What would you do with $1000?

My favorite part of the job is when I find myself in the kitchen or around the table with just a few of the kids. It's these smaller group discussions that warm my heart.

Today was one of those days, and around a table of celery sticks and peanut butter I asked what they would buy with $1000.

Makayla said she would "buy something for my mother...maybe a diamond necklace and a diamond ring."

Ju'wanne said he'd "buy a five bedroom townhome for the family."

Godwin said he'd buy "a PS2, a game cube, a Nintendo Wii, a PSP, two big screen HD TVs, DVD players for me and all my friends..."
..."but I'm only giving you $1000, Godwin. You may have to pick only a few of those things."
"Shoot, I'd shop on Black Friday!"

Genius.

"A person's a person no matter how small."

My father reminds me often that justice begins by listening to children; after all, Jesus came to earth as a child. As of late, Dr. Seuss reminded me of the same.

If you haven't seen Horton Hears a Who! yet, get on it. This movie would be great for any type of theology paper, the biblical references are abounding! Mrs. Kangaroo calls Horton, our elephant hero, silly and dangerous for believing that life exists on this small speck of dust on a flower because "if you can't see it or hear it, it doesn't exist". In the end, Mrs. Kangaroo's small son hears the townspeople of Whoville and their world is saved. A child hears the cries of people and saves an entire world (sound familiar?).

As an adult...er, a grown up...er, a responsible person(?) it gets very easy for me to believe that my education, my experience, my knowledge makes for the best understanding of this world we live in. It's easy to get lost in finding the answers from the experts, the books, the sermons. To be clear, I do believe it's our elderly who have all the answers and I, of course, appreciate a good sermon, but we cannot deny the power of children.

If you know me well, you know that my "motherly instincts" aren't necessarily at the top of my strengths. With that, I'm as surprised as anyone that I find myself surrounded by children everyday now. And while my primary purpose is to help with homework, teach manners and commitment, and encourage service and kindness, I can't help but recognize the lessons I'm getting each day.

My short list:
Dancing to Michael Jackson makes one very happy.
A game of kick ball creates healthy competition as long as everyone gets to play and it ends in a tie.
A stick of gum offered by a friend will stop tears.
Sharing your vending machine loot is the best way to make friends.
It's cool to write letters to Santa, and you must sing Hark the herald angels sing/Glory to the newborn king! super loud while spinning in circles.

...to be continued.

Little things.

Today I got a free lunch from Jimmy John's.

I played kickball outside (although it was chilly) and convinced the kids we ended with a tie.

Successfully entertained children by making lemonade and putting together a 500 piece puzzle of a lighthouse.

Found myself at an open-mic night listening to the most amazing rap from teenagers in the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood.

Listened to my alma-mater dominate our rivals in basketball and pull out an amazing volleyball win.

Had a long overdue phone conversation with one of my dearest friends.

Sometimes the little things add up to make one hell of a good day.

Thankful.

We made Thanksgiving dinner at Dunedin on Tuesday. Chicken nuggets, barbecue sauce, green beans, white rice and blueberry pie : $30. Sitting around a table set with mismatched plates and cutlery and having the kids exclaim, "We're like a family!" : priceless.

Teaching your 8o year-old great aunts to play Wii bowling; waking up at 5 am to shop on Black Friday with your sister (who slept while you drove); enjoying two huge meals cooked with love by your mother; tasty dessert made by your sister; dominating your uncles and father at Wii; laughing until your face hurts at the antics of your aunts; being tackled into the wall by your uncle during an intense three-hour game of wally-ball; reading Newsweek with your cousin; asking Trivial Pursuit questions even when the game is over; being sincerely impressed with the answers Gram comes up with; wine, wine and good beer. There is no better way to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Conversation at Saturday night Pizza Ranch buffet brought us all to the humbling realization at just how blessed our family was. While I have lost two amazing patriarchs, both of my grandfathers left behind legacy and admiration; all of my aunts and uncles have stayed married; all my cousins (so far) have attended college; I have just one uncle who is battling cancer, but with the utmost strength and support; we all speak to each other and love one another. We are a rare group. We are lucky and I am oh, so thankful.

Thank you...

The Office.

Best laugh out loud TV, ever.

Done.

I am thankful for...

freerice.com

If you haven't discovered this website yet, you should probably go there. Now.

I have reasons to appreciate this site outside of the good it does. I ask the kids to shoot for 1000 grains before playing some random racing game online, and it keeps them busy for a good 15 minutes. The quiet is nice though I'm not positive that they don't just click answers and cross their fingers that it's correct. Lately they've been asking if this is really true and are curious about this thing called the "UN World Food Program". The idea of feeding hungry people in Africa actually intrigues and motivates them to practice their basic algebra and English vocab.

