Whenever an event starts off with two goblet-sized wine glasses, I’d say I’m off to a wonderful start! The one made of glass had a delicious Californian blend, the other made of ceramics, was the creative challenge.
Although you cannot tell from this picture, I spent an extraordinary amount of time sketching out my design before painting it on the goblet. I designed an “Adventures of Infinity and Negativa” logo, which turned out looking pretty bad…as long as I can drink from it, it’ll be OK.
I was the first one out of five women to finish; so I had a great time, finishing my wine, promoting the Austin Writers Roulette and polishing off some delicious pizza. At some point, I’m going to receive word that my goblet has been fired by the ceramics expert who hosted this event. It’ll be my first book-inspired wine glass. At least the wine won’t be aware of its container!
OK, so the twins look more like a purple octopus and a red popped balloon, but it does indeed hold wine–almost a little too much! Nonetheless, it looks great on my mantle.
I arrived to the meeting room for the AISD superintendent search a few minutes early and found the room empty. Puzzling. Just the day before, when I’d mistakenly gone to the Carver Museum, then the Carver library, I’d checked the meeting room calendar to confirm the actual date and time.
By 11:25 am, five minutes before the meeting start time, I went to the front desk and asked if the meeting had been cancelled. They checked their copy of the calendar and confirmed that the it was due to take place in meeting room 2 at 11:30. The guy even told me that I was early! I expressed concern that I’d sat alone in the room, which showed no evidence that anyone had come to set up the place for a meeting. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I returned to meeting room 2.
Since I’d come prepared with a spiral notebook, a pen and sat in meeting room 2 alone, I wrote down some thoughts, thinking of how this experience was indicative of why things don’t improve faster for public education. If this had been a meeting concerning an educator molesting students, then parents would be here. Representatives from AISD, perhaps with their legal staff, would be here. Yet to discuss the hiring of one of the key employees of the district, no one besides me shows up. I know I’m not the only one who cares. At other meetings of concerned citizens gathered to make a difference in the pursuit of the best public education of kids, we all somehow feel like pockets of educational activists.
After 10 minutes of journaling, I whipped out my smartphone. I brought up the AISD website with the intention of getting a phone number and letting someone know exactly what I thought of their community meeting. I saw a link for “Superintendent Search.” Clicking on that, I saw another link for a schedule of meetings. I discovered that all meetings from noon to 1:30 would take place at an AISD building for all three days. The Carver Library wasn’t even listed. Fortunately, I was only 12 minutes away to the next location, according to GPS.
I arrived to the meeting location site, where several other meetings/workshops were taking place. After an Easter egg hunt with an AISD board member, we located the room. I was hot. Not the, “Woo-wee, we’re in Texas in the summertime” hot. I was angry black woman hot. Someone offered me a small bottle of water. I said the politest thing I could think of. “That is not the drink I’m in the mood for.”
As I signed in, I vented my frustration about the meeting room mix up. A woman in the know, whipped out her master schedule of all 15 superintendent community forums and assured me that the meeting was at noon at the Carver library–30 minutes later than either the library or I knew about. Much after the fact, I learned the facilitators for the Carver Library meeting had been 10 minutes late due to traffic. No one from the community had shown up. I had been the community member.
Instead, I was one of 12 people, including the school board member, a headhunter consultant and a couple of AISD central office people. The meeting was positive, even the constructive criticism never entered the angry zone I’d been so accustomed to when attended by mostly teachers and parents–those of us on the frontline of interacting with students. Those of us who could put faces to the data that drives the illogical strategies, which may work well for business, but not for the business of educating kids.
The most positive contributions I could make were 1) the district needed a superintendent who collaborated and 2) had improvement strategies for special education and English Language Learners.
Nonetheless, the meeting was beautifully conducted and the conversation flowed like warm, spiced wine with only 12 questions:
1. What do you consider as the significant strengths of the school district? (Most praised the improved attendance and graduation rates. I kept quiet since I no longer trust educational statistics because I understand math, especially math corrupted by political gain. Too much temptation to cheat or play jazz with the numbers. Improvisation is wonderful in music, acting, poetry and other forms of art, but not crunching educational data.)
2. What do you feel are the positives of the community? (We praised things like no state tax; thriving business and arts communities; diversity of culture; oasis in the middle of TX)
3. What are the issues and challenges specific to AISD? (As a group, we came up with lack of money, growing population of students, special education, and English Language Learners.)
4. What words or phrases would you use to describe the qualities you would like to see in a new superintendent? (I drove home the word “collaborative.”)
5. What is the leadership style you would like to see implemented by the new superintendent? (I stated we didn’t need a superintendent to pull the evil stepparent act of talking down to the community and trying to change everything on his/her own.)
6. Given the changing dynamics of public education, what are the critical issues the new superintendent will face? (We all agreed everything ultimately rested upon the shrinking budget.)
