Desperately Seeking Distraction

The Matron has discovered a wee bit of working mother nirvana, at least for working mothers who toil primarily at home.    Side note: it is difficult to focus when your 9 year old runs by wearing a bullet-proof vest  and carrying a megaphone, fallout of having an uncle who's a cop and a deep love for all things military.  It's distracting to the mama.

So yours truly discovered what would appear to be the quietest spot in St. Paul:  the East Side Byerly's.  For readers unfamiliar with the social distinctions of the Twin Cities, the Matron lives in the 'hood.  St. Paul's East Side is known more for its pockets of crackville than upscale grocery stores, which is what Byerly's is.   Consequently, this store is frequently down right tomb-like, as the neighbors are all busy counting  drug money or visiting probation officers.   Well, she's exaggerating a wee bit but let's just say that it's not too surprising that an upscale grocery store isn't a local hot spot.  Consequently, the homey restaurant there has closed and the space transformed into empty booths with OUTLETS and a Caribou (coffee!) around the corner.    The Matron has set up shop in this quiet void several times.   It is heaven.  Nobody needs a snack or wants to spend a couple hours figuring out how to buy stock (this would be He Who Cannot be Named).

Last night, she set up camp, as usual:  laptop, iced coffee, Ranch rice cakes (guilty confession!), and a big bag of grapes, all conveniently purchased right there at the dead-quiet upscale grocery store.   Before long, she is utterly engrossed.   Deep in the trenches of syllabi, creating wikis and diddling with online components for her kick-ass classes that start in three weeks.    Out of the corner of her ear (because all mothers hear very well out of this corner) comes an insistent conversation to which the Matron half listens.

"Don't forget about your coffee.  I like coffee with some cream, don't you."  Pause.   "Sometimes in the morning only coffee can wake me up.  How about you?"  Pause.   "A good snack helps work, doesn't it?  Don't forget about your snack, either."  Pause.

This goes on to shape the backdrop of the Matronly landscape until she hears, more distinctly:

"I love those Ranch rice cakes too!   My, my, you're not eating or drinking any of your goodies!  You should take a break."

With HORROR the Matron realizes that whatever narrative that has been steadily unfolding over the past half hour has been directed at HER.

She slloooooowwwwly chances a furtive glance out of the corner of her eye, a scope that is just as effective as the 'corner of her ear' thing -- only to see a rather large, unkempt, eager-looking woman staring sort of at the Matron, but mostly just to the left side of her, at a spot right above the Matronly shoulder.    The woman had on a flagship sort of outfit, one dutifully involving every color of the rainbow and dotted with about four years of dirt and leftovers.   Not too surprisingly, she sat at a table in the otherwise empty former-Nirvana, surrounded by plastic bags that were most likely full of her worldly possessions.

She smiled at the Matron.

Now, the Matron felt a flash of genuine 'hello' and solidarity, these two women camped out in a dead-zone for their various reasons.  She smiled back and returned to her computer with body language that said 'all done with that now' and a sense of sadness for circumstances that brought another human being to the place this woman appeared to be in.  But she hoped that her turned back - smile, aside-- sent a signal: leave her alone, she was working.

Quite conveniently, the woman agreed with this arrangement.   She continued her bright, happy one-way conversation with the Matron, noting with approval when yours truly finally popped open that bag of rice cakes and munched on some grapes.   She also approved of the Matron's new haircut, shoes, work habits and general demeanor.   She noted the good weather, which must be to the Matron's liking and wondered if the Matronly legs weren't chilly, what with the air-conditioning cranked up and that tiny short skirt.  Which was cute, by the way.  The skirt.

Half an hour later, the Matron was feeling pretty darn good about hers stylish, chilly, rice-cake-eating, coffee drinking self when the woman interrupted the complimentary narrative and meandered into the restroom . . . where she stayed for TWO HOURS.