John Breen, the guy who started this little website, was a freaking genius. In a time when few people believe that good exists or that change can occur in some of the everyday instances of life (like surfing the web), this guy proves us wrong. Plus, it's educational.

Gratitude goes out to people who appreciate knowledge and believe hunger can end.

I am thankful for...

The Pride of the Dutchmen

The other day, one of my kids asked me if I played any instruments.

I hesitated before saying, Well, yes, actually, I do. I can play the piano, cello and clarinet.

Before I could ask why she'd asked, she squealed, NO WAY! I am playing the clarinet now! I am going to bring my clarinet and you can teach me how to play! Isn't this just perfect?!

I didn't have a chance to warn her that I hadn't touched that thing since high school, or that I only chose to play the clarinet so I could be in the color guard, so when she brought in that small black case today, I cringed a bit.

Sure, the squeaking and three note rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb got old real fast, but after a while I had to literally hold myself back from putting my mouth on that reed (H1N1) and show her all the notes and scales that I could remember. And remember I did...I taught her the notes and the little sayings to help remember them. I gave her hints to move from G to A and tricks to avoid getting spit everywhere. It was...dare I say, fun.

Here's my Thanksgiving thanks to the music department at MOC-FV and to all those who work hard to keep music in schools.

I really don't mean to be this emo.

When a friend drives away after a long anticipated visit...your last day soaking up the sun on the beach...throwing out the bouquet of flowers...the last hug from your grandma before the road trip home...your high school graduation...your college graduation...Sunday nights after a long weekend...the day you take down the Christmas tree...eating that final piece of birthday cake...

Do you know this feeling?

They call it a "roller coaster". I don't do roller coasters, I'm not even much of a swing person. That feeling in my stomach...I hate it.

It's funny how this all works. Moments, hours, days, weeks, years even, when your heart is so full of joy and contentment and then....done. finished. the end. Some call it emptiness, pain, sorrow, loneliness.... I suppose it's called grief. Saying goodbye to the past, refusing to live in the present, fighting against the belief that anything could be better than it once was, accepting it for what it is: moving on, leaving, growing up, changing...

What is wonderful is that more moments of joy and discovery are always just around the corner. They may look different these days, but they are certainly alive and well. And that's all the hope any of us ever needs.

Thank you, MTV/radio

While listening to my Indie MTV Radio I discovered this song...



Easy to see why I like it.

Why build houses to be filled with empty hopes....

"Why build houses to be filled with empty hopes and no dreams? If we fail to act boldly and bravely, we shall bequeath a society in which those of us of academic privilege have more in common with our counterparts in London and Tokyo than with our neighbors across the street or around the corner - the very people with whom we share a city’s history and its dream for the future. " President Evan S. Dobelle

This speech was referenced in yesterday's sermon at Plymouth Congregational Church, and feeling inspired after the first sermon encouraging, if not demanding, a Christian's active participation in politics, I had to check it out.

I realized today, that after an early morning and hours taking the GRE, that once I got to my kids this afternoon, words like 'masters', 'analytical' or 'quantitative' would matter very little. Cripes, I've got a fourth grader who's ready to drop out, nevermind higher education. I'm a little nervous that perhaps my education has created more barriers for me to tear down in my quest to change the world.

I'm so proud to have come from an institution that worked fervently against the idea of an "ivory tower", but perhaps it didn't do enough to break down the ivory towers that all of us who were so warmly welcomed at Northwestern were already living in.

What does really connecting to our neighbors look like? Maybe it has less to do with bulldozing our ivory towers and more with building ladders....

My excuse for being MIA.

This is not easy work... I don't know how teachers do it all day long, after two or so hours I eagerly get into my car and actually yearn for the red lights and traffic jams to quell the headache.

The best part about being at this for, seven [wow, seven] weeks now is that the kids are ready to get real.

They tell me what hurts their feelings, what they're scared of, what they get excited about. They ask me if I feel weird being the only white person and then tell me they feel "shy, lonely, embarassed" when they are the only Hmong person in the class. They tell me they missed the bus, again, today and because there was no car at home, they missed school. They tell me stories and about the last time they got in trouble. They cry more often and wipe their snotty noses on my sweater; they stand on their tip-toes to give me back rubs.

I love telling them about what life looks like outside of St. Paul and telling my Hmong kids that peanut butter really is tasty; I love the impromptu dance contests and rolling on the floor laughter. I love when they ask to sweep the floor or pick up the pencils.

I expect a certain little boy to steal my snacks and a disgruntled teenager to complain about the relationship with her abusive mother. I feel the pain when the word "father" is mentioned. I see signs of 'being a man' coming out through violence and verbal abuse.

I see hungry mouths, wide eyes, diligent fingers on the computer, uncontrollable, silly little bodies. I see frustration, immobility, impossibility; I see anticipation, energy and joy.