7. What are the necessary changes that need to be made for AISD to be more successful in student achievement? (One woman repeated the superintendent needed o get the money back for education!)
8. Are you satisfied with the direction of the district? (Why or why not?) (Can’t remember what the others said, but I voiced concern about the extreme top-down management.)
9. If you could help develop the new superintendent’s first 100 day entry plan, what would that include? (I wrote that the super’s first question at any meeting should be, “How may I best serve you?”)
10. Is there any other information you would like to share concerning the community, school or superintendent position that would impact the search process? (Several were concerned about the $300,000 salary offered and whether the super would see his/her role as long term, at least 10 years.)
11. Do you have questions regarding the search process? (At this point, I waved a piece of paper with the steps of the process outlined and asked, “Isn’t this it?” We agreed that it was clear cut.)
12. If you have any names of candidates you would like to recommend us after the meeting please…(I stopped listening after that.)
On the summer solstice 2014, four other Texas women, or cotravellers, and I started our journey to Peru. When I arrived at the Austin airport, I ate at an organic, locally-sourced bar, served by a spoken word poet.
Two flights later, I took a “sleeping selfie” at the airport in Lima. Although my overnight layover was long enough for a nap, PA announcements and airline workers banging on the glass wall to have the door opened by a coworker prevented that.
In another chapter of my life, I’d lived in Denver, but the Mile High City did not prepare me for how mountainous or altitudinous Cuzco was at 11,200ft.
I could’ve kissed the ground when I arrived at the hotel in Cuzco, especially since I was on time for the continental breakfast. However, the receptionist politely told me that complimentary service began the next morning.
Since we couldn’t check in for a few hours, our trip CEO, Chief Experience Officer, took us on a walk in search of breakfast. She explained the ubiquitous rainbow-like flags did not symbolize gay pride, but the indigenous Quechua culture.
Apparently, our weeklong visit coincided with several celebrations: the summer solstice, St. John’s Day on June 24th, and another celebration, which I can’t recall. For most of our vacation, we saw people in a variety of parade costumes.
After returning from breakfast, we discovered one cotraveller’s luggage had been burned by an outlet short-circuit.
Perhaps that was the risk the nearby electrical sign had warned about.
I was thrilled to check in, but the novelty of my new surroundings distracted me. Such as the negative first floor button, which inspired many creative musings every time I was on the elevator. I never pushed it since I didn’t want reality to disappoint me.
Even my room number amused me since it was the educational accommodations code for students with disabilities, which I certainly needed to help with the combined effects of sleep deprivation and high attitude.
Later in the day, our CEO walked us to the Plaza de Armas where the Iglesia Compania de Jesus lined one side of the plaza.
La Catedral lined another side.
In the center stood the Inca, Pachacutec.
Down an alley branching off the Plaza de Armas, we came upon a series of parade floats. I especially liked this one for incorporating a soccer theme since the World Cup invaded everybody’s mind.
Since Cuzco was a major tourist destination, I gave a few soles to take a picture of a grandmother with her grandkids and a goat. Throughout the rest of my vacation, I could truthfully tell all others who tried to solicit money from me for that shot, that I’d already taken one!
Nearly every public space had a thick gathering of people, whether they were watching a parade, listening to a speaker or just being together with extended family.
For our first dinner, I ordered alpaca brichra mediterranea, which was served with a berry sauce, sliced figs and cream pasta. Tasted like deer, but with less cholesterol than beef.
Afterwards, I was initially delighted to see the bathroom at that restaurant was stylishly covered in straw. Then my mind drifted to how could they possibly keep that sanitary? I chose not to over-think it.
Months before this trip, I’d attended a slideshow presentation, where I first saw the famous 12-sided rock of Cuzco. It‘s a prime example of Incan ingenuity since the wall was a sturdy construction despite its irregular-shaped rocks that fit together perfectly.
Travelers unused to high altitudes are cautioned not to drink alcohol for the first two days. Well, mama needed her medicine. We split a delicious bottle of Intipalka, a Peruvian Malbec! Most of the world only knows Argentine and Chilean malbecs. While sipping wine and eating a piece of chocolate cake, we watched the US play Portugal.
For the second time in just two hours, I took another picture of a bathroom. These so-called bathroom rules start off as legit since, in Peru, one tossed used toilet paper in the trashcan rather than flush it.
By the time we took our city tour on Monday, I thought we were already on Tuesday. The details of tour were fuzzy, but I remember that this was a baby alpaca. I’d just eaten one of its cousins last night.
Speaking of eating mammal cousins, we got a preview of how guinea pigs were prepared as part of our city tour.
On a rooftop of one of the houses were bulls, which symbolized Catholicism.
On another rooftop was the southern cross, which symbolized Andean religion.
As we took in the ambience of rooftop religious symbols and guinea pig preparation, a parade marched by.
