Special Events – Page 25 – Where Vivid Narratives Live

Brewery Tour

I’ve always professed not to be a beer drinker, but I jumped on the opportunity to join a social group of 30- and 40-somethings for a nearby small brewery tour. I made sure that I arrived on the early side of noon since one of the social group organizers advertised that he’d have a canopy. I figured if I got there early enough, I’d be one of the 20 lucky people to get under the shade.

We wanted to get a good spot in the blocked off concrete area, just in front of the musical stage and close to the food and beer. Plus, our group was the first in line to get our $10 beer glass that would be filled three times. As two volunteers set up the glasses, another volunteer came through the line with a wristband, which I initially thought was merely show that people were drinking age. I noticed that they had a slightly smaller, more attractive-looking beer glass. I patiently waited for them to finish putting out all the glasses to cover the table’s surface. Then I cheerfully told the woman, “I want the pretty glass.”

We had about 20 minutes to wait until they actually started serving beer; so I returned to the canopy since I figured why stand in the sun when I can sit in the shade? Besides, I thought this would be a terrific opportunity to get to know some of the other early birds in the social group before the same space transformed into a scene that the Sumerian goddes of brewing, Ninkasi, would be proud of. As I sat, I was surprised that no one else had joined me. I watched them and wondered what the hold up was. The line didn’t move at all. After 5 minutes two guys from the social group joined me. They informed me that the volunteers working the glass/wristband line decided not to sell anymore glasses until 12:45 when the beer was ready to serve.

I then spied a few people who already had their beer. The guys informed me that VIPs could get their first beer without having to wait in line. I joked that I always felt like a VIP. They encouraged me to try, saying that I probably wouldn’t get turned down. I thought to myself these guys could probably get away with some “white skin privilege,” but I told them, “You two are white guys. You could a VIP beer if you wanted.” Granted, that wasn’t much better than what I’d thought. They laughed that off and said that as an attractive woman, I’d be more likely to get a VIP beer. I took the challenge.

I walked inside the brewery, glanced at the 6 beer choices and confidently asked, “Which one of these beers is the fruitiest?” That questioned seemed to throw them off, but after some reflection, one guy pointed out two choices. I asked to sample one of them. As the guy put a sip’s worth in my glass, he asked if I was in the band. I was flattered and joked that I looked as if I should be in band. I tasted the beer, thought it was passable and told him he could fill my glass. He reminded me that I still hadn’t told him who I was.

I smiled and introduced myself. “I’m Teresa with the Austin Writers Roulette.” I whipped out two flyers and handed one to each of the guys behind the bar. “We’re a monthly spoken word and poetry event. Our next show is Sunday, July 14th and the theme is ‘Personal Triumph.'” When he asked if we’d set up a table, I said, “We’ve got a canopy set up.” He concluded that was good enough and filled up my glass. Reminded me of the advice my sister Carla told me years ago, “Just act like you know what you’re doing.” Exactly.

Not only were the two guys who were sitting with me impressed, but one of the co-organizers who was still standing in the glass line pointed me out. Apparently he was already amazed that I was one of the few who had been sold a glass to begin with.

Once the beerfest officially began, that co-organizer let me sample the stout he was drinking, which had been the second beer recommended to me. I liked it better; so I told him to let me know when he was finished with his first and I’d go with him to get another. He finished it in two gulps, saying that I’d twisted his arm and we walked over to the nearest beer tent.

As we walked up, I saw a large rectangular tray under the water container, but then spied a similar one behind the beer serving table. I knew they didn’t want just anyone walking behind there. I announced my arrival by asking, “Can I dump the rest of this in one of those containers?” They all said yes, but one guy, a tall black man with dreads, shook my hand for being one of the few people to ask instead of dumping beer in the first container, which held water for the dogs.

I filled my glass with water, figuring that it couldn’t be a bad idea rehydrate in between beers while hanging out in 95-degree weather. I joined the co-organizer in line, telling him how friendly the black volunteer had been. The co-organizer laughed and informed me that he’d seen that guy checking me out and shook my hand just to flirt with me. He said he knew I had something special when I got that VIP beer.

