"When Doves Cry" (Chapter One Sign 'O' The Times)

Chapter One: When Doves Cry

Is it weird I can't remember the date? I remember the song on the radio “When Doves Cry” by Prince. I don’t remember the month or day of the week, but I remember every detail of the day, the week after and the funeral. It plays in slow motion sometimes, even all these decades later.

The Big Chill was a movie we had all seen. Eighties movies weren't all about teen angst. In fact, we, as a group, preferred to see a variety of films, a few of us were inspiring film makers and were in search of a voice, our own unique style. Now television shows in contrast: what we watched, were mostly kitschy, typical, goofy shows that were popular at that time: Robo Tech, Knight Rider, the A-Team and above all else, Miami Vice. We even filmed a few episodes of our own show, Laguna Vice, theme song, local tourist sites in the opening credits and all. We lived and breathed that show for a few years. Looking back on episodes now, it may seem very dated, but the music, the music was very current and meaningful in the 1980’s.

Laguna Canyon was a death trap many called it. No streetlights, a rural twenty-minute, winding road that connected the 5 Freeway and Main Street in the  hometown of my adolescence. About halfway through from the bustle of the freeway, you could turn on El Toro road and travel inland, but the initial expanse was dark and virtually abandoned, except an occasional car speeding by in the twilight. It was a great place to play pi-diddle (one headlight shout out) but not a great place to run out of gas or run off the road, for if you did, it could be hours before someone found you. We didn’t have cell phones; we took our chances. Some of us crashed but lived to tell the tale. That was not the cause for a funeral, for our group at least.

Our funeral was by choice. Not of ours, but of his. No matter how much we felt like a community, things still shook us at our core. It doesn’t matter how much you love, trust, connect- some of us got lost. The weeks that followed we were interviewed by many, questioned by therapists, pitied by many who never gave us the time of day. I remember every glance, every concern, every silent accusation. “How well did you know him? Was he acting weird recently, not himself?” Repeated answers, “very well and no, he was acting normal, perfectly normal.” Looking back purposefully now, I feel the same way. I think when you make the choice, you really make it, you either want to be convinced against it, or you don’t. He didn’t. Thus, we saw him every day, laughing and smiling as always- interacting normally. We never suspected a thing.

Suicide has always been a taboo topic. Some feel if we talk about it, it might inspire people to do it. Recently this has begun to change, at least a little. By talking about depression, we bring it from a place of shame, to a place of hope. But in the 1980’s, it was a topic never discussed unless in the aftermath of one. The conversations did not feel comforting, they felt accusatory, these distant adults were concerned we would have a chain of them and thus they kept us under lock and key. But we were not unhappy teenagers. He wasn’t an unhappy teenager, at least not around us. We were kept in the dark because being such a big group, one of us would have noticed, one of us would have said something, and he decided to take his life.

The floor of the car was covered in broken cassette cases, Tiger Bar wrappers and Diet Coke cans. They crunched under my feet as I turned to climb out from the passenger seat. I didn’t have a car- I was 17 and decided why should I get a license when everyone else in my group had a car and could drive. This day we were supposed to pick him up, we honked for ten minutes, but he never came out, no one did, so we left. She made a three-point turn in her Honda Civic and we headed down the hill a little faster than normal, the bottom felt like it jumped up and bit us in the ass, as we hit the speed bump in a frenzy. Her soda tipped and splashed all over the dash, floor and my lap. I was wearing pink shorts but had to change into a pair of her jean shorts, soda dripping down my legs as I attempted to change while the car was still moving.

The sky was cloudy, I remember because we were all in shorts and the forecast was sunny and warm. It turned out to be anything but. Rain creeped in from the ocean and drenched us, as we ran from the car to campus. I remember laughing because Sam’s hair turned curly and frizzy. She looked ridiculous and she got angry because the weatherman got the forecast wrong. Back then it wasn’t that accurate, it was wrong more than right, but we decided to trust his instincts, so no umbrella in the car, we decided to just take our chances in the beginning storm. My hands were still sticky as we ran to first period, just at the bell. I giggled as I licked the Diet Coke from my fingers.