At the next stop, we visited a burial site where Incan VIPs had been mummified and buried with libations for the afterlife. There weren’t any displayed mummies, but I got to experience the coolness of the limestone altar where mummies had been prepared.
From the mountaintop perspective, I appreciated the neat layout of Cuzco where all streets radiated out from the Plaza de Armas.
No Cuzco city tour would be complete without visiting Saqsaywaman (pronounced similar to “Sexy Woman”). With retaining walls to prevent mudslides during the rainy season, Saqsaywaman was the site where the Inca would celebrate mother earth by drinking chicha, fermented maize. On August first, a young girl, who had not yet menstruated, was given chicha and coca leaves and buried alive to appease mother earth to prevent natural disasters. The temporary bleachers shown here had been brought in for people who could afford to celebrate St. John’s Day in style.
I didn’t know that Cuzco had a Cristo Blanco nor that the largest one resided in Bolivia instead of Brazil.
Our last city tour stop was the Convento de Santo Domingo, which was a Dominican convent built on top of an Incan temple. The Incan foundation had the usual trapezoidal construction that made it earthquake proof.
Of all the exotic or questionable things I ate, it was the carrot and pumpkin soup for dinner that did me in. The first two middle-of-the-night trips to the bathroom were just due to diarrhea, but that third time, I leapt out of bed, tied back my dreads and heaved a sulfur and pisco sour flavored vomit. Next time I travel to a developing country, I will buy a small bottle of tequila or whiskey for such medicinal purposes.
I slept like a charm after that. In the morning, I boasted at breakfast about how my body could eject pathogens without further intervention, which was fortunate since I felt well enough to witness the re-enactment of the Inca celebrating the summer solstice.
We continued to the San Isidro market, where the fresh fruits, vegetables, juices, spices and slaughtered animals were sold.
One pleasant surprise was the lack of flies, thanks to the high altitude.
Another surprise was the availability of “potion” ingredients. My upbringing calls it “voodoo”. My mother would call it “working roots”. Whatever you name it, it was available for purchase.
Our CEO purchased a bag of coca leaves for us to try. We’d all drank coca tea, which was supposed to help with altitude sickness. I found the leaves slightly bitter and it had no noticeable effect.
For lunch, traditionally the biggest meal of the day, I ordered lamb stew that came with a huge chunk of lamb that I’d normally eat in a week.
Our CEO recommended we split a fried guinea pig since most tourists don’t like it. It had very little meat, a membranous texture, and a gamey taste most similar to duck. On my first bite, I’d forked what I thought was white meat, but the texture was very soft. The CEO told me that I’d just eaten part of the brain!
At this point, my camera needed recharging. I plugged in my surge protector and heard a loud popping sound. The receptionist reset the circuit breaker. Turns out the camera’s AC adapter worked like a charm without it. Yeah, technology!
Later, we visited a silver jewelry store that had its own on-site jewelry-making room. After seeing how the silver was smelted and the raw stones cut, we were released to shop.
I bought two pairs of earrings to remind me of Peru. One pair was in shape of a kantu flower and the other symbolized the solar calendar.
After walking around Cuzco a couple of days, I finally found my namesake. Of course, I had to take a picture with the little plaza sign.
I was delighted to discover Cuzco had a chocolate museum, where an employee passed out samples of dark, milk and white chocolate without vanilla and other added stuff normally found in chocolate bought in the States. I sampled tea made from cacao leaves and bought two dark chocolate bars, one with cardamom, the other with aji chili. I liked the cardamom best.
I split a Peruvian malbec and merlot blend at an upscale restaurant to have with the chocolate. Since I wanted a light dinner, I ordered a salad and discovered Peru has the creamiest avocados on earth!
Not only that, but I loved the food philosophy of this restaurant.
On the way back to the hotel, I stopped into this liquor store for a 2.5L bottle of water. I could not resist taking a picture of the Peruvian fertility god sitting among the alcohol.
One afternoon, I had a little downtime to sit in the Plaza de Armas. Some local women told me that the propped up tree, named Queuna, couldn’t be cut down because it had been there since the time of the Incas.
Later, we took a private bus to the House of the People of the Sun to volunteer with some kids. Due to large potholes in the dirt road, we had to walk uphill with our donations.
The director greeted us and explained the different programs offered: jewelry-making, leather crafts, homework help, especially math, music, and psychological counseling.
In the past, there had been programs to raise awareness about recycling, composting, and promoting the use of native languages such as Quechua, native cultures, and educating rural people about labor and sexual exploitation.
I was alarmed to see that the house, dedicated to helping children at risk economically and/or intellectually, was across the street from a women’s penitentiary.
All the kids had assigned duties.
I was eager to them with their math homework, but the one student who had finished his, packed up his notebook and wouldn’t let me check over it.