Instead of joining the others back at the canopy, we walked into the brewery to take a tour. The brewery itself was one big room with some large, impressive machinery. I was delighted to hear the inebriated guy giving the tour with his own beer in tow, explain the biochemistry behind making alcohol. One big machine was to convert the starch into sugars. At some point, additional oxygen was pumped in for the yeast to multiply, but at a later point, they were denied oxygen so they would make alcohol. When I teach my students about anaerobic respiration, I joke that if we were yeast, we could get drunk by periodically holding our breath. The other big machine was to boil it and add additional flavors.The longer the boiling, the darker and sweeter the beer, which explained why I liked the stout.

At the end of the tour, I recognized a woman who worked with my school district. I had been initially surprised that out of all those people that I hadn’t bumped into anyone I knew. I’d just had a couple of false sightings. Although she wore huge dark shades, there was no mistaking her wonderful smile. I spoke with her and her husband for a bit before foraging for food. Didn’t take me too long since there were only two food trailers–one for sweets and the other for savory. Since I was reading at a poetry potluck later on, I knew that I’d get several choices for sweets and opted for a delicious meatball and cheese sandwich.

I returned to the canopy and sat down to enjoy my food. Since I wanted some down time before heading out to the poetry/spoken word venue, I told one of the co-organizers that I was taking off and poured my remaining beer into his glass. He glanced at my wristband. His eyes popped out when he saw that it had only one mark on it. He knew that I’d had two beers and since only one volunteer had bothered to mark my wristband, I was leaving with two more beers officially left on it.

To placate him, I stood in line to get another beer for him. When I returned, I emptied my glass into his and dramatically extended my arm to show him the wristband. It hadn’t been marked. He was beside himself. I gently removed my wristband and wrapped it around his wrist since his band had only one beer left. At that moment, one of the guys who’d challenged me to seek a VIP beer told me that I should have given my band to him. By some beer logic, he said that he’d earned it.

Both guys invited me to join another social group that was geared toward professionals in their 30s and 40s. Their next event was to meet at my favorite sushi place for their wonderfully delicious happy hour. I said I’d definitely check it out since I loved eating there and had been craving sushi. They said some final flirtatious parting words and not once did they comment about my menstrating ear!

A few days earlier on July 4th, I plunged into the 6 ft end of a swimming pool and could not equalize the pressure in my right ear. I completed my laps, but once I returned home, the pressure built up to rupture the eardrum,causing excruciating pain. As stubborn as I am, I mixed a medicinal amount of ibruprofen and red wine, took an hourlong nap, cleaned myself up and attended my tango class, a BBQ party and even walked over to view the fireworks.

Looking back, I’m glad that I didn’t allow one nonfatal health challenge stop me from enjoying this holiday weekend, celebrating the birthday of the United States.

Firedancing!

You know I’m on vacation when I have enough energy to go to a morning capoeira class, two afternoon tango classes and then take a firedancing class in the evening. That’s exactly what I did this past Saturday and much to my surprise, getting eight hours of sleep and having virtually no stress means that I’m well rested enough not to need a nap in between activities, which is good since I scarcely had time to eat and sip a glass of wine.

I, like some other capoeirista participants, was initially confused as to whether the “fire” aspect of the dance was interpretative or literal. To be on the safe side, I brought my five-finger shoes since I knew we wouldn’t have real fire inside the capoeira studio. What I had not anticipated was the handicraft portion of class. Coupled with the fact that the workshop started thirty minutes later (Brazilian time!) than it should have, we were still finishing up on making four torches each when the workshop had been scheduled to end.

Using clothing that capoeira and crossfit students had left behind and placed in the lost-and-found box, we cut strips out of the clothing and tightly wrapped them around the wooden sticks that we used during our maculele choreography. To secure the cloth strip in place, the mestre told us to bound it with nylon string or yarn. As anyone familiar with my handicraft skills could have predicted, I made the “nonexample” torch as we politely call “incorrect” in the educational world. Of course with my luck, I sat beside a capoeirista who’s known for her creative handicrafts.

Although the mestre only spoke a pocketful of English and I spoke even less Portuguese, I asked him questions about my torch in Spanish. At least we both understood enough of that language to communicate. He undid my first torch since the cloth and string were too loose, which he assured me would fly off the stick and create a fire hazard.

Throughout the workshop, the mestre would periodically give us safety tips. At one point, I just laughed to myself about all the safety concerns that the two graduado (high-ranking) capoeiristas were translating for the rest of the group. As straightforward as the fire considerations were, I wondered if anything was being lost in translation.