We went our separate ways, making our way to our first period classes, shouting “Later loves” to one another. Her’s AP Lit, mine Biology. Mr. Reich gave me a glare as I skidded, wet sneakers, into my seat, right in the front, as he sat us alphabetically. I turned to see if he was there, I was going to give him a glare of “where were you?” but his seat was empty. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, conversations started, as Mr. Reich shifted from attendance to handing back our quiz. The dreaded Circulatory Quiz. As he got to my desk, Mr. Reich asked “So where is your friend, Miss Jahant, he is never absent?” This was the moment, the moment I remember feeling dread for the first time that day. Then I looked at the clock and it seemed like it wasn’t ticking at all- each hand frozen in place, as the door swung open and our principal walked in briskly. The rain fell heavier now, and the skies were grey, nothing like a warm and sunny forecast.

My principal looked at me, then down at the floor. I remember thinking to myself, he doesn’t even know me, why is he looking at me? I didn’t do anything, for once, I hadn’t done anything that would have gotten me looked at twice. He walked up to Mr. Reich, who pointed at me and said, what seemed too loud for the occasion, “Take your things Miss Jahant, go with Mr. Owens please.” The conversations silenced and all eyes were on me. This was the second time I felt dread, I was wracking my brain all the way to the door, it slammed behind me. “What’s going on? Why am I in trouble?” He sighed “You are not in trouble, just follow me please.” The eventual answer to all my questions, was so unexpected, I still look back and remember not crying for what seemed hours because it literally felt like I was in an episode of Miami Vice.  

All my friends were in one room, the choir room. Crying loudly. Sam was there- frizzy hair and all- she had given up on trying to contain it, it was sticking straight up in spots. She looked at me and mouthed, he’s dead. I looked around the room, counting all my friends, he’s here, there he is, and then- it dawned on me, all my dread compiled- I dropped to the floor. I still wasn’t crying; I was in shock. “Did he crash?” I said. My band director helped me get up and walk over to a chair, he knelt beside me, no sweetheart, “He killed himself.” I laughed out loud. “No, he didn’t, he wouldn’t- he was happy.” Everyone fell silent, nodding in unison. “You don’t need to be unhappy to choose to take your life,” a stranger said.

We all turned to see someone in the doorway, they looked very official. Later, we found out they were a district grief counselor. There were a lot of conversations over the next week and then a funeral. Purple and green balloons, hundreds of them, each with a message attached, let go at sunset over the beach. I remember waiting until the last balloon was gone. A few messages had come loose and were strewn across the sand. I gathered them up and handed them to his little brother. I remember this vividly, his ten-year old face, with the same look of disbelief, yet an undertone of understanding.

This event rocked our world, created a fissure that never completely healed. But it also made us stronger, we paid more attention to each other, were more aware of how one another was feeling. 

He was our friend. A suicide makes you doubt. Makes you ask questions, you otherwise wouldn’t. It makes you say things you would otherwise leave unsaid. We listened a lot to Peter Gabriel those next few weeks- San Jacinto, Biko, Don’t Give Up and Red Rain are still my go tos for a quiet remembrance. It took a while before Prince was our go to- but eventually he was. Then our musical selection changed, and Paul Simon, Phil Collins and other more contemporary artists made there way onto our mix CD’s. But our music, the music of Prince, U2 and Oingo Boingo remained our cadence.

There was no social media to share our feelings on, we only had one another. People who never knew our names, after that day, knew our names. Our group somehow changed from a quiet, off-beat, basically ignored cohort to almost popular. This we rebelled against, in every way imaginable. It made us isolate ourselves even more. Unlike today, we could do that. We didn’t have Instagram accounts or Facebook streams. We graduated a year later, while a few of us ventured off to campuses across the country- most stayed close by- at least for a while. Then my departure took me to another country- I was England bound and the University of East Anglia was the farthest from a community of friends I have ever had, in fact it was a lonely year indeed.

Post Editorial

I have written a few posts on depression. This is a topic very close to my heart. The more we talk about it- change it from shame to hope, the more we can address the roots of it, which are extensive. Some are easy to spot, while some are not. To this day we do not know why our friend killed himself.