Most of us chose to paint the mural, which had been sketched out in pencil. The theme appeared to be an ecological message about how everyone was responsible for maintaining the well-being of the environment.
After painting, I visited the music room. My presence caused the kids to be giddy. Finally, the teacher got them to play a traditional song.
As soon as the bus dropped us off from volunteering a half-day, we went to a nearby little bar to take a medicinal tequila shot, Followed by two helpings of a local mint Bailey’s imitation on the rocks. This became our place for a couple of nights.
On the way up the stairs to breakfast, I came across a little boy, chasing after a lemon-sized yellow ball. Unfortunately, he and two other boys were playing soccer in the dining area. I have an on-going irritation with parents who allow their kids to play in undesignated areas, especially restaurants. I joined two cotravellers at their table, but was preoccupied by the boys. Finally, one cotraveller got the ball. I pocketed it since I was comfortable with being the bad guy. I explained to one boy in my broken Spanish that we were in a restaurant and I wanted to eat in peace. I told him I’d give the ball back when I finished eating. Of course, the parents and grandmother were all there, thought the situation was funny, but apparently agreed with me keeping the ball. One cotraveller returned the ball when she saw they were leaving.
For our second day of volunteering with the kids, we stayed the whole day. Some cotravellers helped with preparing lunch.
I managed to help a few kids with their math, algebra problems and one geometry-based algebra problem. One girl made posters out of the problems. I was so happy to understand and explain the problems in Spanish.
The jewelry-making teacher showed me the basics of making silver earrings.
That was a steep learning curve, but I eeked out a pair of earrings after a while. I have a newfound respect for jewelry designers.
Then I went into the leather craft room to make a bookmark. The design was already engraved on the bookmark. So I painted it. As usual it took longer than I thought it would.
As soon as I finished, I went outside to thaw out. Next thing I know, I had a paintbrush in my hand and I started to paint the grass part of the wall mural. The painter in me just had to make the grass have more depth.
We ate lunch with the kids, which consisted of sopa de viernes or chupe, a carrot and tomato salad, a veggie fritter and half a boiled potato.
After lunch, I found a quiet spot and whipped out my ever-present journal. I wasn’t alone for long. The boys were fascinated by both my cursive handwriting and how quickly I wrote. They couldn’t read my writing until I printed—just like my students in the States.
The next morning, I sprang from bed at five thirty-three—thirty-three minutes AFTER my wake up call was supposed to ring. Eleven minutes later, I joined my tour group on the bus to Ollantaytambo. Despite the breakneck speed around curvaceous roads, I saw snow-capped and cloud-covered mountains.
We arrived at the train station with just enough time to use bathroom…
and to hear our daily dose of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence” on pan flute.
We took a comfortable, clean train with sunroof windows and complimentary snack and beverage service to Aguas Caliente, the city just outside of Machu Picchu.
The CEO had told me earlier in the week that the puma represented the present world; the condor represented the future; and the snake represented the past.
For the first time on my trip, I saw a Peruvian hairless dog. Apparently this one was a Batman fan.
We hiked along the Urubamba river up to the base of Machu Picchu. I stood on the pedestrian bridge where hardcore hikers ascended. The next day, I’d take the bridge to my right for the brave who traveled up by bus.
This is one thing that happens when six women travel together: time to break out with the hand sanitizer before eating!
Half of us made a short trek to the hot springs after lunch. It was a bust since they wouldn’t allow us to soak our feet in the pools because we didn’t have bathing suits. Yet, I made use of the toilet since our hotel temporarily had no running water. We chilled the bar area, overlooking the pools and rushing river water while listening to Bob Marley and Pink Floyd. A Chinese film crew showed up to document the hot springs.
On our way back from changing money, we went to a restaurant to watch Italy vs Uruguay because as one cotraveller said, “I’ve never seen an ugly soccer player.” I watched more sports on TV in the past few days than I’d watched all last year.
For the second early morning in a row, we stood in line for a Machu Picchu shuttle. Some tourists speculated about the safety of the infamous shuttles. I shared the same sentiments as one cotraveller: “I’ve walked too much this week to roll off a bus!”
Once we arrived safely at the entrance, most of us got off the bus in a civilized manner, but this impatient European shoved me in the back twice saying, “Go, go! Go, go!” when I paused to allow people across the aisle to get off the bus first. I turned around, put my finger in his face and threatened, “Push me one more time!” He repeated “Go, go!” softer, but didn’t touch me again.
And just look at the line that he’d rushed to wait in. Our CEO told us that many tourists have the delusion that they’ll be the first at the gate.
My visit to Machu Picchu was amazing even though it was the only time while in Peru I was immersed among other tourists, some of whom were absolutely rude when it came to taking their pictures at prime spots then moving on.
A tour guide explained that Machu Picchu had three parts: Agriculture, Urban (homes), and spiritual. East-facing doorways signified residences. All other facing doorways were either storage spaces or temples.
