Developmental Reading with @akbar_offishio and Others From Ubuntu Academy

Last night's graduate course discussed postcolonial theory in relation to developmental reading (Thanks, Deborah Appleman) and I knew I wanted to highlight four years of reading opportunities through Ubuntu Academy, CWP-Fairfield's summer literacy institute for refugee and immigrant youth. As I put together the lessons over the weekend, I realized it would be so much more powerful to have Akbar, Omar, and Juma speak for themselves and with graduate students as we worked through lessons they experienced as readers.

We highlighted Rick Shaefer's art work, and I did a one-pager T-Chart to carry through a selected reading from Lost Boy, Lost Girl, Home of the Brave, and War Child. We also tied in analysis of Booked and a poem Kwame Alexander writes about a kid coming to the U.S. for opportunity (which is juxtaposed by Nick, who doesn't want to read the story, watching television).

Graduate courses at Fairfield University are only two hours, and I always miss that third hour on evenings like this. I feel like I only laid a base to the conversation, and that there needed to be another hour for more interaction on the in-school reading experiences of these youth.

After the class, I stopped with the kids to get Chipotle, and Akbar said he was nervous to eat new food (but he wasn't nervous flirting with the employee). They are tiny kids, but they packed away the food: rice, beans, guacamole, spices, chicken, steak burritos. I think I will need 48 hours to digest the food.

Meanwhile the rain continues in Connecticut and I get nervous about water issues, because the ground is saturated from the winter thaw and it is trying to find anywhere to go. The sump pump is working overtime, but so did my last one (and look where that got me). Home ownership is not fun when it swipes at one's savings.

Wow, is it hump-day already?

Mama Told Me There'd Be Days Like This, But They Don't Phase Glamis

It's not even the dog days of summer. Nope, it's the marsh days of spring, and as I noted yesterday, I knew something wicked this way was coming, because that's the way it always goes. I draw my philosophy from an episode of Seinfeld when Jerry realized that everything balances out in harmony: good matches bad, and bad matches good..

While everything was being redone downstairs and I was on the phone with State Farm (No, those commercials that show there is relief from insurance companies are fantasy when it comes to sump pump - they are not an act of nature, even if flooding is). I will eat the costs, which I'm sort complacent with because I got Federal taxes back and put the money aside for new furniture and a driveway. For now, hot showers are more important.

I love my Mt. Pleasant home and hope she'll take it easy on me for a while. I know these acts of chaos happen, and I hope my share is over for the time being. I know, too, it could be so much worse. I can't even fathom what that is like.

I thanked Henry and we talked about his work and how I hoped he got the majority of the money I paid. He laughed, "Nope. It goes up the ladder." This is the way for most work...they who labor on the ground, hands-on, and in the trenches, always are compensated least. The system is set up this way.

The good news is that I had a day in my house to work on lesson plans and grading. Glamis, of course, laid at my side basking in the sun. Lucky dog. She pays for nothing. She simply lives the life in anticipation of walks, biscuits, squeaky toys, socks, and Purina. In return, I get nose prints on the window, dog hair on everything, the occasional barf-o-rama, insecure hovering, and opportunities to take cute photos like that above.

It's funny. Everyone you sort of whine to about the housing drama seems to relate and have similar, sharable stories. As I told Henry, "I'm simply thankful to have a home to take care of. This is lucky, indeed."

It does make me want to cry, though. Life is frustrating, but knowing such SNAFU is in American context, I can't complain. The struggle, I know, is more difficult than what I whine about here.

Phew.

So, Yesterday Sucked Pretty Bad. Ah, Home Ownership.

I suppose one must pay for writing a joyful blog post the day before. Yes, it was the anniversary of Henry the Hernia's removal (thanks mom for the reminder). Two years ago yesterday, I was down for the count for a few weeks. Ah, and I "liked" my mom's memory on Facebook while sipping coffee and prepping for a productive Sunday: yard work, week-prepping, cleaning the stove, etc. I woke up at 7 a.m., put a couple weeks of laundry on my bed that was cleaned and piling up for folding. I got to the stove when I noticed there was no hot water. I checked other faucets, and nope, the water was cold. I thought, "Maybe the pilot light went out or the furnace blew."