At the time when the workshop had been scheduled to end, we all stood up, put away one pair of our torches and practiced some basic firedancing moves. After ten minutes, the mestre told the two graduado capoeiristas to divide up the group and work with a small group. Instead of doing a 1-2 count off and having all the 1’s work with one graduado and the 2’s work with the other, the graduados selected groups using the ol’ kickball method of picking group members by name. Never in childhood had I ever been the last one called since I’ve always been a fast runner. So at least that minor humilation didn’t tap into any bad childhood memories. Fortunately, I really liked the choreography that my group came up with; so I was well placed.

After working on the routine for twenty minutes, my favorite part of the entire workshop occurred. We formed a semi-circle, the mestre distributed small bottles of water and we practiced spewing water into the air. I cannot remember during my happy childhood ever being allowed, much less asked to spew water into the air that would wind up on the floor. Even though we were simulating how to spew fuel into the air, pure joy shot out of my mouth.

Once we cleaned up the floor, we took our torches and some safety support such as damp towels, a couple of buckets of water, and out to a nearby courtyard. The mestre confessed that he had never used the tiki fuel that we were about to use. The fuel came in two varieties–purple and yellow. I’m not sure if the color designated any significant difference, but both contained citronella.

The mestre thoughtfully tested out a couple of the torches. We discovered that the ones that had been made from a green sweat shirt were fire-resistant. Also, the nylon string was fire-resistant, but if the cloth was flammable, then the torch still lit. The yellow yarn burned pretty well.

Once that experimentation part was over, the mestre asked capoeiristas to dance and spit fire individually. Another capoeirista and I were the only two who refused to put the fuel in our mouths. We both stated that next time, we’d bring something like 151 rum to use for fire spitting. I figure that I’ve got enough problems without adding accidental poisoning to the list. Besides, I didn’t want to have any throat/voice problems the day before I was to host the Austin Writers Roulette.

Negro firedancing (768x1024)

Caju spitting fire (768x1024)

Ed spitting fire (768x1024)

However, I practiced dancing with fire, mainly for the photo op. Then I practiced the choreography with my group, using unlit torches. My refusal to voluntarily put poison in my mouth worked to another advantage: I was able to give the verbal cues to my partners.

Miraculously, none of us got burned although I nearly slipped with all that spewed tiki fuel on the tile. One woman in the other group had problems controlling the fire on one of her torches because the stick had been wrapped with a flammable, decorative tape.

After both firedancing choreographies had been completed, all sense of safety brokedown as more people grabbed lit torches, danced and spit fire. Those few of us who remained spectators, grabbed a blanket, got near the fire extinguisher and/or yelled out “You’re dripping fire!” to the firedancers. I took this as my cue to leave. I’d pressed my luck enough for one workshop.

All in all, I’m still interested in practicing firedancing–I’ll just have to bring the rum.

An Evening with Walter Mosley

Although I was not planning to go listen to Walter Mosley, I’m glad a friend encouraged me to do so. He’s a prolific writer and of course a fantastic speaker–very down-to-earth and entertaining just like his books. I arrived at the bookstore early enough to get a good seat and briefly talk with a woman who had been on the Austin Writers Roulette once, back when it when it took place in the capoeira studio. My friend and her family came just before he started speaking and I teased her about being “Black,” that is, coming to an open event just before it began and expecting to get 5 seats altogether. She and her husband sat with me, their daughters sat together in the row in front of us and I never found out who the 5th person was. I learned to my grief that my friends were making plans to return to South Africa, both because of the public educational system here in Austin and the financial offer they’ve received to finish their latest production back in South Africa.

I showed them the latest picture of the painting that I’ve been working on and my newest brainchild of having the paintings represent the work of the main character in the book rather than making the story part graphic novel. I even told them of my upcoming photoshoot on Sunday to compose the second painting in the series.

After a rather long and rambling introduction by one of the bookstore employees, Walter Mosley finally took his place behind the lecturn. Here are the notes that I took during his wonderfully inspiring and humorous talk:

1. He initially killed off one of his most popular characters, Easy Rawlings, because writing those stories began to get stale for him.

2. Out of all of the struggles in the writing process, he finds PUBLISHING the most challenging–mainly because every publisher wants to lock him into writing just one genre.

3. He has been criticized by many black women about not having a black female lead detective, but he defends himself by stating that he’s one of the few black men writing about a black male detective; so he wants to write as many as possible to make up for that.