Let’s talk about our feelings and share them so others feeling the same way, feel like they are connected and are never alone.

https://iteacherimother.blogspot.com/2018/08/ps-no-one-is-happy-all-time-journey.html

Sign 'O' The Times: Memoir Meets Musing: An Introduction

Purple Rain

Adolescence is portrayed as very different from generation to generation, yet at the core, it is very much the same. Angst, assertion, and amplified emotions. Every generation had their music, their movies, their culture. For mine, the 1980’s it was built around Prince’s music. He sang our feelings, our heartbreak, our aspirations. “Purple Rain” was our battle cry. For some it was other songs, but for our group, our tight knit cohort- it was the song we fell quiet too. It was the color we wore, at least a splash of, it was the echo of our commitment to each other. We attended a small high school, open campus, freedom to go to the beach during lunch, or just hang in the band quad. We had the independence many schools lack today- but this squelched our rebelliousness, it made us feel free and thus we didn’t search for ways to cause an insurgency.

Laguna Beach was a small town in the 1980's. At least it felt small. Two supermarkets, one high school. Nestled into a cove between Dana Point and Newport Beach, California. Summer was crowded with tourists; our Art's Festival was famous. Sawdust on the floor, I used to walk through it with bare feet, feeling the wood between my toes. After I graduated, I worked there, selling jewelry I didn't make myself. I would spend hours wandering and looking at beautiful art, I could never afford. But the festival didn't feel pretentious, it felt accessible to us. It was the social center of our community from June to August and I wanted to feel a part of it. Yet I was always on the outside looking in. What felt like a rural community was suburban, but from a coming of age teenager perspective, it was heaven. Big enough where we felt we had a connection to the world and small enough where most of the world left us alone for most of the year, at least.

Little Red Corvette or rather an AMC Hornet

Population wise we saw circles and cliques at our high school, but it didn't really matter. The cliques just seemed to ebb and flow, merge and separate like wax in a lava lamp. I had friends, we were a misfit group of oddballs- we were odd even for the 80's. Prince, Oingo Boingo, The Cure, The Smiths, Depeche Mode and Duran Duran were our bands of choice but Violent Femmes, Jane's Addiction and U2 were among the many blaring from our car speakers, as we drove through the streets of our small coastal town. We were the outcasts before the Breakfast Club made it cool to be one. Our vehicles were beaten down jalopies: An AMC Hornet, Oldsmobile and 1982 Honda Accord (duct-taped bumper). Laguna Beach in the 1980's as far as a teens point of view, was not about prestige or popularity, even wealth- it was about making the best of what you had.

Unless you drove Laguna Canyon or El Toro Road- Laguna Beach was unreachable back then, now there is a toll road leading straight to it. The isolation back then, made us creative as teenagers: no cell phones, computers or Internet. We had mix tapes, board games and driving around. This we mastered. We also had MTV- real videos that spoke to us, inspired us. We saw opportunities to have fun and we did. We got bored and found ways not to be bored, like scavenger hunts and lip syncs. These were free. We didn't have a lot of money, but we did have each other, and this is very different from today, mainly because we didn't have everything at our fingertips- we had to go out and find our adventures. Our noses were not facing down to our phones, or up on Instagram trying to outdo one another. We drove to the Circle K and hung out in the parking lot on Friday nights. We had bonfires on Saturday nights at Aliso Beach. We were always together, physically, socially and mentally, we talked a lot, face to face, worked out our problems in person not via trolling or texting. It was very much a different time.

Let’s Go Crazy- or Not

Curfew was in place, but we generally stayed at each others houses so frequently- it was understood, that our responsibility was to check-in, not be home every night. We left a message on the answering machine. The infamous answering machines. We used pay phones to do so, or we left messages with parents and they shared it with one another. Strange to think about that world, free of instant communication. We made it through weeks without seeing our parents faces- messages on the fridge sufficed, when we stopped by to take a shower and grab a change of clothes. 