I moved instantly to the basement when I realized there was about 3 inches of water sitting on the floor. My guess was the the furnace emptied itself, but upon investigation I realized the sump pump wasn't working. I remember this time last year the pumping of water from the side of my house freaked me out and I learned that it was for spring thaw. I didn't know what the noise was or why  I was hearing gushing waterfalls outside. That's when I learned about sump pumps. It only kicked on in March and April of last year, then it shut off for the rest of summer, winter, and fall.

My first instinct was I could empty the water with a shop vac, and immediately went to town. Um, terrible idea - one anniversary of Henry away, I realized his twin sister Henrietta could easily show her ugly face. I then thought, "What if I filled garbage pails?" That was stupid, too. So I called Mike, the bro-in-law, and Sump-Pump experts in CT. Fortunate for me, a driver was in the area and he came within two hours. In that time, I simply began carrying up the items that were stored in the basement: sadly, Christmas decorations, Christmas gifts purchased for next year, books, and some luggage. Drenched.

Walter came and allowed me to shadow him all day, but one SNAFU led to another. We were able to drain the basement in 45 minutes, but then his spare sump pump didn't work. His boss sent him to a supplier to get another, but the placed was closed. The boss sent him with a back up. These things always happen on Friday nights, Saturdays, or Sundays. That one didn't work, either, so he had to go to Home Depot to get one that would work for 24 hours.

In the meantime, the water was just enough to damage the thermostat coupler of the hot water heater and the automatic ignition switch. They can't be replaced until Monday, either. For the night, a temporary fix was put into place, but I have no hot water and need to take Monday off to be here for the fixes still needing to occur.

I said last week to one of my students that I knew something needed to happen soon to remind all life is struggle. With the BPEF award notification coming and somehow maintaining a work flow to be semi-on top of things, I said to her, "Something's coming around the corner. It's just a matter of time before it occurs. I don't get too comfortable with too much positivity." After a few days of success at the gym, too, I wanted Sunday to go for a very long run (I wanted to keep the momentum going). No such luck.

Phew. The entire day was lost to this mess. The mattresses stored downstairs, too needed to be brought outside to dry.

My lesson, "Check the basement at least once a week, especially during the season when the snowbanks are melting and we get 24 hours of rain." It wasn't until it happened that I realized, "Hmmm, I haven't heard that gushing emptying of the sump pump this year." Now I realize that not hearing it was the problem.

Joy Joy Joy.

And when I went to bed last night, I remembered I put all the laundry on top of the bed. Ugh. I want to forget yesterday happened (and where all this water is coming from). I live atop a hill. It doesn't make sense.

Say Cheese! Taking a Break and Speaking Out

I decided that eating out was a waste of Saturday money, and after stocking up the house with food for the month, I invited friends over to play Speak Out, which I bought for the NCAA final four games: steak, green beans, corn fritters, asparagus, salad, and salt potatoes.

My poor family, including Abu, Lossine, and Chitunga, I couldn't help but send them videos of our tomfoolery because we were laughing hysterically with drool dripping down out cheeks trying to get our teammates to understand what we were saying.

Here's what's wrong with the game. The big-mouth people have it easier, because they can stretch their mouths to be audible in a way that small-mouth people can't. I kept thinking that this is the difference between large-mouth and small-mouth bass.

I resisted the game for a while now, because I didn't think it could be very hygienic sharing the same mouth piece, but then I learned that there are 10 mouth pieces per game and I thought the investment was worth it.

I'm not sure who wet their pants first. We couldn't get control of our laughter, even as we sang in chorus, "And we're going to the chapel and we're, going to get married," as Derrick and Kaitlyn stopped by.

I can't believe I've waited 45 years for this game to be invented. This is definitely a Crandall, Isgar, and Barnwell must. Easter will be fun, especially singing, "Here comes Peter Cottontail," with plastic apparatus splitting our lips in spastic glee.

I needed this laughter and I needed last night to bring it to me.