The Matron knows this because she herself stayed for even longer than two hours, slaving away at her underpaid job as a community college instructor until nearly 10 pm.   She also knows that the woman remained ensconced in the same stall, singing softly to herself, for the entire two hours.   How does she know this, you might wonder?  Because the Matron, being of weak bladder, must use the restroom every 20 minutes herself -- another bond she found with this other unlikely compatriot in the upscale restaurant in the edgy neighborhood.    So every 20 minutes or so, yours truly also meandered into the bathroom and peeked, discreetly, at the feet in the other stall.

The feet looked fine.

So the Matron, who considered knocking or seeking assistance after the woman had been in there for an hour, just accepted this natural state of things and listened to the wispy singing (Karen Carpenter) every time she peed.   She hoped that this physical function met with the same approval as her rice-cake eating and coffee-drinking.

Around 9 pm, the woman lumbered out of the bathroom and gathered her things, slowly.   As she was hauling plastic bags around her frame, she paused to shout out over her shoulder:  "Nice talking with you sweetheart."

The Matron said, "Same here."

It was as if they'd been married 20 years, that sort of unspoken agreement about how their relationship should be.  Dysfunctional from the outside perhaps, but completely 100% functional.  

And just when the Matron thought these distractions somewhat pleasant -- other people sharing her working-mama-nirvana space -- two teenage workers from Byerly's plopped down in the booth behind her to take their 15 minute break.

She's encapsulating.

Girl One:  "So Joe bought me a cell phone so my parents won't know we're still together.  God I hate them.  They won't let me use the phone or drive."

Girl Two:  "That's their job!  Their your parents, remember?  And it's sort of illegal for a 17 year old to date somebody who's 32."

Girl One:  "I turn 18 in 47 days and I am SO outta there.   Hey, do you think we can stop somebody to buy us beer and cigarettes?  If you sit outside the liquor store long enough, somebody will do it."

Girl Two:  "This is why your parents won't let you drive or use the phone, April.  Don't you see the connection?"

Whereupon the Matron, radiating love Maternity, began composing her narrative for Girl One.   She rolled this around in her head, perfecting points about listening your parents, the dangers of addiction and 32 year old adult men who date underage children.  

Friends, it was a slam-dunk, dynamite conversation.

Just as she was turning around to pontificate, the Matron stopped herself.   There is something sacred in the working-mama-nirvana space, not only for yours truly but for everyone involved:  one-way conversations, only.

She left it up to Girl Two who was doing a pretty fine job with reason and common sense herself, although Girl One would have none of it.  She packed up her computer with a renewed appreciation for the potential for human drama to unfold, even in nirvana and a little-used, former restaurant space in an upscale grocery store in a shaky neighborhood.

Maybe Merrick is onto something with that bullet-proof vest.

Wherein the Matronly Faith in the Future is Crushed

Tonight, the Matron and her family took in Batman!!

Can she pause here and note that this poorly placed and generally, well, poor picture is why she's soon moving her blog?  Look for info as soon as she's in the process of setting up elsewhere under the actual bona fide Matronly registered name Minnesota Matron dot com.

If that excitement isn't enough for you, let's consider the car ride TO The Dark Knight Rises.   The Matron tries to make every mile count:  her children are captives for the maternal lecture!

The London Olympics provided inspiration and fodder for tonight's lecture.   For the Matron, the Olympics is sometimes a wee little bit about HER and all the stuff she cannot do.  Like swimming.  Or balancing on her toes on a tiny bar or, well, going to London for a month for that matter.

But as God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe is her witness, her children will make something of themselves!  Who else is she going to live through at this point?

Back to the minivan and captives children.

Matron:  "Did you guys watch that swimming relay?  Those gymnasts?  What discipline and drive!  What good models for setting a goal and devoting yourself to it.  What did you think?"

Merrick:   "Is St. Paul and Minnesota the same thing?"

Matron (OMIGOD):  "Merrick.  You know this.  St. Paul is the city we live in and it's in the larger STATE of Minnesota."    She just let the whole 'is' 'are' issue go.

Merrick:  "Oh yeah.  I keep forgetting."

