We're with the Band

That's a phrase I never thought I would get to say. And technically, I guess I didn't : I just tagged behind the girl (Ana) who did. She and Triss and I went down the street to a bar with live music to hear the band of one of Ana's high school friends. Of course, this made me want to whip out the CD from my college friend's band and share.

(Side note: I realized tonight that a huge part of the appeal of said friend's band is their nerdiness. Let's face it : I like nerds best.)

The Usual was opening for a big-name St. L artist, whose name escapes me because we snuck out after The Usual finished. One of the band members described their music to us as "kind of rock, with a little blues, and some light pop." (Not Diet Coke.) They played mostly their own stuff and one Beatles cover.

Live bands captivate me, though as I listen to more and more music, I am acquiring a better ear for what I do and do not actually like. Tonight, in addition to hearing music that I actually did enjoy, I spent most of the time watching the bassist's feet. The other band members stood, feet and bodies a combination of relaxed and rhythmical. The bassist's feet however were constant motion.

For almost all of the 45 minute set, he was on his toes or the balls of his feet. His feet pounded and twisted with the music, not the loose motion of little dances coming from the audience or the frenzies of jumping you sometimes see on stage or the carefully metronomed tappings which the other members sometimes demonstrated. Instead, they snapped up and down, moving his whole body in an intense and focused choreography above them. I have never seen feet move with such musical purpose, even when watching other dancing. I had the feeling of watching a poem being written.

After the show, we chatted with Ana's friend for a bit, got some free music to download and sweaty hugs from the band, and hit the road. We made it home by 10:30, a good time for a school day.

The Others

We have met at least three other groups of Catholic Volunteers in the city who do work comparable to ours. On Monday (Labor Day) we had a cookout for volunteers and former volunteers. While I enjoyed the birds-eye sight of people on blankets in our backyard, right-side up almost as much as upside down (I was on the swings next door), the sight didn't strike me.

But Triss later commented on the beauty of it : look at all these people who have dedicated their lives, at least for now, to other people. And only in this city. And only the ones we know about. And we're even missing a few from each group.

God bless Triss. Once again, the cynic in me came out as she made her observation. I thought : look at all these people in this city, trying to do good. Now look at the state of the city. Think about all the people serving all around the world. Now look at the state of the world. And think about all the people who are living life oblivious to the injustices with which we are becoming acquainted.

God bless Triss. Her outlook recognizes the hand of God, rather than ignoring the beautiful to see only the difficulties.

Exposing My Baby

A couple of my loyal followers have requested that I place some of my poetry on this blog. To honor them and thank them for being loyal followers, I will post the occasional poem if it relates to the issues about which I write. Feel free to ignore them.

Offering a poem (or story) for critique is often referred to as "putting one's baby on the [sacrificial] altar." This is more like simply exposing it to the elements. But here you go. It's a pantoum, a type of poem that repeats lines in a strict pattern. I have trouble with them, but unlike the villanelle, I enjoy this challenge.

The Public-Private Dichotomy

They still walk our halls.

We find the ghosts of the girls here before

In forgotten notes and writing on the walls;

They smile in our mirrors, stand outside our doors.

We find the ghosts of the girls here before

Laughing, “We were you!”

They wave to the people standing at our door:

We take on their work, but try to make it new.

Asking, “Where were you?”

Eyes peer into ours. We see the need

For the work that we must try to make anew.

After each hard day we leave,

Our eyes faced back on unmet needs,

Names on our lips, hearts held behind.

Each day we find it hard to leave:

When we’re gone we know we’ll find

Names still on our lips, hearts held behind

In forgotten notes and writing on the walls.

In our comfortable homes we’ll find:

They still walk our halls.

In Nomine Patris...

Having been to Mass in English last night, I figured that today would be as good a Sunday as ever to attend Mass at a nearby Latin church. More specifically, they celebrate the Tridentine Rite Mass, the pre-Vatican II one.

If I give the details, it goes something like this: I walked in 2 minutes late to a sparkling rite of sprinkling. I couldn't figure out from where the little booklets with the order of the Mass that other people had came. I realized very quickly that I didn't like organ music. I sat in the back, which meant I couldn't hear well what the priest said (I wanted to see how much Latin I could recognize) and that I heard many crying babies. It was hot and sticky.