4. He believes in the saying, “If you’re not happy today, then you’ll never be.” Meaning that if you cannot find something to be happy about now, why should you expect tomorrow to be any different.

5. He set out to write six sci-fi novellas where black men destroyed the world in six different ways.

6. He feels that for a writer, social media is like working in a rice paddy. He doesn’t bother with it since that’s one of the reasons why he has a publisher.

7. One of his favorite characters is a sociopath because Mosley believes in order to function in this world, one has to be a sociopath, but one still has to have understanding.

8. Initially, Mosley had a hard time getting his first novel published because the publishers told him that white people don’t read about black people, black women don’t like black men and black men don’t read.

9. Once during an interview, Mosley was asked what does every black man need. His flippant response was “a white man in his basement.” Soon after, he wrote “Man in My Basement.” (Which I checked out of the library this past Saturday!)

10. He claims not to research anything because he’s a fiction writer; so he feels at liberty just to make everything up.

11. When participating in a critique, Mosley advises not to listen to other’s opinion about your own work, but rather to listen to how you critique others and what other people say about another writer’s work.

12. He doesn’t bother to teach writing because teaching uses the same energy as writing and he doesn’t have enough energy to do both.

13. Mosley stated that by the time he started writing in his mid 30s, he was already a failure in life; so he figured whatever became of his books would be extra.

14. He expressed an interesting theory on racism: Before people came to “the new world,” “white” people did not exist. Mosley said that if someone went up to a Viking and said he was the same as a Greek, he’d cut his head off. If someone said to the Greek that he was like the Viking, he’d cut off his d*ck. Yet, when they came to America, in order to steal the land and enslave Africans, they all had to agree to be “white” to make the arrangement successful.

And the Winner Is…

Years ago, I participated in an overnight bat workshop for teachers. One of the fun activities was a raffle with 14 must-have teacher gifts. There were 15 of us. Guess who didn’t win a prize?

After that experience, I stated with much mathematical and scientific certainty that I had bad luck. This was beyond the garden variety if-I-didn’t-have-bad-luck-I’d-have-no-luck-at-all superstitious belief. I retold that story last Tuesday as I bought 25 raffle tickets for $20. At the very least, I would be donating to a worthy cause. The woman who sold me the raffle tickets assured me that my luck was about to change. I just smiled and walked away to continue networking until the drawing.

As usual, a few of the numbers called were close to one of my ticket numbers, but of course not the winning number…until it happened. After years of not winning anything, one of my numbers had been called. I proudly walked up to claim my prize of a pair of Austin Ballet tickets. The woman who’d sold me the tickets casually looked at all the marked brown envelopes, then underneath some things that were on the table, checked her clipboard, which at that point, the woman who was calling the ticket numbers briefly started helping her. I stood there with a knowing smile on my face.

The ticket caller proceeded to call another number, while two women looked for my prize. The next winner received her gift, posed for the camera with it and then the next number called was another one of my tickets. Twice in one raffle! This time, the prize was a pair of tickets to the Austin Symphony. The ticket caller boasted what a well-cultured woman I was. Cultured or not, I certainly had dubious luck since, like the first prize-containing envelope, my second prize couldn’t be found.

The women running the show were beside themselves with embarrassment. They all remembered the entire stack of envelopes and where they had been placed on the table. Slowly, one woman concluded that some of the raffle prizes had been stolen. She even indicated that she knew who the top suspect was. I picked up on the vibe and said, “The socially awkward woman, right?”

We looked around and unsurprisingly, we could not find her. Yet, she had been present. Just like the previous monthly networking events, the socially awkward woman came, ate more than her share, hoarded whatever free things that were available and apparently lifted a few things that weren’t freely available as well.

One of the event organizers readily agreed with me. She confessed that things were finally started to make sense as other things had “disappeared” at other events as well. She also assured me that I’d eventually get my prizes. The poor woman who’d sold me the tickets took down my mailing address and handed me her business card. I was in such a strange mood, neither angry nor excited. Looking back, I guess shocked at the latest result of gambling-based bad luck would be the most accurate description.

A few days later, I called them in order to give my phone number and email address. In my uncharacteristic frame of mind, I had left with only giving my name and mailing address. The woman who took down my additional information told me that they were working on getting my replacement tickets and apologized again for what had happened.

