Food, Clothing, Shelter

In first grade, my teacher asked us to identify the most basic human needs. We just didn't get it, and she eventually had to supply the answers she wanted: food, clothing, shelter. Even at the time, this combination struck me as arbitray and perplexing. I wondered, for example, if you really needed clothing if you had shelter, and I suspected that if I were making do with just food, clothing, and shelter, I'd eventually happen across something else (Air? Parents? Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins?) that I might even be willing to trade for.

Of the three items on my teacher's list, I've been getting really into shelter lately. Actually, I think that's what the magazine business calls home-decorating publications--"shelter" mags--but I don't want to be too commercialized about it. It's just that I've been spending a lot of time settling into my house. And I've been trying to articulate the meaning that comes from inhabiting a home and imprinting yourself on it (and having it imprint on you), that is an alternative to both the marketing slogans that say we empower ourselves through shopping and to the idea that material things just shouldn't matter to us. Living in this house has imparted a spiritual sense of peace to me.

My gratitude for this sense of peace has made me think a lot about my relationship to material possessions. While I'm quite ardently oppposed to the idea that God wants to provide material riches for all believers (the "prosperity gospel"), I'm also not fully convinced that the Bible instructs us to live in poverty (which a lot of people seem to suspect it says, even while trying to avoid the implications of such a command), or that where we should begin as American Christians is to beatify poverty and feel guilt over our wealth. Of course, Jesus tells the rich young ruler to sell all that he has and give it to the poor, and He tells His followers that He himself will have no place to lay His head. All that we have, it's clear, is His, and we should expect no better than He Himself received. But the Bible also recognizes the deep needs of people for physical sustenance, praises the Proverbs 31 woman for keeping her household well clothed, and memorializes various apostles for their hospitality toward the brothers and sisters who meet in their homes. And so rather than feeling overwhelmed by our wealth in the face of global poverty, I wonder if we should insist on deeper generosity, more incisive simplicity, more intentional stewardship--callings that are perhaps more ambiguous, but no less serious, than a vocation to poverty.

My starting point may be overly guilt-ridden because of the time I spent at Swarthmore, an immensely radical and endearingly impractical place, where owning anything was suspect. I'm glad that Swarthmore implanted a skepticism of vulgar acquisitiveness and consumerism in me. But I also grew up in a house that my parents had built with their own hands; the story I always tell to illustrate their labor is that when they were going to adopt me, they had to be fingerprinted. But my mother had literally worn her fingerprints off by working on the house. The house is inextricably connected with our family for me; they placed every timber, nailed every shingle, laid out every room, closet, and stair-step. In some ways, our commitment to the house is perhaps misplaced--it's ephemeral and will be destroyed with all the earth in the last days (or more likely, in the next few decades). But it's also a physical monument to my parents' work and love for each other.

At the same time, I remember this sobering--terrifying--line from Thomas Jefferson's Notes on the State of Virginia, in which he writes, "I tremble for my country, when I reflect that God is just, and that his justice cannot sleep forever." If I were a parent, and some of my children were rich, and others were starving, it would break my heart if the rich ones never thought of the poor ones, never contributed to their care or to the relief of their suffering. I don't think I would begrudge them their wealth, but I would want them to use it well.

Queen for the Day

Today is the feast day of Queen Kate.

[Kate, this is your prize!]

Desperation

Tennyson once wrote, "In the spring a young man's fancy turns lightly to thoughts of grades" (or something like that). Is the following exchange truth or fiction? You be the judge!

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Dear Dr. P,

My grade in your course is drastically low, and way below my standards. First of all, so you are aware, I need at least a mid-level C. I feel that points are being shaved from quizes/participation. Over my years I have learned that English is a very subjective subject. Teachers control grades and influence them based upon how much, or how less they care for an individual. I want to work through this dilemma so that I may graduate and never deal with these circumstances again.

X
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Dear X,

I'd be happy to talk with you about your work in the course. On quizzes, students earn points by giving correct answers to the fact-based questions. As for participation, you earn points for contributing to discussion each day. On days when you do not contribute to discussion, you do not earn credit. Please note that you have only spoken in a handful of discussions this semester, and that you have not yet passed a reading quiz.