Stratford Getting Recognized Because of 10th Grade Art! Congrats, Sarah Harrison

I learned yesterday that a 10th Grader at Bunnell High School in Stratford, Connecticut (1.5 miles from my Mt. Pleasant home and on my daily trail of running) was awarded the 2017 Doodle4Google contest. The task: envision a future for the world.

I love this. Not only does the artwork represent the pastiche of America (the nation I love to pledge allegiance to), but it represents the super diversity that I've experienced in my work with K-12 schools. There are times I wish that we saw more of this representation in our national leadership, television programming, and teaching force. Sarah Harrison got it right! I live by a middle school and every morning at 7:30 I watch the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders walking by my house. They are a medley of heterogeneity and it makes me smile every day.

Because of her artwork - and note, ART IS BEING CELEBRATED, the student received a $30,000 scholarship for college, a trip to Googolplex out west, and a free Chromebook (well, an Apple would be a much better computer for such an artist, but she should be thankful).

What's also cool is that Bunnell High School will receive a $50,000 grant to boost their STEM programs: science, technology, engineering, and math.

The student noted that she dreams of a future "where everyone is safe and accepted wherever they go, whoever they are."

This was the best news I read all week and Harrison's artwork put a tiny bit of hope back in my heart.

Congratulations! 

Doggie Drama on Mt. Pleasant. Phew! Resolved

On Tuesday, Glamis and I hosted Mae and Jake for a Stratford dog-fest while their home was inspected by real-estate types. When they were dropped off in the morning, Jake went after Glamis's squeaky ball (the one that is left). He ate the other one.

After the play date, Glamis has been going bonkers looking for her squeaky ball and I opened every cupboard in the house looking for it. I vaguely remember Pam saying, "Nope. Jake. You already had your breakfast," before she took it from his mouth.

Last night, Glamis went for a long walk, played fetch with a stick, chewed on her rags and bones, but kept crying. I knew she wanted her green squeaky ball and she was driving me nuts. At one point, she climbed on my head and whined even harder in my ear.

That's when the flashback occurred. Pam. Jake. Food. Ball.

I texted Pam to see if she had any recollection of where the ball went. Fortunate for me she remembered! "I put it in the green frog bowl on the window ledge - a gift she found for me at Goodwill. Boom. Mystery solved.

Then, the rest of the evening was spent throwing the ball to Glamis and her retrieving it back to me. I can take the ball-squeak more than the whining.

And guess what? I know what I'm doing with the frog! This will be Glamis's dog treat bowl, and I have filled it with peanut-butter flavored biscuits.

Ribbit Ribbit.

Fortunate To Hear @Danez_Smif Read @FairfieldU

Sometimes I just count my blessings and am thankful that people are persistent. Since last semester, instructors in the Black Lives Matter course and fellow lovers of language have asked if I wanted to be a co-sponsor of poet Danez Smith who was scheduled to do a reading on our campus. The requests came during periods of exhaustion (which can be read that my mind doesn't work and I'm unable to process). After research and finger snaps from many spoken-word poet friends, I simply had to say, "I'm in. I look forward to the visit."

My day began with a school visit, followed by a 2.5 hour poetry slam with students at Columbus School, followed by Faculty Salary Committee, followed by letting my dog out, and resulted in a wonderful dinner with Danez (so, so thankful for Jill Bodach for bringing this writer to our campus's attention), followed by one of the best readings I've experienced on Fairfield University's campus.

There was a day when I attended such readings and was never invited to dinner beforehand. I hate to admit this, but it is the pre-gaming dinner that is the most enlightening part - sort of a face to face gathering with the writer in a relaxed atmosphere where people can simply be people before the performance begins.

Ah, but the performance.

BAM! Incredible!

Danez's performative pieces spoke to the crowd and I loved the delicate way they weaved gentle humanity with complex reality.  A highlight from the evening was when I heard from Diva that Danez Smith is one of the poets she watches often on YouTube and she wrote about their poem about a young boy and his dinosaur. As her text came in, they announced they were going to read his poem, "Dinosaurs in the Hood." The timing was perfect and I became angry at myself that I didn't have Attallah with me for the reading.

Blessed to be an audience of his work, if only for a short while.