He starts fourth grade in the fall.  The Matron let the whole drive-desire-discipline thing go too.

The Matronly faith in her future -- humanity's future -- was further challenged at the movie.  No, it wasn't Bruce Wayne who bothered or the adorable up-and-coming Robin or slinky Hathaway . . . but the movie ushers.

Yours truly does not sit through a two hour movie without at least one bathroom visit.  This time, she assisted Merrick as well and waited for him outside of the men's room, where four ushers were huddled -- three young men and a woman, all late teens or early 20s.

Guy Usher One:  "You still going to XX community college?"

Matronly ears perked up!  These were her people!

Guy Usher Two:  "Who needs school?  My uncle has a government job.  Good pay, security.   And get this -- he's going to retire when he's 37!!    He's going to help me get in so school totally isn't worth it.  I can retire before I'm 40."

Girl Usher:  "That is so cool!  I want one of those jobs."

Guy Usher One:  "I told you that college was just a huge money suck.  Who needs it when you can cash out at 37?"

Guy Usher Two:  "Yeah, I'm going to sit on my ass and punch some numbers or mail shit, and then the party starts before I'm too old."

Girl Usher:  "More people should get these government jobs.  Who needs this reading and math b.s. they make you go through, when all you need to do is work for the government?"

Wait!  The Matron looked around, disoriented?  Was this the Soviet Union of the 1970s?  Kafka, reincarnated as a joke, precisely aimed at the Matron?

Nope.  America 2012.  She listened for a bit as the ushers plotted their futures, lit with the promise of fat government pay checks and the Miller Lite Festival that started promptly at age 37.  Of course, nobody articulated precisely what they would retire from or what branch of government they would be working for or what might happen if everyone did indeed decide to 'get these government jobs.'      Nor did they consider that reading, writing, calculating and basic general knowledge might be -- please must be -- required precisely for certain 'government jobs.'    But clearly, these young people believed that education was for morons who wanted to waste money.   Part of the career plot involved the utter dismissal of any intellectual endeavor.

Guy Usher Two:  "I actually sorta feel sorry for those suckers who waste all their money on school.  What a waste."

General agreement.

The Matron fully appreciates and tolerates the foibles and innocence of Youth, in general.  She too was once a young adult, scheming for the future and generally not knowing of what she spoke or schemed.  That can be forgiven.    The disdain for intellectual pursuits?

This saddens her but can also be forgiven.

Education is both ideal and big business.  The two bump up against one another to construct an impossible situation of sorts.  The ideal doesn't seem to die.   Indeed, ask any politician and you'll hear that educating our youth is one of our greatest responsibilities:  college!  The Matron doesn't even need to explain this as we all know-- going to college, getting an education, is a part and parcel of the American dream for our children (all children - this ideal knows few borders).

What's left unspoken here is that the ideal has shifted.  The ideal of education isn't mostly about knowledge for the sake of knowledge itself, but education as a means to a better life.  By better she means richer.  Education is mostly about money:  securing your position in the middle-class or moving into it, moving up, getting that dream job.  The 'better life' for you and your children is mostly about financial security and a little tiny bit about knowledge.  This is not what Locke, Hume, Mill, Rousseau and Wollenstonecraft had in mind when they helped (in their various historical eras) solidify the ideal of education that emerged during the Age of Enlightenment.  No -- theirs was about an educated citizen, that the well-rounded pursuit of knowledge was good for the spirit of the world, on an individual and collective level.   The pursuit of knowledge elevated the individual and society, created a more just, humane and sophisticated person and world.

The remnants of that original ideal and impulse are what politicians cling to and what we still recognize when we send our children off to college or otherwise extol the virtues of education.  They exist.

In practice, however, the ideals lose their luster.   The problem is that education for the sake of education itself -- the pursuit of knowledge -- is a financially disastrous endeavor.  Who can go to college simply to suck up everything there is to know about botany, philosophy or comparative literature?   

Do you know anyone?

Probably not.