We came upon a bright green coca bush. Our guide explained that cocoa leaves needed chemical processing with sulfuric acid to make cocaine, which eats away at one’s flesh. He stated that all countries should legalize marijuana like Uruguay did since it’s a safer drug. Our CEO concluded, “If you can’t beat them, joint them!”
The Incan canal system below ground still collected more than enough drinking water through rainwater harvest to supply the estimated ancient population. During the wet season grounds became saturated. This temple was falling apart because of water damage.
In one part of Machu Picchu condor wings and the body of a condor were etched in stone.
For some inexplicable reason, I thought it would be a good idea to take a 45-min hike to the Sun Gate. I’d already walked too much on my recovering broken ankle. The best part about the steepness of the trail going down was my knees hurt so much, I didn’t even feel any ankle pain!
Three cotravellers and I made the Sun Gate trek.
Before leaving Machu Picchu, I put a decorative stamp in my passport.
I was so exhausted when I hopped on the shuttle bus, I didn’t care that it barreled down the narrow winding trail.
Once again, my hotel room number in Cuzco was prophetic. I certainly needed to clean up after hiking Machu Picchu, then spending hours traveling.
Since this was my last day, I took a picture of the Cuzco street dogs. They were so sophisticated in that they knew how to cross the street and otherwise interact with humans. I’d heard that none of them were strays although they freely roamed the streets.
After the city tour a few days ago, many shoeshine guys had approached me. I purposely waited until my last day to have them shined up. He gave my shoes the best shine since they were bought. Charged only two and half dollars, but I ended up giving more than that.
A cotraveller and I returned to the chocolate museum. After a few sips of Mayan hot chocolate mixed with red pepper (aji), honey and hot milk, I proclaimed, “All black people should smell like chocolate.” The cotraveller said, “All white people should smell like vanilla, then there’d be no racism.”
At the Cuzco airport, security and a group of passengers huddled around a flatscreen TV. I didn’t have to remove my newly shined shoes nor throw away my opened bottle of water because of a tight game between Costa Rica and Greece. The crowd roared when Costa Rica won. Then magically, the airport announcements resumed.
My last supper in Peru was the most expensive, courtesy of the Lima airport. I bit the bullet and ordered Malbec with fettuccine and shrimp. I bought a $3 bottle of water afterwards to counterbalance the saltiness of the sauce.
Before we boarded, about six airline workers donned disposable rubber gloves and hand searched all carry-ons. As soon as I saw them confiscating all beverages, I chugged my expensive bottled water, which had resided in the front pocket of my backpack.
The DFW airport has a new thing: cue up for an electronic kiosk that scans your passport, takes an unattractive picture, and asks for the same information as the paper immigration form, which I’d already filled out, but no one ever asked for.
Yet throughout my travel, I was a big fan of the old school technology: pen and paper for my notes, edits and long-division money exchange calculations! Make no mistake, I’m happy to return to the land of time-saving devices, even though I’m not sure where all the saved time goes.
For this year’s rendition of Mattie Gilmore, I went to a costume shop in north Austin and tried on a stylish maid’s outfit. Much finer than the clothes that I had strolled in with! The cherry on top was the maid’s hat. The woman at the costume shop originally suggested that I bobby-pin the hat onto my hair. I tossed my dreaded head back as I laughed, assuring her that no bobby-pins were going through my hair. Ingeniously, I threaded a dreadlock through each loop, which secured the hat well.
One of the best things about playing Mattie Gilmore again was being already familiar with the 8-line narrative. A few people asked me follow up questions, but I politely told them I did not know more about her. I referred some to the four Juneteenth summary panels, conveniently located in the same room where I was stationed.
A few visitors laughed at the part of my narrative, which stated that “[negroes] ain’t never done no managin'”. Many thought too many blacks were still in that situation.
A few of the older visitors wished more young people learned this history and had been in attendance. One woman, who had picked cotton as a child, sent her grandkids with some food one day to do the same. They and their food didn’t last but a few hours. She teased them about how both were supposed to last from sunup to sundown. She wished all kids these days, especially those who don’t like to study, could get a taste of the same.
Another group of visitors were an older couple who were visiting their adult son from Algeria. They did not understand enough English to follow my narrative, but I looked them in the eyes as I emoted my lines singularly, allowing their son time to translate into French. His mother really enjoyed what few lines I uttered and broke into an interesting conversation about how similar slavery in the States was to slavery in Algeria. I gave the son a break by letting him know I could understand the gist of what she said since I’d studied French for 6 years. This allowed him a bit of a break on two-way translation. Once again, I wished more of my French remained in my brain. As much as I struggle with foreign languages, I know this is just a fantasy. I was pleased to hear that the word for slave, “esclavo,” was the same in both French and Spanish.
