with wine he made from ingredients found around my house.

Some kind of joy is infecting me.  I want to capture the fun and post it to FB but I can't find my cell phone.  "I think one of the kids has my phone," I say to the wine-gifter.  "Here, use mine and dial your number," he says.  I do and we hear my phone ringing somewhere out in the yard.  We locate it and I take pictures of the kid and his friends and teachers nearby.  The picture looks like it could have been taken at a music festival.

A female teacher who looks like me with very long hair explains "This house has been vacant for a long time."  She says the school outgrew its original facility and appropriated this abandoned building.

As the queues finally begin to move, I yell some kind of farewell and in unison, a thousand voices take up my words and turn them first into a chant and then a South African freedom song.  Children's voices and teacher voices harmonize.  They are on their way.

I am making coffee when I discover some kids were left behind.  There's no phone number on the business card.  These kids are gonna be here all day, maybe through the night.  I'm not going to get any practice time today.  It's going to be frustrating trying to unpack and set up my house with them running all over.  I mostly don't care.  But I'm running out of steam......

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I wake up because I'm exhausted.



25 February 2017

Troll Litter

Last night I donated about 30 minutes of my life to engagement with a troll on FB.

I deal with trolls as I deal with litter. If I see it while I’m driving, travelling at 70 mph up US 78 to Memphis or 65 to 80 mph on SR 7 to Oxford, I feel a quick stab of disappointment in “people” at the back of my throat and in the pit of my stomach. I’m moving fast so I don’t stop. It costs less than a minute of lifetime and I drive on.

If I see it in my yard or on the block where I live, I grumble about it for a few days -- not all day, just every time I leave the house or stand in the 14’ windows of the music room, watching styrofoam cups and empty potato chip bags tumble in the agitated winds of an oncoming storm.


Eventually I set my jaw, put on my moccasins, and go out to collect the litter.

I live on what is considered a busy corner in this small town. The public library occupies the entire block south of me. A huge historic Presbyterian church and the dainty two-story City Hall face me on the street that forms the western leg of the corner.  Lots of foot traffic as well as vehicular.  It's mostly young people who drop the litter; but the library also attracts older people, unemployed or retired or single moms with kids or the handful of ageless men who seem to spend the entire day walking and loitering. Some of them litter, too.

Usually everyone disappears after sundown but a few months ago a middle-aged couple with a dog took up residence on the library grounds for three or four days.  They caught my attention; the only time I'd seen white people loitering around the library and the only people I'd seen sleeping -- at night -- on the grounds.  I think they were on the road and just resting in Holly Springs for a few days.  Both of them looked like people who'd been spending a lot of time in sun and wind.

I gather the trash from my side of the street on both legs of the corner.  and deposit it, usually, in one of three dumpsters that hug the front wall of my neighbor’s place.  I feel good after I do it and the street looks better. It never takes more than 20 minutes.

So last night was put-on-the-moccasins night for me on FB.  A few weeks after The Election of 2016 (yeah, it's certain to appear in caps from now on), aware of the deepening divisions between people
along political lines, divisions spreading like hairline cracks shattering relationships, eroding the discourse and fracturing the psyches of the nation's people, I wondered will we ever mend these
breaks?  How?  Won't communication, the ability to talk to each other, be essential in any strategy of healing?

I was a proponent of "reach out to them" for a few weeks.  Breathe deep and don't get emotional.  Be rational and nonjudgmental.  Tell the truth and back it up with documented facts.  Walk a mile in their shoes. Meet them where they are.

It didn't go well.  There were a few instances where after a few exchanges the troll stopped screaming.  A couple of them thanked me for the exchange.  But overall, things quickly devolved into a train ride to Crazyville; at least on the troll's side.  I'm not angry at trolls.  I don't feel like screaming at them or smacking them.  They're like litter.  Pick it up and throw it away or drive on by.

Last night's encounter was with a young woman I'll call Lindsey.  She said something about libtards in response to this photo Robert Reich posted.  I commented that to view the problem and the fix for what's messed up in the U.S. through a liberal vs conservative lens misses the mark, quickly garnered a few Likes in the two minutes it took Lindsey to respond in all-cap word-salad rage about atheist liberal scum something or other.

I responded ...  she responded ...  I'm still working the kumbaya angle with her.  I bounced one more; by now, she was way over the ledge in the long grass sputtering and spitting without punctuation.

I lost interest.  I mean, how much communication is possible with an angry person who is screaming lies and cliches?

Some slightly perverse curiosity that I can't explain to you at the moment led me to click onto Lindsey's page.  She looked nothing like I'd imagined.  She is perhaps 20 years old.  Single.  White.  Pretty brunette.  Lot of family photos. 90% God- and Church-related posts in her newsfeed -- and 99% of everything slanted toward anger or outrage or indignation or some really mean humor.

I asked myself:  what are they so mad about?   "They" as in Christians, conservatives, and Republicans.  The Christians have their faith, the conservatism permeates the entire culture and the Republicans have the White House, both Houses of Congress and most of the governorship posts across the nation. What are they mad about?  No, it's beyond "mad" and "angry". Lindsey was enraged.

I almost went back, though I had signed off our exchange with something like "I hope your rage subsides at some soon point and you join the movement to restore democracy in our homeland.  It will take all of us to get this straightened out." I almost went back to ask her "Why are you so angry?  What is it?" but I didn't.  She had been incoherent throughout our discourse and I had little hope of a transformation being sparked by my question.

So

I blocked her.  No more Lindsey.  Litter removed.