Like most ideals -- honesty, love, faith -- education is shinier in theory than it is in practice.   Education is big business as much as it is ideal.  Those ushers?   They were onto something.  For if your definition of a meaningful life is about financial security -- and perhaps, belief in God -- why would you need to read Foucault or master calculus?

That, friends, is what the Matron got out of Batman.  Which is why her children hate going to the movies with her and like to wear headphones in the van.

Sunday, Meditation

Several months ago, the Matron ceased to be a haphazard seeker but became the more serious sort.   She was not happy.  Wasn't that pursuit her God-given, Constitutionally endorsed 'right':  "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness."

Self-evident and inalienable, this right to pursue happiness.

Not only did the Matron buy this hook, line and sinker, she could even sum up her life in a single word:  yearning.

But over the years, it became clear to her that she did not know what this quality -- happiness-- really was.  Sure, she had deep love for her children, husband, friends.  Satisfaction and sense of purpose from work, paid or otherwise.  The occasional sear of completion -- that all is well in the world and her place in it -- when she composes that perfect piece of prose.  Enough money to feel safe and secure; confidence and success within the social order. Yes, she has possessed all of these things, at one time or another (sometimes together) to varying degrees and still does.

Happiness remained elusive.

Of course, it eventually dawned upon her that if asked, she could not define what 'happiness' was.  The word seemed like an end to itself, a destination whose borders weren't quite clear.  Are you happy?  Yes, no.  This seems like a one stop shop.  But the precise qualities that constitute this state don't seem "inalienable" or "self-evident" at all.  Is happiness a physical feeling, a psychological or spiritual state, a twist of the mind?

It seems to the Matron that we - perhaps particularly we Americans, with 'happiness' codified as an ideal -- are all in hot pursuit of something we cannot accurately describe to ourselves.   We all use the same word:  happiness.

But simple semiotics tells us that words are empty boxes we fill with our own precise meaning.   Don't believe her?  Imagine "COAT."   Picture it in your mind.  Give it color and definition.

COAT.

She does this exercise with her students and she means business here:  conjure up that COAT in your head before proceeding.

The COAT in the Matronly mind is  red suede knee-length, with a narrow waist and white stitching.  That's what she sees when instructed like this to imagine "coat."  One of her students once pictured a fresh white coat of paint.  

She knows that the COAT in your mind was different from hers -- and most likely, different from everybody's else's.

Happiness is precisely the same:  an empty box of letters that signifies something we supply.  If we break down all language this way (and scholars too) the indeterminacy of language becomes evident.  It doesn't really matter much if you think COAT and see a blue blazer, and I see red suede.

It matters a lot when we think about words like:  justice, equity, ideal, God, or fairness.

Happiness isn't like COAT or table, dog, elephant.  It --that pursuit of happiness or mandate toward happiness -- has a lot of power and prestige.  Considerable psychic, spiritual, mental and physical energy is invested in things we desire -- pursue--and happiness is, it would appear, so highly desirable that we mention it a lot.  Our nation has  organized itself around that word.  To achieve or pursue happiness is crystal, constitutionally, culturally and politically clear.   

We tend to agree that the process -- activities, career, family, people, God -- that makes us happy varies from person to person:  "Whatever makes you happy!"   A stock social phrase, giving the individual carte blanche -- the ability to select from the bountiful menu that constitutes the 'pursuit,' the highly individual stuff we do and people we accumulate that set us up for the ultimate goal, happy.

The Matron would like to distinguish between the process and the end-game -- between the pursuit of happiness (the stuff we do to get there) and the ultimate destination (happiness itself).

She's right back to the beginning -- there's all that pursuit beside her (career, family, volunteer work, art, satisfactions of all sort) -- yet on a day she might call herself 'happy,'  that state can be squashed in one rough hour of traffic.    How secure was her foothold?  Not very. 


People will often ask us if we're 'happy.'  Even if not asked, it's nearly always required to note that one is indeed, perfectly happy (which also means perfectly 'fine').   Class reunions, work meetings ("are you happy with that design?"), lunch with a girlfriend, late night conversation with the spouse, query to a child.   Imagine the response if the answer was a definitive no.  I'm not happy.