I suggested that for the next event, they should have an undercover cop to scope out the socially awkward woman and arrest her the moment she steals. The event organizer told me that for future events, someone would be assigned to be her buddy the entire time. She even indicated that she hoped the socially awkward woman would be shamed by her past actions.

I laughed and explained that one of the reasons people are socially awkward is that they are wired differently. I wished her good luck in attempting shame such a person.

Only time will tell if this new change of my luck will be for the better.

Passaporte Brasil

One of my favorite upscale grocery stores that has weekly live music groups and performances also sponsors a weeklong special, featuring foods from a particular country. In the past, they’ve had the spotlight on France and Argentina. This year, they highlighted Brazil.

I sacrificed a yoga workout in order to rehearse on Monday and Tuesday for the Wednesday performance. I knew that I wasn’t going to play capoeira, but I still needed to learn the latest maculele routine and practice singing the lyrics for “Puxada de Rede.” One silver lining I had while proctoring the science TAKS Wednesday morning was going over the choreography and lyrics in my head.

So by the time I left school and went straight to the venue, I felt pretty confident. Of course, one oversight was that I forgot to pack my capoeira pants. Small detail…at least I had plenty of time to enjoy my Brazilian-style thinly sliced beef sandwich, a glass of malbec and as few fries as I could stop myself from eating.

I thought we were a little unfortunate that on the coldest day of the week, we were outside dancing in sports bras and a grass skirt. Yet, that was refreshing during our first performance. The second performance was a little colder, but just as exhilarating.

Afterwards, five pizzas and some huge salads were promptly brought out for us. I’d originally thought that I wouldn’t be around in order to eat any of it, but the guy in charge was on top of things. The food was fantastic and I had to restrain myself from going treasure hunting through the salad to get all the delicious cherry tomatoes.

Even though I’m not a “hardcore” capoeirista, I truly enjoy that I still have a viable contribution to make in helping share Brazilian culture.

Black & Brown Don’t Mess Around

I got up extra early on Tuesday morning in order to get to school and knock out some work that had magically collected . As I drove along, watching out for the fools in the morning traffic, I listened to the latest details of the attack during the Boston Marathon. The reporter had just read a description about the bomb when I ran over something that made a loud metallic scraping. Since I was in the left lane, I put my hazard lights on and entered the turning lane. I saw the that the driver’s back tire had a flat.

I didn’t inspect any further, but instead I popped the hatchback and started digging out the spare tire along with the tools to change the flat. As I was bent over, I heard a car pull up behind me. Without even turning around, I knew that the cavalry had arrived to help me change the flat. The guy, Carlos, took off the hubcap and reminded me that I needed to get the bolt key in order to remove the tire. He then asked me had I seen what had caused my flat. I told him no.

I could not believe my eyes. The scrap metal, which was more than likely from a recent car accident, looked just like an ax sticking out of my tire. This after hearing about the bomb and shrapnel from the Boston Marathon attack. As Carlos continued to change the tire, I texted my boss to let her know what had happened. Then it dawned on me…I’d still be on time for work! So much for coming in early.

After changing my tire, Carlos asked me if I was a personal trainer. I told him that I was a HS Physics teacher, but I did train capoeira. I handed him one of my Tribe of One T-shirts as a thank you gesture for helping me change the tire. He accepted the T-shirt and said that it was his pleasure to help me out. He also added that the black and brown don’t mess around, meaning that we have to do whatever we can in order to get ahead in this world.

As I drove away, I thought about his question about me being a personal trainer. I was wearing capri pants at the time and so I imagined the visual of me bent over getting out the spare. Once again, having a well-toned “Brazilian butt” pays off!

The Art of Volunteering

Once again, the wonderful city of Austin has not let me down! I signed up to volunteer for an annual art show as a “floater,” which I prayed would not find me in the blazing Southern sun carrying a bunch of heavy shit. I got so lucky. The volunteer ahead of me was placed in the kids’ corner, which would’ve been the second worse fate and I was immediately recruited to work one of the ticket booths.

I didn’t realize that the art fest shut down at 6pm, which was when my three-hour shift was supposed to end. Plus, my street parking would expire at exactly 6:01; so I already knew that I would have to leave my shift a few minutes later or face yet another infamous parking ticket. Again, my luck held.

I spent the majority of my shift greeting people, taking their money, stamping the back of their hands and talking to an interesting guy who worked for the organization that ran the festival. I worked a little over an hour when he suggested that I should walk around the festival since the ticket lines had died down.

