Home

Last night at the Moth Story Hour I learned that next month's theme is 'Home' which is appropriate as we are temporarily (and by choice) without one.

But my story about home would not be about this temporary dislocation because although it is a small irritating burden- there really is no story there.

This is the story I'd tell about home:


20 years ago my husband and I joined the peace corps.  We had recently graduated from college and gotten married and they sent us off to live and work on the small island of Antigua in the Carribean.  Small place- Antigua.  Drive 10 miles in any direction and you hit the sea.  We moved into an apartment in the capitol city and tried to settle in to our new home.  But it was hard.  The people we lived and worked amongst did not immediately open their arms to us- they kept a distance- treated us as tourists who were just stopping by.  On the streets, in the market, on the buses- we were offered tourist prices and tourist comments, even as the days turned to weeks turned to months.

At my school, I was introduced as Mrs. Sage-Martinson.  But I had this little feminist-y heart beating in my chest and the title Mrs didn't sit right with me.  So I went on a quiet compaign to turn the Mrs into Ms.  Change is hard, and my colleagues and students had trouble.  Eventually though it caught on.  Mrs became Ms and I was thrilled.  Only before long, Sage-Martinson got changed to something easier to remember-- into White Lady Teacher.  But at least I was Ms. White Lady Teacher!

But outside of school, change was harder to drive.  Even after going to the same stall in the market time after time, I was given prices I knew were reserved for tourists.  I was touchy about hawkers shouting out to me to buy their wares, and to hurry up before my boat left town. This mistaken for tourists was really a thorn in my side. One day I was on a bus heading toward a beach when the man next to me hds a grand mal seizure.  First thing I hear is "someone move that tourist out the way!"  And I think, Yeah! Move the tourist!  No room for one here in this emergency.  Imagine my surprise when I am lifted up and moved.  Set in the far corner to watch the drama unfold.  The whole bus moves together as if a chorus.  You, FatHead, (name of driver- emblazoned on his windshield) stop the bus!  Windows pop open, women rip open the seizing man's shirt.  You- in the yard, throw me one those limes!  Lime picked, thrown, caught, cut open.  Rubbed on the seizing man (a lime cuts a fever, helps stop a seizure, did you know?  I didn't).  Man slowly recovers, lime thrower is thanked, shirt is rebuttoned, man is caressed.  FatHead told to drive on.  And I cower in the corner- in awe of this community who just helped this man through his troubles- after physically removing me.

Then one day I was walking through the market on my way to the basketball court in the center of town.  I had recently made some connections and had won a place on a women's basketball team.  So there I am  walking through town in my purple and yellow basketball uniform- the team name blazoned on the front- some local bank sponsored us.  And as I pass by a tshirt stall the woman behind the table yelled out for me to get my tshirt- to hurry hurry before the boat left.  What?  What kind of tourist gets off the cruise in a purple and yellow full on uniform?  Sponsored by a local bank?  I look at her, only to have my surprised tripled!  The vendor calling to me was none other, than Mrs. Mathews, the teacher I sat right next to in the staff room during my prep.  So I call back, "No Mrs. Mathews, my boat doesn't leave for a while yet." This stops her and she looks at me close.  Sees me.  Chuckles.  Says, "Oh, it's you Ms. White Lady Teacher."  I walk away, beaming.  Recongized.

And one day- I'm heading toward my regular market stall, hoping to grab some fruit before heading home.  I pick up some grapefruit. "You don't want those. Your husband just bought some." I reach for guavas, "No, he got those too- but he forgot bananas, here take these."  And the price is low, is right.

And one day, I'm riding the bus after work to our new house in the center of the island.  We've only lived there a few days- a hurricane had passed over the island and destroyed our in-town apartment a few weeks earlier. The crowded, hot bus lures me to sleep.  I drift off, jammed between two women who are singing Carribean Queen along with Billy Ocean on the radio.  When the bus stops I jar awake and panic.  Is this my stop??  I start gathering my goods and making noises like I want to get off.  But the women pat me back down into place.  "No no- not your stop.  Settle."  So I settle.  Two minutes later FatHead stops without me calling out.  The whole bus turns to look at me and they smile.  Here.  Here is my stop.  They usher me off the bus.  FatHead does not drive on.  My busmates lean out their windows- they point down the dirt road- the only road in sight.  They smile, nod, "That way honey, that way." I thank them and head off down the road.  50 yards later I look back. The bus is still there.  People are leaning out, pointing to the left- "Turn there honey!  Turn there!  Almost home!"  I smile, wave, and someone gives FatHead the command to drive on.  He does.  I turn left, walk down the lane, and I am home.