For the Matron -- who does not yet know what happiness is -- hearing that someone is not happy does not mean this person is unhappy (happiness's opposite, whatever that is) or particularly sad.  It is just that this state -- happiness -- has not yet been met or recognized.

As of late, when people ask the Matron if she's happy, she says "sometimes."  That seems like a good enough answer.   Happiness, unhappiness, sadness, joy, serious, funny  -- none of these seem like a solid-enough word to describe an overall state of sense of being.  But of course, there's no mandate or sales pitch to exist in unhappiness, sadness, joy, seriousness, or humor as a consistent, quantifiable state of being.  We're  largely supposed to be pursuing happiness in love, work, friendship, vocation, and nation.  Claiming that this state --happiness -- is currently not applicable to one's self is disconcerting to all involved.

Reality (at least hers, for her) is a good place to live these days, even if it means rejecting the standard notion of happiness and its fluid attainment.  Is this reality complicated?  Well, you just read this whole blog post:  yes!

But it's honest.

And she knows precisely how to define and live in that word (even when she's not doing it well -- another topic : -).

Showing Up

Last week, the Matron had Guest Anxiety.

Not only was she anticipating the arrival of Mrs. G, but preparing for her sister and, well, perhaps 200 people.  That's right, folks.  Each year, the Matron and her husband host The World's Greatest Potluck.   Consider "world's greatest."  This would imply a bar, high.

It is.

A hundred or so people -- creaking toward ninety, spry 20 somethings, toddlers, sixth-graders on bikes and their parents -- descend on the Matronly environs for a kick-ass party on July 28.   The street is blocked off.    The part starts with backyard theatre, a play Scarlett produces (which involves 20 children rehearsing three hours a day for the next week which is another blog post).  The St. Paul Fire Department swings by with a rig for a tour; their Police counterparts do the same with the squad care.  There's a pinata for the younger set and a band!  Music, alive and in front of you.  Dancing is sometimes involved as is a large keg of Summit beer (you Minnesotans know).  This party has transpired every year, starting in 2000 when the Matron became Dr. Matron and determined Celebratory Activity was required.  Things just snowballed from there.

Can she interject right now to note that no public servant -- police officer or firefighter--  in 13 years, has ever even consumed a single crumb off a table FULL of a variety of food so delectable that words will not suffice?   Not even a brownie.  This really squashed the Matronly stereotype of the doughnut guzzling guy with a badge.  Instead, our public dollar has been 100% devoted to complete and thorough community service, as for 13 years, different police officers have dutifully opened squad car doors and let three year olds hit the siren.   Thank you.

Naturally, given that the next two weeks would bring in throngs of people to the Matronly estate, a blogging celebrity and a relative, yours truly did what any woman would do:  started a new book.

Not just any book, dear reader, but The Gathering by Ann Enright.  If you have hands, use them now to purchase this item on your computer:  a.m.a.z.on.   Worry about independent booksellers after you've read this gripping, lovely, one-of-a-kind story.  If you've ever felt like you're falling apart in the middle of your own life, this book is for you.  It was for the Matron.

Between pages, the Matron popped up her head and pondered:  Mrs. G!  Theresa, the sister!  Those 200 guests!  Three hours of many children ripping through her house for the next six days!  Building a set!  This instant was enough to immediately lead her to pop right back down into those pages.

But . . . she eventually ripped herself away to mop some floors and shine windows.  Flowers were plucked and propped into vases. All that evidence of little boy pee around the toilet rim (you know what she means, mamas) dutifully disappeared.  In fact, the Matron sacrificed her book to clean her house.  This is akin to a kidney.  She vacuumed, swept, dusted, polished, primped and scoured from Monday dawn to well after dusk.

Tuesday, she could hardly contain herself!

Matron:  "Heather!  I'm so glad you're here!  Remember those kids in high school who said they never studied for the test but you know they did?  Or the women who say they didn't 'do a thing' and the house always looks that spotless?"