This may sound like a fictional place, a fairy tale- but it was just life in the 1980's, in a small beach town in California. The place is gone, replaced with modernity but the past is never replaced, it is forever edging the angles and carving the valleys of adulthood. When I see my children engrossed with You Tube and their eyes on a piece of technology, it makes me feel sad. We were lucky, we saw a wide-open space and decided to go check it out. We "hiked to Canada" as we used to call it- getting lost for the day outside in the middle of nowhere, that's a story for later.

These days getting lost is immersing in the Internet, inwards rather than outwards. This novel is going to be a bridge between modern ideals and the 1980's vision of a teenage girl, who may have grown up with simpler perspectives and still holds them dear, but who has adapted to the 'Sign 'O' the Times, as Prince so eloquently put it. Music may have changed, technology advanced, but at the heart of all of us who grew up in a decade of opulence, personal connection and individualism- we remember. We do not necessarily want to go back, but we want to keep those quintessential aspects of our teenage aspirations and dreams alive, for they are the core of who we are. We may use our phones every day for more than their original purpose- to simply talk to one another. They are now tools of global connection, albeit a virtual one. But deep down, we can still envision a pay phone, change in hand at the side of the road, We can still hear that tape rewinding, as we checked our messages.

Raspberry Beret, or Various Hats Maybe

This tale, told through anecdotes and tales of my teenage years and those of my children, is going to be how things may seem drastically different, how the 1980's almost seem foreign to millennial's, but in reality- we are very much the same, simply with different instruments at our fingertips. I hope you join me on this adventure. Every week a new chapter in the story of my collision of past and present, music infused with memory and comparison. 1980’s, 1990’s and the new century. I hope you enjoy the ride. Oh, and did I mention I love hats. I used to wear a huge black one at the beach, blocking my very pale skin from the sun. Many would say I was goth in high school but trust me I was everything but. That, however, is another story.

Oddities, Curiosities and Eccentricities: Mom, Teacher, Coach

It is a very strange feeling when family and classroom meet. When my educator persona bumps up against mom mode.There is a certain wall generally, between the two for me. If my husband were to walk into my classroom, as I was teaching it would definitely stop me in my tracks. Only for the reason that my family posture kicks in, once the bell has rung and I am exciting the building. When I am in the building I am in teacher mode.

But, when it comes to Quiz bowl- the wall has crumbled and the two aspects of my life seem to connect to a certain degree. Rather than staying in teacher mode, I have to jump back and forth, this does not necessarily blend seamlessly- sometimes it causes oddities, curiosities and eccentricities. My students always say you are so different with your children around. It is a pitch, yaw and lift that keeps my flight path directional, however it also creates some turbulence. I have a difficult time giving attention to my youngest when I am on the teacher path.

This last weekend for the first time ever, my whole family traveled to Chicago with my Quiz Bowl team for the nationals competition. At the airport I was in a parent and teacher conundrum. I switched back and forth so quickly, I forgot who I was talking to and my teacher voice came out with my children and my mom voice with my students. It was funny. My students even commented that I sounded like their parents rather than their teacher. Oddities due to the blending of roles.

Curiosities sprung from every angle. Would my children get along with my students, they had met a few times, but would they get along? Would parents get along with my husband? Would my youngest son behave with the other younger travelers? My family is definitely not a mainstream, normal family. My boys have long hair, they are loud and expressive and above all they argue a lot with one another because of it. It felt like I was diffusing situations with my own children more than I was with my students.

We are definitely eccentric. This is what makes my family so fun. But, we are home bodies and getting on a plane and traveling across country was a first for us as a whole family. My youngest had never even been on a plane. The co-pilot overheard this and invited him into the cockpit. It was awesome. My students, most well-traveled, hunkered down and were excellent on the plane, which gave me two hours to be just mom and wife. It was a nice respite before the very busy weekend. With parents in attendance, I focused my energy on being coach and let them take on the role of parent. My family, stepped aside and went into Chicago as I led my team through the competition days.

But after games and after the rounds my family joined in as we celebrated making playoffs. My family has become very much a part of the team. But, it is weird to hear "Mom" and "Mrs.CJ" at the same time. Generally teacher mode and parent mode stay separate. But for me the oddities, curiosities and eccentricities of both have merged into more of a comfortable place. It is strange to switch so quickly from Mrs. CJ to Mom but it is kind of fun. My classroom is teacher mode, my home parent mode and Quiz Bowl has allowed the two to combine, even if for the weekend tournaments.