I see it in the city when two worlds collide.

Perhaps its been the increased discussion of racism in recent weeks [see: this, or this, or that], or perhaps it's the fact that in any given 24 hour period I find myself in environments comparable to night and day, and I can't help but feel burdened by this collision as of late.

Let's take Friday for instance. After a day of work, surrounded by children of color, energy, struggle, hunger, curiosity and dreams of achieving the impossible, my co-worker Laura and I made the walk through downtown Minneapolis on our way to a Lucinda Williams concert. We squirmed, uncomfortable in the homogeneous atmosphere; here we were, surrounded by middle-aged, white, highly educated, affluent, men and women ready to live in our privilege "to rock!" Perhaps our discomfort was increased after happening upon a couple high anxiety moments before our arrival at First Avenue.

In the short walk from LaSalle and 15th to 1st Ave N and 7th we witnessed two separate incidents of human nature at its worst. The first, at the corner SuperAmerica, consisted of two men apparently arguing over one's ownership of a specific gas pump. Shouts of verbal insults in unrepeatable nature abounded, with "Racist!" being used at the beginning of each exchange. The streets filled with people, eyes glued and jaws dropped at this sad display. We quickly changed course as the argument became more severe when a passenger threw something at the window of the other's car.

Not two minutes later we happen upon a physical fight of kicks and punches between two grown men; one black, one white. Unable to know exactly what pushed the men to these extremes, we couldn't help but feel as though everyone on the crowded Nicollet Mall simply "knew" what this argument was about. It was almost as if the theoretical discomfort of race moved into a literal exchange, and we were equally as hesitant to do anything about it. We haven't reconciled these racial tensions within our own hearts and minds, so when it plays out with such intensity and physicality we are paralyzed within our deeply rooted racial complexes.

As an idealist I want to believe that the root of this issue is that we simply haven't learned to appropriately love one another. Racism is the Berlin Wall, still standing, in America. Instead of celebrating with one another the moments that a brick is shattered, we argue over who's responsible to clean it up. Just as we are to praise the successes of child, compliment their character and repeat to them that "it's possible", perhaps we need to do that for each citizen of our adolescent country. This is everyones responsibility.

I was reminded of the story of the blind man, Bartimaeus today in church. "What do you want me to do for you?" Where does it hurt? What pains you? Jesus asks. Bartimaeus says, "Rabbi, I want to see." God has granted us sight. We get to see the sunrise, the changing of the seasons, the faces of newborns, but we also must see the wages of war, the sadness of an orphaned child, the discomfort of oppression. Do we close our eyes? Do we turn our face?

I see it in the city when two worlds collide. I don't like it. It pains me. But I cannot turn my eyes because beyond this concrete and barbed wire there is the beauty of united spirits.....isn't there?

Flapping and Fluttering

I could go on and on with a specific introduction to what exactly I'm doing here in St. Paul. I could explain that I've gone from seeing the US Capitol each day by metro to seeing the Minnesota Capitol each day by car in a mere four months; I could tell you about how wonderful the AmeriCorps program is for all of us who have graduated from college in a year where headlines each day scream No Jobs for Grads; I could tell you what my new apartment and office look like (thanks to Ikea) and what it's like to be applying for food stamps, but I think I'll begin with a short story and leave the rest up to your imagination (or well, my future posts).

For the past four days we have been canvassing the neighborhoods our after school program, Youth Connections, will be hosted at to chat with kids and their parents, let them know when we'll be starting, what we're doing, when the Pizza Party is, you know, recruiting and the like. It's not easy navigating the public housing developments, full of construction and hills and homes that all look the same, but there is certainly more good than bad that comes from it. We finally get a glimpse into the lives of the children we'll be working with each day.

St. Paul has the largest group of Hmong people outside of Laos which means this Asian culture will be one I learn the most about in the coming months. Knocking door to door we admired the bright gold and red decorations hanging above the peepholes, the huge baskets of onions fresh from the garden and the peppers neatly laying out to dry on the sidewalk. The smells of spices and cooking seeped from every home, and I began to fall in love with the Hmong culture.

We were rapidly making our rounds at one of the sites when it happened. This house, this door, seemed typical, normal, nothing out of the ordinary. I knocked. We waited. There was a chair next to the door with a plastic bag holding something black hanging from its side. Thought nothing of it. As we opened the screen door my body shifted into the chair, I lost my balance and tipped right onto the plastic bag. Almost immediately there was a fierce and severe flapping and fluttering. I sprinted to an open patch of grass and tried pathetically to gain my composure. For someone who is seriously afraid of birds, stepping on a chicken in a plastic bag could not have been more terrifying. Seriously, terrifying.

I think the chicken survived ... at least until supper I suppose.