Although I had an hour and a half to peruse everything, the only thing I was truly interested in was getting some jewelry. Once I looked at all the real jewelry, I ended up buying some costume jewelry that was within my budget, but still a little pricey for what it was. Nonetheless, I needed a little “Spring Cleaning” bling to go with my attire for today’s Austin Writers Roulette.

As a matter of fact, I made sure to tell my ticket booth companion and the woman who I bought jewelry from about the upcoming roulette and gave them a flyer. If nothing else, I’m now on another volunteer list in order to rub elbows with artists, attend their events for free and perhaps expand my fan base.

This is definitely the grassroots promotions that I need more of!

Marching Band Madness

One thing I love about Austin is that there’s seemingly a festival or three every week. This past Saturday, I actually caught one, which caters to marching bands. Although there were many local marching bands, some came as far away as Louisiana. I’d signed up to volunteer for four hours, explaining to people about local farmers markets around town, gardening classes, community gardening opportunities, cooking and nutrition classes and kids programs.

Just behind me was one of the locations where marching bands would entertain the crowds, including me. As well placed as my table was, most people just viewed it as an obstacle to go around to get closer to the performers. At least I had a great view of the fun-dressed crowd. In between chatting with my fellow volunteer and reading culinary trivia, I actually talked with inquiring minds about food sustainability and nutrition.

Apparently, this was the third year for the marching band festival, but the first time I’d ever heard of it was through my volunteering network. And what a perfectly warm, sunny day to hang out, listen to good music, meet new people and see some friends.

Originally, I’d looked forward to the volunteer after party, but realized after my shift was over that there was a good two-hour window between when my shift ended and that party began. I was already starving; so I went to the nearby TexMex restaurant and sat at the bar, avoiding a wait list and getting a 10% discount. With that little task taken care of, I walked over to the parking lot where the last band of the night were playing. Even after their last song and an encore with some other musicians joining in, the crowd was still hyped and ready for more.

Nonetheless, the musicians took a break and I walked with them into the theatre that was set up for the “after party.” Although I had volunteered and I knew two people there, I felt like a gate crasher. They had been snacking away on some potluck food and the energy was present, but exclusive. Most of those people had been together and partying since Friday; so they mingled and broke off into groups and I felt more like an outsider. I would have had to make more of an effort to introduce myself than normal. With my luck, the people I would have talked to would not have lived in Austin anyway.

If some musicians would have returned to the parking lot after 30 minutes or so, I would have stayed and enjoyed the jam session, but there was too much down time for my blood. I always joke about being middle aged, but I never felt so middle aged as when returned home and to read rather than mingling and waiting for the music to start up again!

Education Is a Right, Not Just for the Rich & White!

On Saturday, February 23rd, I woke up much earlier than I intended to because of my excitement to march in the Save Texas Schools event. So much of what makes teaching my high school science students a challenge occurs in the Capitol. Although there a multitude of issues surrounding public education, what I looked forward to was marching to put an end to the newest, punitive high-stakes test, the STAAR and to demand that the $5.4 billion dollars that was cut from education be reinstated–with interest!

I arrived at the Austin-Statesman entrance on S. Congress about an hour early and there were already a throng of energetic people chanting, networking, and passing out colored circular stickers in order to get an official attendance tally. Austin-American Statesman I am Education Mary J. Blige protester

I felt empowered just being present. As I absorbed the moment, both taking pictures and observing the scene without a camera, I realized that I had not prepared any catchy signs.

Catacorner to where I stood was the Occupy AISD group. Since I had attended a couple of their meetings, I volunteered to hold one end of the banner, which called for an end to high-stakes testing, vouchers and charters.

The Kashmere marching band from Houston led the crowd to the Capitol.

I walked behind the Eastside Memorial marching band, but eventually, we slowed down in order not to be so crowded together so people could read our banner. Although we chanted a variety of things on our way to the Capitol, my favorite was “Education is a right! Not just for the rich and white!” That struck a cord with me on a few levels.

First of all, rich parents have the resources to provide their children with an excellent education. One where the classroom size is less than 35-40 students and the teachers are forced to narrow down what they are teaching in order to drill the things that are found on the standardized test.