At the end of our interpretation time, we took a group picture, and dashed away. The other woman and I were more than happy to change into our regular, cooler clothes, then eat a delicious barbecue lunch provided for volunteers. While eating, I caught up with one of the movers and shakers in Austin, who actively works to keep the historical black areas renovated and well-known. And, for the second time this week, I got an offer to teach a creative-writing course, this time with an emphasis on genealogy narrative.
All in all, I had a fantastic time reenacting a newly freed slave, thanking God I didn’t have to live through the real thing.
A few days later, on the actual day of Juneteenth, I finally had the satisfaction of seeing “Infinity & Negativa Rejoice” on the wall for the “100% ” fundraiser at the Carver Museum. This fundraiser is so named because 100% of the silent auction proceeds goes to the Carver’s education program. The 12 x 12 canvases were donated by a local art store and all the artist participants worked on and submitted their completed canvases. The silent auction will last for a month.
After getting a thrill of seeing the twins on the wall, I went into the theatre for a screening of the documentary, “Freedom Summer” about how a thousand white northerners came down to Mississippi to help educate and encourage blacks to register to vote. This year is the 50th anniversary of that event. Although it was a hard thing to watch, I felt a renewed sense of purpose for the mission of writing bits of my narrative through spoken word and novels. I’ve got a theory that I’m going to explore further. People will read/listen to my works if it’s entertaining enough.
I enjoy volunteering my time in exchange for getting in free to worthy events such as the olive festival. I’ve never heard of such, but then again, there is always a festival or two in Austin and the surrounding areas. This one took place in Dripping Springs, where I’ve never driven through at night without seeing at least one deer and an occasional stray hare.
Although I originally signed up as a “wine vendor,” all vendor volunteers were warned that we’d be expected to pitch in wherever we were needed. We were also warned that we would stand during our entire 4-hour shift. Mother Nature gave her overcast warning as well. Putting all three of those things together, I secured a spot at the only sit-down, covered vendor spot: selling olive trees. The three volunteers who I replaced gave me the lowdown on olive tree basics and then split to get their complimentary 6 wine tasting tickets and buy food.
Over the course of 4 hours, I learned more than I ever knew about olive trees. Fortunately, most people asked the same questions:
1. Which types of olive trees were for sale? Two varieties of French; two varieties of Spanish; and a lone Italian. (everyone loved the “Lone Italian” description and thought that should be the title of a movie.)
2. Do they grow in any soil? Yes, but if the soil has a high clay content, then you should mix up to 30% of sand with it and plant the tree high so the water can drain.
3. How often do you water them? While they are “young,” you should give them 2 gallons of water every two days, but be careful not to overwater them. You should pinch the stem. If it is moist, then don’t water it.
4. Do these olive trees grow the green or black olives? All olives start off green and become increasingly purplish-black as they ripen. When green olives are picked, they have to be brined to reduce the bitter taste.
5. How long does it take for the trees to start producing olives? One of the Spanish species, Arbequina, will mature in 2-3 years. The rest will mature in 3-5 years.
6. How old are the trees in the grove? the ones for sale? 4 1/2 to 8 years; 16 to 18 months
7. Do they do well in the winter? All the trees are cold resistant to 15 degrees Fahrenheit. If worried, you can place a smudge pot beside the tree to keep it warm. All the olive trees in the grove survived a few ice storms without it.
8. Do I need to by two trees for pollination purposes? The two Spanish species are self-pollinating. The other varieties need a “mate.”
9. They all look the same. How can you tell them apart? I read the tags.
10. How often do they need to be pruned? once a year
When potential buyers asked a technical question that I couldn’t answer, I’d laugh and tell them that I only knew the answers to ten questions and theirs just went off the grid. By some miracle, the owner, his daughter or the olive expert who’d given three olive mini-workshops would happen to walk by. I’d flag them down to answer the question.
Toward the end of my shift, I was nearly beside myself with hunger. Sometimes, the wind shifted and I’d catch a whiff of paella. At one point, a potential olive tree buyer took pity on me and offered a sip of her red wine. I thanked her for adding about ten more minutes of my patience while I waited for my replacement to arrive. Once she did, I gave her the lowdown and the list of olive questions and answers (which I’d neatly written out on a piece of paper) and dashed away to get my volunteer bag with a wine glass and 6 drink tickets.
I had about three tastes of wine while waiting for the latest batch of paella to finish. When it was just about done, people gathered around like it was feeding time at the human zoo. With a relaxed red wine smile I asked one of the food vendors, loud enough for everyone in the crowd to hear, “Now, you guys serve the people with dreadlocks first, right?” Yes, that did work. Thank God for the ol’ Jedi trick!As I left, I saw a bigger wine enthusiast in the bluebonnet-laden “parking lot.” The license plate read, “I (heart) WINE.” I figured it must have belonged to one of the twelve Texan wine vendors who were present. Perhaps when I have a lot of disposable income, I can have vanity plates, too. Although I think mine will read: “KISS MBA.”
