I wanted to say thank you for having been such a good teacher. Thank you for having been such an inspiration, and for having taught me so much about both art and what I wanted to do with my life. You made me consider pursuing art a career, but supported me anyway when I told you that I wasn't going to be preparing portfolios to apply to art schools, but instead essays for universities. After about an hour of discussion, you supported me in that decision. Your class was the one I looked forward to for those last two periods of the day, and your sense of dry humor was one of the best I knew at the high school. You never took bullshit and you treated the students in your classes like adults. Thank you, I appreciated that so much. You always reached out to the kids who needed reaching out to and you sincerely cared about us.
It's been two years and some months since I last really saw you and spoke with you, but it's weird--your presence really has stuck with me. I loved your class and I talk about it with Nick Ciambro and Carolyn Frederick a lot when I see them. I'll always remember listening to the radio in your class, and how you said the first day we could listen to music--as long as you liked it. You also treated 9/11 with the most respect and the most proper reaction of my teachers. We spent almost the entire two periods watching television and talking, while most teachers were trying to move on through class awkwardly, allowing a few minutes here and there for discussion and continuing on as otherwise noted. I really appreciated that you gave us some time to think and talk those last two periods of the day.
Did you know your wife delivered my family's mail when I was little? I used to leave her flowers in the mailbox with notes. I'm thinking of your little girls, and I remember thinking they were so lucky to have such a cool dad like you. Maybe it was that weird jealousy that made us, your students, start calling you "Uncle Gary." I was thinking of you in my global media class last week. Instead of taking notes and listening to lecture, I was drawing my initlas. You had helped me come up with my design for that project and made me work so hard--and then gave me a B+. Not quite neat enough for an A. That's okay because I learned more about neatness and practicality in Commercial Art than any other class at the high school...and I was even required to take Health!
I think I swore you to hell the night I was up til 5:30 am drawing the architectural plans for my one-bedroom loft cabin and rendering the 3-dimensional design of the bedroom. Then, when I got up at 7 am, skipped my first classes and finished it up, I was so happy with my final product, I took it all back. :) But I think I told you that already, that day I turned it in.I am writing this letter to say goodbye and thank you. It's selfish of me, but I feel guilty I never dropped by to say hi to you at the new high school. I remember seeing you with a student the one time I was there. I didn't want to interrupt--you looked like you were working intensely with this kid, you were full of energy for the job and full of hope for him. That's what we loved about you. So now I want to say thank you, Mr. Simindinger, for having been such a great inspiration to so many Lebanon High School students for so many years. We'll miss you.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Dear Mr. Simendinger
Monday, September 12, 2005
Four years later
I had a conversation tonight with a friend about the comparison between 9/11 and Katrina. He pointed out how Katrina has overshadowed significant rememberances for the victims of the terrorist attacks of 9/11. I agreed with him that sometimes the freshest blood can be seen the best on media coverage, but doesn't, sometimes, holding up a flag stained with blood and tears become tiresome and cliche rather than a poignant statement? And, in many ways, Americans have become much more jaded as a country. Even George W.'s approval ratings have plummeted over the last two weeks.
What, he pointed out, should George W. have done to have "done more" in the south?
For me, this was W.'s one last-ditch opportunity to prove something positive about his pathetic two-term presidency. Here, he could have changed things--shown what a great addition the "Homeland Security" department was, used that second article power of his as president (not to mention those uninhibited powers granted to him following 9/11 by Congress). But instead, we sat horrified in front of our television sets for a week as bodies floated in water, as snipers shot at patients as they were evacuated from hurriance-torn hospitals, as family members turned to CNN and MSNBC and (even) FoxNews for help finding their loved ones and for information on where to go and what to do--information the government wasn't giving them.
W.'s presidency has been flanked by two disasters--9/11 and Katrina--completely different in nature, but telling of so much that has changed in the last four years. Not only do we recognize the date today and remember and mourn, but we also recognize that the world we live in today is different than that of early September of 2001. In the world we live in, planes flown into buildings and terrorist attacks are possibilities and--because of 9/11, London and several other attacks--realities.
In some ways, Katrina is not fresher blood for the media to scrounge from. Instead, it seems Katrina's flood waters washed away the contrived political jargon of neo-conservatism where patriotism and hostility are nearly one and the same. When the waters recede, somewhere in the wreckage, the ineffectiveness and ineptitude of this presidency will be left behind. And America will be reminded of how much we were promised after 9/11—-and how little we were delivered.
Monday, August 15, 2005
What I'd Say to the Martians--Jack Handey
WHAT I'D SAY TO THE MARTIANS
by Jack Handey
People of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole. You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. "Mmm, that's good Martian," I would say.
You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is realy the more "civilized" one? You, standing there watching this cage? Or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you? You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.
We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or, so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol into everyone I see, even pets.
Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that portray a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you're watching the films I'd sort of slip away, because guess what: the projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it! Well, maybe not now you wouldn't.
You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.
You say there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you--namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.