We All Tell Stories....Hear Versions of Others' Stories... Alter the Endings

We All Tell Stories

When we experience the world, even if we are sharing it with others, our practice, participation, and purpose, is our own. Formulated and designed around our observations and understanding of what we feel is real and what we know to be reality. We tell ourselves anecdotes, connect our memories, to steer us into our personal setting, characters and all. We choose who to add to our narrative. We decide who are our arch-enemies and allies. We paint a perfect picture of what we want our landscape to look like and then we fill it with dialogue and interactions.

This dialogue may be different from our imagined conversation- it may be repartee rather than meaningful exchanges, but nonetheless, we hear what we want to hear, make judgments based on what we think we hear, and sometimes we ignore what we hear in order, to shift our story. Our story is our concept of who we are. Villains do not think they are villains. Heroes know they are heroes, mostly because others tell them so. But we know if we are villainous or heroic, at least in our story we do.

The story of us, is only a version of a complete picture, as we want it to be. If we want to see our flaws, recognize our need to edit, we can re-write our autobiography- especially the version no one else is aware of. We keep most of our memoir private, so taking a chance on the rewrite, recast and re-release, is risk free. All we need to do is hit the backspace, edit and adapt. But, this takes awareness and mindfulness. This takes seeing past the façade of what we tell others and taking a deep look behind the curtain.

We see trouble when it isn't there or we refuse to recognize its tendrils as they grab hold. Why? Because we are so busy creating our plot, writing the ending to each chapter of our story, that we do not allow ourselves to use the backspace. We want to type so fast, add graphics and plot twists and just keep the flow going that we do not stop to make sure that our characters are fully formed, that their character traits are well-developed. We often lose sight of their motivation, of our motivation. We tell ourselves stories to shape our fictional world and blend it with our documentary version of our lives. When the documentary becomes boring we shift to the fictional to make the read more interesting.

Hear Versions of Other's Stories

Life is a library. Shelves full of horror, comedy, historical and self-help. Others, romance, political treatises, plays and classic. There are endless genres to choose from. We wake up in the morning with our own legend, replaying in our heads. Then when we begin interacting with others, their chronicles, serials and cliffhangers, merge into our own. Changing our tale. We move about our days listening to others, interpreting their stories and deciding if their words are fables or truths. We are only hearing their version of their story, however. Until they have become characters in ours, they do not have dimension. Life's characters follow their arc or they make dramatic changes to type. Either way, they are only as realistic, as we make them and as much as they allow us, to know them.

It is fascinating to listen to the narratives of others, on the sly. Often when we are not part of their chapter, we hear more truth. We see the bigger picture. When we are a main cast member, we fall into the main narrative and then we have difficulty seeing the subplot. When we are the reader rather than the narrator, we can see other aspects to the story. We may not be able to change the outcome, but hopefully we can recognize the motivation and understand the impetus for it. When we silence our own speech and truly listen to the voices of others, we identify the gaps in the plot- we make sense of the vague dialogue, meant to distract us from the theme.

We can never alter the novel of others, all we can do is add some plot points. Maybe the episode will become a two parter or a mini-series. Or we will be written off, after a single scene. But, if we don't try to word-bomb or photo-bomb the story, we won't even get a walk on role. Listening is key, there are hidden twists and red herrings everywhere. The more we hear, the more we can decipher between them. In every story there are lies and deceptions. They may be purposeful plot points or merely the antagonist’s narrative- but making sure we use them to push our own story forward is key. Stories merge, alter, and re-write themselves on a daily basis. We are both audience, reader and lead actor, protagonist.

Alter the Ending's

Every day we look upon a library of stories, some short, some poetic, some purely comedic. We interact with these books, each with a cover either hardback or paperback. Some are more accessible, more copies available, while others are first editions and difficult to find. The more we open, the more narratives we add to our own the more changes our ending, branches to our story emerge. Each chapter we write in our heads, about ourselves, becomes more fleshed out, more meaningful. We must realize that the narratives of others are still in the editing process, as is our own. Each new twist and plot device, creating a new ending. 