Secondly, I would appreciate teaching at a school that has majority minority students that wasn’t run like a prison. Again, expectations should be that we’re preparing them to do a variety of things once they graduate from high school–not telling them in the middle of the school year that they can take a less rigorous academic “minimum plan” and receive a substandard diploma that no 4-year university recognizes.

Once we reached the Capitol, I listened to how a superintendent shook her fist in the face of the Texas Education Agency and refused anyone to administer STAAR. A former TEA chairman, Robert Scott said that he saw the tests spinning out of control and acknowledged that the drastic cuts had been made to the education budget at a time when schools were expected to reach even higher academic levels.

One thing the rally confirmed for me was that public schools are being purposely driven into the ground with the hopes of allowing corporate-run charters to come in and privatize schools to make even more money off the students, which brings to mind my second favorite chant: “Banks got bailed out. Schools got sold out!”

I even felt encouraged when Diane Ravitch predicted that since the high-stakes testing madness had begun in Texas, we’d be the ones to drive a stake in its heart.

I’m going to start gathering wood.

Warrior Women

After three quick weeks of rehearsal, carnaval finally arrived in all its Bacchanalian glory! Although I’ve attended carnaval three previous years in a row as “security” with my capoeira group to protect the samba dancers and musicians from the crowd, this was the first time that I’ve been an integral part of the show. Seven of us female capoeiristas practiced the maculele choreography along with our samba school counterparts.

This year’s theme was Peter Pan; so our characters were Tiger Lily’s tribe of Indians or as I like to think of it, warrior women. My capoeira group normally dances maculele with wooden sticks and grass skirts. All we really had to do was enhance the bling factor, learn the new choreography and be flexible with such a large-scale production.

Several of my fellow capoeiristas got together twice to work on their costumes. My too-busy schedule did not permit me to participate in either occasion, but I was so fortunate to get a lot of help via donated costume parts and ended up with an attractive Indian outfit. Most of us met up at a capoeirista’s apartment that’s in walking distance of the venue. I had help braiding my dreadlocks and putting feathers in the braids. We got partially dressed, walked over and spent the rest of the time getting ready. The longer we waited, the more makeup and bling we ended up adding to our look. In the end, one capoeirista did my eye makeup simply because we had time to do it.

I loved watching the samba women transform into pirates, mermaids and Rio-style samba dancers. We all went to the colorful lights outside of the venue and took pictures. Instead of doing one big group picture, they assembled us in different mini groups. Afterwards, we gathered along the service ramp, which I thought was a curious backdrop to take a group picture, but turned out that we were to “inconspicuously” enter, mix ourselves into the crowd and once we heard the band start playing toward the entrance, we were to start dancing flash mob style and gather in parade formation at our correct places. Only thing, we capoeristas weren’t exactly sure where our correct place was! We discovered on the fly that we were behind the other dancers, but in front of the drummers.

As usual, our part didn’t go as planned. We were supposed to follow a group of male capoeiristas who were doing acrobatics to entertain the crowd, but both times, they went on when the music had cued us to go on. We politely allowed them to do their thing, but then had to guess when to start our choreography. The first time around, I felt bad about what had happened, but apparently we looked good.

We returned to our second floor dressing room and partook in a samba school tradition of a celebratory drink right after our first performance. We snacked a little and I gave one capoeirista the leftover cornbread that I’d baked earlier that day. Then we returned downstairs with the intention of forging for more food. Instead, we joined the roda. I recorded some wonderful digital of our capoeiristas playing, but I must admit, my favorite was when several higher cordas ambushed a lower corda. It was all in good fun of course!

During the second performance, all the preshow gitters were gone and I danced full of energy on the sidelines. That time around, we maculele capoeiristas went out for a cameo run to support our leader, Tiger Lily. Again, that wasn’t something that we’d rehearsed before, but it went over rather well, considering I briefly ran amok.

After the second show came to a close, all capoeiristas, including those in the samba show, took a group picture and then I took off. I’d done what I’d come to do and felt absolutely fine about leaving “early” around one in the morning. It’s a good thing that I’d left at that time since I spent about 30 minutes getting all those feathers and elastic bands out of my dreads. Then I took another 30 minutes or so to scrub off all that sprayed on glitter. I know an hour to clean up is a much smaller amount of time than it took me to get all dressed up, but it’s seemed like forever when all I really wanted to do was shower, eat and fall into a blissful sleep…which I did eventually and still made it to my 10 o’clock yoga class.

Life is fabulous.