P
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Dear Dr. P,

I had an idea that maybe you will go for about a paper. Would you entertain the idea of allowing us to rewrite one of the papers that we did poorly on for some extra points? I thought, if you went for it, we could make it due next week on moday or wednesday. Just a thought.

X
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Dear X,

Please remember that we had built in time for a draft workshop and/or conferences before the last essay was due, so revision should have occurred at those stages.

P
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Dear Dr. P,

Hello, I saw that you gave a pop quiz on the day that I was absent. Even if I had been in class, I would have failed the quiz at that time. Will you entertain the notion of possibly allowing me to take the quiz? or maybe excusing me from the points? It would help significantly either way.

X
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Dear X,

I'm sorry, but the syllabus states that students cannot make up quizzes due to absence. I can't change that policy at this point; it wouldn't be fair to other students who have missed quizzes.

P
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Dear Dr. P,

So I worked through the figures and found this:
I need a pefect on the next two quizes [Blog readers: does anyone else see the irony in a sentence that argues for a "pefect" grade on two "quizes"?], at least a 90 on the paper; at least an A- on the final, at least an 80% on participation for the last round; and an a of some sort on the discussion questions. This is all achievable, but you must work through this with me. Therefore, I am submitting my final paper on wednesday or friday of next week. We will then go through it until it is an A paper. I will deliver a fabulous presentation on monday, and the rest is up to me. Out of curiosity would you be willing to allow me to rewrite the last close read paper? I know you have permitted other students to rewrite their papers in the past, and it would help.

X
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Dear X,

I am very happy to hear that you plan to put your best effort into our last few class meetings.

As I've stated, I will not accept further rewrites on the close reading papers, especially since you did not come prepared to our conference before the paper was due. I also must remind you that it is not appropriate for you to instruct me that I "must" ensure that you will receive the grade you desire: I can guarantee no student any grade. I will happily look at a draft of your essay with you, but I cannot promise to "go through it until it is an A paper." The quality of your work is ultimately your responsibility, not mine, and your suggestion that I should bring your paper up to the level you desire is simply absurd [deleted: if not obnoxious]. Additionally, while your participation in class on Wednesday showed marked improvement, please remember that nearly half of the final batch of participation points had already been assigned during the weeks in which you failed to participate in class. Finally, given your concern about your grade, it is important that you begin arriving to class on time.

P
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Dear Dr. P,

I believe that you took my "must" comment in the wrong manner. It was not meant to be arrogant or pushy, but to imply that your assistance would help significantly. As for the paper, I am told that Y rewrote his first paper or else I would not ask. I understand your comments, and do not agree with you on the matter. What I am telling you is that I am putting forth the effort to close the deal. Finaly, you asserted that I "failed to participate in class," which is an inacurate statement. Even though my participation was not anything to write home about, I did add at least one comment in every class.

X
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Dear X,

As I have stated three times already, you may not rewrite your essay at this point in the course. I occasionally allow rewrites on the first assignment of the semester when a student has misunderstood the assignment. That is not the case here.

As I mentioned, I am happy to hear that you are planning to put forth your best effort. If you do so, you will see a marked improvement on the remaining assignments. Obviously, however, good work on the remaining assignments does not alter the grades for assignments turned in in the past.

Regarding your participation, more often than not, your comments have revealed a dismaying lack of familiarity with the reading for the day. Simply saying "I don't know" or "You'll have to pass me for today" does not constitute participation.

P

It's RoomBob!

Thanks to all who submitted names in the Roomba-naming contest a few weeks ago. The Roomba expressed a preference for preserving his surname in some way, so he will henceforth be known as RoomBob, though I also wanted to name him HumBug, which was so apt and clever. Maybe if he ever becomes a champion show Roomba he will be called RoomBob the HumBug.

I adore RoomBob. The floors really do look as if I've actually cleaned (and though I tried to tell myself things weren't that bad yet, they apparently were). RoomBob does not do stairs, dusting, windows, dishes, the bathroom, or the grocery shopping, but still he is a great help. Holly is not sure what to think about RoomBob and mainly eyes him warily from the top of the staircase. Maybe she's jealous.