I’d hoped to get a lot of painting done this weekend. Saturday morning, I sat on my balcony in a sports bra and pajama pants, painting in a balmy 68 degrees. Today, it’s only 61 degrees and the thunder-sounding wind keeps rolling. I’ll bundle up and brave the weather to put a few dabs of paint on the canvas before my thin blood and fingers give up.
The last time the temperature dropped this quickly, we were graced with a two-hour delay due to “thunder sleet,” which sounds as if it should be an anime character. I even mused with one of my Physics classes last week about such a character being drawn by one of them. The next morning when I checked their assignments, I saw that one of my students, who is has excellent drawing abilities, sketched out a brute-nosed ThunderSleet character. That class even mused what ThunderSleet’s powers would be. I suggested he could make thunderbolts of ice, but not in form of a hammer like Thor.
Some students made other suggestions about ThunderSleet’s superpowers, but I had to end the off-task conversation and return to reviewing thermodynamics vocabulary. And what inspired the mentioning of thunder sleet to begin with? The benign discussion of the differences among three different temperature scales: Celsius, Fahrenheit, and Kelvin. And out popped a superhero. Perhaps one day, I’ll read about his adventures in a former student’s comic book.
I’ve often said that Austin is a happening city–both a blessing and a curse. Last weekend, I attended yoga four days in a row, Friday through Monday. I’d never done that before, but it was a luxury for both my body and mind, not to mention my bionic left ankle, which is still recovering from surgery.
As the rest of the week unfolded, I had at least two major things to do after school every single day. I normally don’t like to book my activities back to back like that, but occasionally life demands it. I don’t regret protesting for 3-year teaching contracts the doing yoga on Monday; attending a “Genetically Unemployable” meeting on Tuesday; attending EdTech on Wednesday before picking up my costume sword then participating in a webinar about my upcoming Peru trip on Wednesday; watching the African American program at my school then shopping for groceries on Thursday; and going to bikram yoga followed by an art exhibit at the Blanton on Friday.
Which one of those informative, life-enriching activities should I have eliminated from my schedule? I couldn’t think of a single one; so I did them all. As I strolled into the Blanton with a mixed drink that I’d bought before entering, I’d come straight from yoga as relaxed and energized as I could have been. I’d detoxed in order to retox. It’s all about balance.
My Saturday morning routine involved cleaning my apartment and changing my bedsheets. It’s the best time of the week to get such a chore done. During the week, the grime slowly builds up. Yet I don’t freak out about that since the healthy cleanliness of my apartment never dips too low. That’s how I feel about other aspects of my life as well.
Certain writing projects help me clean out the clutter. Otherwise, it would build up and rob me of sleep. I caught up on my rest on Saturday, then went to an art opening. I’d never heard of the artist before, but I will never forget him or his work.
What impressed me the most about Gabe’s work (I feel I can write about him, using his first name because he was just that warm and approachable) was the expressiveness in his subjects hands. Of course, most people are drawn into the Hollywood cinematographic quality of Gabe’s paintings, but I’ve never paid particular attention to an actor’s hands as I did with those paintings. I still struggle with painting hands.
When I finally got an opportunity to talk to the artist himself, I shared with him that I loved how he rendered the hands in all his paintings. He readily told me that a person’s hands tells you so much about them. I need to keep that in mind when I’m painting. I believe most of the hands I’ve painted reveal how uncomfortable I am with that body part. If I had the chance to have a longer conversation with Gabe, I would have told him how much I also liked the way his character’s bodies flowed. There is such movement and depth in his two-dimensional still paintings.
He teased me when I told him about my painting series, representing the main character’s work instead of mine. He quickly picked up on the fact I essentially distanced myself from my own shortcomings as a painter. Again, if I had the chance to talk with him further, I would’ve confessed I needed that distance in order to calm down the perfectionist in me and continue working instead of stalling out.
Gabe formally trained as a painter and has a 15 year career. I, on the other hand, am a writer, dabbling in painting. I was surprised when Gabe stated that he was actually a writer who painted as well. After hearing that, I gave him a business card with all the information about The Austin Writers Roulette, telling him if he was ever in Austin on the second Sunday of the month between 4 to 6, then he should stop by.
Even if I don’t have much confidence in my painting ability, I trust my organization and intrinsic motivation to keep my spoken word and poetry show alive long enough to attract other artists to participate. Everyone started from some point.
For last week’s Austin Writers Roulette, Valentina hosted the “Love & Passion” show, bringing joy to all who saw her gravity-defying hair full of feathers, a big red bow and a tiny wooden ship.
She opened the show, dancing to the three songs that best described her love life.
The first song was “Got My Mojo Workin'” by Muddy Waters. She explained that 80% of the time when she was attracted to a man, he was immune to her charms.