Mrs. G:  "Yes, Mary?  Is this you?  We've never really met in person so it's lovely to see you!"

Matron (warm greeting set aside in service of SELF):  "Well, I am NOT one of those people.  I scoured this house honey."

Mrs. G:  "Lovely.   I hope you enjoy it."

This particular guest was so incredibly low maintenance that the Matron believed her:  Mrs. G did not care that dog hair added a sheen to the couch, Merrick's arsenal masqueraded as posh porch decor or that breakfast was 'uh, here's the fridge.'

No doubt, this would make any hostess happy.   Matronly delight was further solidified when she met other derfs at Nye's on Wednesday:  Claudia, Nina and Kristen.  Here, self-restraint was required.   Instead of saying to Kristen: "OMIGOD you have the most important job in my life and here are Merrick's test scores" she said:  "wow, you coordinate English curriculum for the school district.  Cool!"

She now has an Oscar in her closet for that one.

Nina, she wanted to grab by the collar and ask:  "Your son works for you in the same business and building and you are still standing?!   Give me some of that powder!"  Instead, she affirmed the details:  successful business, adult children, grandchildren.    Surely there was some magic ticket?

Claudia of Idiot's Kitchen?    Complete Matronly dissolution.  A woman who could not only cook and live to write about it, but could read music while playing an instrument.  Both at the same time!   This is a skill the Matron once attempted, only to break her tailbone and sit on a physician-mandated cushion for six months of poor clarinet performances.

Details, unimportant.  But it is permitted to ponder:  clarinet, sheet music, performance, broken tail bone.  True.

All in all, it was a time of great satisfaction, good food and conversation.   The Matron,who has not yet recovered from the thrill of receiving business cards when she earned tenure, is anxiously awaiting emails from the women who received these novelty cards.  Hint.

The end game?   After all this?   The hoopla, anticipation, anxiety and events ahead?   Here, the Matron found something other than what exists on the surface.

A life out there in the world -- yours, mine, ours, anybody's -- is important.  Worth reading and worth writing.   Worth paying attention to.   The past few days and the week ahead actually isn't about that crystal toilet rim but the little boys who use it (sorry, can't help herself with that one).   She plans to sacrifice duty for conversation and life, more often.

She plans to document hers--life, that is --  more often:  three times a week.  Showing up.

Thank you Kristen, Claudia, Nina, Denise and Heather.  She appreciates that you each may have no idea exactly what you did, but thank you!

Kristen, can we talk about fourth grade?  Merrick is at JJ Hill and on another note,  the Matron thinks bribing teens with talent is not a bad idea.  

Mrs. G!

Hey Minnesotans!

Mrs. G. is traveling the nation visiting the crowds who loyally follow her blog.  We're going to be at Nye's (Minneapolis) at 6:30 Wednesday night (July 18).   Would\\ love to see one and all of the local folk!

Mrs G. . ..   for friends who read, have no idea what this means but think that Wednesday night out of the house is a pretty darn good idea!

When the World Dims

The Matron's world, that is.

Today is, in fact, a pitch-perfect warm day of a startling blue sky and movie-quality clouds.  Everything seemed brighter:  flowers popped their various rainbows and everywhere she looks, it is lovely.

But the Matron's mind is on food:

Mashed potatoes with real cream and half a stick of butter
Chocolate pudding and Popsicles
Berry scones from the Finnish Bakery
Cake:  vanilla, chocolate, marble from a box with canned frosting.  Add sprinkles

Egg salad sandwiches on white bread (Wonder is best)

These were key players in the Matronly menu for her dear friend and neighbor, Annie, who died Sunday night from cervical cancer.   Let her tell you, folks, there is no such thing as pain 'management.'