StorySlam

A couple years ago I heard about this organization called "The Moth".  It was based out of NYC and it's mission was to grow the art form of story telling by hosting Story Slams- storytelling events based on the poetry slam model.  People gather together, a few volunteer to tell a story in a finite amount of time and then they are judged.  There is a storytelling winner.

Well, I like story telling and I like competitions, but I never dreamed those two interests would overlap.  I mean, competitive storytelling?  Who would have dreamed.  But it is a reality- and now there is a satellite operation here in St. Paul.  I took my dad to one of the events last spring as the theme that night was 'fathers'.  It was sweet.  A sold out event- people paying money to come together and listen to everyday joes tell their tales.  And then judge them.  That night the stories were poignant and funny.  My dad and I laughed and cried and a few times laughed until we cried.  I decided that someday I would return and put my name in that hat to see what would happen if I got picked to go up on the stage.

Last night I did just that.  Amy and I bought tickets for the November event- and I learned that the theme was "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles."  Wow.  Right up my alley seeing as I have a tale (or two) about a certain large orange van that went travelling down the highway without me.  But I was nervous.  The room was full.  My estimate is 300-400 people.  And even though I'm quite comfortable in front of a classroom full of teens- adults scare me.  But I threw my name in that hat and listened nervously through the first 6 storytellers.  There was one who really stood out- the rest were nervous and lost their threads here and there.  Then my name was called and I got up there and did it.  I only had five minutes- and that's not much time to tell a bunch of strangers about how your parents abandoned you, twice.  But I got it in.  Made people laugh.  Had some laughs myself.  And ended up with a second place finish.  I do believe I may do it again.

Living with Kato

Sometime in the past few weeks Theo and I got into the habit of trying to sneak up from each other.  I spent 10 minutes the other day trying to stifle my giggles in a closet as I waited for Theo to come into his room after a shower.  And in the end I missed my chance.  He came in and left again and I had to come out.  But it was still entertaining.  And I got him later.  I can't tell you how many times one of us drops out of view and starts crawling.  About 98% of attempts are unsuccessful, but when you do get a good one, it's so worth it. I do admit that it doesn't mix with bedtime so well, but I don't let that stop me.

Think before you act

At an event at the boys' school we were supposed to write on this paper 'something you are good at'.  Faced with that question, a marker, and a line of people forming up behind me waiting for their turns, the only thing I could come up with was 'squats'.  Really?

Still loving my kids' school!

This fall I admit I was a little nervous that my little sixth grader was going to be in a 'crew' (homeroom on steriods as it has been described by OPEN teachers) with high schoolers at OWL. But the first day he came home and declared how much he loves it. He eats lunch with a mixed-aged group and loves that the high schoolers know he exists. And yesterday he was rambling on about school and said, "Then there's Frances (11th grader). What I love about Frances is that she is not afraid to tackle social and racial issues head on. She is always looking for solutions." Wow. What a great thing to notice about a fellow student- and how cool that she is friends with my 6th grader. 

The other day I dropped the boys at school at 7:30 am.  Jon was set to drive them back out to Hudson at the end of the day- around 2:30.  But Theo wanted to stay and help out at the open house for prospective students.  So, after school he went to archery for a couple hours and then he helped set up for the Open House.  Around the dinner hour a group of ninth graders tucked him under their wing and took him through the skyways to a food court where they all got some dinner.  I picked him up, tired but quite happy, at 8:30pm.  Can't believe I can leave my youngest downtown St. Paul for 13 hours and know that he is in good hands the whole time.  Love it.

Making the most of our exile

This weekend Theo and I cranked up my dad's Best of Abba CD in the boom box (yes, boom box) and did some interpretive dancing while playing pingpong.  Caused us both to get the giggles.

The bronze gnome!!

Earlier this fall the boys and I entered a little contest I had read about in the paper.  First we (and by we I mean the boys) had to solve 12 online riddles.  They involved codes and clues and some need for deductive reasoning.  Once we got through all 12 we qualified for the real money round- a chance to win $10,000 for the charity of our choice (Open School) by solving 12 riddles at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts.  We showed up the day of the contest to find out that out of the 35 teams, only two included kids.  We were undaunted.  We took almost the full two hours and solved all but one clue.  We decided to turn our sheet in with the final clue unsolved as we just couldn't crack it.  Only one team ended up solving that one, and they literally turned in their form as the buzzer rang.  When we saw them turn in the full answer sheet we knew we were out of the money, but we were thrilled to find out that we did take third, earning Open School not $10k, but a wonderful bronze (painted) garden gnome.  It proudly sits in the Open trophy case.

I admit that in the thick of the competition I got a little sweaty.