Pirates v. Cardinals

Last night, a perfect spring evening: after a long day slogging through papers and fidgeting our way through assorted administrative meetings, Andrew and I zoomed up the highway toward Pittsburgh to watch the Cardinals at the Pirates. I loved the walk from the car to PNC Park--crossing the old, yellow-painted suspension bridge over the pretty river, the sun warm and benevolent, bunches of other fans marching cheerfully along beside us.

This early in the season, even our spur-of-the-moment purchase obtained us great seats. We sat in the seats for brief periods, in between trips out joyfully foraging for food (there were no chicken Caesar salads or vegan wraps to be found cutting the grease in this ballpark, Mr. and Mrs. C). We had hot dogs, of course--Andrew was thrilled to discover that "they just pile on the chili!" at no extra charge. He marveled, "I could have gotten onions and cheese and everything! If it weren't gross!" Further exclamations burst forth as we anointed the cheese fries: "This is Heinz ketchup in the actual city where Heinz ketchup comes from!" And as we were leaving: "This is America!"

We walked back over the bridge, the skyline of the city now stretched before us, the moon and the park lights lighting the water we crossed, Mt. Washington a shadow in the distance. A man stood atop one of the bridge rails (on the inside) and played his sax.

[Oh: the Pirates. 12 to 4. Funny how much more vividly I remember the food.]

Judas

Just for the record, I am not sure what the fuss is about with the Judas document. Already in the canonical gospels, we have a record of Jesus having told Judas to go and do what he was going to do, which instruction seems to be the most theologically contentious claim in the purported Judas account.

That said, the discovery has occasioned some enjoyable absurdity. The website Regret The Error compiles corrections from newspapers all over the world. (In my personal all-time favorite, the editors of the Chicago Tribune apologized for neglecting to include photos of Saddam Hussein and Kim Jong-Il from the layout of Axis of Evil leaders. Sorry, guys!). Regret the Error includes a recent correction from the Guardian, a British paper:

We stated wrongly that Judas had been "reviled for more than 2,000 years", which would mean that he was unloved from birth (Judas: this is really what happened, page 1, yesterday). We meant "almost 2,000 years".

Only his mother knows for sure.

There's also a "who cares what he has to say" item on Topic Drift, which is always good for a chortle or a perplexed brow-furrowing.

Wanderings

When I first met Andrew, one of my colleagues here who has also become a good friend, we had this conversation about how terrifyingly dull he feared it might be to live in Washington. I remember that he said, "Sometimes, you're talking to people who have been here for a while, and they get this look like, 'How did I ever end up in this place?'"

I never understood how people ended up living places they didn't like. I always thought, well, if you like the beach, lots of people live there, so why shouldn't you be one of them? Especially if you're a teacher or a bank teller, or you have some other portable occupation, and if you don't have family responsibilities--just go somewhere you like, and live there. It still seems odd to me that I know East-Coast natives living out West who long to come back but simply can't do it for one reason or another, and West-Coast natives out here for whom the opposite is true. It all seems maddeningly inefficient--I want to clap my hands, get everybody's attention, and have everyone switch on count of three. But perhaps it is testament to the depth of the ties that hold you to a place (and even to God's blessing upon it), that you can't leave even though you never imagined yourself there.

And more and more I'm realizing how much our lives are constrained by happenstance and by factors outside our control, which may or may not include a sense of calling. We become rooted in places, and we find that a world has been created all around us, and to leave it means not only to lose what that place offers us, but also to lose that part of ourselves that we've planted there. Uprooting might mean, at the end of our lives, being less deeply nurtured, even a little stunted, because we've grown only short roots in each place we've been. It may not be that we're called to a place, but we may be called to the kind of depth that requires staying there.


Of course, the flipside is true too. Exploration brings its own growth, and I can't imagine a life without some kind of adventure and some kind of discovery; it would be a kind of death. But I've been thinking about the costs involved in moving about freely . . . not just the start-up costs of settling in somewhere, but the costs you can only count at the other end. Like being surrounded with lifelong friends. I have a number of lifelong friends, whom I cherish and with whom I hope always to be close in heart, but none of them live nearby, and if they did, or if these friends I am making in Washington became lifelong relationships, I can see how their very physical proximity would change me over time.