Pain permeates.   It is not physical, limited, contrite or controllable.   For the body, one must anticipate and plan, 'get ahead' of pain's onset.   This means the needles, the pills, the timing, the body's reception must all be in synch. Sometimes this happens and sometimes it does not.   Psychic pain is another thing altogether.  Here pain has the power of expanse for it can reach beyond the sufferer's body to everyone bearing witness, everyone who loves.   Yes, indeed, pain--that small plain word -- defies neat capture, in prose or in life.  Never again will the Matron stand for a second -- not a second -- the quick easy 'out' of assuming pain can be managed.

In all its manifestations, public and private, psychic and physical, pain has indeed permeated the Matronly world.  She is acutely aware, these past three days, of Reality, writ large, and understands that this moment too -- like all the moments and lives before her -- will fade into something someone only remembers.    This is both alarming and strangely helpful, understanding her current condition will some day be memory.   She is of firm belief that feeling this way -- really, really bad -- is a now or sometime-later-when-you-least-expect-it sort of commandment.  Now seems better.

The world lost not only an artist (the real deal) but the very best kind of person for whom there is no such thing as small talk, no gracious dribbling or waste.  No.  Meet  Annie and in five minutes you would be talking like teenagers pondering the meaning of life or characters on a great adventure in a movie:  spirit, heart, God or not god, love, politics, art, friendship, sex, bad behavior and its merits/drawbacks.  Whatever. She went for the jugular, each and every time.   This firm but joyful grasp on what really matters (who cares about how the job is, people!) is what made the Matron love her so.  Other people have their reasons, but for the Matron, Annie's astounding ability to live every moment rooted in the big stuff (death, love, meaning of life) made her miraculous and inspirational.  That woman mowed the lawn with God on her shoulder.   You could see it.

Annie.

I promise to cry in public, demand real cream in my potatoes, look through life's lens for the best possible picture, remember to see what's over my left shoulder if my mind is only on my right, open my heart as much as is possible, visit strange places and talk even when I'm crying even if it's in the grocery store or this particular coffee shop as I am now.  I promise to see the edges of color and lines in my life, and treasure them as singular beauties.   I promise to be  true to myself.  I will not only accept reality but roll around in it with pleasure.

I'll forgive myself when I fail at every single of the above promises, as I already am --hiding my tears in the coffee shop and noting the time (pick up Merrick!) and worrying about whether the dogs got their run.   Lucky me!  Every few minutes I will break a vow (open heart always?!)  and then -- I will get to remember you, forgiving me always and happy with every single flaw in my seams.


  Can I fold laundry and walk the dog with the world radiating through me?   Maybe if I remember you. 

Good-bye, my darling.

                                                                                Scarlett           Ann Marsden 2009

                                                                                Scarlett                Ann Marsden 2009

Wherein the Matron May Sound Like a Judgmental Half-Centenarian

Now, the Matron likes to think that her elliptical not only gives her a trim tummy but the pulse of America.  Quite nearly every morning, 6:30 am will find the Matron her previously mentioned machine watching Good Morning America!  Someday she plans to write a feminist critique of the show, which has a unique obsession with the female body.

So she takes this show with a grain of salt, seeing it as a daily Rorschach test of the American psyche:  warts, bumps, bruises, ideals, dreams and aspirations.  It was in this spirit that she watched the video about the two young men removed from a particularly grim graduation ceremony.  Their crime?  The dreaded:  "whooo!  Whoo!"  They gave a shout out, twice.

Removed!   This seemed, to the prim Matron, like the worst of sins:  Overreaction.   She also chided the glum, staid crowd whose demeanor makes the Stepford Wives seem like real independent-minded swingers.

Until she attended her own daughter's 8th grade graduation ceremony from an all-girls charter school in St. Paul.  Kicking people out seemed like a tepid and ineffective response.  Why, the Matron wanted to deputize her own fine self so she could pack off half that auditorium to jail.   Indeed, at one point her more diplomatic husband saw the fire in her eyes and shook his head, no.

Thank you, honey.

The ceremony was held in a pretty little Macalester College Chapel.   The charter school is tiny and the Matron guesses the girls graduating numbered around 40; each was allowed three guests.   Emotions ran high -- extremely, spiritedly, beautifully high-- among the graduates, who are the first to attend this class from its inception through graduation (it's a new 5 - 8 grade charter).