You claim there are other intelligent being in the galazy besides earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we're through attacking them we'll attack you.
I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. May be it is not me who is the intruder but you.
No, not me. You, stupid.
You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.
I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we on Earth do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to "milk" bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. Are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flamethrower.
You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can't kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.
You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And still you keep me locked up.
True, you have allowed me reading material--not the "human reproduction" magazines I requested by the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him--just me, him and one of his big, heavy books.
If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.
If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is that we humans cannot live without our freedom. So, if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I'm dead. Really.
Maybe on e day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a litle Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But, after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has? A gun. You weren't expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!
I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage tonight to hear my speech. Donations will be gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Likes: Toasters, porches, lavender honey, and tight hugs
I sleep with my down comforter on, in 90 degree night heat, with no air conditioning in my house.
I raid my mom's closet every break to see if my taste in clothing has changed enough that I can take more of her old clothes. I always do.
I used to dislike the smell of cigarettes. I got used to it in France. I still don't smoke.
There is this sponge that my aunt claimed can clean up any stain. When she demonstrated by writing an obscene word on my grandmother's white purse in a Bic pen, the sponge didn't work. She still gave me one anyway.
I write in four different journals.
I just made that last fact up. I don't feel like counting exactly how many journals I'm writing in right now. We'll say four.
I am going to Evanston tomorrow.
I enjoy getting lost and not knowing where I am going.
When I was little, I caught fireflies and kept count of how many I caught every summer. One night I caught 300. That summer I caught over 5000. In addition, I caught one wasp.
I assume I won't get married until I'm at least 29, and that I'm not having kids until I'm 32. I also assume I might not have kids at all if my career is more important at the time.
I've got more skeletons than you do. Promise.
I hate possum.I also hate things that have lots of scales/holes/visible veins/fleshy particles. God, those things are disgusting. (This includes, but is not limited to, sponges, honeycombs, fish flesh.)
Hell for me would be loneliness.
Today I realized that, for me, college is half-done, and the hometown that I thought would never be the town I came back to from college has been that town. This made me laugh while I was driving and the moment felt pretty cathartic. I don't know why.
I've had more dreams involving Aslan lately since I was eight. These dreams rock and often involve flying.
My cats and I play games that involve chasing each other around the house. I am as entertained as my cats are.
I have to sleep and stop thinking random thoughts, or I'll never be able to drive to Chicago tomorrow.
To sleep.
Tuesday, August 9, 2005
It might sound silly, but...
I cried throughout the entire ABCWorldNews broadcast tonight.
I grew up watching Peter Jennings deliver the news every night in my house. I'm not sure how many people between the ages of 3 and 18 watched the news as much as I did when I was little. In fact, I'm pretty certain I was more well-informed at the age of 12 of worldly matters than I am now.
It's reassuring to have a familiar face enter your home every night by satellite and tell you what's happening in the world. If they're there saying it to you, everything has to be okay to some extent. I learned almost every big news story through Peter Jennings. My first memory of anything particularly newsworthy is of the Berlin Wall coming down, and I remember watching him hold up pieces of the wall. Knowing Peter Jennings has died also makes these events I witnessed through his accounts seem more transient--moments that hung for a moment, suspended by media coverage and then slipped back under the tide of more important, pressing events. It also makes me feel old.
It was like the likes of Peter Jennings that got me saying when I was little that I wanted to be 'on the news.' For me, Jennings was a little bit like my dad, too. His ties and stiff collared shirts reminded me of my dad, who'd often still be wearing his own ties and stiff-collared shirts from the office when we'd all watch the news together.
I am not sure exactly why I wanted to write this down, but it seemed important to me. I didn't realize I'd be so affected by his death.
Sunday, August 7, 2005
A Little Memory
When I was little, I used to do these things I called "Moon Dances."
When there was a full moon in the summer, I'd get dressed up. "Dressed up" usually meant wearing my white slips that were meant to be worn under dresses, which I thought were really sophisticated without dresses over them. I'd also put on make-up, very exciting at the age of six or seven.
Once I was all dressed up, I would have my parents light all the candles on the porch. I'd choose a CD I wanted to dance to and turn the speakers of our living room stereo to face outside. My favorite CD's to play were either Pavarotti's Greatest Hits, Nat King Cole or Ray Charles.
Once it was all ready, I'd dance all night--on the patio, on the porch--and I'd run--up the walkway to the pool, around the pool and into the "back-backyard." I'd jump on my swingset and twist in between the bars and swing. In the moonlight, with my sophisticated white slip, I probably looked much like a streak of white searing across the dark smoky green of the yard.
I think that's nice. I hope that these types of things don't die with age.
Wednesday, August 3, 2005
Back in the US of A
C'est la grande question, la seule, au fond celle que j'ai toujours entendue même lorsqu'elle n'était pas formulée, et quelquefois aussi je l'ai posée--les mots, les yeux--, d'autres fois non ou bien murmurée, juste pour voir, juste pour savoir--mais souvent non, souvent tue, réponse non sue, inventée, suggérée: est-ce que tu m'aimes, est-ce que c'est de l'amour, ce que tu éprouves, ce que tu dis, ce que tu fais, est-ce que c'est de l'amour, est-ce que c'est l'amour?