The second song was “100 Days/100 Nights” by Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. Valentina said that 15% of the time, her charms did work on a man only to discover later on, usually in fewer days than the song implies, he had some questionable personality traits.
Appropriately, the third song was “At Last” by Etta James. Valentina gushed that she reached this blissful state in about 5% of her relationships. And yes, that 5% was totally worth it ’cause she never knew who he would be.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all who dare to believe in true love.
The 2014 carnaval theme was Black Orpheus, based on the classic Brazil samba movie done Greek tragedy-style. As usual, my capoeira group were honored to provide security for the samba school. A job that I look forward to doing every year since it gets me into the biggest party in Austin. We all met at our capoeira studio at 7:30, where the backstage wristbands were issued and the capoeiristas who were going to perform warmed up. Our mestre also reviewed the norms for the night.
In the past, I’ve had to contend with drunk women. Yet, this year, I’m happy to report that I didn’t have any drunk person challenge me. I was grateful for that since my ankle was still recovering and I didn’t feel as tough as I normally do. Nonetheless, I had a terrific time. I especially loved that the samba school had a wider variety of music this year. I hope that trend continues.
I have a confession: last Thursday, I told my 7th and 8th period classes to pray for a two-hour late start on Friday so we would not have to make up a cancelled day of school. Since I usually don’t assign homework, I’ll just assume that my students went overboard with the prayers. Lo and behold! Austin experienced an ice storm that shut down the city until midday.
Actually, I’m not the least bit upset about having a second three-day weekend in a row. As a matter of fact, I vaguely remember back in the day there being speculation about four-day work weeks once computers became more available. Of course that never happened since we Americans don’t know how to relax when we have a plethora of time-saving devices, except when it comes to acts of God.
Although I’d awoken a quarter to six on Friday morning, I stayed up once I found out that classes had been cancelled. After all, I was refreshed and ready to start the day. The true gift of any vacation, whether planned or spontaneous, is the extra time outside of one’s scheduled routine. One of the first things I did with my extra time was call my sister to sing happy birthday to her. I would have done that anyway, but our conversation was much longer since I didn’t have to be at work–at least the rigid work schedule I’m normally bound to on a Friday in January. I proudly told my sister that I got her birthday off.
This weekend, I’d only planned to go to the school play, “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” on Saturday, but when I arrived at the school theatre, I discovered that the weekend performances had been cancelled, which was unfortunate since I cannot make the remaining shows during next week. This being Austin, I had no trouble finding alternative plans for Saturday night.
First, I went to an open mic at a nearby restaurant that had decadent Italian dinner specials. Not willing to choose between the two dinner entrees, I ordered the gnocchi with gorgonzola sauce with spicy grilled shrimp added. As if that wasn’t rich enough, I also ordered hot chocolate with Nutella. That was such a pleasurable meal that my brain exuded endorphins. Once again, money can buy happiness!
I then joined the open mic out in the backyard already in progress. I was not in the mood to read any of the material that I’d brought since a significant number of the audience had heard it already. Plus, none of the other artists were reading pre-prepared material. So, I followed suit and ad libbed. Apparently, my spoken word was coherent enough that one of the other artists asked permission to use my segment in a documentary, which I readily granted.
While at the open mic, I got an email from one of my fellow capoeiristas. He invited everyone to a Brazilian percussion performance later that night. I’d planned to go as soon as the open mic had concluded, but then one of the other poets read my tarot cards. I hadn’t had my cards read in nearly twenty years; so I indulged myself in a reading. Besides, how often would I get the opportunity to have my cards read by someone who professed he regularly used heroine for the medicinal calm effect?
The cards revealed that I was at odds with my present situation, but had the talent, arrogance and motivation to successfully change it profitably. During that positive reading, I’d pulled the “power” card. Of all the cards that I could have pulled, the power card reminded me of who I am, where I’ve been and all the potential I have. As I’ve always known, life is more difficult when I don’t stand up for myself. Also, I can withstand being in a toxic environment much better when I don’t drink the Kool-aid.
I went to the bar where my fellow capoeirista was playing a few minutes before they started. What a brilliant, moving performance! Even though I still babied my recovering ankle, I did the bare minimum of dancing as the rhythm seeped into my bones. I’d needed surgery just to remove the smile from my face. What a joy to see people from capoeira to various Brazilian musical genres.
One guy I’d assumed I’d heard his band before. He came up to me saying that he finally placed where he’d recognized me from–work! Out of context, neither one of us readily identified the other. I just laughed, gave him a hug and talked with him. We both were very thankful for the act of God, giving us more down time to enjoy life. Such a contrast outside of a toxic workplace.
This morning, I felt so energized during bikram yoga class. I fully embrace that the body can heal itself when we live in harmony. If nothing else, this unplanned long weekend has taught me that with happiness, everything else falls into place.
