Marching

Click on people's faces in the photo to tag them.

Yesterday was a walk that honored anyone who didn't expect the unexpected, but got it and are working even harder to make sure that others have the support they need as well.

The March of Dimes walk was held in multiple cities this weekend, and the one that is closest to our hearts and homes was the walk in Ocean Grove, NJ.

I not only love that town because I had many successful volleyball tournaments there when I was a young lass, but also because it is where my wedding photographer happily resides. And maybe that small part about the Atlantic Ocean meeting the land there.

It was rainy, yes it was rainy. Everyone still walked, maybe it was a slightly shorter route, but everyone walked.

It is nice to get everyone out and together to show the love they have for each other.

My husband taught a lesson at church about 3 dimensions, and I think events like this make life a little more 3 dimensional. People are powerful tools. Thanks for a great rainy day.

Poets Who Know It

courtesy of mayhempoets.com

(on sale for purchase)

As an English teacher, it is really our jobs to teach the kids a lot of stuff, but one thing that comes up a lot is teaching kids the power of language. It is tough to do when you are in a box of a classroom and have to stick to pages of curriculum that no one in their right mind ever really reads, but really, it is a big part of our job.

The beginning of last week, I was happy to find out that I had an assembly Friday morning. It is always nice to hear someone else talk besides yourself when you are a teacher, so I was looking forward to getting out of the classroom with the kids.

When I reviewed the assembly on Monday morning I read the title of the performers: "Mayhem Poets" and my insides bounced like one year old Hari to Boom Boom Pow. There was a possibility I might know one of the performers. That's right. I know people.

I quickly googled the poets and smack on the front of their web site, there was Scott.

I didn't know Scott well, but I knew that he went to Rutgers with me and that I went to see him perform in 12 Angry Men one Friday night in Scott Hall. I also distinctly remember bumping into him at Blockbuster about a year after we graduated and asking him "what he was up to" and he humbly shared that he and a few friends were starting a group that would perform poetry at schools.

Those memories made me write an email to the "contact info" on their web site about how I was looking forward to seeing their performance and then proceed to facebook to friend him (he accepted!).

I am such a dork.

When Friday morning came, I was like one of those screaming girls pushing down the barrier between themselves and the Beatles.

Inside.

Outside I was walking slowly to the auditorium, bringing papers to grade, talking to fellow colleagues and just mentioning that I knew the guy in the blue skull cap on stage. Yes, the white guy.

"Oh really?" they would say as I beamed.

I was anxious. I was hoping they would be as good as I imagined they would be. Hoping that I should beam.

At the start of the performance Kyle ("Skep") told the audience to be who they are and if they want to cry, cry and if they feel they want to laugh, laugh. I listened, and thought - "Awww, that's nice that he is letting these kids feel empowered and give sincere reactions. That's such a good way to start."

I laughed. I cried. And certainly, I beamed.

The honest talent that emanated from the stage was as refreshing as eating newly harvested cucumbers on a 90 degree day. They prepared, they revised, they worked hard, and they totally knew their audience.

Everyone left understanding the power of language and they did it by telling their story and sharing what they have inside of them.

Not one teacher passed another on Friday without saying, "How great was that assembly today?"

These guys have something that people attending the Oscars tonight wish they had.

I wish I had it.

Thanks Scott. Thanks Kyle. Thanks Mason.

Friday was a great day and I hope you guys can get to as many schools as possible because more people need to hear what you have to share.

Post Edit: You need to watch this media spot to get a better sense of it maybe.

Girly Girl

Calvin and I at the Eurasian marathon in Istanbul
2007
(we walked 10K)

It has been a struggle for me to foster my femininity.

I grew up being talented at things boys are known for doing.

I was good at soccer and then softball and then bowling and then basketball and then track and field and then volleyball. Somewhere in there I was a cheerleader but decided that I couldn't fake smile for that long, and I asked my dad to let me practice kicking touchdowns instead.

He conceded to my wishes, but maybe he knew that one night of attempting field goals would make me realize I should stick to punting soccer balls.

I dragged my parents into the world of suburbanite athletic competition.

They didn't make me a jock - it was my own doing and it built me.

Throughout my athletic career I was exposed to trying to pee in cups on backs of buses and tapping signs for good luck before entering games and taping breasts so they wouldn't knock into knees when running on the soccer field.

This, to me, was femininity. What better way to express ourselves than through physical strength and beating out someone else?

Femininity is not these things though - I have come to learn.

I notice when I have to borrow make-up and jewelry and cute shoes.

I notice when I get out of the car to go for lunch with friends and my keys are jingle-jangling next to my wallet in my pocket and I wonder why everyone else has a bag with them.

I notice when I invariably put on New Balance shoes for every occasion.

I notice when my kids play with my friends' kids and I feel like we are all in this child rearing thing together, not trying to beat each other out.

I am still trying to grasp the concept, and I think I can get there.

Just give me time.

Title IX

Dear Tomboys of the 60's,

Hi there. I am a girl who was a tomboy and played and played and played every sport that involved a sphere. I consider myself a tomboy of the 90s, but I am not sure that term was ever put on me. I don't remember hearing it, and I think it is because of this thing called Title IX, whatever it is. I was just an athletic girl, and sometimes even just an athlete.

Climbing in trees and jumping over fences, what a great way to use your energy. Thank you for being tomboys even though no one gave you sports to play. Making bruises and scars cool must have been hard when there was no goal posts in sight. Female athletes owe you all for the healthy, exercise filled lives we live today.

But we owe you more than that, don't we. Legitimizing women's sports has been a struggle and not having sports to legitimize must have been devastating. I can't imagine not doing something you knew you had a talent for, a desire for. Or being told you can't or aren't good enough to do something you know you can do. Was that second part worse? I would think it would be worse.

I look around at many of my friends and many of the things I love about my life and they have so much to do with sports and athletics and there is no way those things would have existed without you. You tomboys, breaking through the powder being puffed onto cheeks, you are the ones I have to thank.

Thank you for my strong back to pick up and carry my children. Thank you for my determination to do better and to be better. Thank you for knowing how to work with others as a team. Thank you mostly for showing me how to live a healthy life, one where staying fit is fun.

Thank you tomboys, I owe you my life.

Love,

Celine

Saturdays Are Full of Hope

What I love most about my Saturday mornings: Ali Time.

Saturday mornings engender hope.

Unlike the mornings of the work week, Saturday morning invites opportunity to ring your phone and invite you to brunch.  It provides the luxury of waking up with the sun, yawning your way to the kitchen, and enjoying a cup of coffee in a real mug (steamed with your own milk, not cooled with a splash from a community carton).

Saturday mornings encourage conversation between husbands and wives, mothers and children, fathers and family.  Instead of offering a quick moment of rushed pecks and murmured goodbyes, Saturday morning rolls out the red carpet for hugs and laughter, newspapers and television.

But best of all, Saturday mornings empower our worlds with choice.  Will it be eggs and toast or slow cooked oats? Do we shampoo the carpets and organize the hodgepodge of lidless pots or do we forego all housework by hopping in the car and heading to the hills for a day of hiking at Hacklebarney?

For my husband, Saturday mornings hint at the option of a PM wake up; just knowing it's a possibility, albeit a rare one, is almost always enough. For me, Saturday mornings whisper words of freedom: "I don't care," they say, "it's up to you.  What do you want to do?"

Saturday mornings trust you; they know that you'll make the choice that's best for you and your family.

Imagine if your boss was that generous.