As Americans, we're raised with a sense of endless possibilities, but I wonder if thinking that way leads us toward choices based on the illusion of possibilities instead of real, present happiness, or toward inevitable disappointment because we can never really have all those possibilities. Here Washington, I have the little house, pleasantly short walk to campus, friends who live blocks away, great church within walking distance, a city close enough for me to get there as frequently as I want. Also, work that I think is meaningful, with people I respect and admire, who are supportive and just plain nice to me. Occasionally I still feel wistful about other lives I'd like to lead, and yet I've been feeling that way less and less. One way of looking at this would be to say that I'm dreaming less, which would be a sort of sad thing. But another would be to say that I'm living my actual life, my real life, with fuller attention. In a way, it's scary to stop imagining glamorous escape fantasies, but maybe I'm learning to be happy.

Settling In

I bought a lilac bush and a magnolia tree on Sunday to plant in my yard, living reminders of where I come from and where I've been. When I was growing up, we lived next door to my grandparents; my parents and grandparents had bought a piece of land and divided it into halves and built their houses next door to each other (which, by the way, my parents do not recommend with the benefits of hindsight. But anyway . . .). Between our two houses were a row of rhododendron, a line of dogwoods, and some lilac bushes. I remember the scent of lilacs from the bushes and from the blooms my mother would occasionally cut and bring inside. She always had big bouquets of flowers around--lavish bunches of daffodils and narcissus in the kitchen early in spring, enormous bundles of gladiolias on every non-moving surface through the summer, even showy irises for a day or two at a time, like flashy starlets with short careers. She would give me bouquets to take to my teachers at school, and they were always big, sort of professional-looking bouquets, not like the sad-but-cute three-blooms wrapped in foil that you sometimes see little kids dragging to school. More like FTD.

Then, when I went looking at colleges, I ranked the ones I visited in part based on the beauty of the campuses. In this category, Swarthmore, with gray Gothic stone, stained glass, and rosy-pink magnolias in spring, ranked higher than those with also-acceptable Georgian red brick and autumnal foliage. One other school was very low for a number of reasons, not the least of which were the ultra-modern spaces designed to unsettle and staircases that wound around and then simply--ended, without going anywhere. I kept thinking about Swarthmore, and the view down Magill Walk--standing on the Quaker-simple, gracious steps of Parrish Hall, looking down a long, flower-lined slate path shaded by the arched branches of hundred-year-old oak trees. It wasn't only that view that brought me to Swarthmore, but the view was part of it. Behind the dorm where I lived for my first two years stood a grove of magnolia trees, and for a week or two in the spring, you could stand there and look up and see nothing but pink blossoms.

My little lilac bush and magnolia tree are really only small sticks right now, but I bought them because I want to put down roots, literally. I still can't quite imagine that Washington will contain my whole life (the thought's a little scary), but surely part of it is here, and for that part, I want to be fully and richly connected to this place.

Before & After

What I Did on My Spring "Vacation":
A Photo Essay

The countertops were put in by Number One Dad months ago--as usual, I just got around to my (easy) part! :)

Snow

In defiance of the snow on my porch this morning, I offer the following recently observed signs of spring:

At home: 1 flowering tree with pink buds, dozens of daffodils by the step

On my walk to campus: 8 crocuses

At school: 2 thongs, showing out from under 2 pair of skimpy jeans. (Sigh--I am getting old.)

Online: 5 suns in a row on the 10-day forecast.

Motley Crew

Um, just to clarify: I meant that the Raleigh folk had no more than the usual problems in their lives, not in their heads (see "Church People, Prequel" below). Oddly enough, though, some RVCFers objected not because I implied eccentricity, but because I failed to credit them with all the oddities they proudly claim for themselves. Or for their spouses!

So, okay, y'all really were a funny bunch (funny-strange, or funny-ha-ha?), which was the real reason I felt right at home. Speaking of fitting in, is it really a problem to be found reading through the trash?