Characters enter the story, some with good intentions and some not. Some moving the story forward, some reminding us where we were and how far we have come. In our classroom, each story has multiple endings, each student has their own version of their story, while we create our own. There are situations we do not read about, there are expositions, conflicts and resolutions that are kept hidden from us. We may not be able to alter the ending of their story, but we can help shape the current chapter- in this chapter, we are a side character. 

We play a role in the plot. We can lead them to a rising action and capstone. We can get them to the summit if we listen to their story. The words their own, the theme positive. If we lay down a setting of excitement and intrigue, we can help them design a landscape for themselves that is on-going, full of curiosity and imagination. We can help them rewrite the chapter from a doldrums day to a happy memory, if we provide them the independence to write their own story. As children we were often placed inside a story not of our own creation. We were told when to sit, when to eat, when to talk. This stifled our creativity. Our stories became biographies, rather than autobiographies.

Letting the Narrative Go

We all have a narrative. A story we tell ourselves. Many of us stick strictly to the plot, we have created for ourselves, while other let go of the narrative and edit and rewrite their story frequently. They recognize the need to stir things up. Some read the ending first, they like to know where the characters are going. Others read at a slower pace, letting the characters resonate. Letting the setting become familiar. Letting the dialogue merge with their own.

If we allow ourselves to truly do this, let the narrative go, we will have more time to read the cornucopia of titles, on our shelves. We will be able to make a new landscape from the settings within each story. Create an inter-changeable backdrop where students take stage, write the play and act every role in the performance.

This backdrop is our classroom. This backdrop, flexible and student-painted, can be raised and lowered depending on the scene. This flexibility creates a community of plot-lines, stories and narratives- this is education. We can be minor characters or major plot devices- the choice is theirs, all we can do is be real, be honest and be kind and they will write us into their stories, as they remember us. 

Stop-motion and Vlogging in Science

I wrote a guest post for Blended Learning Network: Podcasting, Stop-motion and Vlogging in Science.

https://blendedlearningnetwork.org/
Please give it a read sometime.....

Tale from a Dyslexic Mind

I have never met a student who didn't want to learn. I have met many who were reluctant, who shied away from a challenge. I have met many for whom learning comes easy and others who struggle, with the simplest of concepts. But never have I met a student who didn't want to learn and feel like they are smart.

I was a student who never gave up, who struggled in a huge way, not because I wasn't trying, but because my teachers believed I couldn't do it. They said as much. "She is just not smart enough to be in this class." or "She isn't trying hard enough, she is just a lazy student." A label, that followed me though out grade school. I changed schools seven times, before high school and at every school I attended, I was labelled as lazy and a student who needed to focus more and pay attention more and then I would be able to be a better student. I have Dyslexia not laziness.

What is a better student? What does it mean to try harder? Is there a scale of trying hard? Does it progress exponentially? As a child, these words meant nothing to me. The phrase "If you do your best, you can accomplish anything," didn't mean what it was intended to mean. To me it meant, you aren't good enough. I did my homework. I listened in class and did my best at taking notes. They weren't thorough or perfect, I struggled with listening and transcribing. But what teachers saw was, I was easily distracted and never took complete notes. Again, perspective. I never want anyone of my students to feel the way I did growing up. I felt isolated and dumb. There is no other way to put it. It sounds harsh, but true, I am afraid. 

I have been talking a lot to my Dyslexic students. Asking them questions and making sure they never feel isolated or less than. We just get to know one another and what works for us. What tools we use to make learning more fun. We can talk about strategies, till we are blue in the face- but until we negate generalizations and really get to know students, personally, this will never happen. I know some fantastic teachers, out-going and caring teachers who just miss-connect with Dyslexic students because they are taught certain methods to help these students.

Yet, none of us who have Dyslexia are the same. We learn differently, absorb information uniquely and have certain techniques we use every day to cope with being slightly outside the bubble. The bubble of the normal people, I used to call it. We will never be ‘normal’ because we are extraordinary like everyone else. What is normal anyway? Until relationships are in place and students feel safe to tell teachers their fears, they will never truly feel connected in the classroom.