--Camille Laurens, L'Amour
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Habit
The streets are cobbled, stony and narrow. Cars will most likely come within inches every day of your ankles.
You get used to dealing with people, your tolerance goes up and you handle lots of situations because you have to--until another girl in your program moves into your house with your family and drives you nuts to the point where you are hiding on your family's computer, checking livejournal, so you don't have to see her.
But for the most part, you're still tolerant.
You find yourself up, willingly, before 8, making coffee and going to the market to buy cheese, wine, homemade honey, melons and baguettes. You carry all this home in a large bag, because that's the way it's done here.
You do it that way too, because you found out the hard way when you stocked up on Nutella, cookies and Orangina: The Monoprix supermarket doesn't give you bags for your groceries.
When told you're going to a "Beach Party" with your French family and their friends, that actually means you're going to a private party on the Mediterranean where you'll drink wine and champagne with your French parents (aged 32 and 26) and their beautiful friends, before you all have a dance party and jump in the water fully clothed.
Getting up the next morning and sharing a hangover with your family might be awkward.
The bars are open until 2, and unlike half the girls in the group, you're not seeking a French man at them.
You get used to walking through tourist traps and roll your eyes when the next big group of American students, German couples or Asian retirees, stops in front of you to take pictures of whatever buildling is in front of them.
Even the arena has blended in as "just" part of the scenery.
In fact, didn't you know, you're an American student here...not an American tourist.
When you run out books, you raid your hosts' bookcases and start the DaVinci Code in French.
When only one week remains, you meet some of the nicest people in your group who you've never hung out with before.
And when only one week remains, you realize you don't have time anymore, to do all the things you've said you'd do.But the south of France has got her grip on you: Why rush? Life's too short to hurry. Put your feet up, have a petit cafe, have a verre de vin, order yourself what you like, and spend the evening tucked into the warm comfort of the lavender-infused air with your friends in deep convesation across golden-colored tablecloths. As they say, que sera sera.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Some Disconnected Thoughts
1. I haven't mentioned it, but I've had a cough since the second week here. I think I'm allergic to France.
2. I can't believe there was ever a point in time where I ran down Sherman Avenue with a boombox iPod with my friends at 6 am post-Dillo Day for Starbucks in the most perfect impression of a music video for "Amsterdam" that I've ever participated in.
3. I want to reconstruct the sentence structure of number 2, but I'm too tired to do that.
4. I saw a play in French today. It was slightly difficult to understand, but fun to schmooze with the actors afterward nonetheless.
5. I'm still reeling from HP6. I cried in front of a train full of French people today.
6. I could really go for some Graeter's Ice Cream. What will I ever do without the famous Cincinnati ice cream?
7. Immediate plans for August: work. go to Kentucky with Katie, preferably to mammoth cave. use up rest of GameZone points with Grant in Cincy. drive to Evanston for a weekend. work. more.
8. Do I just leave this antispyware scan running on my 27-year-old host dad's computer when I go up to bed?
9. I got my host family addicted to Arrested Development. The seed has been sown in France.
10. I'm lucky that my family is friends with my France-friends' families. We've so far had three dinner parties in the last week, mainly involving spaghetti, bread, lots of cheese and lots of wine... oh and lots of yogurt for dessert. One involved watching a French CSI-like drama that is all the rage here. I know I'M hooked.
11. Spring quarter, at times, involved me slamming my head against a wall.
12. I hate walls.
13. I love France. It cleared my head, or at least helped to.
14. Things I will about France?... Cheap wine... Beautiful skies and views... Roman ruins just being part of everyday life... Some of the girls here... Patisseries... Constant supplies of "oohhlahlahs!" and "mais nooooooooooon" and richly blown flabby lips and looks of exasperation... oh, and speaking French.
15. I probably will nod off during my photography lecture tomorrow...I mean, the development of the portrait is as interesting as the next thing, but still...
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Closing
Things are starting to wind up...or down... here in Arles.
By winding up, I mean that I bought Harry Potter and refuse to do work until I finish it. And that I have a despicable amount of work that my profs decided to spring on me. I am unhappy with my classes, and perhaps that is because I spent 9 hours in them today, as compared to my usual 3 twice a week.
I went to Venice to meet up with Jess.(Insert hearts and romantic music here.)
Venice = Disney World, Italiano style, beautiful, lots of food, lots of glass, no cars, lots of scary men, lots of beautiful fireworks, eating cheese and wine and fruit and chocolate in your hotelroom by fancified tables, buying Harry Potter, gossip and girltalk, being alone one day there, meeting John's twin.
I'm very excited to come home. The most excited I've felt in a long, long time happened the other day in Venice when the image of me sitting, waiting for take-off in Marseille came to mind... going home. What a nice feeling.