And I felt as if I had found something for which I'd been searching but which had had no name.

In his book The Lamb's Supper, Scott Hahn describes his experience as a Protestant going to Mass: unsure and unfamiliar with the ritual, but becoming certain of the sacred. I think this morning was the closest to a "first Mass" I can have. The liturgy was not the same familiar pattern I learned from over 2 decades of attending Mass. The "pew gymnastics" had leaped from beginners to advanced. I watched others for cues and I still didn't understand. Yet I knew, in a way that had little to do with intellect or emotion, I knew that the sacred was very present there. After a while, people began to process up to receive the Eucharist. I stayed put. I felt like I stuck out, while really, it's more likely that no one noticed the blonde in the back.

While trying to figure out what the liturgy was doing, I noticed a group of people standing at the side of the church. The pews were no where near full, so this confused me. A little later, I saw someone coming out of a tiny wooden church-within-a-church. Was she praying in the Confessional during Mass? As the standing person closest to the Confessional took her place, I realized that people were going to Confessional as Mass was happening. This was perhaps the most bizarre part of the whole experience.

The understanding of the majesty of God came across overwhelmingly. Behind the pomp and the glitter, the Mass knew what it was doing: praising a God who deserves all the praise we have and then some. The fact that the priest faced the same direction as the congregation really struck me. Rather than making him inaccessible, it emphasized that we are all taking the same request to the same place.

I want to go back and understand it more. In fact, I plan on doing just that.

NOTE: I'd been warned about having to wear a veil to this Mass. The female congregation divided about 3-1 in favor of the veil, so I was not out of place without one. But I've spent a lot of time recently trying to imagine what it would look like if half the congregation were veiled. Now I know. It helped clarify some things for me.

Teacher's Day Off

Teacher's day off = my day of substitute teaching. I was left in charge of the Language Arts classes/the 8th grade on Thursday. Nervous does not begin to describe how I felt about this event. But I had an Ana at my side and complete lesson plans for the day.

I started with the 7th grade. I had a quick, nervous moment where they told me they had already done the questions I had for them. But, come to find out, they wrote the answers. So we had a class discussion on them, and for the first time since coming to the school, I heard the 7th graders engage in class and in a story. I still don't have the skills/know-how to get the entire class to participate, or even pay attention, but I could get enough of them to answer to have a class discussion.

On the flip side, the 8th grade remained pretty much silent. It took them until Friday to realize that when I ask questions I sincerely want answers. And not just one cookie-cutter "right" answer.

As for the 6th grade, they are still learning about indoor voices. I did discover that the 8th grade can do quiet, though, and quick for lining up. As per a fantastic suggestion from my beloved roomie, I offered them a competition and an incentive: kindergartners can line up in 3 minutes. Can you go faster? 2min30secs to line up, every time you line up for me, 4 days in a row, and you get a snack at recess time. We cut the time down from 5 minutes to 55 seconds. These kids are amazing when they put their mind to it.

I Will Never Lie, Cheat, or Steal...

Since the first day I proctored the practice math exams, I told the kids, "If you speak while tests are out, I will take your paper from you and you will receive a zero." They quickly figured out that saying "God bless you" to a sneeze would not get them in trouble, but got the idea of silence down fairly easily. Until today...

The test they had today came as a shock. Many of them seemed to have simply no clue how to do the problems, and I don't know if it was something they have not been taught, if it was presented an unusual way, or if they just hadn't mastered it. No matter what, my heart went out to them as I watched them struggle. However. I could do nothing and I still wanted testing conditions. When they sat and read it, they seemed to have some idea of what to do.

When chatter began in the back of the room, I slipped back and saw a blatant whisper. I whisked a test away from a usually well-behaved boy. A few minutes later, I saw him writing and watched until he passed the note. I was hoping for merely a few bitter words about me (though I didn't really expect that from these boys). Alas -- the note pertained to how to take the test.

To my surprise, the boys were surprised when I called it cheating. I hope I am not being naive in believing their sincerity. If it is genuine, it means that they have not been taught appropriate testing behavior and have been taught how to help each other -- the opposite of my high school class. We had a "work together or we all go down" mentality, but never a "I got my test taken away and I still want to help you" mindset.