Dyslexia is personal. It is a way of processing and assembling new information into a schema that makes sense to us. This never really happened for me until high school. Not because at the time, 1980's a lot was understood about Dyslexia or that a bunch of new strategies presented themselves to teachers of the time period. It was because of relationships that were made with my teachers. The tools they provided were not mandated or measured, they worked because they came from a place of security and that is why I incorporated them into my learning framework. Now this is not to say that there aren't some amazing strategies out there for teaching Dyslexic students. For me, it means that these methods are just the shape of the solutions, the middle and ultimately the vibrancy will come from a teacher’s time, patience and communication.

When you see a student pull away and retreat- nudge them back in, not with new strategies alone, but with conversation. A current student I have, who is Dyslexic, told me this, on an exit ticket, she wrote this amazing response and I find it the most meaningful feedback, I have ever received. Not because it is positive, but because I wish I had had a teacher whom I could have said this to growing up. It is a reminder that we often forget to just listen.

"I have never been good at science. Too many words and concepts being thrown at me, bombarding me. When I asked questions it was, see me after class, or come to tutorials. I didn't want to spend extra-time learning something everyone else was learning in class. But, since I have been in your class, the vocabulary is presented in so many ways, I get to talk to you one to one every week, and I have lots of time to talk to other students. You really listen to what I need and make sure I get it. I know I am smart, I just need to be reminded sometimes. Not with grades or praise, but with after a hard lesson, I get it. I get to leave the classroom feeling as smart as other students. This is why, I love your class."

Line, Speed, Beauty: A Semblance of Being

Perfect your line. Build your speed. Make it beautiful.

Line

Every letter and shape begins with one. The first placement of the writing instrument on the page, the mark produced by a quick action of the wrist. A line emerges. Straight or curved, font determined by the angle, the momentum, the slant. Lines can be crisp delineations or contours shaping the landscape. They can be demarcations, separations and borders: each for security or independence.  Lines can be tactile, like braille, or communicative like Morse Code. Dashes, hyphens or bars, each representing sounds or words. Even just a simple scribble, an expression of boredom or distraction embodies emotion in a subtle, unassuming way. Lines shape, distinguish and embody.

Lines can be measured, meters or inches. They can be divided, traced and configured. They are tangible images, we get in our heads from an early age. "Line up at the door," or "Form a queue." We as humans feel more organized if we have a line. A line for coffee, for the restroom, even on the highway, traffic is a line of cars. If our vehicles were strewn all over the place, travel would be chaos.This is why we have yellow or white divider lines down freeways, thoroughfares and roads. They keep the flow of our lives organized. Like the grooves of a stream, as it curves and meanders down the landscape. It is a force, the simple line, in almost every aspect of our lives. A symbol of specificity. A broker of mathematics, language and science.

Bilateral or symmetry there is a furrow or wrinkle that separates. Sometimes a line is marked. Sometimes it is implied, like the Equator or Tropic of Capricorn: recognized and honored but very much imaginary in nature. Windows are framed, doorways arched, by lines. Silhouettes are shadowed with a darkening of an edge. A shoulder between obscurity and light. Yet, this shaded profile illuminates. It creates a figure we recognize. Lines can limit, but they can also maximize liberation. People often say "A line has been crossed." Meaning in some trenchant way expectations were marred. Feelings were hurt, morals were strained. Yet, the borderline, the perimeter was never defined. It was never agreed upon. This line, the mark in the sand, we often draw around our comfortability, is personal, it is very much real, if only in our minds.

The problem arises when the periphery is fluid and our expectations are not made clear. Borders are set politically, so that this miscommunication, can be kept to a minimum. These margins of countries and counties are there to bring order. They are not always fair or logistically sound, but they are purposeful. They are in place to keep a semblance of normalcy. To keep a framework for movement of goods, to protect and manage commerce and travel. Again, not always fair but purposeful. The imaginary, personal lines we set up around ourselves are no different. They maintain an assumption of protection and communication. Yet, they are often inflexible, causing closed mindedness. They often construct high walls of separation, not allowing situations, in which one can grow and expand.