Being the first fifth-graders meant these young women had a hand in starting the school.  They wept and clung to one another.  There were videos and testimonials.  These girls were at the center of the school's first four years:  fifth through eighth grade.  Many of the girls can not only recite the school's charter and institutional philosophies by heart:  they helped write it.  All this, the Matron thinks marvelous and one of the reasons she picked this school for her daughter.

When each name was called, the girls screamed with joy and applauded.  This was love and it was genuine.

To the Matron, sitting in her hot pink mini-skirt and previously good attitude, if the applause had ended with the players involved the entire endeavor would have been 100% successful.

But the parents and guests?  Ruined the entire event.

Mayhem ensued for about a third of the names called.  A row of people would rise to their feet, screaming and jumping and cheering.   Two women grasped one another and jumped up and down, throwing programs in the air when one girl picked up her diploma.   People screamed, whooped, pounded walls, threw small children and danced -- at the sound of the name of the kid they were ostensibly there for.

Friends, the Matron is not doing justice.  The noise was so loud that screaming for each girl receiving the 'extra attention,' that the noise obliterated the entire announcement of the name for the next. If a third of the names stirred a tsunami, another third of the girls following walked up, unheard in the din.

General hoopla as a name was announced also meant that all eyes were on the celebrators.  Ironically, nobody noticed the girls whose names caused each commotion.  Nobody looked at the stage.  Indeed, the entire room turned their eyes toward the whooping, jumping, weeping and nearly fainting family members.

Which made the Matron wonder who was the (unconscious?) real center of attention.  Clearly, not any of the children: it was their parents.

At one point, Merrick covered his ears and said:  "That hurts!"

The middle-aged man next to the Matron appeared the definition of class-bound sedation: suit and tie, clearly from a job that required such attire.  He clapped politely until his daughter's name was called, then jumped to his feet: "WAY TO GO XXX YOUR DAD LOVES YOU."

Why, thank you, sir!   Just that very second before you rattled the room, the Matron was fretting that perhaps these young women were not receiving sufficient love.  Glad that got cleared up.

Now, the Matron realizes that she is being a fuddy-duddy.   She actually affirmed this by using that phrase.  There is nothing wrong with joy and celebration!   The Matron also wishes she were a little less tightly wound -- the type of woman who would whip off a flowered straw hat and scream:  "there goes my baby!"

But she's not.  She's the one sitting in judgment and that vein of thought gets the last word.

One woman yelled:  "This is your education!  Go get that education honey!"

Indeed.  Education is a good thing.  The Matron has devoted entire professional life to the cause.  Because she teaches at a community college she understands full well the sacrifices some students make.  Some of the Matron's students work two or three jobs, raise children, and go to school full time.  Others are new to this country and a college degree is a dream that has sustained them through hardships she herself has read about but can only imagine.

One of these students, a woman from Sierra Leone, was 13 years old when she was raped at gunpoint by a soldier, one of hundreds of thousands of women suffering a similar fate.  That was the day she decided that -- no matter what -- she would get out of that country.  Her story still staggers the Matron who can barely type remembering the harrowing journey, true poverty and loss this young woman endured.   The day she picked up her college diploma marked a decade of sacrifice, toil and death.

Nobody screamed for this woman when she walked to the stage and received her diploma.  She got a nice round of applause instead and a few heartfelt sniffles from yours truly.

Graduating from 8th grade isn't a miracle or an Olympian achievement. Jesus is not passing out that diploma.  It's sort of the law:  children are required to remain in school until they are 16.  Moving up a grade every year (or so) is the natural consequence of that legal requirement.

Hearty clapping, eyes on the stage and big hugs afterward will due.

The Matron has two years before her oldest graduates from high school, a rite of passage whose excesses are accepted as the norm.   The Matron has two full years to acquire that Deputy License or a better attitude.   Hmmm . . . which way to swing?!

John has already informed her that he plans to sit by himself.

Fine.