Perfect your line. Lines do not need to be permanent. Nor do they need to be guarded at all times, constricting the mobility of wanderers. We build relationships by lowering our drawbridge and allowing others to venture in and share ideas and emotions. When we sit atop a fortified tower, we isolate ourselves. To perfect our line, we need to build multiple spiral staircases, open our portcullis and allow others to take up residence. Our line needs to be permeable, accessible and manageable. If we place too heavy of a garrison, not only will others retreat, but many will never cross the expanse to even try to form an alliance. Step one- a line should never be forged in steel. Stone is strong and durable, but with the right tools, it can also be re-imagined and reset. Lines should be conceived and generated to bend and flex with the times. The speed at which it is erected, ultimately guides the level of beauty it exudes.

Speed

Speed is relative. Time appears to many, as slow and truncated. For others, situations are a blur. How we set our inner clock determines our perspective. We rush through certain situations because they make us uncomfortable. While, when we are in a place of calm and joy, we tend to stretch it out, making sure we get to experience every moment of it. If we haphazardly construct our sense of things, we miss opportunities. Our framework may seem sound, but it is tittering, due to uneven layers and misshapen memories. But, if we take each brick, each new experience and reflect, add mortar in balanced, smooth, seams- just maybe with time to dry and settle, they will add strength and fortitude to the fabric of our tapestry.

In other words, if we slow our speed, just a little, we can pick up more nuances and frame our border more accurately. We hang this masterpiece, this construction of reality, around us, the vibrancy of life, each panel an adventure we have taken. To prevent unraveling we must secure each thread. These stones and filaments, strands and slabs form the line- the boundary between ourselves and others. Speed matters. Perfection does not. Step two- use a level, well-constructed material and patience to lay the foundation of your perspective. The more we allow for alterations, the more freedom we allow ourselves, to climb over and walk around, rather than getting stuck behind our own misconceptions.

Beauty

The beauty of freedom of expression is that you feel like yourself, you are no longer tied down behind a wall of limitations. The highest part of the wall is often erected not by you, but by those who wish to have their boundaries secure. Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. But exposure to the difficult, the overwhelming, the disquieting, is important for our well being. This emotional roller coaster not only allows us to empathize and sympathize, it allows us to recognize the beauty in everything. Above all it forces us to see the details, the differences, the eccentricities, that make us all individuals. We may not like what we see, or hear, but we need to appreciate the value in creativity, individuality and personal expression.

The artistry of the disgusting is a marketable form of entertainment. Some thrive on watching and interacting with the uneasy. Others shy away from the unnerving, that is the nature of the beast. Freedom of expression does not bring unity, it brings discordance. It brings to the surface outspoken and determined individuals whose purpose is to destroy these liberties. But more tragically, to squelch the privilege to express it. The beauty of life is that it is a cycle- carbon, water, energy. Each have an ebb and flow, but are never created nor destroyed. They transform. Opinions, extravagances and influences do as well. Yet, these lines, these personal boundaries, often do not.

Beauty is everywhere. It appears not only before triumph and success, but after tragedy and failure. It is embedded in language and meaning, mathematics and science. It is visible on the faces of children, tasted in amazing food and felt in meditative and exciting experiences. It is absent in hatred, greed and prejudice. It is lost in moments of outrage and anger, yet it is found in resolve and forgiveness. Lines form profiles and open up frontiers. They change the flow of matter and energy. They transform neighborhoods, halt progress and build bridges. Above all, lines create a sense of pride, design new ways of doing things, because we are forced to step around them, they detach, emancipate and rescue. They are life lines as much as they are borderlines.

Step three- see the line, keep it fluid. Cultivate it and nurture it rather than simply construct it. This line should be not preventative but inviting. We all have these borders. Its a part of being human. But, we also have the consciousness to be aware of our limitations and expand our mind set. This is growth. So, lines ultimately are beauty itself, because they are a part of everything and everything: star dust, molecules of carbon and water, waves of light and energy- these aspects of our world are a part of us. Line, speed, beauty- each a layer of existence, each a building block of humanity. Now all we need to do is stop and smell the roses and see how the three combine to bring a perfect semblance.